Amy Lane's Blog: Writer's Lane, page 110
November 1, 2015
This is Halloween
It doesn't matter how i try to photograph it, I'll just never never get across how totally cool the whole thing is.
My parents go to this RV park not far from Sacramento-- as in, an hour's ride, max. During most of the year, it's an RV park in the middle of a cow field. Like… literally. You look out over the tightly packed row of RV's, and there are cows.
The other side is the Jackson Hwy, a two lane road that stretches between Sacramento and Auburn, with a few stops in between. This town-- Plymouth, is one of the stops. During Halloween, it becomes something entirely different.
During Halloween, it becomes Halloweentown.
Everybody decorates. And if, say, one in maybe thirty spots isn't decorated, well, they're RV parking lots-- it's not like you're walking across the street and a quarter acre spread to see if somebody had candy or not. 
Everybody dresses. And no, not all the outfits are awesome, and sometimes it's really just a T-shirt that has a black cat on it, but everybody is doing something for Halloween, and usually it's something pretty awesome.
I mean, I admit to being uncharmed by the guys in lab coats claiming to be Dr. Feltyersnatch, OB/GYN, but I was plenty charmed by the entire family of pirates, that you might be able to make out somewhere in all of my shitty pictures.And OH!
Speaking of...
Even the dogs dress.
You heard me.
My parents and aunts and uncle went as knights and ladies of yore. The dog had a hauberk and hood, I shit you not.Twas amazing.
And, if maybe only one person knew who my family was (Gravity Falls, people, it's a television series!) that was okay because that one person did a spot on impersonation of Sus, and we knew that we'd done our jobs right.
And my kids got back from trick-or-treating feeling like they'd conquered the world because they'd hit the entire park and then they gave out candy and helped man the trebuchet and jumped out screaming "Oooga booga booga!" trying to terrify toddlers. (I think Zoomboy got that from my dad. It didn't work.)
Oh! The trebuchet…
Actually it was a series of catapults that my father made with PVC pipe, kitchen spoons, and big rubber bands. The object of the game was to fling the light foam balls (painted orange) at the big cardboard castle (painted gray and strung with lights.) Thus, my parents as knights and ladies of the round table, get it?Did I mention the nonstop AWESOME!
I KNEW I did.
Anyway-- so that's why we left our house, even though it was pretty niftily decorated too, and drove all the way out to Plymouth to not be recognized in our costumes.But oh!
Did I mention?
There are also games all day--and Squish and Zoomboy DIDN'T win the screaming contest.
But according to all reports of random strangers wanting to pose with them as they trick-or-treated, they SHOULD have won. Seriously, "Yoiu guys were the best. You should have won. Can I take your picture?"You guys--
My kids had the best time.
And Big T got to sit at home and watch scary movies and hand out candy.And the dogs got to go insane.
Pretty cool-- right?
Happy Halloween, everyone-- may you sleep the hell in tomorrow.
I know I plan to!
October 30, 2015
Fan Fic Friday-- Nightmares (SuperBat)
*waves* So, I'll probably post Halloween pictures tomorrow night to make up for my final disgust with my computer last night. I just couldn't do it--every change of URL was a struggle, and deciding which windows to close to keep my computer from freezing was like playing Fuck/Marry/Kill with my Internet browser. (Fuck GoodReads, Marry Twitter/FB, Kill Washington Post--repeatedly.) Anyway-- I have a SuperBat bug, and an itch for some Destiel in the future… not that I don't want to write Cartinski anymore, but, you know… varietals.
Oh! And I took the kids to Plymouth to play with my parents today--and remembered all the reasons I loved Mom & Dad and can effectively forgive them for not being liberals. *sigh* That makes me a happier moo.
So, on we go with some SuperBat--and NightMares.
* * *
He really hated this night.
He'd smashed--literally, over the head with the side of a warehouse--an entire cadre of drug dealers who had peppered a party with "sample" packets. Not soon enough though-- there had been three overdoses before the ambulances had gotten there, and he'd had to run anyway.
A group of thugs wearing Boehner and Paul Ryan masks were trying to vandalize a local Planned Parenthood, and those assholes he had to string up by their ankles. (Well, not had to, but since he was against killing people outright, it was the best he could do.)
From the BatMobile, while on his way from one crime in progress to another, he'd managed to stop a cyber-terrorist act that would have set everybody's computer on seizure strobe.
And all the super villains were fucking out, cackling their way through the trick-or-treaters in the suburbs of Gotham, slipping razor blades into apples and snakes into licorice boxes and generally, he'd just started injecting them all with sedatives as he passed by, pretending to be an overzealous parent in full dress armor. By midnight, there were several piles of sleeping super villains, passed out on lawns, getting rousted by the police and put in the drunk tank because nobody believed the real Penguin would be harassing little kids on a holiday.
Batman was out of the patience to explain that all the super villains were little kids hyped on tragedy and resentment, and that horror was their sugar rush.
He was just tired, period.
He hauled his ass into the BatCave at the asscrack of a late dawn on November 1st, parboiled himself in the shower and crawled into the infirmary bed. He still felt dirty, and he wanted nothing to do with what was waiting for him in his room.
An hour later he sat up in his own bed, freezing, sweating, shouting, "No! No! Don't eat the fucking candy bar! Don't take the drug! Don't jump off the goddamned bridge! Jesus, why don't they listen?"
Strong arms wrapped around his shoulders and he was borne down to the mattress, while a firm male body enveloped him in comforting heat. "They heard you, Bruce. It's okay. It's okay--don't worry about it. They'll be fine."
"They never listen," Bruce whispered brokenly against Clark's naked chest. "They never listen." He fell back asleep--for five minutes. Then ten. Then a whole half-an-hour. At one point, he lay awake, in one of those horrible waking-comas, where he kept trying to sit up but his eyes wouldn't even open.
He heard two voices, Alfred's and Clark's, whispering just outside the curtains around his bed.
"Every year, Alfred?"
"Since he was a small child, sir--even before his parents were killed."
"This is…"
"Master Grayson started leaving town. This day broke his heart."
"I'm stronger than Master Grayson," Clark muttered, and Bruce felt himself relax into sleep.
Yes, Clark. You are stronger, you are smarter, and you have the biggest dick. We all know it. Brag some more… Even as the thought trailed off, his stomach clenched in fear of the next time he jerked awake, sweating, consumed with the things he couldn't undo.
A warm cloth moved along his limbs, the heat saturating his skin, bergamot and amber permeated his dreams. He grumbled as the cloth was moved along his chest, under his arms, around his neck.
Between the crevice of his buttocks and thighs. Around his genitals. Then down his legs.
Strong fingers worked the muscles of his calves, his feet, his ass, his lumbar, his shoulders, his neck. By the time he was rolled over--again--those hands and fingers were working insistently along his arms, and his entire body felt limp and wrung out, a used dishcloth, a scrap of soiled silk, crumpled on the bed.
And he wasn't asleep.
"What time is it?" he mumbled.
"Does it matter?"
"Bruce Wayne has a meeting at--"
"A time that's been canceled," Clark said, his tone brooking no argument.
Bruce managed to open his eyes--barely--and glare. "We agreed, no inter--"
"Interference of The Justice League in Bruce Wayne's business matters. Sue me. I lied. Now either shut up about it or get up, get out of bed, and call the damned meeting if it's so fucking important."
Bruce couldn't move. "You're swearing a lot," he muttered.
"Only since living with you."
"Heh heh heh heh…" He was naked and clean, and Clark's hands were on his skin. That terrible, chest pressing anxiety wasn't fading, really, but it was… taking a step back, and letting his animal needs be met. Speaking of…
"Sit up," Clark ordered, pulling at his shoulders. "You haven't eaten in forty-eight hours. Time for soup!"
Bruce glared at him. "Who told?" he snapped.
"Alfred--and I took your blood sugar before I went with the sponge bath."
"Because…"
"I'm obsessive about my fragile human," Clark snapped. "And you wouldn't let me help, remember? 'Gotham is my business, you go save the world, I'll save my city'. Ring any bells, you obsessive fuckhead?"
"No," Bruce grumped. "I don't remember that. Must be brain damage from my low blood sug--" The bite of stew shoved in his mouth wasn't unwelcome.
"Liar."
"I'm not ly--ump!"
He glared as Superman, leader of the Justice League and multiple-time savior of Metropolis and Planet Earth, fed him soup like he was an infant.
