The Red Lipstick

Author Sacha Black posted the writing prompt The Red Lipstick on her website a while ago. Just reading it set my girly brain whirling. It didn't take long before it settled on something completely different than Sacha's eerily brilliant short story. So, here's to laughter, drama, and a bold red lip!

* * *

The boots zipped over my skinny jeans with a zzzzt and a whiff of leather. The boots were only slightly unsuitable for winter weather. It was a small price to pay for great legs.

Once last look in the mirror. Eyeliner in place. Another fluff to my curls. One more spritz of hairspray. (Okay, five more.) My 'do hadn't reached auburn helmet proportions yet, though it would stand up to a stiff wind. Or the seizure-like moves that passed for dancing.

I drew the cap off the lipstick. My fashion guru friend had sported a red lip for over a year now. But this tube looked more brazenly scarlet than I remembered. Scarlet the Harlot, wriggled through my mind, a throwback to too many nights of Clue. I ignored the rhyme and daubed red onto my lips.

Coat on. Ridiculously expensive handbag at my side. Keys in hand. One more bracing breath. If I blew my friends off again, they'd never forgive me. And I'd be one step closer to a deep and lasting relationship with Netflix.

The white bag slouching against the wall stopped me in my tracks. Thirty seconds, I told myself, that's all it would take. Thirty seconds and I'd be in the car speeding toward a night of schmancy drinks, dancing, and, the girls had assured me, super cute boys. I looped a finger through the plastic handles, careful to touch as little of the bag as possible. Eau de garbage wasn't my preferred scent. 

Ten seconds. The efficient click-clack of my boots on the walk. Twenty seconds. I considered how to pop up the lid on the dumpster with the least amount of physical contact.

At twenty-five seconds, my boots skidded on a patch of ice. The flailing elbows and thrashing feet resembled nothing Kristy Yamaguchi had ever done. With a plop, my skinny-jeans encased bottom hit the ice and the garbage bag flew into the air. So much for sticking the landing.

The plump bag hovered in midair, then plunged toward the ground. I lunged for it, skittering across the ice. It landed in my lap and I hugged it to my chest. A newspaper crinkled and the aroma of rotten banana puffed into the air. 

I executed a butt scoot off the ice, still clutching the bag to my chest. Once I was upright, I hitched my handbag back up to my elbow, and slipped a palm into the red handles of the trash bag.

I made it exactly one step before riiiip. And crunch, sploosh, crackle, the bag disgorged its contents. With a sigh, I bent to clean up the mess. Then I heard it, a sound far worse than the telltale rip of a treacherous trashbag. A manly chuckle.

No, no, no. I squeezed my eyes shut, wasting all my wishes at once. Another chuckle. I forced my eyes open and peered at the source. The Attractive Male Neighbor.

“Sorry,” he muttered, seeing my face and trying to hide amusement on his own. It didn't work. Those stupid brown eyes actually twinkled. If only the ground would open up and swallow me and my trash heap whole.

“It's Becca, right?” I nodded. “Let me help you with that.”

“Oh no,” the words tumbled out of my mouth like refuse out of a torn garbage bag, “It's all my fault. I'm such a klutz, really. I couldn't allow you—”

“A gentlemen doesn't leave a lady in distress,” he insisted. “Especially in a pile of trash. What would my mother say?”

Man, he was cute. And I smelled like old cheese and dead bananas.

“By the way,” he said, as he helped me to clear up the mess, “amazing display back there. Do you skate professionally or are you keeping your amateur status so you can compete?”

I'd have punched him in the arm, but my fist was full of crumbled weekly fliers and something sticky. Instead, I gave my tongue free reign. “Actually, I'm going on tour with Disney on Ice. I'm Goofy.”

“Sweet,” he said with a grin. “I'm going to need front row seats for that. Hook me up?”

I rolled my eyes, pitching the last banana peel into the dumpster along with an empty pudding cup. “I'm pretty sure you just caught the dress rehearsal.”

He chuckled again, probably recalling my pinwheeling arms, my butt scoot, or the garbage exploding like confetti over me. I tried not to think about which part he found most amusing.

“Well, thank you,” I said, rubbing at a sticky smudge on my knee.

“It's the least I could do.” 

I turned away, fishing my phone out of my handbag and bracing myself for a barrage of tongue-lashing texts. Sorry, girls. Can't make it, I tapped out. Showering and getting dolled up again was too much of a hassle. Netflix, here I come.

