Tuesday, July 28, 2009

Miranda Writes - Part 2

I'm so stressed out over Saturday's show and thinking about my teenager's chastity that I can't seem to crank out anything new. Therefore, you get more Miranda Writes. For the first part, read here.

A little bit about Miranda Writes:

Miranda Sutter is a vegan, a bartender, and a writer – not necessarily in that order. She knows that the next Great American Novel is rolling around inside her head, if she can just find the right inspiration… The solution? Consult with one very dead writer by the name of Ernest Hemingway. When a handsome stranger saves a choking woman, Miranda knows she’s found a hero she can base her book on, but when she begins stalking him to learn more about his life, she’s in for more than she bargained for. Along the way, she will have to deal with long-buried grief and fear, a crisis of faith, an unwelcome housemate, a clingy gothic poet, the hero’s ex-wife, and a very hairy dog. Her crazy antics are sure to land her in jail… or in love!

Chapter One

Monday, April 16 (continued)

When Gwen comes back with the dustpan full of broken glass I am laughing so hard, picturing Aiden’s six-foot frame vaulting down the stairs, tears are pooling in the corners of my eyes. Handing me the dustpan to empty into the trashcan, Gwen’s own tears have already flooded over and are watercoloring her cheeks in M•A•C’s finest mascara. “Oh, Gwen, what’s wrong?” I query, stifling my suddenly inappropriate chuckles. “I’ve dropped plenty of glasses. It’s not the end of the world, you know.”

Instantly, she is full-on sobbing. “It’s not the glasses! Like I could possibly care less about the glasses. I’ve got a huge test tomorrow in American Ethnic Studies, and I’ve hardly had time to study because Chad and I have been fighting like crazy. My parents just found out he’s been living with me, and they’re threatening to stop paying for my apartment unless I make him move out. And I swear to God if one more guy in here grabs my butt, I am going to ‘f’ him up!” she cries, her tone shrill.

“Whoa, Gwen. You said the ‘f’ word. It must be bad,” I tease gently. Seriously, though, I hate this awkwardness. How I became the mother-unit to all of these young girls, I will never know, but it makes me feel old. Twenty-nine is hardly old when you look at it from fifty. Of course, it’s pathetically old when you look at it from twenty-two. And twenty-two, at the moment, is falling apart less than two feet away from me. “Oh, Honey, it’ll work out. You’ll see. Give me a big hug.” I know I’m being patronizing, but she either doesn’t notice or doesn’t care. She reaches for me, both arms open, and snuffles on my shoulder. I grab two cocktail napkins off the countertop and hand one to her. She blows her nose. It’s the tiny, dainty sound you would expect any thin, blonde pixie’s nose-blowing to sound like.

Dainty little Gwen. People tell her she looks just like Sarah Michelle Gellar, but Gwen is, in fact, smaller and cuter, as if that’s even possible.

I use the other napkin to wipe the mascara off her cheeks. She’s good as new, perfect. You can’t tell she’s been crying, of course. When I cry, I get those red, puffy blotches all over my face for hours afterward. Seriously disgusting. It looks like I’ve fallen into a vat of impetigo.

Picture-perfect pixie Gwen checks her face in the mirror behind the bar. “Oh, God, I look terrible,” she whines, tucking a shining strand of blonde hair behind her ear. I turn away from the mirror and roll my eyes while assuring her that she looks fine and then point out that her customer at table forty-one seems to be looking for another Mac and Jack’s.

I survey my crew sitting at the bar. For tonight, it is a group of sorrowfully well-built and handsome but completely obtuse college boys. One of them looks after Gwen as she scurries off to take care of table forty-one. “Looks like someone is having a bad day,” he muses. He turns back to stare quite obviously at my black fishnet tights topped by the oh-so-tiny red and black plaid schoolgirl miniskirt, then finally settles on my breasts, squeezed into a child’s black tee shirt that reads "Spoiled Rotten" in glittery red letters. When I catch him leering at my chest, he forces himself to observe the tiny pendant hanging from my necklace. It's a diminutive platinum replica of the wooden "M" that hung in Mary Tyler Moore's apartment on her television show. "What's the 'M' stand for?"


“Miranda, huh? Do people call you Mandy?”

“Never. Always Miranda. Which is strange, considering my name is Jacqueline.”

“Huh?” Poor big, stupid hardbodies. It is simply too easy to play with them.


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