But the more he woke up, the more he recognized this mood--Clark wasn't just trying to comfort him, he was trying to save Bruce, just like he saved everything else.
Well, it was what you did, when you were Superman, right?
"I'm done," he said, as Clark tried to scrape the bowl. "I've eaten, I"m fine. I can get up now."
Clark continued with the spoon until Bruce saw little bits of enamel peeling off with the dull edge of the good silver. With a sigh, he put his hands out and stilled Clark's restless bowl-scraping.
"Thank you," he said, his voice soft. "I've eaten. You can come back to bed now."
Clark nodded, not looking at him, and set the bowl on the tray. He was dressed like any man who'd been wandering the house in the morning--in sleep pants and a T-shirt--and he took nothing off as he slid in next to Bruce. Bruce rested his cheek on that broad, Fortress of Solitude chest and picked restlessly at the cotton under his cheek.
"Take it off," he ordered.
Clark ripped it down the center, and Bruce let out a half-laugh, laying his head down on the smooth-skinned muscle that protected the strongest heart on earth. He closed his eyes and listened to that heart beat under his ear for moment.
"Strong," he said.
Clark ran his hand along his back. "Very," he murmured.
"You've done your job," Bruce said, smiling a little. "You can get up and go--"
"What haunts you?"
Confused images ran behind his eyes, grownups in masks, overloud laughter, the screaming of children, a still, floating form, water closing over his face, a broken mask and a scarred mouth underneath… pain… violation… fear…
"I don't even remember," Bruce confessed, embarrassed about this, embarrassed because of a nightmare or a child's fear, so deeply embedded in his mind that he couldn't root it out and kill it himself. He owned his neuroses, dammit-- he wore them on his body as armor and drove around in them like a giant fucking tank.
"Tomorrow then," Clark said, running that comforting hand down his back.
Bruce was sated and fed, and still tied, but he purred and ground up against that super-body, unashamed of his hunger.
Clark laughed softly and turned, taking his mouth--but not gently.
The kiss was not gentle, and his hands on Bruce's body were hard, demanding--almost bruising. Bruce stayed boneless, pliant, liquid, as Clark made his body ready, spreading his thighs and nipping at his nipples, squeezing BRuce's cock until it was hard and weeping with need. When Clark slid down the bed and slid two spit-slicked fingers into Bruce's entrance, Bruce gasped--and allowed.
Bruce, the top, the dominator, the one who took the strongest man in the solar system and bent him to his will, bent, opened, and allowed.
Clark thrust into him, aggressive and commanding, and Bruce let the pain wash over his body, the way pain always did. This pain was followed by pleasure, followed by possession, followed by the nightmares, tearing like tattered flags of childhood, disintegrating into wind of relentless sex.
His orgasm swept over him, possessing him completely, a man's body reacting to his lover's complete domination, and Clark's grunt and howl of completion filled him from the inside. Bruce's neuroses burned away, his memories burned away, his ghosts disappeared like smoke.
Cock and ass and come… flesh and blood and bone…
Painful twisted love, unfurling in his loins, in his body, sending him to sleep for one precious moment, whole and as undaunted as a newborn.
*
Clark didn't clean them up when they were done--Bruce had fallen asleep as Clark panted into the hollow of his shoulder and ear anyway. Instead, Clark slid to the side and rolled Bruce over, so he could spoon his shorter, stockier other half, and smooth his sweaty hair from his forehead.
"So haunted," he whispered. "So broken. It's like you were broken and haunted for me alone to fix. Why would the world do that? Why would God do that? I don't understand."
"Because," Bruce said, and dammit how he could fake sleep so convincingly like that, Clark would never know. "I like it when you fix me. It tells me God exists. And the ghosts can scream all they want, but you will keep me safe."
Oh! And I took the kids to Plymouth to play with my parents today--and remembered all the reasons I loved Mom & Dad and can effectively forgive them for not being liberals. *sigh* That makes me a happier moo.
So, on we go with some SuperBat--and NightMares.
* * *
He really hated this night.
He'd smashed--literally, over the head with the side of a warehouse--an entire cadre of drug dealers who had peppered a party with "sample" packets. Not soon enough though-- there had been three overdoses before the ambulances had gotten there, and he'd had to run anyway.
A group of thugs wearing Boehner and Paul Ryan masks were trying to vandalize a local Planned Parenthood, and those assholes he had to string up by their ankles. (Well, not had to, but since he was against killing people outright, it was the best he could do.)
From the BatMobile, while on his way from one crime in progress to another, he'd managed to stop a cyber-terrorist act that would have set everybody's computer on seizure strobe.
And all the super villains were fucking out, cackling their way through the trick-or-treaters in the suburbs of Gotham, slipping razor blades into apples and snakes into licorice boxes and generally, he'd just started injecting them all with sedatives as he passed by, pretending to be an overzealous parent in full dress armor. By midnight, there were several piles of sleeping super villains, passed out on lawns, getting rousted by the police and put in the drunk tank because nobody believed the real Penguin would be harassing little kids on a holiday.
Batman was out of the patience to explain that all the super villains were little kids hyped on tragedy and resentment, and that horror was their sugar rush.
He was just tired, period.
He hauled his ass into the BatCave at the asscrack of a late dawn on November 1st, parboiled himself in the shower and crawled into the infirmary bed. He still felt dirty, and he wanted nothing to do with what was waiting for him in his room.
An hour later he sat up in his own bed, freezing, sweating, shouting, "No! No! Don't eat the fucking candy bar! Don't take the drug! Don't jump off the goddamned bridge! Jesus, why don't they listen?"
Strong arms wrapped around his shoulders and he was borne down to the mattress, while a firm male body enveloped him in comforting heat. "They heard you, Bruce. It's okay. It's okay--don't worry about it. They'll be fine."
"They never listen," Bruce whispered brokenly against Clark's naked chest. "They never listen." He fell back asleep--for five minutes. Then ten. Then a whole half-an-hour. At one point, he lay awake, in one of those horrible waking-comas, where he kept trying to sit up but his eyes wouldn't even open.
He heard two voices, Alfred's and Clark's, whispering just outside the curtains around his bed.
"Every year, Alfred?"
"Since he was a small child, sir--even before his parents were killed."
"This is…"
"Master Grayson started leaving town. This day broke his heart."
"I'm stronger than Master Grayson," Clark muttered, and Bruce felt himself relax into sleep.
Yes, Clark. You are stronger, you are smarter, and you have the biggest dick. We all know it. Brag some more… Even as the thought trailed off, his stomach clenched in fear of the next time he jerked awake, sweating, consumed with the things he couldn't undo.
A warm cloth moved along his limbs, the heat saturating his skin, bergamot and amber permeated his dreams. He grumbled as the cloth was moved along his chest, under his arms, around his neck.
Between the crevice of his buttocks and thighs. Around his genitals. Then down his legs.
Strong fingers worked the muscles of his calves, his feet, his ass, his lumbar, his shoulders, his neck. By the time he was rolled over--again--those hands and fingers were working insistently along his arms, and his entire body felt limp and wrung out, a used dishcloth, a scrap of soiled silk, crumpled on the bed.
And he wasn't asleep.
"What time is it?" he mumbled.
"Does it matter?"
"Bruce Wayne has a meeting at--"
"A time that's been canceled," Clark said, his tone brooking no argument.
Bruce managed to open his eyes--barely--and glare. "We agreed, no inter--"
"Interference of The Justice League in Bruce Wayne's business matters. Sue me. I lied. Now either shut up about it or get up, get out of bed, and call the damned meeting if it's so fucking important."
Bruce couldn't move. "You're swearing a lot," he muttered.
"Only since living with you."
"Heh heh heh heh…" He was naked and clean, and Clark's hands were on his skin. That terrible, chest pressing anxiety wasn't fading, really, but it was… taking a step back, and letting his animal needs be met. Speaking of…
"Sit up," Clark ordered, pulling at his shoulders. "You haven't eaten in forty-eight hours. Time for soup!"
Bruce glared at him. "Who told?" he snapped.
"Alfred--and I took your blood sugar before I went with the sponge bath."
"Because…"
"I'm obsessive about my fragile human," Clark snapped. "And you wouldn't let me help, remember? 'Gotham is my business, you go save the world, I'll save my city'. Ring any bells, you obsessive fuckhead?"
"No," Bruce grumped. "I don't remember that. Must be brain damage from my low blood sug--" The bite of stew shoved in his mouth wasn't unwelcome.
"Liar."
"I'm not ly--ump!"
