<?xml version="1.0" encoding="UTF-8" standalone="no"?><?xml-stylesheet href="http://www.blogger.com/styles/atom.css" type="text/css"?><feed xmlns="http://www.w3.org/2005/Atom" xmlns:blogger="http://schemas.google.com/blogger/2008" xmlns:gd="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005" xmlns:georss="http://www.georss.org/georss" xmlns:openSearch="http://a9.com/-/spec/opensearchrss/1.0/" xmlns:thr="http://purl.org/syndication/thread/1.0"><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207</id><updated>2025-02-21T13:34:40.990-06:00</updated><category term="Fashion Victims"/><category term="Spirit Lake"/><category term="Notes"/><category term="Suburbia"/><category term="Canceled"/><category term="Coming Soon"/><category term="Question to Readers"/><category term="Reviews"/><category term="Sappy Ramblings"/><category term="Save the Soaps"/><category term="Soap Sudz News"/><title type="text">Soap Sudz by Bob-O</title><subtitle type="html">Soap Sudz is a blog that I created as a kind of experiment.  It allows me to occasionally rant about todays soap operas, and at the same time, try my hand at creating a series myself using day blog entries to post text episodes.  The first series is Fashion Victims, a murder mystery set in a modeling agency in Chicago.  The series updates five days a week (unless otherwise noted).</subtitle><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/posts/default" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#feed" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default?redirect=false" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/" rel="alternate" type="text/html"/><link href="http://pubsubhubbub.appspot.com/" rel="hub"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default?start-index=26&amp;max-results=25&amp;redirect=false" rel="next" type="application/atom+xml"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><generator uri="http://www.blogger.com" version="7.00">Blogger</generator><openSearch:totalResults>196</openSearch:totalResults><openSearch:startIndex>1</openSearch:startIndex><openSearch:itemsPerPage>25</openSearch:itemsPerPage><xhtml:meta content="noindex" name="robots" xmlns:xhtml="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml"/><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-8122020846028544054</id><published>2013-06-26T16:28:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2013-06-26T16:28:18.162-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Suburbia"/><title type="text">Suburbia 1.15 and 1.16</title><content type="html">&lt;strong&gt;Chapter 15: Breakfast&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;br /&gt; When Ina entered the kitchen Peter was sitting at the table, a cup of coffee in front of him. &lt;br /&gt; He looked like hell. &lt;br /&gt; His eyes were bloodshot, with bags big enough to carry groceries. &lt;br /&gt; Peter. Pete. He thought he was so smart. That he was pulling a quick one on her. &lt;br /&gt; Think again, she thought.  He was up to something. Probably another woman. &lt;br /&gt; How typical. &lt;br /&gt; "Morning sweetie." Peter looked up from his coffee. &lt;br /&gt; "Morning." She walked to the coffee pot.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;strong&gt;Chapter 16: Alone With Ones Thoughts...&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
Ina sat in the now empty kitchen.&amp;nbsp; The exchange between her and her husband had been brief.&amp;nbsp; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
No different then usual.&amp;nbsp; &lt;br /&gt;
She had to wonder if he was thinking about the same things she had been.&amp;nbsp; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
She sipped her cooling coffee, hardly noticing the bitter taste.&amp;nbsp; Her mind was elsewhere.&amp;nbsp; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
She had an idea, a theory to prove, but she needed a plan.&amp;nbsp; She needed to ensure that if what she was about to do ever came to light she was protected.&amp;nbsp; This was the suburbs.&amp;nbsp; People are always watching.&amp;nbsp; Forget the NSA, her neighbors were worse.&amp;nbsp; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Still, she knew that there was no turning back.&amp;nbsp; Not now.&amp;nbsp; Not after Jack.&amp;nbsp; </content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/8122020846028544054/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2013/06/suburbia-115-and-116.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/8122020846028544054" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/8122020846028544054" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2013/06/suburbia-115-and-116.html" rel="alternate" title="Suburbia 1.15 and 1.16" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-1569177910087923205</id><published>2013-06-26T16:26:00.004-05:00</published><updated>2013-06-26T16:27:07.395-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Suburbia"/><title type="text">Suburbia 1.13 and 1.14</title><content type="html">&lt;strong&gt;Chapter 13: A Hint of Guilt?&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
Ina had surveyed the block, her mind made up.  She had her first target.  &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
This was all just an experiment, she told herself.  A simple, social experiment.  When thinking about it that way it didn't seem so bad.  It wasn't cheating, it was science.  It wasn't home wrecking, it was sociology.  &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
As she was turning into her driveway she saw the door to Jack's house open.  Linda stepped out.  &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Linda, in her house coat and slippers, waddled down the driveway towards the morning paper. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
What struck Ina at that moment wasn't what Linda was wearing though, it was what she was missing.  &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Her usual self-righteous scowl.  &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
There, in the hazy morning sunlight, with one hand clutching her house coat closed, Linda looked like a sad woman, aged beyond her actual years.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;strong&gt;Chapter 14: A Bit of Linda&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
