exit ramps

hodge podge

2009-12-06T21:22:47Z

I started and finished a very rough first draft for my yuletide story last night.

\o/

I sort of had to do it last night as I doubt I'll be able to write anything for the next week. (And, er, I've got to finalize my muncle Down the Chimney fic by Saturday.) My mom's here! She arrived way earlier today than I expected! This entire weekend has not gone the way I planned! I should have expected that! Etc. etc. etc.

I saw a limo driving into a Taco John's yesterday. How local/regional is Taco John's? It's like a knock-off Taco Bell. (Okay, it might be better than Taco Bell for all I know; it's still cheap fast food.) At least the limo wasn't driving into a Taco Tico, which...the less said about those, the better. I wonder if the limo was going to try going through the drive-thru? I really, really hope not.

I made pumpkin streudel today. It is delicious. (I had to taste-test it before serving it to other people, you understand, having never made the recipe before.) Still have not made a casserole. That shall have to wait till after my mom's gone, I think, alas.

The Christmas movies I like to watch: Love Actually, White Christmas, and Kiss Kiss Bang Bang. Oh yeah.

wishfulaces @ 2009-12-02T18:48:00

2009-12-03T00:48:40Z

I will not freak out about lack of time.

I will not freak out about applying for jobs.

I will not freak out about applying for grad programs (again).

I will not freak out about my career.

I will not freak out about concerts next week, and family and friends visiting.

I will not freak out about getting my holiday fics written in a timely fashion.

I will not freak out about money.

I will not freak out about next year.

I WILL NOT FREAK OUT ABOUT LACK OF TIME.

Mostly, if I can not freak out about the lack of time? I shall survive the next couple weeks. I think. Maybe. Hopefully.

I have had the strong urge the past few days to make a casserole (because cooking is obviously the answer to lack of time). Something involving corn, potatoes, and possibly some kind of bread/crust-like topping. Anyone have any favorite recipes they'd care to share?

Also, why am I goofing off on LJ when I could be doing something useful??? In the fifteen minutes before I have to go to choir rehearsal ~~oh gods I WILL NOT FREAK OUT ABOUT LACK OF TIME~~?

Not particularly exciting but rather homey.

2009-11-28T23:38:41Z

I have cleaned today. The kind of cleaning that involves actually moving the furniture so I can vacuum under it. This was after waking up at a quarter to seven on about five hours sleep (or maybe less), driving 3.5 hours across the state line, and doing some Christmas shopping. Tomorrow I still have to do the real hard work--cleaning the kitchen and bathrooms, not to mention laundering the sheets at my aunt's house so my mom will have somewhere to sleep next week when she visits--but at least the bedrooms and living room are officially clean. And they'd bloody well better stay that way for the next couple weeks while company are around.

My Thanksgiving weekend so far has been pretty marvelous. I enjoyed visiting with my family, going from group to group to listen to and participate in the conversations, I enjoyed playing with my cousin's kids and then giving them back to her and my aunt when I drove away, I even enjoyed watching the blasted football games. And then I got to hang out with a couple of my friends on Friday, watching the sunset at the top of a hill drinking coffee (because we were so tired, but we'd all agreed that taking a nap would not be a productive use of our time together) and discussing Important Things, eating cheese and drinking a bottle of wine, watching a Christmas movie with one of my friend's family, staying up late playing music and talking. There were lots of pets everywhere for me to play with too. No leftovers for me, but I did get my pumpkin pie.

Last night, as we walked down the hill back to the car after sunset, I said to my friend that we're all settling down, the people in our age bracket; we'd both noticed ourselves changing a lot just in the past year or so, and that it's not thirty when this all happens. "I hope not," was her instant response, and I hastened to explain what I meant--becoming the adults we're supposed to become, phrases like that. But I think what I really meant is that we're getting a little steadier, internally if not externally.

But that's quite enough contemplation and physical labor; I'm going to take a bath, get dinner, and sprawl in front of the idiot box. Yay.

Entitled much?

2009-11-26T01:49:14Z

Two t-shirts I've really, really had a hankering to make or find lately:

EXAMINE YOUR WHITE MALE PRIVILEGE

CONTEMPLATE FUCKING ZEN [Which has been my mantra for the past couple weeks; so long as it keeps making me smile instead of twitch, I think I'm good.]

Blah. I've been having professional issues and insecurities the past week or two, don't mind me. And it's all gotten so annoying and stupid and frustrating that driving home tonight I decided to remind myself what I have to be thankful for.

I'm thankful for my parents, my siblings--even if my sister and I don't talk anymore--my nephew. I'm thankful for my job, no matter how temporary it may be. I'm thankful for my education, for having a career instead of just a job to pay the bills, and a career that I love passionately. I'm thankful for my extended family, all the aunts and uncles and cousins who would probably not accept me quite so easily if they knew nearly as much about me as they could but who still love me even with what they do know (and they really do tend to think I'm weird--along with the rest of my immediate family, so). I'm thankful for all the traveling I've been able to do the past few years. I'm thankful for pumpkin pie. (No, really. Carrot cake too.) I'm thankful for being comfortable enough with myself now that so many things that used to be a major psychological and emotional chore are now easy, or at least a lot easier. I'm thankful that I moved here and was able to readjust and find myself again after the Fuck Up Year of 2008. I'm thankful for being busy, and having commitments, and being alive.

And of course, I'm thankful for my friends, including all y'all. I love that I've found old high school friends and seen how they have changed and grown; I love that I still meet up with college friends at least once a year if not more; I love that some of you I've never even met in person and some of you I met first online. I am so very grateful for the opportunities you've shown me, the different ways to think about and engage with the world, all the beauty and joy there is out there.

So, you know, thanks for that.

Have a good Thanksgiving, everyone. Even if it's not your holiday, I hope you have a fabulous Thursday.

wishfulaces @ 2009-11-17T20:21:00

2009-11-18T02:21:51Z

DUDE. Not only did McGee mention Doctor Who, but they're, like, doing my job. I mean, every day I think why isn't this organization online?! or something equivalent to that, and then I actually, y'know, look at the records in the boxes and figure out what I'm looking at from there. (Archival research = NOT EASY. Particularly when you're looking at about six to eight collections a day.) So, McGee whining about paper cuts and with bank statements spread out everywhere? I laugh in your general direction, sir. Laugh. I laugh in all your directions. And then I cry because I have so little background in electronic records.

~~I would totally be an Navy archivist, if the federal government would ever hire me.~~

I enjoyed all the cop show refs, though. My geekishness probably started with mysteries even before sci-fi.

I was listening to the '60s XM radio station driving home from work, and this song started, and it was classic 1960s with all the strings and a little bit of the woodwinds and then the singer starts singing about cake. In the rain. And how it made him very sad. And the song went on like this for, like, ten minutes. It was quite possibly the most unintentionally hilarious song I've heard in a good long while. It was in fact Richard Harris singing MacArthur Park. Go, listen, enjoy.

I am ridiculously impatient for assignments to come out, by the way.

2009-11-14T16:10:42Z

Dear Yuletide author:

Firstly, THANK YOU. I hope you're excited about writing whichever prompt you can/want because I'm really excited to read it. And now for some extra details that you can disregard completely if they do not help.

I like characters, dialogue, humor, description, interesting uses of language. Plot usually can come right up and bop me over the head and I still go, "Wait, whu?" but if plot is your gig, go for it. I'll be happy. I like gen, m/m or f/f slash, and het. Not into incest, non-con/rape--actually, I'd be really, really happy with gen with any of these prompts. As for extra info about the specific prompts--

Homefront: Would love a glimpse of either Jeff & Ginger or Al & Ann, after the show ended.

Doesn't have to be after the show ended, either; it can be at any point in the show's timeline. Mostly, these are my favorite characters (though really, I love 'em all on this show), and I'd just like to see more of them. :)

Amelia Peabody Emerson books: Would particularly enjoy seeing a/some relationship(s) that don't get explored as much in the books--Walter and Sethos or Walter and David, for example, or Ramses and Walter or Ramses and Sethos. Just a slightly different look at characters who aren't always the focus of the story.