“And hey, Becca?”

“Yeah?” I turned back.

A smirk spread over his stupidly handsome face. “Nice lipstick.”

* * *

What do you think? Leave me a comment below. And if you'd like to read more shorts, try: 

Creepy Old Ladies & Dolls 

The Christmas Miracle of Lydia Perkins 

The Twelve Dancing Princesses

Sylvi Lockhart 

Sam James

Enjoy! And thanks for dropping by! 

One Hundred

100 posts in! 100 posts full of Sarah silliness, insights, story samples, and plenty of advice on plenty of subjects. I'm just enough of a data dork (yes, another of my lovely quirks) to enjoy watching those numbers tick higher and higher. Delightful! The top 10 (plus 1) are a medley of everything that makes me ME. Read and enjoy!

Bend in the Road Are there rocks ahead? If there are, we'll all be dead! New adventures don't come without a little bit of risk. 

Woman: The  Most Dangerous Plaything Meet Sylvi Lockhart, a budding author who throws in with private investigator Jesse James. What begins as research for her next novel leads to adventure, excitement, and more sweaty balding men than Sylvi bargained for. 

Socially Acceptable Stalking: the Ins and Outs of Followers Ah, the art of mastering the Twitterverse. It's not for the faint of heart! Learn how to find, gain, and keep worthwhile followers. 

Ready or Not... Change will come. How you respond to it as a writer and as a human being will define you as a person. 

#BookSelfie Everybody is jumping on the #selfie train! Maybe you think it's only a fad, but trust me, it's fun to see your cover featured in a #BookSelfie! 

On Tour! Revisit Becoming Beauty's Blog Tour from Nov 2015. Yep, I'm definitely doing that again. Blog tours are the best. 

It's Playtime! All kids learn through play. And SURPRISE, adults need it too. (Also, we need cookies and fluffy pillows.)

Verbosity Many are afraid of large words, but they needn't be! We only need to use them well so that our audience will run to Google and not throw our books at the wall in annoyance.

Ms. Etiquette Makes an Appearance After conquering the Neanderthals at school, Ms. Kindergarten Teacher takes on social media. Can they be taught manners? Or will they be put in timeout within the first five minutes?

Cringe Worthy Got an embarrassing moment? Suuuure you do...I'm pretty sure I've got you beat. Humiliations galore!

Sassy Pants Worried about crafting the perfect Woman Power heroine? How about being one? It's fun and makes for fantastic writing.

Cringe Worthy

I'm the type of girl that makes odd comments during the dramatic moments of movies. Like when Matthew Macfadyen (aka Mr Darcy) walks across the mist cloaked plain with his coat billowing, I said, “Yeah...every guy needs one of those,” loud enough for the whole theater to hear. 

I'm the girl who thinks it's appropriate to say random crap in front of complete strangers. I've announced that, “unlike half the other girls, I'm not nursing,” in front of fifty people. Things sound so much better in my head.

I'm the girl who does embarrassing things in front of strangers. Once, I leaned too hard on a shopping cart handle, popped a massive wheelie, and ended up making a mad dash after a runaway cart in front of everyone waiting to check out. (Meh, the bread only got squished a little.)

It's all really great fodder for a writer like me, right? However, there is one horribly, embarrassing, terribly awful moment that's too bizarre to use. I may as well share it with you.

* * *

He was adorable, spunky and cute with a stocky build, quick grin, and dark brown eyes. Plus he was a Yell Leader. You know, the dude on the college cheerleading team who tosses the skinny-minnie girls around like rag dolls. (I may have been smitten by those girl-tossing biceps...maybe.)

I arrived early to class and chose a seat between my girl friend (on the left) and Mr Muscles (on the right). My friend was busy chatting with someone else, so I put my notes and multicolored pens in order and doodled until the professor's arrival.

So, there I was in my built-for-a-righty desk when my purple pen slipped out of my hand and landed between the aforementioned Yell Leader's feet. Dashing knights are meant to come to a lady's aid in moments of duress, right? I gave him a half-smile, just to be sure he would play his part. He was deep in conversation and made note of neither me nor the pen. There was nothing to do but take matters into my own hands. 