Linda hurried back in side, the shock of the morning cold making her skin pucker with gooseflesh.  &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Jack was still upstairs, asleep.  &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
He had been drunk last night.  Jack!  Drunk!  Of all people.  &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
He had tried to...  He had tried to...  &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Linda couldn't even bring herself to think the word.  Why should she?  She had failed at it. She was childless.  Her body was a waste land where nothing could grow.  &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
All her life all she had wanted was a child, and when her and Jack had married she thought that she would finally get her wish.  Then, well... Linda had never really been one to get her prayers and wishes answered. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
A tear started to fall from the corner of her eye. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
She shook her head, clutching her house coat a little tighter.  It was best not to think of such things.</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/1569177910087923205/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2013/06/suburbia-113-and-114.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/1569177910087923205" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/1569177910087923205" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2013/06/suburbia-113-and-114.html" rel="alternate" title="Suburbia 1.13 and 1.14" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-261161335023176930</id><published>2013-06-26T16:25:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2013-06-26T16:25:42.263-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Suburbia"/><title type="text">Suburbia 1.11 and 1.12</title><content type="html">&lt;strong&gt;Chapter 11: Peter's Hangover&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;br /&gt; Peter sat up in bed, his eyes barely glancing over the pictures on the walls, or the books stacked on his nightstand.  No, his only goal was the bathroom.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; He had come home drunk the night before.  Ina hadn't noticed.  She never did, and he was grateful for her total lack of interest in his life.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Then she might have figured out something was up.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Peter stumbled out of bed, and towards the bathroom, giving his backside a healthy scratch as he did.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; As he stumbled towards the toilet and flipped the seat up his mind began to replay the memories from the night before. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Memories a part of him (a big part) didn't want to forget. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;strong&gt;Chapter 12: Peter's Wild Night&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;br /&gt; As Peter relieved himself he leaned forward, resting his head on the cool tile wall of the bathroom.  His skull felt like it was going to split open, but it was worth it.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Harvey had asked him out for drinks after work.  Nothing new there.  Same bar, same order, same everything.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; The only thing that was different was Harvey.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; It had started with his hand on Peter's knee, followed by a few drunken, half serious comments about them hooking up.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; (Harvey had said "As a joke, you know?) &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; It had ended in the back of Harvey's BMW.   &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Some joke, thought Peter. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; He finished off with a shake and a smirk, then headed to the shower.  He suddenly didn't mind going to work today.</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/261161335023176930/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2013/06/suburbia-111-and-112.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/261161335023176930" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/261161335023176930" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2013/06/suburbia-111-and-112.html" rel="alternate" title="Suburbia 1.11 and 1.12" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-2757341883491310217</id><published>2013-06-26T16:24:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2013-06-26T16:24:15.409-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Suburbia"/><title type="text">Suburbia 1.9 and 1.10</title><content type="html">&lt;strong&gt;Chapter 9: Walk&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;br /&gt; Ina had gotten up early, showered, dressed, and had her coffee in a travel mug before her husband had even woken up.  She had plans today.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; She headed out the door, her step energetic and her pace brisk.  This was exactly what she wanted.  A chance to survey her potential hunting grounds without anyone else watching.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Well, except for the occasional jogger, but they were so lost in the zone (whatever that was) that they barely noticed her.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; As she walked, she examined, taking in each and every house, trying to remember each and every family who lived inside.  Of course she knew Jack's house, but the others... &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Her neighbors were no longer potential friends.  No, to Ina, they had just become potential subjects in her experiment.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;strong&gt;Chapter 10: Prowl&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;br /&gt; The first house she really paid attention to was at the edge of the block.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; The Newlyweds.  Mark and Diane.  Both in their mid-twenties, and so blissfully happy it could make you sick.  Mark had money, and Diane had a good job at an advertising agency downtown.  Neither had dealt with debt, or any type of struggle really.  They had probably grown up in a neighborhood just like this one.  Safe and sound and wealthy. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; They didn't have kids yet.  That was key.  Ina was willing to do a lot of things, but the last thing she wanted to do was ruin some poor kid's life.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; No.  She would only focus on couples with no kids.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Mark and Diane had just shot to the top of her list.</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/2757341883491310217/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2013/06/suburbia-19-and-110.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/2757341883491310217" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/2757341883491310217" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2013/06/suburbia-19-and-110.html" rel="alternate" title="Suburbia 1.9 and 1.10" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-2224337520961978010</id><published>2013-06-26T16:23:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2013-06-26T16:23:05.064-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Suburbia"/><title type="text">Suburbia 1.5-1.8</title><content type="html">&lt;strong&gt;Chapter 5: That Night...&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;br /&gt; Ina lay awake in bed, her husband snoring softly next to her. She couldn't sleep. How could she? She had done something today that she never thought she was capable off. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Jack hadn't really resisted her. Well, he did a little at first. Even acted shocked that she would try something so forward. In the end, though, he had given in. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; The actual act was rushed and frenzied, like two teenagers in the back of a car up on some lovers' lane, and Jack had all the skill and style of a jack hammer.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; The carnal act wasn't the thrill. The thrill was the conquest. Jack and his shrew of a wife had always seemed so perfectly matched. Linda the Shrew and Jack the Loyal Lap Dog. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Ha, she thought. Not that loyal. Not anymore at least. Not after she had gotten to him. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; As Ina finally started to drift off to sleep, a plan began to form in her mind.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;strong&gt;Chapter 6: Jack's Night&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;br /&gt; Jack sat in front of his TV, his eyes focused on the images flickering on the screen, but his mind was elsewhere.  He still couldn't wrap his head around what had happened earlier that day.  He still couldn't believe he had allowed himself to... &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; He pushed the thoughts from his mind.  He couldn't stand to remember what he had done.  Linda had noticed that something was wrong.  She didn't say anything.  Well, she never says anything, but he knows that look.  The look that feels like it is reaching right into your soul.  As if her eyes had the power of God himself to see your every sin.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; They hadn't talked much through dinner, but that wasn't anything different.  Linda wasn't much for idle chit chat.  Neither was Jack for that matter. Not usually.  Still, a tension seemed to hang in the air between them.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Jack turned off the TV and sat in his living room, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;strong&gt;Chapter 7: Jack's Night Part 2&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;br /&gt; Why had he done it?  Why had he given in to temptation?  He and Linda had never really been much of a couple when it came to the bedroom.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; When they had first gotten married he and Linda had had a pretty normal sex life.  Warm even.  Caring.  Then one day it just stopped.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; "We should remain pure," she would say every time he had tried to make an advance.  "It is a sin if not in the commission of creating a child."  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; He would always argue that they were married, and that there was no sin in them showing physical affection, but she would just turn away.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;strong&gt;Chapter 8: Jack's Night Cap&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;br /&gt; It had been... what?  Years since they had last slept together.  Then today, out of nowhere, Ida showed up.  The way she looked at him, the way she talked to him.  She had wanted him.  Not as a friend, or a companion.  She had wanted him as a man, and that had meant something to him. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; When she had made the first move, he had been powerless to his sudden want to feel physical contact with another human being.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Jack could feel the pain in his stomach growing, the knot tightening as he recalled the events from that afternoon.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; He needed something to help him calm down.  He needed to forget that it had ever happened.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Jack got up and headed towards the ice box.  His wife had always hidden a bottle of vodka in there.  He had never touched the stuff, not since he was a teenager at least, but he knew Linda, in all her righteous glory, snuck a few nips here and there.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; He poured himself a glass, and felt the chilled, bitter liquid rush down his throat.  &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Why did I ever stop drinking? He thought to himself as he poured a double.