I love Walter and David, and neither of them gets much "screentime" in the books, as it were (but then, the books are awfully full of characters!). David's political leanings and his position as an Egyptian archaeologist and artist married to an Englishwoman don't often get explored as much as I would like. And, well, Walter's just my type of character, being something of an absent-minded scholarly type, and he doesn't get to interact very much with Sethos at all, which could be a whole other interesting dynamic to explore, either before or after he knows Sethos' relationship to himself. So, like I said, some combination of any or all of these characters, and possibly with them doing what they're best at? (Because, seriously, I dig knowledge and have something of an intellectual competence kink.) Would be awesome.

Legend (tv): Mostly want something featuring Huitzilopotchli and Janos (Ernest optional, though he certainly adds to the banter potential).

Awesome, awesome characters! And they have such a great working relationship even before Ernest shows up--actually, something from his perspective on their relationship could be fun, that outsider's point of view, but again, I'm easy.

Albert Campion: Albert Campion, universal uncle. Would really love something involving Albert in one of his jauntier frames of mind.

Books or television version fine for this one, by the way. And, seriously, a lark, something relatively light-hearted in the way Allingham does light-hearted (you know, Albert babbling away while in danger) would be totally awesome. Or not, if you find you want to write something darker.

Like I said, I would be brilliantly happy getting a story from any one of these sources, and you can completely disregard this extra information if you feel like it.

Thanks again, Yuletide author! You're awesome!

Fic: "Sunshine for Your Love" (DW, Polly/Martha)

2009-11-14T01:41:51Z

Title: “Sunshine for Your Love”
Rating: all ages
Warnings: Somewhat spoilery for “Blink,” but I’m pretty sure most of us have seen that episode by now.
Word count: approx. 2600 words
Prompt: for pontisbright in the dw_femslash ficathon, who requested among other things Martha/anyone, era- or time-crossing shenanigans, and mentioned that she quite liked Polly. And, well, who doesn’t?
A/N: Thanks to persiflage_1 for fact-checking and knowing Martha’s MySpace blog so well!

Martha ducked into the club and found the darkest, most secluded, out-of-the-way corner she could. The one least likely to have strangers making out with each other, anyway, as that was not what she was in the mood for. She wanted alcohol, she wanted noise, she wanted to be as far away from the Doctor as possible, but she didn’t actually want company right now.

At first 1969 had been fun. Any different time was fun, Martha had decided pretty early on in her travels with the Doctor, until the alien baddies started attacking or the ship you were on was about to self-destruct or whatever other danger jumped out and grabbed you. It was exciting and different and so much more vibrant and real than any futuristic movie or older person’s reminiscence could suggest.

But they’d been stuck here for weeks now, and she was getting sick of people looking at her—rarely saying anything, but still looking—and she’d just had a shitty day at the shop, and the Doctor had been alternating the past few days between spending hours and hours unresponsive in bed and then running around like a particularly demented Tigger, and she bloody well needed some alcohol to curdle her liver before the night was over.

So Martha got herself a gin and tonic and sat at her cramped table in a dark little corner at the back of the club where nobody else went and tried to relax. She’d been to this club a few times before, situated in the basement of some former office building, and she liked it. People were happy here. Still groovy, instead of the tired disillusionment she’d been noticing more and more the longer they stayed here.

Martha could just begin to feel her muscles losing their tension when somebody slid into the other chair at her table. Martha straightened and tried to glare at the other woman to make her bog off, but the other woman tossed her long blonde hair and batted her long (not-real, surely) eyelashes in a wink and grinned, and Martha found she couldn’t help grinning back.

“That’s better,” the other woman said in satisfaction. “If you’re going to be here, you are categorically not allowed to look that grumpy. There’s a sign at the bar,” she pointed to a slip of paper that Martha would never be able to read from this distance. “I meet more people this way,” the woman went on.

“Joining them uninvited at their tables, you mean?” Martha couldn’t help the acerbic tone.

“Cheering them up out of their doldrums,” the other woman rolled her blue eyes, and Martha couldn’t help laughing at the expression on the other woman’s face. “My name’s Polly,” she added. “What’s yours?”

“Martha,” answered Martha.

“Well then, Martha, let me buy you another drink, and then you shall tell me why you’re trying to ruin a perfectly good evening out by sitting back here by yourself.”

“Are you sure?” While Martha already liked this woman, she was still unwilling to give up her evening of sulking. “What about your friends, aren’t they going to wonder what happened to you?” Martha couldn’t imagine this woman showing up here by herself.

“Oh, them.” Polly waved a dismissive hand. “I doubt they’ll even remember if I came with them tonight or not; we usually meet up in a large crowd and wander off in our separate directions eventually. Besides,” she added, leaning forward confidentially, “they’re being rather tedious tonight, and you look like you’ll be far more fun than they will.”

“Me?” Martha said in disbelief. “Fun? Tonight?”

“Oh yes,” Polly said decisively. “You and I are going to have a marvelous night. I can tell already.” She jumped up. “I’m getting us a bottle.”

Martha sat back in her chair, shaking her head. This was definitely not the way she had envisioned her evening going, but she could feel her energy returning, Polly’s good mood infecting her, and she didn’t quite feel a need anymore to be left alone.

Polly returned with a bottle of newly-opened red and two wine glasses and ceremoniously poured for them both. She handed Martha a glass and raised her own. “To new friendships,” she said in a deepened voice, mock-solemnity, and Martha burst out laughing again.

“Cheers,” she said, and clinked glasses with Polly.

Polly was charming and opinionated and funny, and that long hair of hers was like a constant flash of sunshine in this dim, night-and-smoke-filled bar. Martha felt her tension completely disappear as she sat and chatted and giggled with the other woman. They talked about clothes, and silly moments with their friends, and what was worth dying for, and annoying people at work—Martha had loads to say about the shop—and boys, and music, and the meaning of life, and the best places to get Italian, and other such important matters. After a few hours she realized in surprise that a) it was time to leave as the club was shutting down and b) they had worked their way through two bottles of wine.

“Oooh,” Martha said as she stood up and swayed. “I think, I think I should not have had that last glass.”

“Or possibly the last three?” Polly suggested with a mischievous grin, then winced when she also stood up. She clutched at her head. “Oh dear.”

“Definitely time for water,” Martha decided as she led the way—slowly—up the stairs and out of the club into the late night cool March air. She breathed deeply and slowly as she waited for the world to stop tilting in that overly dramatic way.

“We can get some at my place,” Polly offered from behind Martha, and she turned around to consider the other woman.

“I should probably get back,” Martha said. “My roommate will be wondering what happened to me.” She’d told Polly a bit about her friend she’d been traveling with, the really annoying prat who was absolutely wonderful but couldn’t see the nose in front of his own face—in exchange, Polly had told her about her friend Ben, sweet and loyal and annoyingly stubborn and prickly when he should just take a joke—but she hadn’t mentioned the Doctor’s name. It seemed safer, somehow. Saying his name was like—like starting something, the Universe sitting up and taking notice. And while she might be bored and restless in 1969, she didn’t actually want to start any trouble.

“I don’t have a roommate,” Polly mentioned casually.

“But you’ve got water,” Martha said.

“Oh yes.” Her new friend probably would have nodded vigorously if it weren’t for how her head felt. Her eyes were very blue under the street light, and her blonde hair glinted. She was watching Martha closely, her eyebrows arched and the tiniest beginning to a smirk hovering around her lips.

“Oh, what the hell,” Martha said suddenly, “let’s go back to your place. I’m having too much fun to go back to that flat yet.”

Polly grinned brilliantly and offered her arm. Martha took it and they trooped off to find a cab.