He glared as Superman, leader of the Justice League and multiple-time savior of Metropolis and Planet Earth, fed him soup like he was an infant.
But the more he woke up, the more he recognized this mood--Clark wasn't just trying to comfort him, he was trying to save Bruce, just like he saved everything else.
Well, it was what you did, when you were Superman, right?
"I'm done," he said, as Clark tried to scrape the bowl. "I've eaten, I"m fine. I can get up now."
Clark continued with the spoon until Bruce saw little bits of enamel peeling off with the dull edge of the good silver. With a sigh, he put his hands out and stilled Clark's restless bowl-scraping.
"Thank you," he said, his voice soft. "I've eaten. You can come back to bed now."
Clark nodded, not looking at him, and set the bowl on the tray. He was dressed like any man who'd been wandering the house in the morning--in sleep pants and a T-shirt--and he took nothing off as he slid in next to Bruce. Bruce rested his cheek on that broad, Fortress of Solitude chest and picked restlessly at the cotton under his cheek.
"Take it off," he ordered.
Clark ripped it down the center, and Bruce let out a half-laugh, laying his head down on the smooth-skinned muscle that protected the strongest heart on earth. He closed his eyes and listened to that heart beat under his ear for moment.
"Strong," he said.
Clark ran his hand along his back. "Very," he murmured.
"You've done your job," Bruce said, smiling a little. "You can get up and go--"
"What haunts you?"
Confused images ran behind his eyes, grownups in masks, overloud laughter, the screaming of children, a still, floating form, water closing over his face, a broken mask and a scarred mouth underneath… pain… violation… fear…
"I don't even remember," Bruce confessed, embarrassed about this, embarrassed because of a nightmare or a child's fear, so deeply embedded in his mind that he couldn't root it out and kill it himself. He owned his neuroses, dammit-- he wore them on his body as armor and drove around in them like a giant fucking tank.
"Tomorrow then," Clark said, running that comforting hand down his back.
Bruce was sated and fed, and still tied, but he purred and ground up against that super-body, unashamed of his hunger.
Clark laughed softly and turned, taking his mouth--but not gently.
The kiss was not gentle, and his hands on Bruce's body were hard, demanding--almost bruising. Bruce stayed boneless, pliant, liquid, as Clark made his body ready, spreading his thighs and nipping at his nipples, squeezing BRuce's cock until it was hard and weeping with need. When Clark slid down the bed and slid two spit-slicked fingers into Bruce's entrance, Bruce gasped--and allowed.
Bruce, the top, the dominator, the one who took the strongest man in the solar system and bent him to his will, bent, opened, and allowed.
Clark thrust into him, aggressive and commanding, and Bruce let the pain wash over his body, the way pain always did. This pain was followed by pleasure, followed by possession, followed by the nightmares, tearing like tattered flags of childhood, disintegrating into wind of relentless sex.
His orgasm swept over him, possessing him completely, a man's body reacting to his lover's complete domination, and Clark's grunt and howl of completion filled him from the inside. Bruce's neuroses burned away, his memories burned away, his ghosts disappeared like smoke.
Cock and ass and come… flesh and blood and bone…
Painful twisted love, unfurling in his loins, in his body, sending him to sleep for one precious moment, whole and as undaunted as a newborn.
*
Clark didn't clean them up when they were done--Bruce had fallen asleep as Clark panted into the hollow of his shoulder and ear anyway. Instead, Clark slid to the side and rolled Bruce over, so he could spoon his shorter, stockier other half, and smooth his sweaty hair from his forehead.
"So haunted," he whispered. "So broken. It's like you were broken and haunted for me alone to fix. Why would the world do that? Why would God do that? I don't understand."
"Because," Bruce said, and dammit how he could fake sleep so convincingly like that, Clark would never know. "I like it when you fix me. It tells me God exists. And the ghosts can scream all they want, but you will keep me safe."
October 29, 2015
Schtuff...
* At the beginning of school, I gave Squish's class a bunch of my old swag pens-- the purple ones that had the little plot bunnies on them. Squish reports that she is tickled when she realizes the entire class is using mom's Angst & Pain pens. She also reports that the entire class is tickled because they easily convert to the world's BEST spit-wad guns. *sigh* Remember that thing about the road to hell and good intentions? I hope the teacher forgives me as she picks spit wads out of her hair.* As reported on Twitter/FB, Squish left her backpack at home today. The resounding opinion was to simply let her reap the natural consequences of her screw up. Apparently the natural consequences of her screw up were for mom to go home, walk the dogs in her pajamas (how they got into her pajamas I'll never know) and then put the dogs BACK into the car, grab the backpack and return it to school, disapproved of barking dogs et al.
I was in my pajamas, in public, at 9:30 in the morning.
Mother Nature is a cruel ass bitch. (And thank you, Kristen, again for the lovely memes to prove it!)
* Big T got to go off on a rant about his favorite movie directors today-- I felt bad. He kept apologizing, but really, he'd just put a new gloss on his bright and shiny gods and he wanted to share. I helped him do that as much as humanly possible--because Lynch and Aronofsky ARE powerful gods, and I see nothing wrong with the altars at which he worships.* Big T also got a new computer with his own money. He's so very proud.
* Zoomboy has been learning about string theory, time travel, the big crunch following the big bang, and WWII. Today, he told me that he wanted to write a dystopian story in which the Nazis had won WWII and mankind was still working to rebel against their regime. (I shit you not.)
"Oooh," I said, entranced. "That sounds awesome."
"Yeah, but I need to find a new Hitler-- because he would have passed away even if he lived."
"Yeah," I agreed, and then, heaven help me, I got lost in the allegorical politics that have so much potential given that premise. "And Dick Cheney could be the leader, and Ted Cruz and Paul Ryan could be his minions and…"
"Mom," he said pityingly, "I think I need something more original than that."
I had to give him a high five for that-- he had me there.* Chicken is applying for the GRE. I'm so hopeful for her-- I think she'll really enjoy the Master's program at San Diego State. That said, she is lost in facnfiction as a way to destress, and I'm so jealous that she has that kind of time.
* Oh! And we're almost done with the Halloween costumes… speaking of which, which state are YOU from?
October 27, 2015
Welcome to my Cave
Do you like it?
I've got blankets--comfy chairs, a mini fridge. Chocolate, ice water, cranberry juice, root beer. Jerky for protein.
There are dogs to lick feet and cats somewhere when the dogs are sleeping.
There is NO CRAZY.
None. Just me, huggled in here with my computer. I don't have to go for takeout (cause I might forget my wallet.) I don't have to interact with other humans (cause I might do it wrong and piss them off or make them sad or just stubbornly refuse to be normal) and I don't have to brush my hair. (It doesn't listen to what I say anyway.)
There is NO CRAZY.
Just ignore the fountain of imagination, of angst, of stress, issuing forth in a visible stream. Ooh, wait, was that a unicorn, squatting on the toilet, crapping ice cream? No, no-- a YouTube commercial, but still. Nice image! Most of the rest of it is mine-- dragons, sorceresses, hot young men going at it like lemmings on speed and viagra.
Oh, hey, a dead horse!
But there IS NO CRAZY.
I'm gibbering to myself and knitting and watching television… iZombie, the Flash, SUPERNATURAL, BOYS HANG ON, DID YOU MISS ME? Every sci-fi show I can possibly tape and watch while still managing to eat, sleep, and function is on the TV.
*dangles for my more fiberific friends* There's YARN. Did you see the yarn? In fact… shh… the walls of the cave are made with yarn boxes. Just pull a brick out of the wall and find your fiber. Shhhh… we even have a special day when we wind skeins and sing to the soundtrack of Guardians of the Galaxy.
Oh-- and there IS NO CRAZY.
Music… there's music too. It's a mishmash, everything from kids' songs to AC/DC to AC/DC on violin and cello. Bruce Springsteen, Bruce Springsteen, Greenday, REM, the Killers, Bruce Springsteen, The Shins, Broken Bells, Death Cab for Cutie, Sheryl Crow, did I mention the Bruce Springsteen?
Music… music music music, all in the cave, and it's all pouring through the opening in a cartoon, with the dragons and the elves and the sorceresses and NAKED MEN, TWO PEEN SEX, and COOKIES!
And did I mention?
There IS. NO. CRAZY.
Oh. *blinks* Really?
Are you sure?
*wraps blanket tighter* *stares into the glow of the laptop* *whispers*
Well, I"m crazy, but I promise you, it's safer in here.
You won't get such a promise for outside my cave.
I've got blankets--comfy chairs, a mini fridge. Chocolate, ice water, cranberry juice, root beer. Jerky for protein.
There are dogs to lick feet and cats somewhere when the dogs are sleeping.
There is NO CRAZY.
None. Just me, huggled in here with my computer. I don't have to go for takeout (cause I might forget my wallet.) I don't have to interact with other humans (cause I might do it wrong and piss them off or make them sad or just stubbornly refuse to be normal) and I don't have to brush my hair. (It doesn't listen to what I say anyway.)
There is NO CRAZY.
Just ignore the fountain of imagination, of angst, of stress, issuing forth in a visible stream. Ooh, wait, was that a unicorn, squatting on the toilet, crapping ice cream? No, no-- a YouTube commercial, but still. Nice image! Most of the rest of it is mine-- dragons, sorceresses, hot young men going at it like lemmings on speed and viagra.
Oh, hey, a dead horse!
But there IS NO CRAZY.
I'm gibbering to myself and knitting and watching television… iZombie, the Flash, SUPERNATURAL, BOYS HANG ON, DID YOU MISS ME? Every sci-fi show I can possibly tape and watch while still managing to eat, sleep, and function is on the TV.
*dangles for my more fiberific friends* There's YARN. Did you see the yarn? In fact… shh… the walls of the cave are made with yarn boxes. Just pull a brick out of the wall and find your fiber. Shhhh… we even have a special day when we wind skeins and sing to the soundtrack of Guardians of the Galaxy.
Oh-- and there IS NO CRAZY.
Music… there's music too. It's a mishmash, everything from kids' songs to AC/DC to AC/DC on violin and cello. Bruce Springsteen, Bruce Springsteen, Greenday, REM, the Killers, Bruce Springsteen, The Shins, Broken Bells, Death Cab for Cutie, Sheryl Crow, did I mention the Bruce Springsteen?
Music… music music music, all in the cave, and it's all pouring through the opening in a cartoon, with the dragons and the elves and the sorceresses and NAKED MEN, TWO PEEN SEX, and COOKIES!
And did I mention?
There IS. NO. CRAZY.
Oh. *blinks* Really?
Are you sure?
*wraps blanket tighter* *stares into the glow of the laptop* *whispers*
Well, I"m crazy, but I promise you, it's safer in here.
You won't get such a promise for outside my cave.
October 26, 2015
It's not that I expect...
People to worship my gods… but a little respect would be nice.
* * *
My parents are taking the kids to Plymouth for Halloween, and, as expected, this week leading up to the big day has been full of putting together costumes. This evening, my stepmom called, and we had the following conversation.
Stepmom: Okay-- so what are the kids going to be for Halloween again?
Me: Gravity Falls-- it's a TV show. Chicken and Mate are dressing up too.
Stepmom: Not you?
Me: There's not really a character I could play. I'm wearing a purple zombie T-shirt-- you know, the Joss Whedon zombie who goes "Grr… Argh…"
Stepmom: I don't know who that is.
Me: Uh, you know-- produced Buffy and Firefly and, like, the Avengers!
Stepmom: STill don't know. Whatever.
Me: Well, anyway, he's sort of a god.
Stepmom: Well, to you maybe. Anyway, make sure the kids have name tags for their characters because people ask me and I can't remember.
Me: Uh, yeah. Sure.
* * *
So anyway-- I hung up, and tried to analyze the source of my irritation.
And I think it's this.
I have watched Disney nature flicks from Chimpanzee to Big Cats to Monkey Kingdom. I have seen Mythbusters, at least one Twilight Movie, and Little Red Riding Hood in the theater. I have listened to Breaking Bad, Game of Thrones and Earnest and Celestine. Oh yeah-- and The Illusionist. Kim Possible, Phineas and Ferb, The Mighty Fuckin' Morphin' Power Rangers and holy fuck, not one, not two, but fifty-gazunga versions of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles IN THE FUCKING THEATER, not to mention That Guy With the Glasses, Game Theory, video game competition commentary, 107 True Facts About Naruto, HOLY FUCKIN' GOD, PIXELS for sweet Goddess's sake.
And I have tried, through boredom, cynicism, and more popcorn than one human should gorge on, never to make my kids feel like insignificant douche-pickles because of the gods they worship.
Apparently, this was because I knew how it felt to be an insignificant douche-pickle, a stranger, a changeling baby under a fuckin' mushroom, because I worshipped at the feet of different idols than my parents.
It makes me want to eat a fuckin' pizza, that's how it feels.
And I remember a long time ago, when Chicken gave my friend's daughter one of the Mexican print dresses my parents had brought back from Puerto Vallarta. It was bright purple and pink, and Chicken loved it dearly but it didn't fit anymore, and my friend's daughter twirled in it and said, "Look, mommy! Isn't it pretty?"
And my friend said, "Jesus, Jenny, it's the ugliest thing I've ever seen. I'm not taking that home."
And I lost a lot of respect for her that day, because her daughter was CRUSHED. And Chicken felt sort of shitty too.
So, life lesson number 523-- hard earned, with a lot of philosophy and binge eating, and I'm just dishing this one out for free.
I don't expect people to worship my gods--although, honestly, a little happy, healthy proselytizing of, say, yarn, or yarn websites or maybe my favorite gay romance author is more of a "friendly neighbor sharing" sort of thing than it is expectation of worship. As they used to say when they'd drag us kicking and screaming to to Bible study because our parents wanted free daycare, "We're just spreading the good news."
But it's okay if they don't worship-- it's not required for friendship or any other ship for that matter. If someone is a quilter or a sewer or a jet-skiier and not a knitter, well, A. More yarn for me, and B. They have different stories and that's always awesome.
I am fine worshiping my own gods-- just as long as nobody shits all over them. To love a person is to respect their gods. It's as simple as that.
So there you go. Put that one right next to "Don't expect boys of a certain age to smell any way but heinous and try not to shame them for the stench coming off their feet and pits: It's not their fault." Respecting your children's gods is something that will make you feel better about your relationship with your children--#truefax.
* * *
My parents are taking the kids to Plymouth for Halloween, and, as expected, this week leading up to the big day has been full of putting together costumes. This evening, my stepmom called, and we had the following conversation.
Stepmom: Okay-- so what are the kids going to be for Halloween again?
Me: Gravity Falls-- it's a TV show. Chicken and Mate are dressing up too.
Stepmom: Not you?
Me: There's not really a character I could play. I'm wearing a purple zombie T-shirt-- you know, the Joss Whedon zombie who goes "Grr… Argh…"
Stepmom: I don't know who that is.
Me: Uh, you know-- produced Buffy and Firefly and, like, the Avengers!
Stepmom: STill don't know. Whatever.
Me: Well, anyway, he's sort of a god.
Stepmom: Well, to you maybe. Anyway, make sure the kids have name tags for their characters because people ask me and I can't remember.
Me: Uh, yeah. Sure.
* * *
So anyway-- I hung up, and tried to analyze the source of my irritation.
And I think it's this.
I have watched Disney nature flicks from Chimpanzee to Big Cats to Monkey Kingdom. I have seen Mythbusters, at least one Twilight Movie, and Little Red Riding Hood in the theater. I have listened to Breaking Bad, Game of Thrones and Earnest and Celestine. Oh yeah-- and The Illusionist. Kim Possible, Phineas and Ferb, The Mighty Fuckin' Morphin' Power Rangers and holy fuck, not one, not two, but fifty-gazunga versions of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles IN THE FUCKING THEATER, not to mention That Guy With the Glasses, Game Theory, video game competition commentary, 107 True Facts About Naruto, HOLY FUCKIN' GOD, PIXELS for sweet Goddess's sake.
And I have tried, through boredom, cynicism, and more popcorn than one human should gorge on, never to make my kids feel like insignificant douche-pickles because of the gods they worship.
Apparently, this was because I knew how it felt to be an insignificant douche-pickle, a stranger, a changeling baby under a fuckin' mushroom, because I worshipped at the feet of different idols than my parents.
It makes me want to eat a fuckin' pizza, that's how it feels.
And I remember a long time ago, when Chicken gave my friend's daughter one of the Mexican print dresses my parents had brought back from Puerto Vallarta. It was bright purple and pink, and Chicken loved it dearly but it didn't fit anymore, and my friend's daughter twirled in it and said, "Look, mommy! Isn't it pretty?"
And my friend said, "Jesus, Jenny, it's the ugliest thing I've ever seen. I'm not taking that home."
And I lost a lot of respect for her that day, because her daughter was CRUSHED. And Chicken felt sort of shitty too.
So, life lesson number 523-- hard earned, with a lot of philosophy and binge eating, and I'm just dishing this one out for free.
I don't expect people to worship my gods--although, honestly, a little happy, healthy proselytizing of, say, yarn, or yarn websites or maybe my favorite gay romance author is more of a "friendly neighbor sharing" sort of thing than it is expectation of worship. As they used to say when they'd drag us kicking and screaming to to Bible study because our parents wanted free daycare, "We're just spreading the good news."
But it's okay if they don't worship-- it's not required for friendship or any other ship for that matter. If someone is a quilter or a sewer or a jet-skiier and not a knitter, well, A. More yarn for me, and B. They have different stories and that's always awesome.
I am fine worshiping my own gods-- just as long as nobody shits all over them. To love a person is to respect their gods. It's as simple as that.
So there you go. Put that one right next to "Don't expect boys of a certain age to smell any way but heinous and try not to shame them for the stench coming off their feet and pits: It's not their fault." Respecting your children's gods is something that will make you feel better about your relationship with your children--#truefax.
October 25, 2015
Go Warrior Hamster Go!
Chicken gave me a Warrior Hamster .gif andI will treasure it ALWAYS.So, you all may have noticed a little holiday coming up next Saturday… what is that? Hallow's Eve? Samhain? Halloween?
Okay-- let's face it. It's the time we stock chocolate in our cupboard "For the kids" that we then eat in massive quantities so that on the actual day itself we have to run for the grocery store and combat the other desperate people there like we're stocking up for the zombie apocalypse.
And it's time to make costumes for the kids.
This year the whole family is into Gravity Falls, which is GREAT because the characters are dressed in very distinctive, easy to obtain clothing.And it sucks because there's no way I can walk into a store and go, "Hey, I'd like this in a size 14!"
But that's okay-- we've worked very hard to be able to create the perfect Mabel sweater, and tomorrow is going to be my day to totally pony up and do that.I'm also going to make Dipper a tree hat.
Squish has already made matching sparkly witch hat headbands for herself and Waddles the (stuffed) Pig, and we have a vest and an orange shirt for Dipper. (I plan to draw a big dipper on his forehead too.)
All we need now is a tie and a Fez for Mate (who wants to be Grunkle Stan) and for Chicken's Wendy hat to come in.
Yeah, I know-- nothing really screams "Mom" in these costumes, but that's okay. I've got my Joss Whedon shirt with the "Grr… argh!" zombie and a purple spider hat to match-- I think I'll be okay. I just hope I can make Squish's shirt with enough sparkles. I mean, rhinestone letters for her name, and sparkly paint for the rainbow-- I can't lose, can I? (You all know I'm kidding and that the likelihood of me getting sparkles all over the house, myself, and the dogs is high, right?)But that's okay. I'm actually looking forward to it. I want Squish to go, "See! Mom made my Mabel shirt!"
Cause everyone nows those are the best costumes, right?
So, you know-- if you're used to getting in touch with me tomorrow afternoon and you can't… you know where I'll be.
Eyeball deep in glitter-paint and sinking fast!
And loving being a parent, because this age doesn't last for too long. (Or if it does, your grown kids can get their own damned costumes.)
Peace out!
October 24, 2015
Everything We Learned in School Is Bullshit
Okay-- first I'll clarify the statement I made on Twitter--
The other day, when I thought the apocalypse was starting as I sat on the toilet, apparently what was really happening was that the local SWAT Team was serving an eviction notice, and issuing condemned building notices to be taped in the windows. Apparently that day one of the idiot assholes next door was standing on the roof trying to get away. (Kids, seriously. Don't do drugs. It makes you stupid.)
Anyway-- that was exciting, and then I went to aqua, which I did today, for that matter. And when I got back today, after picking up the kids, there was a construction crew boarding up the house.
"So," I said, walking up to the two construction guys with Geoffie in my arms. "Uh, how bad was it?"
"We've seen worse," one of the guys said. Then he looked around. "But there was a lot of heroin needles in there. That was pretty bad."
"Oh," I said, not surprised. "Any, uh, meth cooking?"
"Yeah--but not much, like from a while ago."
I nodded, thinking that explained why three weeks ago my eyes had been burning and the "buyer" activity had increased outside the house. That was just about the time we'd all started calling the cops.
"So the house wasn't--"
"There's some broken windows, and a lot of drug paraphernalia, but its pretty sound."
I left the boys to work while we unloaded groceries in the house, but inside I was just so, so grateful. They were gone. The place had been boarded up. The meth-cooking squatters are gone. And you know what else I found out?
The guy across the street, who's sort of a curmudgeon with an iron fence and dogs? Apparently his son in law is in charge of evictions in this locale. Which explains how it happened so fast.
So we don't have to gather the family and move, and I, for one, am very very grateful.
All that being covered, I do believe I promised a little bit of Cartinski!
* * *
"Sheriff Stilinski!" Derek said in a panic. "Sir, did you forget what day it is?"
John stared at him from his desk for a moment, nonplused. "Tuesday?"
Derek made a sound of impatience-- which was something he rarely did. In fact, most of the time he treated John with sort of an exquisite courtesy, as though believing his boyfriend's father wasn't just going to go batshit on him with a shotgun wasn't ever in the cards, but Derek would do everything in his repertoire to try to keep it from happening.
Impatience, from Derek, meant that something was dire.
"Derek?" he asked hesitantly. "Uh, what's wrong with Tuesday?"
Derek glowered and slid into the room, closing the door behind him. Yeah, sure, Parrish knew about the supernatural nature of Beacon Hills, but Derek had left before that happened, and he didn't trust easily. "It's the night of the full moon, sir," he said, eyes darting as though he were trapped. "And we're in a time of peace right now, which means…" He gestured at John to make the leap and catch up.
John stared at him in horror because he was already there. "Oh, dear lord," he muttered. "Fuck. Carter is staying in Eureka tonight--I'll try to get over there and sleep in his spare bedroom or something." Carter was watching his children-- John wasn't going to intrude on his boyfriend's child time, but… but the full moon, during peace time. Ugh.
Derek nodded. "I knew you could see reason-- are you going to warn anybody else?"
The Sheriff looked up outside his window and watched as all of the non supernatural deputies began to shift uneasily, standing up and putting on their jackets and making to get the hell out of dodge. All of the supernatural deputies looked up at the clock with an air of long-suffering. He knew they didn't turn furry if they didn't want to--but apparently they just made shit too intense for the everyday average guys who were fine facing bullets but apparently not so great with the full moon.
"I think they already know," he said dryly. He stood up and started to gather his jacket, his keys and his cellphone. He paused at the door. "So, uh, Stiles…" he asked delicately, and he was not reassured when Derek licked his lips, his stunning blue eyes hooded and ripe with something John did not want to think about directed at his baby boy.
"Stiles and I are gonna be fine," Derek murmured. "But you should probably find a safe place to hole up, okay?"
"Yeah," JOhn muttered, hoping he wasn't really abandoning his town to Babylon. "Sure. Back tomorrow morning."
He tore out of there like the fiends of hell were after him.
One of the first things that Carter had done was outfit his Jeep with bluetooth speakers, so he could talk to someone without looking at the phone. John hated new technology, and he wouldn't have used it if Carter hadn't rigged it to interact with his phone whenever he was in the car. The fact was, he didn't know how to not use the phone in the car anymore, and once he'd muttered to himself, "Dammit, I need to talk to Jack!" and had found himself actually talking to Jack while he'd been out on a call.
So he was relieved when he slid behind the wheel, turned the car on and said, "I need to speak to Carter."
"I'm sorry, Carter is out on a call."
John groaned. "He needs to get this message, dammit-- like right now!"
"This unit understands, Sheriff Stilinski. But Carter isn't able to be reached--"
"Can I leave a message?" he asked, not sure what he could say.
"At the tone, leave a message. Beeeep!"
John took a breath. "Carter, it's the full moon. Every werewolf in Beacon Hills is in heat. I'm coming to your place--I'll sleep in the car in the front of the house if I have to, but please, don't make me watch werewolves fucking. Hang up, car."
There was no dial tone.
"Dammit, car, hang up."
Bupkiss.
"This call is over!"
"Message deleted."
John let out a little sob and decided to spend his energy getting to Eureka as fast as he could.