</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/2224337520961978010/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2013/06/suburbia-15-18.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/2224337520961978010" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/2224337520961978010" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2013/06/suburbia-15-18.html" rel="alternate" title="Suburbia 1.5-1.8" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-6285310645938141465</id><published>2013-06-26T16:20:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2013-06-26T16:20:27.937-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Suburbia"/><title type="text">Surubia 1.3 and 1.4 </title><content type="html">&lt;strong&gt;Chapter 3: Thoughts Turn to Actions&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;br /&gt; As Ina watched out her window, thinking about her marriage (if you could even call it that) she saw the front door to a house across the street (and one house down) open.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Jack O'Day stepped out onto his front stoop. He was the exact opposite of her husband. Bright, curly red hair surrounded a round, friendly face that sat atop a body built for blue collar work.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; He didn't have a shirt on, and his broad, furry chest made it impossible to look away.&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; So she didn't.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;strong&gt;Chapter 4: Hello, Jack&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;br /&gt; It had to have been the wine.  The wine had made her walk out of the house, and across the street. Her buzzed (but hopefully not glazed over) eyes were locked on one target. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Jack. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; "Howdy neighbor!" She was glad her voice wasn't slurred. "The wife home?"&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Jack turned to greet her, a polite smile on his face. "She's down at the church. They're getting ready for bingo night."&lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; His wife, Linda, was a nasty shrew of a woman who still used words like "harlot". Her and Jack were as Catholic as one could be living outside of the Vatican. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Well, except for their complete lack of children. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; Ina crossed her arms, knowing that her forearms would give her breasts a little extra leverage. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; "Bingo night? Sounds like fun." She tried her best not to sound sarcastic. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; "It's simple, but we tend to like simple." Jack ran his big, work worn hand through his hair. "Simple things for simple folks." His eyes kept darting to her cleavage. &lt;br /&gt;&lt;br /&gt; At that moment, to Ina, simple was looking pretty good.</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/6285310645938141465/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2013/06/surubia-13-and-14.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/6285310645938141465" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/6285310645938141465" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2013/06/surubia-13-and-14.html" rel="alternate" title="Surubia 1.3 and 1.4 " type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-1768261991345679739</id><published>2013-06-26T16:19:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2013-06-26T16:20:43.058-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Suburbia"/><title type="text">Sururbia 1.1 and 1.2</title><content type="html">&lt;strong&gt;Chapter 1: A Bottle of Wine&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
It had only started as one glass. One glass led to two. Then three. Before she knew it her bottle was empty, and it wasn't even 5pm yet. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Did that make her a drunk? What would the neighbors think? &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
She pushed herself off the pristine white couch, and walked across her well decorated living room to the large window that overlooked her yard. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
All she saw were perfect, upper class homes. They all had perfect yards, which were maintained by hired help, and they all contained "perfect" families inside. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
At that moment it dawned in her. The thought just smacked her right in the face. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
She hated them. She hated those perfect families. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;strong&gt;Chapter 2: A Little History...&lt;/strong&gt; &lt;br /&gt;
Ina had sworn she wouldn't turn out like her mother. Trapped at home with five screaming kids and a husband whose idea of conversation was a grunt to signal his need for beer.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
No. When she got married to Peter she had sworn up and down that things would be different, and they were.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Peter was sweet... ish. He was nice enough, smart as could be, and could hold an intelligent conversation. He was also dull, and a bit full of himself. He was an attorney (corporate of course), and was considered one of the last remaining yuppies.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
He was good looking though. Tall, broad shouldered, with a model perfect face. He was what her mother would have called a "catch". Ina had thought so at first, but lately... Lately she was thinking she might want to institute a "catch" and release policy. </content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/1768261991345679739/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2013/06/sururbia-11-and-12.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/1768261991345679739" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/1768261991345679739" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2013/06/sururbia-11-and-12.html" rel="alternate" title="Sururbia 1.1 and 1.2" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-7745547229831337430</id><published>2009-10-26T07:51:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2009-10-26T07:51:29.219-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fashion Victims"/><title type="text">Fashion Victims Season 2 Week 4</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-size: x-small;"&gt; 2.16&lt;br /&gt;