They sat close together in the back of the taxi, still laughing, the world still swaying. “I wanted to curdle my liver tonight,” Martha said at one point, “but I’m not sure I wanted to do this much damage,” and Polly couldn’t stop giggling for two minutes after that.

They went up to Polly’s flat and sprawled out on her couch. “Water,” Polly said after a moment of them both simply lying there and breathing.

“Yes,” Martha said, “we definitely need water.” She forced herself to sit up, pushing Polly’s legs out of the way. “C’mon, lead the way.” She patted Polly’s arm encouragingly.

Polly finally sat up as well and led Martha into the tiny kitchen, pulling down two glasses from a cupboard and running the tap until the water was well and truly cold. She filled both glasses and handed one to Martha.

“Didn’t I tell you this would be a fun evening?” Polly tilted her head to one side, studying Martha, her blue eyes bright.

“Yes, you did,” Martha nodded slowly. “I will never disbelieve you again.”

“Good,” said Polly and set down her glass. Then she set down Martha’s glass and leaned in to kiss her.

Martha wrapped her arms around Polly, pulling her in closer and deepening the kiss. Definitely not the way she’d expected the evening to end when she’d stalked into that bar earlier, but she certainly wasn’t going to complain.

They stumbled back to the couch in the other room, Martha ending on top of Polly. Polly blinked her eyes wide when she fell backwards onto the sofa, and she looked around in surprise. “This isn’t the bedroom,” she said, and Martha had to start laughing again.

The water and cool night air had helped them both; the world tilted now only because Martha wanted it to. Eventually they did make it to the bedroom, minus whatever clothing they’d been wearing. “I’m training to be a doctor, you know,” Martha murmured as she kissed a trail between Polly’s breasts and down her belly.

“Oh yes” Polly said, wrapping those deliciously long legs of hers around Martha. “Have you the hands of a surgeon?”

“Would you care to find out?”

“Wouldn’t I just,” said Polly.

*

Martha woke the next morning to the sound of somebody putting the kettle on. “Mmpf,” she said, rolling over in the bed. She didn’t open her eyes yet. She wanted to enjoy the quiet for a bit longer, the feel of the sheets and that tiny bit of sunlight trying to drift in through the window above her. She hadn’t felt this relaxed in months.

“Wake up, sleepyhead!” she heard a singsong voice from the hallway, and she sighed.

A minute later, she showed up in the kitchen, sheepish in yesterday’s clothes and hoping her hair was not sticking straight up on one side like she had a horrible feeling it was. Polly was dancing around the narrow space to a song in her head, pulling down tea mugs and sugar and milk out of the small refrigerator. She looked fabulous, of course. “Hi?” Martha said.

“There you are!” Polly gave her an enthusiastic kiss. “Would you care for some tea?”

“I would love some tea,” Martha said. She tried not to sound too fervent.

“Good, as I don’t really have much else in the flat to offer,” was Polly’s frank reply, and Martha found herself laughing again. Nobody had made her laugh this much in far too long. Polly grinned at her and handed over a mug. They wandered into the living room to sit down.

“I had a really good time last night,” Martha started.

“I told you you would.” Polly was charmingly smug. It was Martha’s turn to roll her eyes.

“The thing is, I’m not sure for how much longer I’m in London,” Martha went on carefully. She wrapped both hands around her tea mug and blew on it to give herself a moment. “My friend and I, we usually don’t stick around this long.”

“Is your friend a sailor?”

“Er, not exactly,” Martha said. “Why?”

“Because I’ve known my share of travelers,” Polly said, “and they never like to sit still very long. That said, you and I are both here now, and we might as well enjoy it, don’t you think?”

“Yeah,” Martha said with a slow grin, “alright.”

They exchanged phone numbers right before Martha slipped out, and Martha promised to call the following day, and followed the promise up with a really thorough snog. And then she tripped downstairs and went off to find the Doctor and fob him off with some excuse about why she hadn’t come back the night before.

She had every intention of calling Polly the next day, but the TARDIS appeared suddenly, and they ran to catch it, and like in so many other things that happened—or failed to happen—around the Doctor, she never got the chance.

*

Forty years later in one way; just a few years later in another

Martha sat at a little table in the back of the coffee shop, sipping her latte and enjoying the peace and quiet before she went in to the chaos that was work. A song was playing on the speaker system that she hadn’t heard since 1969, and she smiled as she texted something to Tom about dinner that night.

Somebody sat down in the other seat at her table. “We really must stop running into each other like this,” the other person said, and Martha looked up from her mobile in surprise. The voice sounded vaguely familiar, but she couldn’t quite place it.

The woman across from her was in her mid-sixties probably, with laugh lines around her blue eyes and her long blonde hair fading. Martha stared hard at her but couldn’t place her at all, and then the woman smiled slowly and tossed her hair and winked, and Martha gasped.

“I was going to call you!” she blurted out and then clapped her hand over her mouth. Polly—it had to be Polly—laughed delightedly and reached across to take Martha’s hand and squeeze it.

“It’s perfectly alright,” she said. “You obviously got waylaid by events. The TARDIS, perhaps?”

Martha blinked. “How did you know?”

“I didn’t,” Polly confessed, “not back then, though I probably wondered with all your cryptic comments about your friend the traveler. He just didn’t sound at all like my Doctor, either of them, which, really, how silly of me since I’d seen him regenerate! I had no clue, though. Not until I walked into this coffee shop this morning and saw you back here looking almost exactly the way you did forty years ago.” Polly shook her head ruefully and pulled her hand away from Martha’s. “This is a terrible way to make a lady feel her age, you know.”

“You? You’re not old!” Martha put down her phone. “I’m sorry, that didn’t come out the way I meant it to—”

Polly laughed again. “I know, and thank you. I think.”

Martha took Polly’s hand again. “I—I don’t even know where to begin! How are you? How have you been? What have you—”

“Oh no you don’t!” Polly wagged a finger. “I refuse to answer twenty questions before I’ve had my coffee.”

“I have to go to work,” Martha glanced down at the clock on her mobile fretfully. “Can we meet up later, catch up, have a chat?” She looked at Polly again. “I know we’ve got loads to talk about. Would you—would you like to do that?”

Polly studied her, and Martha suddenly remembered something Polly’s tongue had done that night in 1969, and she felt every inch of her skin heat up in a flash. Polly grinned mischievously, as though her own thoughts had followed exactly where Martha's had led. “Yes, I rather think I would like that. Here’s my mobile number,” she scribbled some numbers on Martha’s napkin and slid it back across the table. “And you rather seem to be more settled this time without a TARDIS to whisk you away so I fully expect you to call me. Is that understood?”

“Absolutely,” Martha grinned, letting go of Polly’s hand to tuck the napkin into her messenger bag. “Expect to hear from me again within a day.”

The barista called out a drink order, and Polly glanced back at the pick-up counter. She turned back to Martha to grin as she stood, and Martha remembered the gleam of blonde hair like a flash of sunshine in a dim night-and-smoke filled club. “I’ll hold you to that,” Polly said. She winked again as she turned away, and Martha found herself, once again, laughing.

Dude, y'all should go read these stories for the ficathon, too. There's a ton of them, and all the ones I've read so far have been awesome.

And then some other stuff happened. Probably.

2009-11-13T03:18:31Z

So I managed to drop a box on my chest today. Which isn't nearly as cool-sounding as that time a couple years ago I stabbed myself with a sword, but the box actually hurt a lot more and gave me a bruise. And it all just goes to show this is not a profession for klutzes. Or short people.

For the record, I wish we got days off in the middle of the week more often. I got a ton done yesterday, and I got to sit out on my patio, reading Sandman comics in the sun. That was the most relaxing half-hour I've had in a long, long time.

I refuse to start humming carols.

2009-11-08T02:22:55Z

Me: You terrify me, mother.
Mom: Oh, that's nice. I could embarrass you too. Would you like that?
Me: Was that a threat?
Mom: No, just a suggestion.