He passed not one, not two, but three werewolf couples, fornicating in the woods as he drove. The last one was Scott-- he was sure it was Scott, he'd recognize that werewolf anywhere, and Scott was was viciously humping a young pup of a male werewolf as the Sheriff passed the border from Beacon Hills to Eureka.
Wow, that was uncomfortable, but John figured it made him lucky on two counts. Count one, Stiles had been going on forever about how Scott and Liam had needed to get together, and apparently the big werewolf orgy under the moon was their time.
Count two, it hadn't been Derek in human form, fornicating with John's son in public.
Dude, it was pretty much John Stilinski's lucky day right there, anybody would say that oh yes they would.
but that didn't stop John from speeding through Eureka, taking the turnoff to his boyfriend's house with enough speed to slide the back end right into a tree. It didn't even phase him-- he got control of the Jeep and continued to race down the road until he saw the glimmer of the forcefield that would keep him out until Carter got home.
Well, John understood that Carter's teenage son was there, babysitting the daughter Jack had helped raise and the one he'd spawned but hadn't. John was all for keeping them safe-- and he'd never even met them.
He came to a halt and cut the motor, sighing with relief. Then it hit him.
God, he was hungry. And wide awake. And he had nothing to do until Carter decided to come home.
Goddammit. He was about to become the world's most bored man. He functioned on four hours of sleep for Christ's sake-- what was he supposed to do, just sitting outside, in woods where no werewolves fucked? It was just so… so peaceful, out here, and so quiet… and so… so un-werewolf-infested and…
* * *
Jack saw him, sleeping in the front of his Jeep as Carter pulled up. He looked rumpled and tired and dear. Carter's car had tried to tell him he'd had a car, but Carter had been neck deep in mad scientists trying to turn the town's water supply into grape jelly, so he hadn't been able to answer.
Now he figured that had probably been a pretty important phone call. He parked his own car and hopped out, tapping on John's window. John startled awake, looking disoriented and hostile fora moment, and then he rolled down his window. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I fell asleep."
"I gathered," Carter cracked, grinning. God, he looked delicious, eyes opening and closing as he tried to orient himself, square jaw a little slack from sleep. "So, what's the deal?"
"It's the full moon," John mumbled, frowning. "It was horrible--"
"Casualties?" Jack asked, suddenly afraid. He hadn't heard that the full moon caused more deaths, but that was because until he and John hooked up, nobody from either town talked to each other!
"No!" John protested. "Sex! It was all over the damned town! Werewolves humping everywhere! And they howl, and they don't care where they're shoving their things… and they knot. It's not a myth-- they knot even human, and all the humans apparently love it because they're all screaming, 'My God, do that more!'" John shuddered and sank into his seat. "So," he finished. "You know. I'd rather sleep in front of your house than go back to that."
Carter adjusted himself and stared at his boyfriend with big eyes. "I'd, uh, rather take you inside, introduce you to the family, and see if Sarah couldn't activate the sound proof walls."
John stared at him, lean mouth slightly parted, and Carter took the opportunity to stick his head in the window and plunder. Ah, sleep and grumpy Sheriff. Carter loved that.
Carter pulled back from the kiss and smiled, thinking that his own night had just looked up considerably. "So," he said, feeling smug and self-satisfied, "how about we go inside and I feed you, and we introduce you to the kids, and then put them to bed."
John squinted at him, apparently two sentences back. "Sound proof walls?"
Carter grinned lasciviously. "Sheriff Stilinski, I really don't know what knotting is. HOw about sometime this evening, you tell me, okay?"
Oh! Carter could tell by the flush that washed his cheeks that he'd caught up with him now.
"Fine," John m uttered. "I'll tell you what it means-- but I won't demonstrate!"
Jack threw his head back and laughed. It was going to be a very good night!
The other day, when I thought the apocalypse was starting as I sat on the toilet, apparently what was really happening was that the local SWAT Team was serving an eviction notice, and issuing condemned building notices to be taped in the windows. Apparently that day one of the idiot assholes next door was standing on the roof trying to get away. (Kids, seriously. Don't do drugs. It makes you stupid.)
Anyway-- that was exciting, and then I went to aqua, which I did today, for that matter. And when I got back today, after picking up the kids, there was a construction crew boarding up the house.
"So," I said, walking up to the two construction guys with Geoffie in my arms. "Uh, how bad was it?"
"We've seen worse," one of the guys said. Then he looked around. "But there was a lot of heroin needles in there. That was pretty bad."
"Oh," I said, not surprised. "Any, uh, meth cooking?"
"Yeah--but not much, like from a while ago."
I nodded, thinking that explained why three weeks ago my eyes had been burning and the "buyer" activity had increased outside the house. That was just about the time we'd all started calling the cops.
"So the house wasn't--"
"There's some broken windows, and a lot of drug paraphernalia, but its pretty sound."
I left the boys to work while we unloaded groceries in the house, but inside I was just so, so grateful. They were gone. The place had been boarded up. The meth-cooking squatters are gone. And you know what else I found out?
The guy across the street, who's sort of a curmudgeon with an iron fence and dogs? Apparently his son in law is in charge of evictions in this locale. Which explains how it happened so fast.
So we don't have to gather the family and move, and I, for one, am very very grateful.
All that being covered, I do believe I promised a little bit of Cartinski!
* * *
"Sheriff Stilinski!" Derek said in a panic. "Sir, did you forget what day it is?"
John stared at him from his desk for a moment, nonplused. "Tuesday?"
Derek made a sound of impatience-- which was something he rarely did. In fact, most of the time he treated John with sort of an exquisite courtesy, as though believing his boyfriend's father wasn't just going to go batshit on him with a shotgun wasn't ever in the cards, but Derek would do everything in his repertoire to try to keep it from happening.
Impatience, from Derek, meant that something was dire.
"Derek?" he asked hesitantly. "Uh, what's wrong with Tuesday?"
Derek glowered and slid into the room, closing the door behind him. Yeah, sure, Parrish knew about the supernatural nature of Beacon Hills, but Derek had left before that happened, and he didn't trust easily. "It's the night of the full moon, sir," he said, eyes darting as though he were trapped. "And we're in a time of peace right now, which means…" He gestured at John to make the leap and catch up.
John stared at him in horror because he was already there. "Oh, dear lord," he muttered. "Fuck. Carter is staying in Eureka tonight--I'll try to get over there and sleep in his spare bedroom or something." Carter was watching his children-- John wasn't going to intrude on his boyfriend's child time, but… but the full moon, during peace time. Ugh.
Derek nodded. "I knew you could see reason-- are you going to warn anybody else?"
The Sheriff looked up outside his window and watched as all of the non supernatural deputies began to shift uneasily, standing up and putting on their jackets and making to get the hell out of dodge. All of the supernatural deputies looked up at the clock with an air of long-suffering. He knew they didn't turn furry if they didn't want to--but apparently they just made shit too intense for the everyday average guys who were fine facing bullets but apparently not so great with the full moon.
"I think they already know," he said dryly. He stood up and started to gather his jacket, his keys and his cellphone. He paused at the door. "So, uh, Stiles…" he asked delicately, and he was not reassured when Derek licked his lips, his stunning blue eyes hooded and ripe with something John did not want to think about directed at his baby boy.
"Stiles and I are gonna be fine," Derek murmured. "But you should probably find a safe place to hole up, okay?"
"Yeah," JOhn muttered, hoping he wasn't really abandoning his town to Babylon. "Sure. Back tomorrow morning."
He tore out of there like the fiends of hell were after him.
One of the first things that Carter had done was outfit his Jeep with bluetooth speakers, so he could talk to someone without looking at the phone. John hated new technology, and he wouldn't have used it if Carter hadn't rigged it to interact with his phone whenever he was in the car. The fact was, he didn't know how to not use the phone in the car anymore, and once he'd muttered to himself, "Dammit, I need to talk to Jack!" and had found himself actually talking to Jack while he'd been out on a call.
So he was relieved when he slid behind the wheel, turned the car on and said, "I need to speak to Carter."
"I'm sorry, Carter is out on a call."
John groaned. "He needs to get this message, dammit-- like right now!"
"This unit understands, Sheriff Stilinski. But Carter isn't able to be reached--"
"Can I leave a message?" he asked, not sure what he could say.
"At the tone, leave a message. Beeeep!"
John took a breath. "Carter, it's the full moon. Every werewolf in Beacon Hills is in heat. I'm coming to your place--I'll sleep in the car in the front of the house if I have to, but please, don't make me watch werewolves fucking. Hang up, car."