Rick sat in Grind, the warm mug in his hands shaking. Barbi sat across from him, a weak smile plastered on her face. She was waiting for him to react, to say something. What the hell could he say? He was going to be a father!&lt;br /&gt;
"Well?" Barbi was on the verge of tears. &lt;br /&gt;
"Marry me." The words just tumbled out of Rick's mouth. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
2.17&lt;br /&gt;
Kurt sat in his office, Casey High, the hot new designer, sat across from him. &lt;br /&gt;
"What the hell were you thinking?" After Kurt had taken over Dollhouse's new PR branch he had found himself saying those words a lot. "You seduced the leading conservative radio host... on air?" &lt;br /&gt;
Casey just smiled and shrugged. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
2.18&lt;br /&gt;
Barbi just looked on, shocked. So did the rest of the customers in the coffee shop. &lt;br /&gt;
"I..." She was stammering. "Okay!" &lt;br /&gt;
She didn't have time to question her decision. Rick was on his feet, sweeping her into his arms. He kissed her. &lt;br /&gt;
And to think, not that long ago she was married to his brother. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
2.19&lt;br /&gt;
"Just think of it as free promotion." Casey was as calm as could be. &lt;br /&gt;
"Every Republican in Chicago wants your head! They are threatening to attack your runway show." &lt;br /&gt;
Casey just laughed. "Bring it on." &lt;br /&gt;
Kurt sighed. He could already tell that this was going to get messy. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
2.20&lt;br /&gt;
"I have to get you a ring." Rick was beaming. &lt;br /&gt;
Barbi and Rick walked arm and arm down Michigan Avenue. The cool fall air felt good, although a part of her wished she could replace the city smell with the smell of burning leaves. Then the moment would have been perfect. She pulled Rick close to her. Now she just had to tell her mother. Suddenly she didn't feel so good. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/7745547229831337430/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-season-2-week-4.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/7745547229831337430" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/7745547229831337430" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-season-2-week-4.html" rel="alternate" title="Fashion Victims Season 2 Week 4" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-5161903952450088753</id><published>2009-10-23T08:46:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2009-10-23T08:46:20.717-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Canceled"/><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fashion Victims"/><title type="text">Fashion Victims Season 2 Canceled</title><content type="html">On monday I will post the remaining five episodes in one big chunk, and then Soap Sudz will go dark.&amp;nbsp; As for the future of Soap Sudz...&amp;nbsp; I'm working on something.&amp;nbsp; Lets see if it happens.</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/5161903952450088753/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-season-2-canceled.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/5161903952450088753" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/5161903952450088753" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-season-2-canceled.html" rel="alternate" title="Fashion Victims Season 2 Canceled" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-2223294171105439190</id><published>2009-10-23T08:44:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2009-10-23T08:44:35.763-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fashion Victims"/><title type="text">Fashion Victims ep. 2.15</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-size: x-small;"&gt; Jackson stepped away from the bed, letting Annabelle talk to Derrick. He needed to make sure this was for real. &lt;br /&gt;
"You can never tell with coma patients." Rachel spoke softly. "He seems fine, but he needs to stay for observation. If he's repsonsive tomorrow then things are good. Just be ready."&lt;br /&gt;
She gently placed her hand on Jackson's shoulder. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/2223294171105439190/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-ep-215.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/2223294171105439190" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/2223294171105439190" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-ep-215.html" rel="alternate" title="Fashion Victims ep. 2.15" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-7223380246200631980</id><published>2009-10-20T07:03:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2009-10-20T07:03:27.305-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fashion Victims"/><title type="text">Fashion Victims Ep. 2.12, 2.13, 2.14</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-size: x-small;"&gt; 2.12&lt;br /&gt;
Barbi sat on the exam table, her doctor sat across from her. The blood work wasn't back yet, but the doctor had done a quick urine test, and the results were almost ready. &lt;br /&gt;
"Well?" She felt herself kicking the metal base of the table. &lt;br /&gt;
The doctor handed Barbi the test. Barbi took one look at the small read-out screen and suddenly she felt ill again. &lt;br /&gt;
2.13&lt;br /&gt;
Jackson kissed Derrick's hand, the tears spilling down his cheeks. How long had he waited for this moment. &lt;br /&gt;
"She told me you were here almost every day." Derrick's voice was hoarse, dry. "You look like hell." &lt;br /&gt;
Jackson laughed, then leaned forward, finally planting a kiss on responsive lips. &lt;br /&gt;
2.14&lt;br /&gt;