And yet, I'm still ridiculously excited at the prospect that she's going to be visiting in December and attending both my choir concerts, to both of which I have also invited co-workers and friends, providing her with ample embarrassment opportunities. And the terrible, terrible thing about being in choirs at this time of year? I am already excited about the holiday season. IT'S TOO EARLY, DAGNABBIT. Already I am looking forward to snow and hot cocoa and festive lights and family and friends I rarely get to see and presents. BAD ME. By the time Christmas actually rolls around I shall probably be entirely Scrooge-like. (Okay, so it's never a bad thing to look forward to seeing friends & family. But it's still too early!)

there was stuff, and then something important, and then just...stuff

2009-11-06T03:47:47Z

Dude. EVERY SINGLE '80S SITCOM I EVER WATCHED. They don't still make sitcoms like that anymore, do they? I kinda stopped watching the genre sometime in the '90s.

And KITT. KIIIIIIIIIIITT. "Eat me." Yay, Sam. The sound cut out on my cable during most of the Dr. Sexy and game show stuff, and I'm not entirely sure which procedural crime drama they were spoofing there (I was hoping for either X-Files or Buffy, but noooo), but the sitcom & KITT made me happy. Weirdly, considering how much I now reject the '80s.

In other news, there is no other news. Oh. Except that the Governor of Massachusetts is apparently thinking about shutting down the State Library, which is kinda not cool. I mean, you don't just toss out almost 200 years worth of something, just like that. (Though I'd like to see some other verification of this; the news I was seeing on Google all seemed to be about statewide budget cuts to library funding and nothing specific to the State Library.) I'm not even going to talk about my own state where that certain sneaking deathly fear has once again blown in amongst my colleagues due to all the revenue shortfall and expected budget cuts.

You know what? I'm sick of the shitty economy. I'm sick of blaming everything on the shitty economy. I'm especially sick of people using the shitty economy to cut cultural institutions. I'm sick of this being the norm, and I want some damned better resolutions. Now if only I could think of them.

Also, ABC has apparently pulled their online Eastwick episodes, which is just doubly shitty since that's the way I've been watching the show. Wah. Woe me. I need to get my priorities back in order. I also want to burn something in effigy. Hmph.

I'm still gonna go eat worms.

2009-11-04T00:47:11Z

I have a long and highly personal relationship with Gravity. It mostly consists of Gravity throwing things at me and me telling it sweetly, "Fuck you, Gravity."

I just had a different sort of pear with my dinner tonight that I picked up at the store on a whim. It was the most boring fruit I have ever tasted. I didn't know fruit could taste boring. So it was disappointing on multiple levels.

This was also a very stupid day at work. Not finding the paperwork I needed; collections popping up in places they shouldn't or not being where they should; hauling boxes down from the fifth shelf and scraping my arms and fingers on the cardboard and the metal; the ladder catching on boxes as I shoved it down the too-narrow aisle; the stupid laptop running slowly or not at all; nothing new or unusual in all this but I just was not in the mood for it today. And then to top it all off I lost my key card. Which somebody promptly found and returned, thank goodness, but at that point I just sort of wanted to call it quits, go home, and crawl under the covers.

Actually, that still sounds like a good idea.

Fic: Invisible Man, "Thick-Skinned"

2009-11-03T00:32:49Z

Title: Thick-Skinned
Author: aces
Rating: G
Warnings: um, spoilery for “Flowers for Hobbes,” but if you haven’t seen *that* ep by now…
Prompt from the hot_donuts ficathon: Bobby & or / any, cooking
Word count: approx. 1900 words
Summary: “I mean, you went from you to Super-Genius you to you again, all in a couple days. There’s bound to be some kind of existential whiplash with all that, I figure.”
A/N: Thanks to jenlev for looking this over and making some suggestions. You’re a savior as always!

Bobby was moving a little slowly. Taking his time. He was in no hurry, had nowhere to be tonight. Didn’t feel like going to the bars. He needed some time to readjust to himself again. Get the feel of his old mental landscape, settle back into his old skin. Something like that anyway.

He was just starting to cook dinner when the doorbell rang. “Ahh, dammit,” he sighed, looking between the browning onions and the kitchen doorway. Somebody started pounding on the door, and he cursed again but more half-heartedly. He’d recognize that knock anywhere.

“Coming!” he yelled and strode into the living room. He opened the front door. “Fawkes. Come in. Close the door behind you,” he added over his shoulder as he headed back into the kitchen.

“Hobbes. Uh, hi?” Darien trailed after him. “Nice to see you? What’s going—on,” he stopped when he saw Bobby standing at the stove. “You cook?”

“Whattya mean, ‘you cook?’” Hobbes was offended. “Of course I cook, who doesn’t cook, what do you take me for?”

Darien came up and sniffed over the skillet in curiosity. “What are you cooking?”

“A chicken curry,” Bobby rolled his eyes. “Do you want some or something?”

Darien wrinkled his nose. “I don’t know.”

Hobbes glared at him. “What do you want, partner? Why’d you come over?”

“What, I can’t just come visit?” Darien protested.

“No,” retorted his partner. “You don’t just come visit. I’m the one who ends up visiting you, remember?”

“Yeah, but you’ve never very neighborly when you visit,” Darien pointed out, still staring in fascination at the skillet.

“Neither are you.” Hobbes started dumping in curry powder, paprika, cinnamon, sugar, salt, minced garlic. “I’m fine, Fawkes. Still me. Not gonna solve any big scientific mysteries like the Agency’s budget anytime soon. Is that what you were worried about?”

“Of course not.” Even Fawkes seemed to realize how lame his protest sounded. He shook himself a little and turned around, leaning his back against the counter next to the stove. He was still wearing his corduroy jacket over his shirt and jeans. “I just wanted to make sure you were okay. I mean, you went from you to Super-Genius you to you again, all in a couple days. There’s bound to be some kind of existential whiplash with all that, I figure.”

“I’m fine.” Bobby shook his head as he started stirring in the diced chicken and coconut milk and yogurt and a dab of tomato paste. “Jeez, Fawkes, c’mon, you know me. Bounce back from anything.”

“This wasn’t just anything.”

“It never is,” Hobbes muttered and stirred. “I’m fine, Fawkes. I’m just…taking it easy tonight. Lying low. Nothing wrong with that.”

“Absolutely not,” Fawkes agreed. “Good idea. And it’s probably easier to lie low if I’m not around bugging you, right?” Bobby looked up at him out of the corner of his eye but didn’t say anything. Darien sighed and nodded. “Yeah, that’s what I thought.” He clapped Bobby on the shoulder. “I’ll see you at work tomorrow, right?”

Bobby turned the heat down on the skillet to let it simmer, setting the timer on the microwave. He finally turned away from the stove, relieved on the one hand that Fawkes was leaving, already missing his company on the other hand. “Of course you will, Fawkes. Think I’m gonna take a day off? Fatman would never give me sick pay.”

Darien snorted and followed Hobbes out of the kitchen. “Yeah, I know; he’d weasel out of it somehow. Okay, okay, I’ll leave you to your curry. I just wanted—”

“I know.” Hobbes opened the front door. “And thanks, partne—Claire!”

“Oh!” The Keeper’s hand dropped away from the door buzzer before she could press it, and she looked at the two men in embarrassed surprise. “Hello.” She quickly recovered and smiled at them. “I see you had the same idea, Darien.”

“For crying out loud,” Hobbes said under his breath. He stared at her and thought he might have felt either a little flattered that she’d come to check up on him or a little hurt that she didn’t think he could look after himself. Or maybe both. Bobby Hobbes was a man who could juggle multiple conflicting emotions. “You too, Keep?”

“Professional courtesy call,” she held up a hand solemnly. “Honest.”

Fawkes looked between them. “Hobbes is cooking chicken curry,” he said suddenly.