There was no dial tone.
"Dammit, car, hang up."
Bupkiss.
"This call is over!"
"Message deleted."
John let out a little sob and decided to spend his energy getting to Eureka as fast as he could.
He passed not one, not two, but three werewolf couples, fornicating in the woods as he drove. The last one was Scott-- he was sure it was Scott, he'd recognize that werewolf anywhere, and Scott was was viciously humping a young pup of a male werewolf as the Sheriff passed the border from Beacon Hills to Eureka.
Wow, that was uncomfortable, but John figured it made him lucky on two counts. Count one, Stiles had been going on forever about how Scott and Liam had needed to get together, and apparently the big werewolf orgy under the moon was their time.
Count two, it hadn't been Derek in human form, fornicating with John's son in public.
Dude, it was pretty much John Stilinski's lucky day right there, anybody would say that oh yes they would.
but that didn't stop John from speeding through Eureka, taking the turnoff to his boyfriend's house with enough speed to slide the back end right into a tree. It didn't even phase him-- he got control of the Jeep and continued to race down the road until he saw the glimmer of the forcefield that would keep him out until Carter got home.
Well, John understood that Carter's teenage son was there, babysitting the daughter Jack had helped raise and the one he'd spawned but hadn't. John was all for keeping them safe-- and he'd never even met them.
He came to a halt and cut the motor, sighing with relief. Then it hit him.
God, he was hungry. And wide awake. And he had nothing to do until Carter decided to come home.
Goddammit. He was about to become the world's most bored man. He functioned on four hours of sleep for Christ's sake-- what was he supposed to do, just sitting outside, in woods where no werewolves fucked? It was just so… so peaceful, out here, and so quiet… and so… so un-werewolf-infested and…
* * *
Jack saw him, sleeping in the front of his Jeep as Carter pulled up. He looked rumpled and tired and dear. Carter's car had tried to tell him he'd had a car, but Carter had been neck deep in mad scientists trying to turn the town's water supply into grape jelly, so he hadn't been able to answer.
Now he figured that had probably been a pretty important phone call. He parked his own car and hopped out, tapping on John's window. John startled awake, looking disoriented and hostile fora moment, and then he rolled down his window. "Sorry," he mumbled. "I fell asleep."
"I gathered," Carter cracked, grinning. God, he looked delicious, eyes opening and closing as he tried to orient himself, square jaw a little slack from sleep. "So, what's the deal?"
"It's the full moon," John mumbled, frowning. "It was horrible--"
"Casualties?" Jack asked, suddenly afraid. He hadn't heard that the full moon caused more deaths, but that was because until he and John hooked up, nobody from either town talked to each other!
"No!" John protested. "Sex! It was all over the damned town! Werewolves humping everywhere! And they howl, and they don't care where they're shoving their things… and they knot. It's not a myth-- they knot even human, and all the humans apparently love it because they're all screaming, 'My God, do that more!'" John shuddered and sank into his seat. "So," he finished. "You know. I'd rather sleep in front of your house than go back to that."
Carter adjusted himself and stared at his boyfriend with big eyes. "I'd, uh, rather take you inside, introduce you to the family, and see if Sarah couldn't activate the sound proof walls."
John stared at him, lean mouth slightly parted, and Carter took the opportunity to stick his head in the window and plunder. Ah, sleep and grumpy Sheriff. Carter loved that.
Carter pulled back from the kiss and smiled, thinking that his own night had just looked up considerably. "So," he said, feeling smug and self-satisfied, "how about we go inside and I feed you, and we introduce you to the kids, and then put them to bed."
John squinted at him, apparently two sentences back. "Sound proof walls?"
Carter grinned lasciviously. "Sheriff Stilinski, I really don't know what knotting is. HOw about sometime this evening, you tell me, okay?"
Oh! Carter could tell by the flush that washed his cheeks that he'd caught up with him now.
"Fine," John m uttered. "I'll tell you what it means-- but I won't demonstrate!"
Jack threw his head back and laughed. It was going to be a very good night!
October 22, 2015
The Perils of Bureaucracy and the Wisdom of Apocalypse Boy
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So, like many of my fellow authors, I submitted to the RITA's today--
the hardest part is preparing myself for the fact that there are so many wonderful authors that my previous nomination was probably a fluke. That's okay-- I have so much love and respect for my fellows, that I think if anyone I know is nominated next time out, I'll be pretty damned thrilled for them too. One year could be a fluke, one author could be an accident, but this genre has so much to offer-- I look forward to seeing it grow.
All that being said, a lot of us had a moment of "Tech hard! Grok make computer go! Go, Grok, go! Go, computer, go!" while we were filling out the forms.
Which is what prompted me to write the Tweet that inspired the meme that you see before you!
A meme I'm going to treasure for a very long time! Thanks, Kristin!
And in other news--
Zoomboy (seen here in his @midnight costume as Apocalypse Boy, complete with camera induced psycho eyes and the furry minion at his feet) has apparently had a whole lot of free time on the computer.
ZB: Mom, Christopher Columbus was a truly horrible person.
Me: Yes, he was.
ZB: He exploited the natives and enslaved them and mutilated them and sold the girls into prostitution.
Me: You're right-- he was a really awful human being. I'm impressed-- you learned this in school?
ZB: No-- The Oatmeal.
Me: Where all good liberal boys go to learn their history-- I understand.
And seriously-- while I am depressed that kids are continually taught that Columbus was a hero (he was an asshole) it's nice that there are little bits of actual history floating around.
And now, if you will excuse me, I need to contemplate the traffic ticket and the failure to appear charge tacked to the end of it (I was at GRL), and figure out if I will get my royalty checks soon enough to pay that bad boy before I get my license suspended.
And then I'll be repeatedly banging my head against the desk-- wasn't I just here?
So, like many of my fellow authors, I submitted to the RITA's today--the hardest part is preparing myself for the fact that there are so many wonderful authors that my previous nomination was probably a fluke. That's okay-- I have so much love and respect for my fellows, that I think if anyone I know is nominated next time out, I'll be pretty damned thrilled for them too. One year could be a fluke, one author could be an accident, but this genre has so much to offer-- I look forward to seeing it grow.
All that being said, a lot of us had a moment of "Tech hard! Grok make computer go! Go, Grok, go! Go, computer, go!" while we were filling out the forms.
Which is what prompted me to write the Tweet that inspired the meme that you see before you!
A meme I'm going to treasure for a very long time! Thanks, Kristin!
And in other news--
Zoomboy (seen here in his @midnight costume as Apocalypse Boy, complete with camera induced psycho eyes and the furry minion at his feet) has apparently had a whole lot of free time on the computer.
ZB: Mom, Christopher Columbus was a truly horrible person.
Me: Yes, he was.
ZB: He exploited the natives and enslaved them and mutilated them and sold the girls into prostitution.
Me: You're right-- he was a really awful human being. I'm impressed-- you learned this in school?
ZB: No-- The Oatmeal.
Me: Where all good liberal boys go to learn their history-- I understand.
And seriously-- while I am depressed that kids are continually taught that Columbus was a hero (he was an asshole) it's nice that there are little bits of actual history floating around.
And now, if you will excuse me, I need to contemplate the traffic ticket and the failure to appear charge tacked to the end of it (I was at GRL), and figure out if I will get my royalty checks soon enough to pay that bad boy before I get my license suspended.
And then I'll be repeatedly banging my head against the desk-- wasn't I just here?
October 21, 2015
Honey, I'm home...
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Okay-- so, today is my first REAL day home-- real as in I sort of accept that I'm alive in the world and I must drive things, be a player in my own life.
It apparently also means that life gets weird.
But I'll get to that later.
First off, the following:
* We're watching Back to the Future in honor of Back to the Future day. Big T and I both cracked up when Marty was late-- seriously, the genius of that scene is that to some of us? EVERY DAY is the day the clocks lost time and we were late.
* The following thing happened that I thought was amazingly cool--
When we were driving down to San Diego, Kim Fielding was nice enough to listen to Loreena McKennet's "The Highwayman" while I narrated. (It's hard to hear what's going on if you're not listening for it.) Since we were both big fans of the "tragedy songs" of the sixties-- "Last Kiss", "Leader of the Pack", "Tell Laura I Love Her"-- you get the picture-- I thought she'd enjoy it, and she did. Anyway, she got home, and her daughter was reading that poem in school the day after we got back, so Kim told her daughter about the song, and now her daughter's teacher is playing the song for the class. I actually did this with a Frank McCourt section that mentioned the song, back in the day when I was teaching, and I cannot tell you how tickled I am that this tradition is continuing. Makes me happy enough to sing… Tell Laura, I looooooovee her! Tell Laura I neeeeeed her…..