It was simply a matter of leaning sideways and reaching far enough to lay a finger on the purple pen. The plan was sound, eloquent, uncomplicated. 

Except I couldn't quite reach the pen. I tried again.

I reached a bit too far. All my weight was thrown onto the bar--you know, the one that attaches the chair to the desk. Quicker than you can say, "Sarah is a big, dumb, idiot," I lost contact with the carpet. Feet flailing, if I'd been in petticoats you'd have seen my granny panties airborne. I would have landed on the floor, desk and all, if something hadn't broken my fall. I looked up. A pair of dark brown eyes glared back. 

Meanwhile, my friend was on the other side, frantically trying to pull me upright. The desk and I remained firmly stuck in the Yell Leader's lap. I hazarded another look. Nope. He was not pleased. Luckily, he put that rage (and those muscles) to good use and popped me back up.

A southern belle would have made good use of such a moment. One hand on her brow and a drawled “My hero,” would have set everything right. (Given my overacting tendencies, everyone would have laughed it off.) Likewise, if he had been the romantic lead a girl dreams about, our little interlude might have been the beginning of something wonderful. “When we're seventy, I'll tell our great-grandchildren that this is when I fell in love.” He might have said that. But he didn't. 

Before I could say anything clever or sink into the ground like I wanted to, Mr Muscles saved me the trouble. “Next time,” he said coldly, “just ask.” The lesson was clear, ladies, nice boys are only flattered when you fall for them, not on them.  

* * * 

My advice, ladies and gentlemen? Keep record of your mortifying moments for posterity. Or whoever reads your blog. Or in case you need to humiliate a character. Good luck!

Like to read a bit more about my ridiculous life? Try Adventures in Kindergarten, I'm Too Old For..., Panic City, Population: One, My Boyfriend, The BBC, or Geek Chic on for size! Thanks for stopping by, and as always, Happy reading!

Pass the Pepper

Yesterday was my birthday. Wait. Let me try that again.

***Yesterday was my birthday!***

That odd feeling of coming to terms with last year's age, only to have one year added to it has once again seized me. I avoid feeling too morose about the whole thing by throwing myself a fabulous birthday party filled with crazy friends and family.

And I'm beginning to see that there's something beautiful that comes with age. I've always been a bit of a sassy character myself (more on that later), but in the last year or so, I've learned some things that have helped boost my self-confidence.  Here are my top three:

I'm actually getting cuter. No joke! All the me that is me is coming to the surface. Along with a great stylist, good taste, and my sense of humor, I'm coming to understand that slim doesn't equal happy. Happy, fun, and full of purpose equal happy.

I have what it takes to be a writer. My mom is indeed my biggest fan, but when she said: I keep forgetting that you wrote this! as we went through my first draft, something inside me shifted. I can't be an aspiring writer or a closet writer any more. It's time to shine. (Let me add that having someone say they'd like to publish said first draft doesn't hurt either. Thank you, mom and Cedar Fort.)

A good friend, a great pair of shoes, a new dress, and/or chocolate can cure most ills. There is a whole load of crap just waiting to rain down on us every day. It's our job to create a safe haven and happy circumstances that will keep us moving forward with a smile instead of shlumping along with a frown.

Now back to my inborn sassiness, (though perhaps the whole tenor of this post betrays a certain amount of that). At My First Ever Writing Conference, I met the lovely and talented Melanie Jacobson. She's authored a number of LDS Contemporary Fiction novels for young adults. As she signed my newly purchased copy of Not My Type, she paid me the nicest compliment: I know you'll love Pepper, because you have the same sassy Pepper demeanor!

It made my day! Especially now that I finally carved out a week to plow through Not My Type, and came to know the ins and outs of Pepper Spicer.  She's not only sassy, but holds her own in the face of snarky boys and bosses with questionable ethics. Pepper refuses to wallow in the depths of despair after being dumped on what is practically her wedding day. Instead, she embraces her dreams and works to make them a reality in both her personal and professional life.

So yes, if someone who hardly knows me can see a healthy amount of Pepper sass in me, I'll take it! And keep working to help others recognize it as well. (Like snarky boys, for instance.)

* * * * *

Thanks for stopping in! I've been writing/editing so much that I barely have time for blogging these days. Follow the links above to learn more about Melanie, my vow to not be an aspiring anything or a closet writer, and fun things I learned at My First Ever Writing Conference. Thanks again!