Claire blinked, and Bobby hoped he wasn’t blushing. “I’ve always enjoyed a good curry,” she said cautiously, and now Bobby really hoped he wasn’t blushing.

“I—it’s not—I’ve never made this recipe before,” he blurted out. “I—um—oh, hell. Do you both want to stay?”

“Are you sure?” Claire said, a little frown creasing her brow, and that tiny line between her brows always made his heart jump a little, and Bobby Hobbes had hoped that by this point in his life his heart would stop doing silly things like that.

“It makes plenty,” he assured them both after swallowing. “You’re both here now, you might as well stay.”

Darien and Claire exchanged looks, and then she smiled at Bobby again. “I’d love to stay,” she said, and then she looked dismayed. “Oh dear, I didn’t bring any wine or anything.”

“Not a problem,” Bobby held the door wide and swept both his guests back into the living room. Everyone carefully did not look at the empty space where his glass coffee table had been. At least he’d gotten the floor swept and vacuumed before they showed up, though he probably wasn’t going to go around the living room barefoot anytime soon. “I have a well-stocked liquor cabinet.” He walked back into the kitchen, both of them following. What a way to settle back into your skin, he thought as he stirred the curry. Two of your best friends hovering while you cook. “Fawkes, could you set the table? There’s plates and cups in that cupboard.” He pointed with his spoon. “Claire, there’s a salad bowl in the refrigerator; could you take it out and put it on the table?”

“Of course, Bobby,” the Keeper smiled. For a moment, both his friends were in the dining area off the living room, and Bobby took a deep breath. Still getting the hang of being himself again. Fawkes was right about there being a little—what’d he call it, existential whats-it—but maybe having his friends around would help after all.

Seeing as how they were the ones who’d put him back in his skin in the first place.

Hobbes turned away from the stove and went to the little breadbox to pull out the fresh naan he’d picked up at the market on his way home from work. His hands were shaking a little and he stared down at them, willing them to still. “Need any help, partner?” he heard from the doorway, and he didn’t turn around, didn’t jump externally even if he stopped breathing for a moment there.

“Nah, it’s covered.” Hobbes closed his eyes for a moment before turning around. “But you can take the bread into the other room, since you’re here. Hey, Keep!” he called as Darien slipped back into the dining area. “Open a bottle of whatever takes your fancy.”

“Alright, Bobby,” he heard her call back, and he went back to stirring the curry.

“Mmm, that smells delicious,” Claire said from the doorway, judging by how close her voice was.

“Thanks.” He didn’t want to sound shy around Claire. Why was it he could chat up any woman he met in a bar or behind a receptionist’s desk, but the instant he was in the same room as the Keeper he turned to mush? That was a real pain in the ass. Fawkes now, Fawkes had no trouble talking to the Keep, and she was cool as a cucumber talking to both of them. Not even remotely fair. “I hope you like it.”

“I’m sure I will.”

“Of all the things I imagined you cooking, Hobbes—and I’ve never actually imagined you cooking—chicken curry never fell into that nonexistent list,” Darien said, leaning against the other side of the kitchen doorway from Claire. Bobby glanced back at them both, bookending each other. For a moment he wondered if they’d planned this, accidentally running into each other looking in on him, but he couldn’t see either of them being quite that sneaky.

Probably.

Hobbes told himself to pull away from Paranoid Plaza. “Oh, what, I’m not allowed to have international tastes?” He added some freshly-squeezed lemon juice and cayenne pepper to the simmering mix. “You two can quit hovering, you know. I told you, I’m not going anywhere.”

He saw them exchange glances again, out of the corner of his eye. He took a deep breath, rather than slamming the heat off on the stove or doing something else he might regret. “You don’t have to be so careful,” he muttered and grabbed a trivet, carrying it and the skillet into the other room and setting them down on the table.

“We’re not,” Claire said, turning around in the doorway to keep watching him. “We’re just worried about you, that’s all.”

“You don’t have to do that either.”

They both looked at him, sympathy all over Claire’s face and something more indefinable but partially worry all over Darien’s. “Well, come on then,” Bobby said, sitting down at the head of the table and gesturing to the spread. He was tired, and he still couldn’t tell if he wanted them to go or stay. “Might as well eat.”

It was quiet for a few minutes, as they filled their plates and started eating. Fawkes sat up straight, all polite and on his best behavior; Claire picked at her food daintily, even though Hobbes had seen her chomp down on a burger more than once. Bobby’s hands were still shaking a little, and he couldn’t look at either of his friends as he gnawed at a carrot in the salad. And then Darien said through the silence, “Did you hear what Eberts wants us to do now when requesting reimbursement for stuff?”

“I know!” Claire sounded indignant. “And in triplicate! I told him it’s a waste of paper.”

“Eberts,” Bobby agreed darkly, even as his mood lifted a little.

Claire looked between the two men, a forkful of curry halfway to her mouth, and smiled, brilliantly. She put down the food and held up her wine glass. “I propose a toast,” she said.

Fawkes and Hobbes obediently lifted their own glasses. “To friendship,” she said, and Bobby swallowed past a lump that had just appeared in his throat.

“To two of the best friends a guy could ask for,” he said, and manfully didn’t mind when his voice choked up a litle.

“To being above average,” Darien said, looking at Hobbes steadily.

“To getting paid,” Claire said, “even if very badly.”

“To forms in triplicate,” said Darien.

“So long as the copier doesn’t break down,” Bobby added.

“To us,” Claire said, and they clinked their glasses.

Darien started talking about the prank he’d pulled on one of the other agents, and Claire was halfway between laughing and admonishment, lecturing Darien for wasting the quicksilver like that. The curry was well and truly demolished, barely any salad was left, and Claire was tearing one of the last pieces of naan into smaller and smaller bits, occasionally actually eating one of the pieces. Darien sprawled in his seat, legs everywhere, just like usual; he and Claire at least were already back to normal.

Bobby poured himself some more wine and watched his friends and thought about what he could muster up for a dessert so they wouldn’t leave too soon. He was still tired, but his hands weren’t shaking anymore, and he could feel himself relaxing, muscle by muscle, releasing the tension.

Yeah. They’d help him settle back into his skin.

wishfulaces @ 2009-10-27T22:29:00

2009-10-28T03:42:25Z

Oh, oh, troyswann, if only I could have put you in my pocket and brought you with me tonight! I went to see Tap Dogs, this tap dance extravaganza that completely blew my mind. The one really hot guy kinda reminded me of Ioan Grufford, and the main guy looked like he belonged in...1965 was the year I finally settled on. His style was completely different from the other five dancers; he was, like, Rat Pack smooth. It was interesting. Also, I love artistic types. "Let's look like we're welding stuff! While we're tap dancing! While this guy dances in the middle of the sparks! Awesome." The set was industrial-functional, the drummers were fantastic, and there was a bit where the only light onstage was the six flashlights the dancers were holding and turning off and on rhythmically. FREAKING AWESOME. (Also, they were sort of dancing on walls. And a ceiling. A CEILING. So cool.)

I was out of town over the weekend, I've got choir rehearsal tomorrow night and I had it last night, I had to go out of town tonight for this concert and I'm going out of town Thursday for a symposium (somebody else is driving, thank the gods). Friday my plans after work consist mostly of collapsing and dying. I'm holding out for that.

lips that taste like Girl Scout mint cookies

2009-10-21T22:48:07Z

I'm sick! Just in time to go out of town this weekend for Homecoming! On a road trip in a car with three friends!

I'd better feel better by tomorrow. OR ELSE. (It's just a cold. Not swine flu. I checked the symptoms on the state health department's website. After I went to work, of course, because I'm just that thoughtful.)