* Okay-- and to the potty thing. See, I took a nap before my aqua class (which I can do now that the class has gotten moved back. Yay!) Anyway, when I woke up from the nap, I… well, you know. Potty. Yes. That.
So there I am… uh, indisposed… when the dogs start going bananas. Seriously apeshit. "Auuooooooooohhhhh!!!!" Howling and barking and such… and, well.
Potty.
But the bathroom has a window. So, I reached out and opened the window and peered through.
And saw six SWAT guys creeping in on the house with the drug dealers. One of them was JUST holstering his gun as I opened the window, and they were all straightening from their crouches as though determining the threat had passed.
I wasn't taking any chances. As soon as I wiped I was jumping in my swimsuit and heading for class.
I would far rather the world come crashing down on my head when I'm in the pool than when I'm on the potty.
I'm just saying!
Oh-- and the funniest part? Was hearing the guys break up the shooting party on the front porch of the condemned house. "Okay then… see ya, I guess." "Yeah--talk to you later. Call me tonight?" "Course. See you at the station! Bye!"
Oh! And thanks so much to Kristin Caldwell Peto on FB, who keeps making my memes for me. She's got a delightful sense of humor, and I'm so grateful she shares!
Okay-- so, today is my first REAL day home-- real as in I sort of accept that I'm alive in the world and I must drive things, be a player in my own life.
It apparently also means that life gets weird.
But I'll get to that later.
First off, the following:
* We're watching Back to the Future in honor of Back to the Future day. Big T and I both cracked up when Marty was late-- seriously, the genius of that scene is that to some of us? EVERY DAY is the day the clocks lost time and we were late.
* The following thing happened that I thought was amazingly cool--
When we were driving down to San Diego, Kim Fielding was nice enough to listen to Loreena McKennet's "The Highwayman" while I narrated. (It's hard to hear what's going on if you're not listening for it.) Since we were both big fans of the "tragedy songs" of the sixties-- "Last Kiss", "Leader of the Pack", "Tell Laura I Love Her"-- you get the picture-- I thought she'd enjoy it, and she did. Anyway, she got home, and her daughter was reading that poem in school the day after we got back, so Kim told her daughter about the song, and now her daughter's teacher is playing the song for the class. I actually did this with a Frank McCourt section that mentioned the song, back in the day when I was teaching, and I cannot tell you how tickled I am that this tradition is continuing. Makes me happy enough to sing… Tell Laura, I looooooovee her! Tell Laura I neeeeeed her…..
* Okay-- and to the potty thing. See, I took a nap before my aqua class (which I can do now that the class has gotten moved back. Yay!) Anyway, when I woke up from the nap, I… well, you know. Potty. Yes. That.
So there I am… uh, indisposed… when the dogs start going bananas. Seriously apeshit. "Auuooooooooohhhhh!!!!" Howling and barking and such… and, well.
Potty.
But the bathroom has a window. So, I reached out and opened the window and peered through.
And saw six SWAT guys creeping in on the house with the drug dealers. One of them was JUST holstering his gun as I opened the window, and they were all straightening from their crouches as though determining the threat had passed.
I wasn't taking any chances. As soon as I wiped I was jumping in my swimsuit and heading for class.
I would far rather the world come crashing down on my head when I'm in the pool than when I'm on the potty.
I'm just saying!
Oh-- and the funniest part? Was hearing the guys break up the shooting party on the front porch of the condemned house. "Okay then… see ya, I guess." "Yeah--talk to you later. Call me tonight?" "Course. See you at the station! Bye!"
Oh! And thanks so much to Kristin Caldwell Peto on FB, who keeps making my memes for me. She's got a delightful sense of humor, and I'm so grateful she shares!
Things to Remember on a Road Trip
* Driver picks the music, shotgun shuts his cake hole.
* Posting Twitter updates whenever somebody says something absurd actually makes things go faster.
* The person who sits in back usually is okay zoning out and wishing for teleportation to be invented.
* The person who drives through LA traffic is allowed to have the LEAST amount of driving time after that to make up for the trauma.
* Diet rules don't exist on the road.
* Nosh is to be shared.
* Quoting Quick Change with the line "I saw a sign, Phyllis!" is even funnier when you're lost on Rosecrans Blvd., looking for a sign to I-5, with somebody actually named Phyllis! (True story!)
* The best thing about the ubiquity of McDonalds and Starbucks is that you can always use the bathroom and get consistent refreshment. And if you survive the road trip after that, it's perfectly acceptable to not step foot in either establishment for months afterwards.
* That being said, you can also pee at a Jack-in-the-Box.
* It is okay for the passenger to inflict one song--and one song only--upon the other occupants of the car with the admonition of "You must love this song or all of my life is a LIE!"
* All stops along the way are potty stops. This means if someone is dropping you off, be prepared to clear a way to the potty.
* If you've used your friends bathroom at the end of a road trip, it's always nice to stop and chat a while, even if you're itching to get home ;-)
* Even true things like, "I have a dead cat in Galt!" sound really frickin' hilarious at the end of the trip!
* Driver is allowed to swear loudly and colorfully at traffic. It will be everybody's turn to drive, after all…
* If someone points out a song on the iPod rotation that ends up having a special significance to someone else after the trip, that's because the trip alone was good karma.
* There is a Chevron somewhere on the Grapevine that pumps air into your gas tank and deceives it into thinking it's full, thus charging you $60 for a full tank of gas. No, I don't remember which one-- we only figured it out right before we got to Rosecrans Blvd. of the badly marked I-5 signs.
* You know it was a long trip when the potty humor comes out.
* You know it was a really long trip when anyone filling their gas tank looks like The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove.
* You know it was a good choice to go with friends when you remember more about the good company than you do about being locked in a box for a 12 hour trip.
* You are just as grateful for you road-trip companions the day after the trip as you were when you were giggling your way through 300 miles of valley farmland.
Kim Fielding and Chris Koehler, you guys were awesomesauce, and I had a really good time.
* Posting Twitter updates whenever somebody says something absurd actually makes things go faster.
* The person who sits in back usually is okay zoning out and wishing for teleportation to be invented.
* The person who drives through LA traffic is allowed to have the LEAST amount of driving time after that to make up for the trauma.
* Diet rules don't exist on the road.
* Nosh is to be shared.
* Quoting Quick Change with the line "I saw a sign, Phyllis!" is even funnier when you're lost on Rosecrans Blvd., looking for a sign to I-5, with somebody actually named Phyllis! (True story!)
* The best thing about the ubiquity of McDonalds and Starbucks is that you can always use the bathroom and get consistent refreshment. And if you survive the road trip after that, it's perfectly acceptable to not step foot in either establishment for months afterwards.
* That being said, you can also pee at a Jack-in-the-Box.
* It is okay for the passenger to inflict one song--and one song only--upon the other occupants of the car with the admonition of "You must love this song or all of my life is a LIE!"
* All stops along the way are potty stops. This means if someone is dropping you off, be prepared to clear a way to the potty.
* If you've used your friends bathroom at the end of a road trip, it's always nice to stop and chat a while, even if you're itching to get home ;-)
* Even true things like, "I have a dead cat in Galt!" sound really frickin' hilarious at the end of the trip!
* Driver is allowed to swear loudly and colorfully at traffic. It will be everybody's turn to drive, after all…
* If someone points out a song on the iPod rotation that ends up having a special significance to someone else after the trip, that's because the trip alone was good karma.
* There is a Chevron somewhere on the Grapevine that pumps air into your gas tank and deceives it into thinking it's full, thus charging you $60 for a full tank of gas. No, I don't remember which one-- we only figured it out right before we got to Rosecrans Blvd. of the badly marked I-5 signs.
* You know it was a long trip when the potty humor comes out.
* You know it was a really long trip when anyone filling their gas tank looks like The Lust Lizard of Melancholy Cove.
* You know it was a good choice to go with friends when you remember more about the good company than you do about being locked in a box for a 12 hour trip.
* You are just as grateful for you road-trip companions the day after the trip as you were when you were giggling your way through 300 miles of valley farmland.
Kim Fielding and Chris Koehler, you guys were awesomesauce, and I had a really good time.