Pregnant. Who knew she could even still have kids? She pulled her cellphone out of her purse, and scanned through the phone book for Rick's numbers. She was about to say the four words almost every man dreaded. "We have to talk." &lt;br /&gt;
How would Rick take this? What if he freaked? What if he was happy? Oh God. She found his number and hit call. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/7223380246200631980/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-ep-212-213-214.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/7223380246200631980" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/7223380246200631980" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-ep-212-213-214.html" rel="alternate" title="Fashion Victims Ep. 2.12, 2.13, 2.14" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-1867778366217518019</id><published>2009-10-19T17:28:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2009-10-19T17:28:55.128-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Notes"/><title type="text">My Final Decision Should Be Coming Soon...</title><content type="html">So, obviously after I wrote my little post about possibly canceling Fashion Victims season 2 my feed reader got cut in half.&amp;nbsp; This is not looking well.&amp;nbsp; I'm giving the series til friday to pick up.&amp;nbsp; If it doesn't I will officially cancel FV, and the next monday post the last five episodes in one big lump.&amp;nbsp; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
I have to say though, it would take a drastic upswing to change my mind.</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/1867778366217518019/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/my-final-decision-should-be-coming-soon.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/1867778366217518019" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/1867778366217518019" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/my-final-decision-should-be-coming-soon.html" rel="alternate" title="My Final Decision Should Be Coming Soon..." type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-8028389576187841916</id><published>2009-10-19T07:40:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-10-19T07:40:21.718-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fashion Victims"/><title type="text">Fashion Victims Ep. 2.11</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-size: x-small;"&gt; Jackson rushed into Derrick's hospital room. Rachel stood by the bed, smiling, Derrick's hand in hers. &lt;br /&gt;
"He's been asking for you." Rachel's voice was wet with tears. &lt;br /&gt;
Jackson couldn't speak. He just rushed over to the bed, kneeling next to it, so happy to finally look into Derrick's groggy, but very much awake eyes. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/8028389576187841916/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-ep-211.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/8028389576187841916" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/8028389576187841916" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-ep-211.html" rel="alternate" title="Fashion Victims Ep. 2.11" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-923864871281898317</id><published>2009-10-16T08:09:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-10-16T08:09:46.572-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fashion Victims"/><title type="text">Fashion Victims Ep. 2.10</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-size: x-small;"&gt; "Please stop saying you're sorry. I get it." Mia put her mug down on the table. Mitchell had said apologized ten times since they left the Dollhouse offices. &lt;br /&gt;
"I quit. At Precious Stones, the agency I worked for." He still couldn't look at her.&lt;br /&gt;
"Good, they were a bunch of monsters over there. I get it. Stuff like that comes with the business." She placed her hand over his, and he finally looked her in the eye.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/923864871281898317/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-ep-210.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/923864871281898317" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/923864871281898317" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-ep-210.html" rel="alternate" title="Fashion Victims Ep. 2.10" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-6249354280587330394</id><published>2009-10-15T16:10:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2009-10-15T16:10:09.479-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Notes"/><title type="text">The Future of Fashion Victims...</title><content type="html">So, obviously this new format isn't working.&amp;nbsp; Also, while I know where the new storylines are going, sadly I just don't think they are working out.&amp;nbsp; So what does this mean?&amp;nbsp; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Well, I have two more weeks already written, and unless I see a massive upswing in readers, then&amp;nbsp;I may end up posting the episodes I have, and then ending the series.&amp;nbsp; As much as I love Fashion Victims, I'm not sure I'm willing to devote the time to something that is failing.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
Does that mean I'm giving up on Sudz?&amp;nbsp; No.&amp;nbsp; I may not post for a while, but if I do start writing something that I think is worth my time, then I may start up again.&amp;nbsp; &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;br /&gt;
The decision is not final, not yet anyways, and I'll wait til the end of next week to decide Fashion Victims fate.&amp;nbsp;</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/6249354280587330394/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/future-of-fashion-victims.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/6249354280587330394" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/6249354280587330394" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/future-of-fashion-victims.html" rel="alternate" title="The Future of Fashion Victims..." type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-6581036357255763831</id><published>2009-10-15T07:57:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2009-10-15T07:57:10.968-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fashion Victims"/><title type="text">Fashion Victims Ep. 2.9</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-size: x-small;"&gt; "How long has it been?" Annabelle sat on the unmade bed, sipping a bottle of water. &lt;br /&gt;
"To long. Five years? Her mom sent her to boarding school." Jackson sat across from her on the floor. "I wanted her at home. Her mom wanted her freedom." &lt;br /&gt;
There was an awkward silence which was broken a few seconds later by Jackson's phone going off. He picked it up, and his face lit up as he read the text. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/6581036357255763831/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-ep-29.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/6581036357255763831" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/6581036357255763831" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-ep-29.html" rel="alternate" title="Fashion Victims Ep. 2.9" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-7560035061386797469</id><published>2009-10-14T07:49:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2009-10-14T07:49:46.324-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fashion Victims"/><title type="text">Fashion Victims Ep. 2.8</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-size: x-small;"&gt; "I'm sorry." The words just tumbled out of Mitchell's mouth. "I really am sorry." &lt;br /&gt;
Mia didn't speak. She stepped of the pedestal and lifted the dress over her head, making sure not to scratch herself with any of the pins. Then she walked over to Mitchell and patted him on the shoulder. &lt;br /&gt;
"Lets grab a cup of coffee." She stepped behind a curtain before he could speak. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/7560035061386797469/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-ep-28.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/7560035061386797469" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/7560035061386797469" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-ep-28.html" rel="alternate" title="Fashion Victims Ep. 2.8" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-274095160154305009</id><published>2009-10-13T07:58:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2009-10-13T07:58:31.918-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fashion Victims"/><title type="text">Fashion Victims Ep. 2.7</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-size: x-small;"&gt; Annabelle sat in the small spare bedroom of Jackson's apartment. Her eyes rested on the tiny closet.&lt;br /&gt;
"You're moving your daughter into here?" She glanced at the tiny closet. &lt;br /&gt;
"What?" Jackson began unpacking a few of the knick knacks he had bought. &lt;br /&gt;
They were all baby doll pink. &lt;br /&gt;
Annabelle just shook her head and went back to shifting boxes&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/274095160154305009/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-ep-27.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/274095160154305009" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/274095160154305009" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-ep-27.html" rel="alternate" title="Fashion Victims Ep. 2.7" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-8871882062136337584</id><published>2009-10-12T08:07:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2009-10-12T08:07:25.798-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fashion Victims"/><title type="text">Fashion Victims Ep. 2.6</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-size: x-small;"&gt; Mia stood on the pedistal in the center of the fitting room, one of Casey High's bizarre creations hanging on her not so thin frame. Since her scandal hit the press she had found herself giving into the temptation of food, and she was surprised to find her career still intact. &lt;br /&gt;
Just as the thoughts of her scandal passed through her mind none other than Mitchell Cross entered the dressing room.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/8871882062136337584/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-ep-26.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/8871882062136337584" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/8871882062136337584" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-ep-26.html" rel="alternate" title="Fashion Victims Ep. 2.6" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-5365188759433697976</id><published>2009-10-05T23:29:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-10-05T23:29:31.754-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Notes"/><title type="text">Sorry!  Some not so great news...</title><content type="html">Hey guys, I apologize for missing an episode today, and I hate to say this but... I probably won't be able to get any new eps up until friday or next monday.&amp;nbsp; As much as I love soap sudz, it is still a hobby, and work comes first.&amp;nbsp; I'll keep you all posted!</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/5365188759433697976/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/sorry-some-not-so-great-news.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/5365188759433697976" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/5365188759433697976" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/sorry-some-not-so-great-news.html" rel="alternate" title="Sorry!  Some not so great news..." type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-4875304959555178704</id><published>2009-10-02T13:00:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2009-10-02T13:00:38.311-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fashion Victims"/><title type="text">Fashion Victims 2.5</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-size: x-small;"&gt; &amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp; Barbi stood in front of the full length mirror on the closet door, her hair still wet from the shower. She looked like hell. &lt;br /&gt;
&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp; "Go today." Rick wrapped his arms around her, kissing her neck. &lt;br /&gt;