So instead of going to choir tonight and singing my heart out, my plans are a) take bath, b) curl up on couch, and c) watch old Buffy episodes. And Eastwick since, hey, I'll be home tonight. I should probably also work on my DW femmeslash ficathon fic, but that shall probably depend entirely on my ability to concentrate and not hold a tissue for more than two minutes at a time. And also actually coming up with a scenario to write. Oh yeah, that.

may or may not be related

2009-10-17T23:43:06Z

There was a time, back in my early teenage years, when I never left the house except to go to school. I didn't want to go out in the world because everyone was looking at me.

Tonight I'm going to a play, by myself, that is sold out, and I'm going to be one out of a couple hundred people there--it's a small theatre--and I'm looking forward to being that stranger that nobody cares about. Just another face in the crowd. I've learned to love the anonymity.

Hmmm.

*

The play I'm going to see, by the way, is Evil Dead: The Musical. And last night I saw Zombieland, which was really quite good and involved the classic Road Trip trope that I probably should have expected but didn't and hey, I can get behind most any road tripping.

I really, really like running away.

wishfulaces @ 2009-10-13T22:37:00

2009-10-14T03:45:38Z

For one week, recommend/share:

Day one: a song
Day two: a picture
Day three: a book/ebook/fanfic
Day four: a site
Day five: a youtube clip
Day six: a quote
Day seven: whatever tickles your fancy

Driving home from my aunt's house, I decided: fuck this shit, let's have some fun.

So, have Well, Did you Evah? from High Society, as sung by Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra.

And you might as well have Always Look on the Bright Side of Life, from Spamalot, too.

And here, possibly the most random picspam ever in the history of random picspams:

Little amuses me more than Illya Kuryakin with alcohol.

I love it when Silver's a totally smug git.

Pet therapy. But who's the pet?

Fairly limited gene pool.

PATCHES. A cat belonging to one of my aunts. We decided the monitor must be giving off some good heat. She was very happy back there.

Forget Gene Kelly, forget Fred Astaire, GIMME DONALD O'CONNER. Oh yeah.

Mmm. Partners.

Ben'n'Polly, still fabulous after all these years. And even in poor resolution.

Because Abby and McGee together never gets old.

A fence my great-great grandfather helped build. I love rock fences.

Stephen Campbell Moore is awfully pretty in weskits.

Yes, YOU can be a hobbit too.

Mason is saddened that he's still not nearly as cool as Fitz Kreiner. Or maybe it's the other way round.

Parker: still awesomer than everyone else.

And that, ladies and gentlemen, concludes this meme.

I have no idea what I'll do tomorrow. Something brilliant, I'm sure.

2009-10-12T22:48:38Z

For one week, recommend/share:

Day one: a song
Day two: a picture
Day three: a book/ebook/fanfic
Day four: a site
Day five: a youtube clip
Day six: a quote
Day seven: whatever tickles your fancy

From The Art of Travel by Alain de Botton, concerning holidaying at Barbados:

It would have seemed to observers that I was where I lay. But 'I'--that is, the conscious part of my self--had in truth abandoned the physical envelope in which it dwelt in order to worry about the future, or more specifically about the issue of whether lunches would be included in the price of the room. Two hours later, seated at a corner table in the hotel restaurant with a papaya (lunch and local taxes included), the I that had left my body on the deck chair now made another migration, quitting the island altogether to visit a troubling project scheduled for the following year.

It was as if a vital evolutionary advantage had been bestowed centuries ago on those members of the species who lived in a state of concern about what was to happen next. These ancestors might have failed to savour their experiences appropriately, but they had at least survived and shaped the character of their descendants, while their more focused siblings, at one with the moment and with the place where they stood, had met violent ends on the horns of unforeseen bison.
(pp. 22-23)

It's the unforseen bison that get me. Really, it's an excellent book, asking us to think about why we travel and what we really want when we get there and why it rarely ever quite goes the way we planned and dreamed. I'd definitely recommend reading it.

so how good are my embedding skills anyway? not good enough, apparently.

2009-10-11T17:28:40Z

For one week, recommend/share:

Day one: a song
Day two: a picture
Day three: a book/ebook/fanfic
Day four: a site
Day five: a youtube clip
Day six: a quote
Day seven: whatever tickles your fancy

Youtube, you say? Oh, Youtube. You terrible thing.

Dave Allen Dalek sketch

Because Dave Allen and a Dalek NEVER GETS OLD. (This should be the Dalek meme for me, shouldn't it? I just love them cropping up unexpectedly and/or in unexpected ways.)

That said, I'm on a DW kick, so have Harry Sullivan and the Doctor skipping rope:

Right here

Because you know what? THAT NEVER GETS OLD EITHER.

(Be grateful, I could have given you "I'm Gonna Spend My Christmas with a Dalek" instead.)

already failing at this meme! awesome!

2009-10-10T23:47:01Z

For one week, recommend/share:

Day one: a song
Day two: a picture
Day three: a book/ebook/fanfic
Day four: a site
Day five: a youtube clip
Day six: a quote
Day seven: whatever tickles your fancy

Since I missed yesterday, I shall CHEAT and do both days three and four in this post. (It doesn't count when it's honest cheating. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.)

Any fic I could rec? Has probably already been recced by the fandom in question to death, since I usually come by fic via other people these days, rather than seeking it out myself. (Apparently, in college? I had a lot more time to goof off online seeking fic. Which astonishes me since I remember never having any time when I was in college.) So, a book that I like to mention every once in a while: The Shoemaker and the Tea Party by Alfred Young. I do not actually own a copy of this book, and that should probably be rectified, which is why I have just added it to my Amazon wishlist. A treatise on memory, memorialization (that is too a word), who makes history, and how we write about it. Oh, and a bit on the American Revolution too.

Other history books I'd recommend: The Refinement of America by Richard Bushman, looking at material culture and how during the colonial period Americans acquired more beautiful things and why they did it, and Gay New York by George Chauncey, which would probably be incredibly helpful if somebody wanted to, I dunno, write about Jack Harkness in New York City in the first half of the twentieth century. Just a thought. Ho-hum. I would whistle innocently here, if I could whistle.

Now, for a site recommendation, and this is probably also a CHEAT since it could possibly go with the book/fic/ebook recommendations instead: Girl Genius comics. Agatha rocks like a rocking Mad Scientist, and I kinda love it when Gil is a complete dorkface. They've been working on this comic for I dunno how many years now, so there's a lot of canon to work through, but I've honestly forgotten probably most of what happened in the early stuff and am still enjoying the hell out of the storyline currently going on.

Okay, an "actual" site I'd like to share is IDEA, which gives you sample dialects from around the world of individuals speaking English. Very cool, and very useful particularly for VA and writery things (or, okay, that's what I think of when I think to use it). Also, I just today noticed it was housed and operated by the University of Kansas, which is probably cooler than it should be.

day two of the meme that will make me speak

2009-10-09T01:07:44Z

Possibly not think, since thinking right now is kinda bad, but whatever.

For one week, recommend/share:

Day one: a song
Day two: a picture
Day three: a book/ebook/fanfic
Day four: a site
Day five: a youtube clip
Day six: a quote
Day seven: whatever tickles your fancy

Instead of a single picture, I shall do a tiny spam. Of DALEKS. But not the way one typically thinks of Daleks, oh no.

If the Daleks had cheeks, I would totally be pinching them. Also, I have no idea where I stole any of these pictures from, as it's probably been years.

wishfulaces @ 2009-10-07T18:42:00

2009-10-07T23:53:59Z

Meme dawdling its way across my flist, which I have just spontaneously decided to do in order to GET ME TO POST ALREADY, DAMMIT:

For one week, recommend/share:

Day one: a song
Day two: a picture
Day three: a book/ebook/fanfic
Day four: a site
Day five: a youtube clip
Day six: a quote
Day seven: whatever tickles your fancy

So, today, a song: Lovestain, by Jose Gonzalez. This guy is awesome. Beautiful guitar, gorgeous lyrics, very haunting. The other morning on the way to work, I was listening to "Teardrop," and I was singing along to that line, "Feathers on my breath," and it was cold enough my breath was feathering, and it was pretty wicked.

There. I posted. Nothing of substance, but I'll work my way up to it.

Fic: Leverage, "Choose Your Own Theft"

2009-09-30T23:55:03Z

Title: Choose Your Own Theft
Author: aces
Fandom, characters: Leverage and...a bunch of other fandoms. Ahem.
Rating, warnings: All ages; not really spoilery for anything
Word count: approx. 2500 words
Summary: A study in the power of objects. No, really.
A/N: This all started with a comment I made in lyssie’s LJ a while back. I’d say it was all her fault, but I was the one who made the comment, so.

Parker (alias; no first name necessary) has always been a remarkably gifted thief. Even as a small child, she had skill.

For example, when still quite small, she stole MacGyver’s duct tape.

And his Swiss army knife.

MacGyver (not an alias; first name embarrassing), a usually easygoing man, would probably have shrugged, demanded the knife back and bought new duct tape, had she not stolen them exactly when he needed them to create a diversion so that he could escape a particularly nasty group of drug smugglers in Chicago.

Parker, a precocious child in some respects, was so impressed by what he managed to pull off just with the gum, cigarette lighter, utility knife, and bottle of mineral water, that she slipped the knife back into his pocket when he wasn’t looking.

*

The school had a secure room in the library. It was practically begging for Parker to practice her lockpicking and stealth skills, since that weird group of kids were always barging into the library at all hours and the little cage wasn’t exactly in an out-of-the-way corner of the library.

There were weird books in the locked area. Of course, Parker supposed, but why the hell any high school library would have so many books in Latin and Greek and what couldn’t even be human languages Parker couldn’t fathom. Not that she cared all that much. She picked what looked like the prettiest book of the lot. She left the weaponry. She found that stuff a little too weird.

A week later, as the Scooby gang frantically searched through every book they could find looking for information on an Alkesh demon, Rupert Giles tore through the books he kept in the cage and cursed with a fluid inventiveness that shocked Willow and deeply impressed Xander.

*

Parker bumped into the tall, thin man with really weird hair and slipped whatever was in his pocket into her own, mostly out of habit. His pockets were surprisingly full, so she just grabbed whatever came to hand first. If she was actually working at it, she would have been more picky.

“This?” the Doctor said ten minutes later after he and Martha had been thrown into a locked basement after being discovered by the impossible-to-say-with-only-one-throat alien race who were attempting to use the Sears Tower as a very large antenna to call the rest of their fleet to come invade the planet. “This will be easy to get out of, Martha! All I need is my sonic scr—what?” He pulled his hand out of his pocket, empty. “Where is it?”

*

On some of these for-hire jobs, Parker didn’t think too hard about what she was stealing. It wasn’t like a diamond, or some other pretty gem, or even beautiful money itself; not when it was plans, or some stupid painting, or a piece of sculpture some other person wanted. So she just got on with the job and didn’t think about it much.

Even when she was breaking into an ultra-secret scientific think tank full of all kinds of interesting prototypes and technological bits’n’pieces. Parker’s interest in technology typically only went so far as to figuring out how she could thwart it.

Their security was pretty impressive, actually; she almost wished she had some kind of computer hacking skill, or knew somebody who did. But she just shrugged and figured out a way to bypass those particular locks and controls.

Whatever she was stealing was small and lightweight and silver. There were a lot of small, lightweight, silver things lying around this lab, but she had a picture. She was just putting it into her backpack when she heard something else that sounded small and lightweight and somehow silver shatter behind her.

“I really wouldn’t take that if I were you,” a guy said, but Parker didn’t bother turning around.

“Why not?” she asked. “It’s not yours, is it?”

“Well, no, but it’s not yours either,” the guy said.

“Yeah, I know; I’m not taking it for me, I’m taking it for somebody else.”

There was a pause. Parker swung around to look over her would-be—rival? He was tall and thin and had really weird hair. Parker didn’t really note much about what people looked like, unless she thought they were hot. She didn’t find too many people hot.

“That’s better how?” he asked, frowning.

“I get paid for it,” she said. “A lot of money.” She looked him over. “I didn’t see or hear you anywhere; how did you do that?”

He half-smiled. “I have my ways of moving around covertly too.” He nodded to her backpack. “I can’t let you take that.”

“How are you going to stop me?”

“Well,” he said doubtfully, “if you won’t come quietly, I guess I could knock you out.”

She blinked. “You’d seriously hit a girl?”

“I don’t like to,” he sounded defensive. “I don’t make a habit of it. Usually I'm the one getting the crap kicked out of me. I could just let my partner shoot you. Would you prefer that?”

“No,” Parker had to admit. “How did you not set off any of the lasers or cameras?” She squinted at him. “Are you a thief too?” He had a deer-in-the-headlights look; Parker could recognize those because she’d seen them a lot. “You are, aren’t you!” she crowed. “Are you here to steal it too? I’m sorry, but I got here first.”

“No, I’m not here to steal it! I told you, I’m here to make sure nobody steals it. And yes,” he added uncomfortably, “I used to be a thief. I’m strictly legit now. What’s your name?” he added suddenly.

“Parker,” she said, daring him.

“Oh no,” he said. “No way. I’ve heard about you. The Fredonia Bank job. That was you.”

She grinned. “What’s yours?”

“Uh…” He looked sheepish. “Darien Fawkes.”

“Fawkes.” She thought for a moment. “Oh yeah, I heard about you. You were the one who molested that old g—”

“That was all a lie,” he cut her off, “I was giving him CPR.”

“You were a pretty crappy thief,” Parker said critically. “It’s a good thing you’ve gone legit.”

“Look, would you just give me the damned backpack?” Darien held out his hand. “The future of the whole country is at stake or something, so you really don’t want to steal that little—thingy.”

“If you don’t even know what it is, how could you know the future of the country is at stake?” she asked reasonably.

“I just know, okay? Please?”

Parker gave it back, but only so she could steal it again later in peace.

*

One moment, Jack’s pie was sitting on the table where it should have been. The next, it wasn’t.

He’d only looked away a moment, to see what was taking Teal’c so long in grabbing his dinner. He stared at the empty table in bemusement. “What the hell?”

Daniel wasn’t around to steal his pie. Carter wasn’t around. Teal’c was still in line, apparently debating the finer points of broccoli or mixed vegetables. The SFs at the next table over wouldn’t dare touch his pie. What the hell?

Somebody was leaving the cafeteria. Jack followed.

She was small, wore black, and was starting up one of the emergency ladder shafts that definitely should not have been unsecured. “You stole my pie!” Jack accused her, though in the back of his mind he was thinking, There are bigger issues here, O’Neill. He had a feeling Hammond would not have agreed with his priorities.

It’d looked like really good pie.

Her mouth twisted a little, wryly. “It looked like really good pie.” She climbed out of sight. Jack headed for the ladder. Her head popped out from above, and Jack reeled back for a moment in surprise. She stared at him, fiercely. “Do I know you from somewhere?”

Before Jack could come up with a suitable answer, she disappeared again. He immediately called Daniel and Carter to take inventory. Just in case she’d decided to steal more than only his pie.

*

“What’s wrong with McGee?” Tony sidled up to Ziva’s desk and would have reached for her stapler if she hadn’t swiped at his hand without even looking where to aim. Tony drew his hand back and kissed his own knuckle.

Ziva looked over at the probie, who sat dejectedly tapping at his computer keyboard with a single finger, his other hand holding up his chin.

“Somebody stole his typewriter,” she said.

*

Parker ate cereal at a diner in Seattle. She was going to meet a potential client that afternoon and had time to kill, so she listened into the group sitting at the booth behind her. They talked about death a lot. Parker found it a little weird.

Parker got up to leave just as one of them did the same, a girl around her age, dressed in business casual. She held something in her fingers; Parker took it, almost entirely by accident. Almost.

A yellow post-it note.

After leaving the diner, and making sure the girl had walked the other way, she looked at it. A name—last name, first initial—an address, a time. Parker shrugged and dropped the note into a nearby trash can.

George had read her note before she left Der Waffel Haus, and she’d even remembered what she’d read, but she was still cursing as she ran that afternoon to her death date.

*

Parker, who particularly dislikes horses for several good reasons, is not overly fond of animals in general. She especially dislikes animals that can kill her with a single claw. She almost refused to take on this job, in fact, but the money was too good and the “impossible to break into” phrase had been thrown in, making the job almost irresistible.

Impossible to break into, hah. These people wouldn’t know the phrase “secret base” if it walked up and slapped them over the head with a fish. She was disappointed. She even thought about demanding more pay to appease her disappointment, and then thought her employers might not go for that so much. Probably.

So Parker did her job and delivered the goods, which was actually a hell of a lot harder than the breaking-into-the-secret-base-in-the-middle-of-Cardiff had been. “Next time,” she told herself as she washed the blood off her hands, “more sedatives.”

A few hours later, Ianto Jones hurtled into Jack Harkness’ office, shouting.

*

Two men slipped fairly quietly into the den where Parker was already at work; fairly quietly, but Parker could totally have done it better. And had already, in fact. Then again, they were both a lot taller than her. She didn’t know that anybody that big could be truly quiet.

“What are you doing?” one of them hissed when he saw her.

“What are you doing?” she retorted, not looking away from her task.

“I asked first!”

“So? I asked second.”

“Why are you taking that?” the really-freakishly-tall guy interrupted, throwing the other guy a look in the meantime. They were both carrying sawn-off shotguns.

“You know, most thieves don’t carry sawn-off shotguns,” Parker said as she wrapped up the small statuette. “They’re a little too obvious. We prefer—well, I guess I wouldn’t say subtlety.” She looked up at last from her work. “Who are you guys?”

“Why should we tell you that? You’re a thief!”

“He’s Dean,” said the really-freakishly-tall one, rolling his eyes. “I’m Sam. And you are?”

“Stealing this, so if you wouldn’t mind going away, I’d really appreciate it, thanks.”

“Listen,” Sam-the-really-freakishly-tall said earnestly, “you don’t want to take that. It’s not safe.”

Parker huffed out a breath. “Not safe? What, because I might get caught? I’ve been doing this sort of thing for years—”

“No because that statue could come to life and feed on your soul,” Dean snapped, and Sam hushed him, looking up the ceiling, above which was the second floor bedrooms where the household presumably slept.

“Oh please,” Parker said, “as if statues actually come to life and ea—”

It was at that precise moment there was a tiny flash of light in her hands, and then something happened, and Parker didn’t know a whole lot until about ten minutes later when the entire house was lit up, people were yelling and calling the police, and Dean and Sam-the-freakishly-tall were hauling her out of there.

“Wha-huh?” she said at last. “Wait. Did that really just happen? Did I really just have my brain sucked by a little crouching Buddha?”

“That wasn’t a Buddha,” Sam-the-freakishly-tall sounded like he’d had this particular conversation lots of times before, even as Dean said, “I said it looked like a Buddha, didn’t I? Didn’t I?” and Parker took the opportunity to bolt before they could stop her.

*

People had often asked Parker to steal really weird things for them, and usually at ridiculously exorbitant prices. But then, Parker liked money, and if they were going to hire the best, she might as well charge them for it.

Stealing a gun, though? Not what Parker usually did. Apparently this was a really special gun. Owned by a really special woman. Parker had a feeling the guy had some issues to work through concerning the woman.

Not that Parker couldn’t steal this piece fast enough. This town was weird. Nothing worked right, it was all too technological, and she had a feeling Hardison would be in love with the place. One dude had a mechanical dog. There was actually a flying car, or maybe more than one. Stuff like that. She was in and out as fast as she could make it. Besides, Nate kept demanding to know where the hell she was.

“Oh great,” Sheriff Carter said the next morning when he walked into his office and surveyed the damage. “Lupo’s gonna love this.”

*

It smelled like pork buns. Parker wrinkled her nose. This guy would have to live right over a gaudy Chinese restaurant that never seemed to turn its lights off. Not that it really mattered.

Stealing the article in question was actually much harder. That detective was a light sleeper. And slept in his chair a lot. It took all Parker’s skill to quietly and breathlessly get past him into the desk and take the yarn.

Apparently it was some kind of special yarn, with unusual tensile strength. Or something. Parker hadn’t really been paying that much attention to why her employer wanted it stolen.

Unfortunately, the PI woke up just as Parker was slipping out the window. “What the hell?” He stared at her, looked down at what she held in her hands. “Oh hell no! You come back here, woman!”

“Sorry,” Parker said and hauled herself up the side of the building. She considered using the yarn to haul herself down, to see if it really was that strong, but then decided against it.

*

Oh yes, Parker is an excellent thief. She could even be stealing your computer right now.

Yes, that one that you’re sitting at. You might want to turn a—

wishfulaces @ 2009-09-17T21:15:00

2009-09-18T02:22:17Z

Okay, so I didn't really notice anybody saying anything last week when Larry Gelbart died. But today, the Shoebox blog informs me that both Mary Travers (from Peter, Paul, & Mary) and Henry Gibson also have died. And that? That is so not cool. Bang goes entire portions of my pre-teen and teenage years. And later. I wrote a paper on Laugh-In when I was in college. Fuck.

I liked what shoebox did in honor of Henry, though:

Today’s News in Rhyme:

My time was up,
But don’t feel gloomy.
The man upstairs
Just socked it to me.

Bugger.

Henry Clay is a mother****ing hero.

2009-09-16T22:57:14Z

The Invisible Man comm hot_donuts is hosting a ficfest and is looking for prompts. You don't have to write in order to submit prompts. DOOOO IIIIIT!

(I should go submit some myself.)

Some of my best trip-planning happens almost entirely spontaneously. Just over a week ago a friend of mine said "We should do a road trip! STAT!" And instead of hemming and hawing as I normally would I said, "Tempt me some more!" And she said, "Long weekend!" And I said, "I could fly back instead of trying to drive back!" And now this weekend, I am going to Tennessee, Arkansas, and Louisiana. I've never been to Arkansas! I was in Tennessee for approximately three hours once! I was only in NOLA for about five hours once! This is going to be awesome. And dizzyingly quick.

One of my co-workers found a manuscript of a spiritual written in 1832. "Second Great Awakening!" I cried in excitement. Apparently the son or grandson of the guy who wrote this spiritual was an atheist. "Because he grew up during the Second Great Awakening!" I cried in excitement, and our supervisor laughed. Some days, going to work really is worth it.

Playtpuses?

2009-09-11T02:12:45Z

I talked to four people on the phone today. No, wait, five. I never talk to that many people on the phone. Granted, they were all friends & family, but I actually called three of them, of my own volition, and that almost never happens. Of course, the last conversation lasted exactly one minute and thirteen seconds and the majority of it consisted of

Me: *picking up phone* Yeeees?
J: Playtpuses!
Me: Playtpi?
J: Think of something else!
Me: Uh...
J: Platypee?
Me: Mooshee mooshee?

I have no idea what I'm going to do at work tomorrow. NONE. I have a single task that will probably last me at most ten minutes. Perhaps I shall wander outside and pick the wild flowers. Speaking of wild flowers

I'd like to say, "Oh, look what I painted!" But really, it was just my crappy camera phone smearing everything.

This is your office. This is your office on archives. DON'T TRY THIS AT HOME, FOLKS.

(I should dig out the picture of my friend sitting on the piece of mining equipment we affectionately called the bastard. "Only professional curators should perform this stunt.")

Here, have some more wild sunflowers:

I sent that one to my mom, actually, with a caption that said "HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOOGIE!" Yes, I sometimes call my mother moogie. We are a proud family of geeks. Proud, dammit.