A/N: I do not own Twilight or any of the Twilight characters. (Obviously. If I did, I wouldn't be eating out of soup cans...) The contents of this story are for entertainment purposes only. Just borrowing these characters for a little fun! Please comment, review, like...whatever. Thanks!

Chappie 1- Death by Resuscitation

Two language arts degrees and a completed manuscript later and here I was, hunched over my heavily refurbished OfficeOasis desktop, glassy-eyed and entranced by the butterfly wallpaper of my childhood bedroom. My mother, Mrs. June Walsh, was downstairs, cooking dinner for herself and my father. Despite my current circumstances, I at least tried to act like an adult, which meant I washed my own skivvies and fixed my own meals. Even if it meant missing my mother's award winning pot roast…and eating out of a microwave.

My index finger clicked dutifully at the mouse, scrolling page after page of job opportunities that were all but glamorous. By this time of day I usually gave up the jig and switched to the ads that were clearly out of my league. Like this one—someone was looking to hire a writer for an elite columnist. I imagined myself in a plush office, lounging on a plush chaise in a blood-red evening gown. Because I was an artist, I told myself. I settled for no man.

The trudge downstairs from my loft for dinner was like a long, over-rehearsed dirge. I woke up every morning bright eyed, skipping down the stairs and whipping up breakfast for everyone like a mini Emeril, only to find myself completely underwhelmed by the time for evening meal. Each night I would round the corner at the bottom of the stairs, just as I was doing now. Each night I would help my mother set the table, busying myself so I could avoid looking into her hopeful eyes. Such hope! I would pop my plastic dinner tray into my beloved microwave, dreading the time buzzer. And then I would turn from my peaceful reverie and lower my frumpy butt into my designated dinner chair…

"How'd the job search go, honey?" My mother inquired, placing the pressed napkin neatly into her lap.

I fought the urge to weep like the emotionally starved maniac I obviously was and peeled the limp cellophane away from my prison-like meal. Actually, prison would be a step up for me.

I sighed. "Well, I got an email form one potential proprietor…" This was the beginning of the end.

My mother's face lit up with pride and instantly I felt two inches tall. "Oh, Jenny!" She reserved that pet name for special occasions. "I knew they'd see your talent eventually; you are a very clever writer. Your manuscripts are always remarkable. I've been praying for this moment, we have, haven't we Fred?"

My father grunted.

"Well, who's the publisher?" She shot my father a cheeky smirk as if to say, 'See. I told you our daughter wasn't a failure!'

I sighed and bit the proverbial bullet, praying to sweet baby Jesus and all the little lambs she wouldn't have a coronary.

"Emma's Intimates."

My mother frowned, confused. My father, however, nearly fell to the floor in hysterics, catching on before my innocent mother.

"Well that's an odd name for a publishing company, Jennifer. Are you sure they're legitimate?"

I sighed again, feeling I must've aged twenty years since the beginning of this conversation.

"Well Mom, they aren't exactly a publishing company. They actually…" I bit my lip. "Lingerie, Mom. They sell lingerie." I shrank even further into my seat. Surely this was my darkest hour.

Mother's eyes widened in horror. The grip on her fork loosened and it clattered to the floor. And in that moment I remembered the first time my mother had ever taken me bra shopping. No pinks. No frills. No 'hot stuff' stitched across my pubescent chest. No way José, my mother strolled to the bra rack with poise and lady-like elegance and picked the first nude and white bras she laid eyes on, discreetly tucking them behind her purse and coat and ushering me quietly to the dressing room, as if I had just committed a grievous sin and was going to confession. I think it was only a year ago, in college, when I bought my first demi-cup. I bit my lip harder, muffling a desperate squeal.

"B-but Jennifer, your novel…oh Lord…what will people say!" My mother's face had gone from pink, to purple, to deathly white. She was so horrified, she couldn't even cross herself. "Jennifer Loraine Walsh. Your father and I did not put you through six years of college for you to become some whore!"

I gasped the same moment my father spewed a mouthful of broccoli into the carnations in the center of the table. She glared at him before continuing.

"I will not have my daughter walking around in her unmentionables for everyone to see! The very idea!"

My cheeks lit like a campfire. "Oh God, Mom! I would sell the lingerie and manage the store's public image portfolio. I am not becoming an underwear model!" Dear God Almighty.

The table grew quiet again. My father was picking broccoli mush out of the flowers, slowly, as if any sudden movement would throw my mother into another rage. Probably it would.

Mother's face softened a fraction of a fraction, only slightly embarrassed by her outburst. "It still sounds bad, Jennifer. What will I tell me friends? What will we tell Father?"

My father chose now to intercede after successfully cleaning the poor bouquet. "Jen is an adult now, Junie. She wants to sell bras and underthings for a living, so be it."

My mother looked crossed between fainting and stabbing us all.

"Mom, it's temporary, okay? I swear. The man who sent the information hasn't approved my application yet, so let's not get crazy. I'm still looking, swear it."

"Don't swear." My mother closed her eyes, mimicking the serene Mother Mary but really only looking like a severely constipated Martha Stewart with her professionally curled chestnut hair and string of pearls.

I chose that moment to excuse myself from dinner, slinking upstairs like a naughty child. But not before I saw my mother cross herself.

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