&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp; Barbi didn't say anything. She didn't want to go, because she already had an idea of what he would tell her. She didn't want to hear those words leave anyone's mouth.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/4875304959555178704/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-25.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/4875304959555178704" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/4875304959555178704" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-25.html" rel="alternate" title="Fashion Victims 2.5" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-5652628190534362788</id><published>2009-10-01T07:45:00.002-05:00</published><updated>2009-10-01T07:45:44.019-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fashion Victims"/><title type="text">Fashion Victims 2.4</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-size: x-small;"&gt; Jackson kissed Derrick lightly on the forehead. &lt;br /&gt;
"I'll be back later." He whispered.&lt;br /&gt;
"I'll take care of him, don't worry." Rachel folded her hands over her chest, and nodded. &lt;br /&gt;
Jackson knew had to leave. He had to get ready for his daughter. She would be in town in a few days and he hadn't even started on her room yet. Blanca Levi was coming home. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/5652628190534362788/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-24.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/5652628190534362788" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/5652628190534362788" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/10/fashion-victims-24.html" rel="alternate" title="Fashion Victims 2.4" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-2940768078462522524</id><published>2009-09-30T07:22:00.001-05:00</published><updated>2009-09-30T07:23:09.143-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fashion Victims"/><title type="text">Fashion Victims 2.3</title><content type="html">&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp; &lt;span style="font-size: x-small;"&gt;Barbi sat on the cold tile floor, her head resting on the toilet bowl. She had been getting sick a lot lately. That wasn't a good sign. For a while she could just blame it on stress, but now...&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp; &lt;/span&gt;&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;span style="font-size: x-small;"&gt;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;"Go to the doctor." Rick stood in the doorway, half dressed, and still half asleep.&lt;br /&gt;
&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;"I'll go soon." Barbi stood up slowly. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/2940768078462522524/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/09/fashion-victims-23.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/2940768078462522524" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/2940768078462522524" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/09/fashion-victims-23.html" rel="alternate" title="Fashion Victims 2.3" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-4050573549718270503</id><published>2009-09-29T07:01:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2009-09-29T07:01:45.484-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fashion Victims"/><title type="text">Fashion Victims 2.2</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-size: x-small;"&gt; &amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp; &amp;nbsp;Jackson watched as the sun started to come up over the skyline. He had spent so many mornings at that window, the sound of Derrick's heart monitor beeping behind him. It was going to be another beautiful day, and Derrick wouldn't see it. &lt;br /&gt;
&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp; "You should get some rest Mr. Levi." Rachel, the morning nurse, stood in the doorway. &lt;br /&gt;
&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp;&amp;nbsp; Jackson just turned towards her and smiled, his eyes heavy and tired. &lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/4050573549718270503/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/09/fashion-victims-22.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/4050573549718270503" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/4050573549718270503" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/09/fashion-victims-22.html" rel="alternate" title="Fashion Victims 2.2" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry><entry><id>tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6402568601849921207.post-4167469464791604827</id><published>2009-09-28T07:11:00.000-05:00</published><updated>2009-09-28T07:11:12.932-05:00</updated><category scheme="http://www.blogger.com/atom/ns#" term="Fashion Victims"/><title type="text">Fashion Victims 2.1</title><content type="html">&lt;span style="font-size: x-small;"&gt; Barbi sat up in bed, sweat dripping down her forehead. She couldn't breath. &lt;br /&gt;
It was that dream again. Her and Layla as children. She tried to hold on to more, to remember what had happened, but it had already started to slip away. She rubbed her stinging sweat from her eyes and laid back down. Then she felt her stomach lurch. &lt;br /&gt;
She was going to be sick.&lt;br /&gt;
&lt;/span&gt;</content><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/feeds/4167469464791604827/comments/default" rel="replies" title="Post Comments" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/09/fashion-victims-21.html#comment-form" rel="replies" title="0 Comments" type="text/html"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/4167469464791604827" rel="edit" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://www.blogger.com/feeds/6402568601849921207/posts/default/4167469464791604827" rel="self" type="application/atom+xml"/><link href="http://soapsudzbybobo.blogspot.com/2009/09/fashion-victims-21.html" rel="alternate" title="Fashion Victims 2.1" type="text/html"/><author><name>Unknown</name><email>noreply@blogger.com</email><gd:image height="16" rel="http://schemas.google.com/g/2005#thumbnail" src="https://img1.blogblog.com/img/b16-rounded.gif" width="16"/></author><thr:total>0</thr:total></entry></feed>