This Page

has been moved to new address

The Misadventures of Mrs. B

Sorry for inconvenience...

Redirection provided by Blogger to WordPress Migration Service
The Misadventures of Mrs. B

Cook. Writer. Wife. Daughter. Sister. Friend. Klutz.

Wednesday, February 23, 2011

No One's Home!

I've packed my bags and moved out!

Please come visit my at my NEW Wordpress site, friends!

Monday, February 21, 2011

Don't Say I Didn't Tell You...

Hey, friends!

Guess what? My new site is just about ready to go! Woot!

Within the next few days I'll be giving you the word to come on over, and I really hope you do.

Exciting! (for me, at least...)

Friday, February 18, 2011

The Red Dress Club: Until Someday Comes

Another post focused on writing instead of food! Weird, huh? Today I'm happy to once again be participating in The Red Dress Club's weekly writing meme.  Thanks for all of the wonderful responses last week - I wasn't as "social" as I would have liked to be, but that's because we were out of town.  This weekend watch out - I'm gonna be all up in y'all's business.


Today's prompt: Write about finding a lost article of clothing in the back of a drawer or closet.  How was it found, what is it, why is it so meaningful?




Saturday. Laundry day. I find it easiest to just barrel through as fast as I can, single-minded, before inertia sets in and I “discover” a movie on TV that I’ve seen a million times but need to watch just…once…more.  Before you know it hours have passed and I’ve sat through yet another “Rocky” marathon with nothing but an overflowing hamper to show for it. Gotta stay focused.


I finish matching up what seems like a million pairs of socks and open the drawer to dump them in when I see it.  A small lump of light blue fabric in the back corner.  How long has it been there? Months? Years? I don’t even remember exactly when it ended up in my possession, but I’ve kept it all this time.


I reach for it and pull it out, smiling sheepishly to myself.  Yes, now I remember.  I’d been visiting one of my oldest friends, a girl I’d gone through high school with. She was the first of my girlfriends from that time of my life to have a baby. Talk about a shock – seeing the girl you giggled with late into the night, who you sat around and dreamed up your fantasy wedding with and swooned over Antonio Banderas with (you know, back when he was still hot) now sporting a baby on her shoulder and spit-up stains down her back.


At the time of my visit she had recently given birth to her second little boy.  Little guy #1 was running around with the sort of boundless energy all toddlers have and I was playing games with him. The big event that afternoon was “hiding” an article in plain view for him to “find” it and return it to me. Amazing how the simplest games can entertain a child for hours.


When I got home that night I was searching for something in my purse and I found it. A little present my buddy had given me.  I'd left my bag sitting wide open on the floor and he’d evidently gotten it into his head to hide something for me to find but then forgot all about it. A tiny pair of his baby brother’s socks.


A few years later I examine those socks once again. So small. I hold them up to my nose and breathe deep. They still have that glorious scent of extra gentle detergent – fainter now, but there nonetheless. I run my thumb over the unfathomably soft cotton and I smile to myself.


Why did I keep them? Why did I tuck them safely into the back of my own sock drawer and never tell a soul about them, not even my husband? I don’t know for sure.


Okay, that’s a lie. My heart knows better. I told myself that I was saving them for “someday”. For the day my own little baby would need them. Until then they would stay a secret, an ever-present symbol of my heart’s desire. I had forgotten about their existence but not about what they stood for.


For now I will put my little treasure back in its place and shut the drawer. There it will stay until someday comes.


 Thanks for reading! Any and all constructive criticism is welcome.  For the record, the specifics of the story are fictional - the only socks in my drawer are mine (well, maybe there's a pair of my husband's in there, too...).

Labels: