#btw I ran this post by my husband before posting it and he encouraged me so

[alasse-earfalas]

y'all are freaking out over "twiddies" meanwhile I'm over here perfectly civilized like

armbs. beefy. twiceps. stronk boi.

Seriously y'all have a some class.

[thelastspeecher]

Angela Pines AU - The Favorite

I had another bit that I was going to write before I posted this, but I spent a good chunk of my day today working on a job application and I’m craving some sweet, sweet writer’s validation, so I’m posting it now.

(Btw, a reminder, I wouldn’t mind an ask or two for this AU...nudge nudge wink wink.)

———————————————————————————————————–

              “Mr. and Mrs. Pines?”  Filbrick and Caryn looked over at Angie’s kindergarten teacher. “May I have a word with you?”

              “Fine, but you better make it quick,” Filbrick rumbled, crossing his arms.  The teacher glanced at Angie, obediently standing with her parents.

              “Alone.”

              “Go play with your friends for a bit, angel,” Caryn said.  She gently shooed Angie away.  At five, she was firmly settled in with the family, despite looking less and less like a Pines with every passing day.  Her hair was golden and silky, unlike the Pines dark brown curls, and it was already evident she would be slender, not broad-shouldered.

              “What is it?” Filbrick asked the teacher.

              “Well, I had my suspicions on Angela’s first day of class, but I decided to wait until the first week was over to be sure.”

              “Be sure of what?” Caryn asked.

              “Your daughter is remarkably advanced for her age. The only other child I’ve seen as intelligent as her was your son, Stanford.”  Filbrick and Caryn exchanged a look.  They’d noticed Angie’s smarts, but weren’t sure whether they were imagining it due to their fondness for the girl.  “However, she has behavioral problems not unlike Stanley’s.”

              “My daughter’s behavior is perfect,” Filbrick growled.

              “She’s well-behaved, yes,” the teacher said, quickly backtracking.  “But she’s struggling to make friends with her classmates, and she’s hyperactive and distractible.”

              “All children her age are,” Caryn said.

              “Angela is more hyperactive and distractible than her classmates,” the teacher said firmly.  “I’m not sure why, but I wonder if it might be due to anxiety.  Anxiety in girls sometimes manifests in that way. Have you noticed her being particularly anxious at home?”

              “She had a traumatic event happen when she was three,” Caryn said after a moment.  “I wouldn’t be surprised if that caused her to have anxiety.”  The teacher nodded.

              “I’d recommend scheduling an appointment with her pediatrician, just to get her checked over.  The sooner she gets help, the better off she’ll be.”  The teacher walked away.  Angie, who had been watching the conversation curiously, rushed over.

              “What was that about?” she asked.  Filbrick ruffled her hair.

              “Nothing, angel.  Your teacher was just telling us how smart you are,” he said.  Angie beamed at him.  Her smile was gap-toothed right now, as she was just beginning to lose her baby teeth.  “C’mon, your brothers are waiting in the car.”  Angie eagerly ran off.

              “If she’s as smart as Stanford, Angie could be something great,” Caryn whispered to Filbrick as they followed at a more sedate pace.

              “We already knew she was special,” Filbrick rumbled.

              “Well, yes.  But a smart girl like her could be a splendid nurse.”  Filbrick tensed.

              “No.  No daughter of mine is gonna go into nursing.  I don’t want her dodging attacks from druggies or cleaning bedpans.”

              “Maybe a teacher, then,” Caryn suggested. Filbrick nodded.

              “Yes.  Teaching would be good for her.  We need better teachers in this world.”

              “Though, it’s worth mentioning that teaching doesn’t pay much.”

              “She’ll be able to land a doctor or lawyer.  Her husband can support her.”

              “That’s a good point.”  Caryn frowned thoughtfully.  “Hmm, maybe she could be an art or music teacher.  She likes singing and painting.”  Filbrick nodded again.

              “I agree.  We should do what we did for Stanford.  Sign her up for the things she’s good at, make sure that she becomes amazing at them.”

              “Yes.  We need to encourage her intellect.”  Caryn grabbed Filbrick’s hand and laced her fingers with his.  “We’re so blessed, Filly, to have such a wonderful family.” Filbrick grunted wordlessly in response, eliciting a soft chuckle from his wife.

-----

              Stan sat behind the counter, idly polishing new inventory for display.

              “Thank you!” Angie chirped cheerfully.  The customer she had been speaking to left. Angie looked up at the clock. “That’s the last one of the day.” She went over to the door and flipped the sign over to read “CLOSED”.

              “Stanley!” a voice shouted.  Stan sighed.  He looked over.

              “Yes, Pops?” he asked.  Filbrick, who had just come downstairs, glowered at him.

              “Why was your sister running register on her day off?”

              “She asked,” Stan said simply.  “And since she’s good at it, I figured she might as well.” He bit back the urge to point out that Angie was the only one who didn’t have to work in the shop every day. Filbrick sighed.  He looked at Angie.

              “Angel, on your day off, you shouldn’t be in the shop, fleecing rubes.  You should be practicing your painting.”

              “I like working in the shop,” Angie said. She took a deep breath.  “And, actually, Pops, I was thinking…”  She took another breath.  “I think I’d like to run the shop.  Once- once you step down.”

              “No,” Filbrick said shortly.  Stan’s eyes widened.  Very rarely was Filbrick so firm with Angie.  Judging by her expression, Angie was just as shocked as Stan. “Angela, running a shop like this is a man’s job.”  Angie clenched her hands into fists.

              “What- what makes you say that?”

              “You’re a very talented and wonderful young lady, but you won’t be able to take care of the shop like your brothers could.”

              “Why not?”

              “I already explained myself.  It needs a man to run it.  And when you get married, your last name won’t be Pines anymore anyways,” Filbrick said.  Angie ground her teeth.

              “Maybe I don’t want to get married,” she snarled. Filbrick stiffened.  “I’m the best one to run the shop!  I’m just as personable as Stan, just as smart as Ford, just as thorough as Sherm, and I can sell them all under the table!”

              “Those things don’t matter.”

              “Why not?!” Angie shouted.  Stan winced.  “Those are the things it takes to run the shop, and I have them!”

              “If you were a young man, maybe I’d let you take over someday, but you’re a young woman,” Filbrick said, his volume beginning to rise.  “You’re meant for something else.”

              “Like what, teaching?  You always say to hedge your bets, do the thing that has the highest likelihood of working out,” Angie argued.  “I don’t know if I’d be a good teacher.  I know for a fact that I’m good at taking care of the shop!”

              “Stop arguing with me like you know better than I do. You’re still a child.”

              “I’m thirteen, not three!”

              “That’s enough!” Filbrick roared.  Angie took a step back, visibly unnerved.  “I am your father, Angela Diane Pines.  You will do as I say and not complain about it.  Am I understood?”  Angie glared furiously.  “Am I understood?” Filbrick growled.  Angie’s shoulders tensed.

              “…Yes, sir,” she ground out.

              “Good.  Now, go to your room.  I’ll talk to your mother about how we’ll punish you for talking back like that.” Angie stormed past Stan and upstairs. Filbrick looked over at Stan. “Finish closing for the day.”

              “Yes, sir,” Stan said.  Filbrick went upstairs.  Stan sighed.  As he finished closing up the shop, he thought about Filbrick warning that Angie would get punished.  It was an empty threat, and everyone knew it.

              She won’t get punished.  They don’t punish her for anything.

-----

              “Stan, Ford?”  Stan and Ford looked up from their comic book and sketchbook, respectively.

              “What’s going on, Ang?” Stan asked.  Angie stood in the doorway of their bedroom, rubbing her arm nervously.

              “Um, I wanted your advice.”

              “Advice on what?” Ford asked.  Angie closed her eyes.

              “…Dealing with Pops,” she said quietly.  Stan burst into laughter.  Ford scowled down at Stan from the top bunk.

              “Stan!”

              “Can you blame me?” Stan asked.  “Angie’s the only one who’s always on Pops’ good side, and she wants advice on dealing with him?”

              “I’m not always on his good side,” Angie said.  She walked into the living room and sat on the bottom bunk bed, next to Stan. “Remember when I told him I wanted to run the shop?”

              “Yeah.  You yelled at him and didn’t get punished.”

              “But he didn’t let me do what I wanted.”

              “You might want to rephrase that, Angie,” Ford suggested gently.  Angie groaned loudly.

              “You know what I mean!  I asked to run the shop, and he told me, in no uncertain terms, that he wouldn’t let me.  And not for any real reason.  No, it’s because I’m a girl.”

              “Yeah, that was bullshit,” Stan said.

              “It was!” Angie said.  “It was absolute bullshit.”

              “Language,” Ford warned.  Angie glared at him.

              “Shut up.”

              “…Fair enough.”  Ford closed his sketchbook.  He climbed down to sit on the bottom bunk, on the other side of Angie.  “I’m guessing that what you want advice for is related to that argument?”

              “Yeah.”  Angie looked down at her feet.  “You guys know that Mom and Pops have things planned out for me and that they have their own ideas of what a girl like me should do.  Well, it’s mostly Pops who has those ideas.”

              “Yes, we’re very aware that the expectations Mom and Pops have of you are different from what they have of us,” Ford said.

              “They’re gonna have you be a teacher, for one thing,” Stan said.  Angie nodded.

              “Yeah, that’s what they want, but it’s not- it’s not what I want.”  She took a breath.  “I want to be an artist.”  Stan and Ford nodded.  “How am I supposed to tell Pops?”

              “Well, first off, remind him that you’re his baby girl,” Stan said.  “Use those big blue eyes of yours, wear something cute, and don’t hesitate to cry.”

              “That’s just what I normally do,” Angie said, rolling her eyes.  “I don’t think the method I use to get Pops to buy me new paints will work for this. I’m telling him that I don’t want to go into the career he’s had planned for me since I was little.”

              “You’re still little,” Stan said, ruffling Angie’s hair.  At this point, it was obvious that Angie would stay at her decidedly below average height; she had never even gotten a formal growth spurt, unlike her brothers. She pouted at him.  “But I know what you mean.  Hmm.  Ford?”

              “Use Pops’ emotions for you against him, yes,” Ford said after a moment.  “But also come in with a fully prepared argument.  Come up with an answer for any possible reason he might give that you should be a teacher.”  Angie nodded.

              “Anything else?”

              “Don’t raise your voice,” Ford said.  Stan nodded.

              “Yeah, I know you like to fight back, but that won’t get you anywhere with Pops.”

              “Got it.”

              “Don’t stress, Ang,” Stan said, putting a hand on her shoulder.  “If anyone could pull this off, it’d be you.  You’re the favorite, after all.”

              “Don’t say that,” Angie mumbled.  “It makes me feel weird.”

              “It’s the truth,” Ford said with a shrug. Angie scowled.

              “That doesn’t make it any better.”

-----

              Stan sat on the sidewalk where he had been thrown, the duffle bag in his lap heavy.  Tears pricked his eyes.

              Pops had a bag ready.  How long has he been planning on kicking me out?  He took a shuddering breath.  At least Angie didn’t see.  One of the most important tasks he had as an older brother was protecting his baby sister, and that included keeping her in the dark about how bad their father could get.  Stan slowly got to his feet.  The front door slammed open.

              “Stan!” Angie shouted, running out of the building. She tackled Stan in an enormous hug. “What’s- what’s going on?  I heard noise, and Ford said- he said that Pops-”

              “Angela Diane Pines, get back inside!” Filbrick rumbled, appearing in the doorway.  Stan stiffened in fear.  Angie spun around.  She stared at Filbrick with plaintive blue eyes.

              “Pops, is what Ford said true?  Are- are you really kicking Stan out?”

              “Angel, he has to be punished for what he’s done,” Filbrick said.  He walked over and took Angie’s hand.  “You should go back to bed, you don’t do well when you get woken up.”  Angie yanked her hand away.

              “How could you kick out your own son?” she whispered.

              “He ruined Stanford’s shot at that fancy school.”

              “But not on purpose!  Right, Stan?”

              “It- it was an accident,” Stan mumbled nervously. “I was pissed, but-”

              “If I don’t do anything, your brother won’t learn from his mistakes,” Filbrick said firmly.

              “Then punish him some other way!  Don’t put him on the street when he’s still a teenager!” Angie said fiercely.  Filbrick scowled.  Stan quailed, but Angie, who didn’t have much experience being on Filbrick’s bad side, didn’t back down.  “If you’re kicking him out, then- then you’re kicking me out, too!”  Angie grabbed Stan’s hand.  Filbrick’s face went slack.

              “Angie, don’t do this,” Stan whispered to her. “You’ve got a future.  You’re only fifteen!”

              “You’re only seventeen,” Angie said, her voice firm.  “And we’re Pines.”  She gripped Stan’s hand tighter.  “We stick together, even when the world’s against us.”  She looked back at Filbrick.  “Be prepared to lose your youngest son and only daughter, Pops.”

              “I…” Filbrick started.  Angie sniffled loudly.

              “I can’t stay with a father that I know is comfortable kicking out his own son, especially when- when-”  Angie’s voice got choked up.  “When the son he kicked out was born his.  I wasn’t born yours, Pops.”  A few tears began to trace their way down Angie’s cheeks.  Filbrick finally caved.

              “Okay.  I won’t kick him out, angel.”  Filbrick pulled Angie into a tight embrace.  He glared at Stan.  “Go back upstairs.  You can stay, but you’re on thin ice.”  Stan bolted for the door.  When he got to his and Ford’s bedroom, Ford looked up from the West Coast Tech brochure he was staring at.

              “I see Angie convinced Pops to let you stay,” he said numbly.

              “Yeah.”  Stan dropped the duffle bag to the floor.  “She did.”

              “Pops is a fool for not wanting her to take over the shop, if she can get even him to back down.”  Ford threw the brochure in the trash, got up from his desk, and climbed into the top bunk.  He turned away from Stan.

              An hour later, Ford was sleeping, but Stan couldn’t, no matter how hard he tried.  The bedroom door slowly creaked open.  Stan sat up.  He squinted in the darkness.

              “Angie?”

              “Yeah.”  Angie quietly walked over.  She sat on the bed next to him.  “Are- are you all right?”

              “Are you?” Stan asked.  Angie looked at him, bemused.  “You shouldn’t have seen that.”

              “It shouldn’t have happened.”

              “That’s just how Pops is.  Honestly, I’m a bit surprised it’s taken him this long to wanna kick me out.”  Angie stared at him in shock.  “Angie, it’s okay.  I’m okay.”

              “It’s a good thing I was there,” Angie said softly. Stan’s stomach churned.

              “Yeah.”

              It is good she was there.  But why do I feel so weird about it?  Pops likes her best, this isn’t new information.

              “It sucks that you had to get caught in the crossfire.”

              “Hmm?  Oh, you mean when I started crying?” Angie asked.  Stan nodded.  Angie looked away.  “Those tears might have been fake.”  The churning in Stan’s stomach worsened.  “Don’t get me wrong, I was really upset by everything, but I was more angry than sad. It’s just that, well, you know how Pops gets when I cry.”

              “…Yeah.”

              He melts like your Barbie did when it got left in the car a few summers back.

              “Go back to bed,” Stan said after a moment. “He was right, you shouldn’t wake up and then fall back asleep, it’s not good for you.”

              “Fine.  But I did mean it.  Us Pines have to stick together.”  Angie kissed him on the cheek.  “Good night, best brother.”

              “Good night, best sister,” Stan replied.  Angie got up and left the bedroom, closing the door behind her.  Stan laid back down.  Tears sprang to his eyes.

              Why did it take my little sister crying to make Pops let me stay?

[kaesaaurelia]

More stuff from my fic about Aziraphale and Crowley in Prohibition-era Chicago!

(Btw, this fic will be called Hustler’s Blood.  I’m not planning to post it as a WIP because I’m hoping it will only be five or six chapters.  Title from Nelson Algren, because Nelson Algren.)

In a few minutes the car arrived, and in a few more minutes they were at the restaurant, which smelled of cinnamon and bacon and diner coffee.

Crowley looked slyly over his menu after they were seated.  "I hear their specialty is apple pancakes."

Aziraphale swatted him over the head with his own menu.  "Stop that, you fiend!"

Crowley flashed him a grin.  "Got to be better than the Dutch baby.  Bet it's not even Dutch."

"Or a baby," said Aziraphale.  "We should complain.  Tea please?" he asked the waitress who was hovering nearby.  "Milk, two sugars."

"Black coffee," said Crowley.

When she was gone, Aziraphale said, "You were going to tell me about Mr. Capone, I believe?"

"Ah.  Yeah," said Crowley.  "He's.  Well.  Let's just say he's been a boon to every memo I send Downstairs."

"Ah.  Not a nice fellow, then," said Aziraphale, flipping over his page to contemplate the sandwiches.  "Hang on, this is going to be a difficult decision."  The waitress came back with their drinks; Aziraphale hemmed and hawed over his order and finally narrowed it down to three things.  Crowley ordered the apple pancake, and Aziraphale resolved not to touch it no matter how good it smelled.

Once they'd ordered and handed over their menus, Crowley spilled a little of his water out onto the tabletop.

Aziraphale grabbed his napkin and pulled it out of the way just in time to avoid getting it soaked.  "What are you --"

"I'm drawing you a map, angel, relax," said Crowley, and, indeed, the puddle of water did not spread very far, in defiance of all tradition; it stayed in a long, narrow line along the right side of the table.  He took out a tin of breath mints and plonked one down by the edge of the water, near the top of the 'map.'  "We're here right now."  He looked speculatively at the condiments before grabbing the salt and pepper.  "This," he said, showing Aziraphale the salt, "is Hymie Weiss and the North Side Gang."  He put them slightly more towards the center of the map.

"What an imaginative name," said Aziraphale.

"And this," he said, showing Aziraphale the pepper shaker, "is Al Capone and his Outfit."  He put it down well to the south.

"That's all well and good, Crowley, but where are they going to put your apple pancake when it comes?"

"Over there in Naperville, probably," said Crowley, with a vague gesture to Aziraphale's left.  "Plenty of room there, nothing happens in Naperville.  Anyway.  I, Crowley, work for Mr. Weiss, in a procurement capacity, obviously.  I didn't really know what I was doing when I started working for the North Siders, so I didn't think to come up with a different name.  But!"

And here he placed another mint carefully, somewhat to the north of the pepper shaker.  "I, Lilith Cambion, work for Mr. Capone, in a similar capacity.  I've got a house out there too, but the neighbors here are more fun to upset and Capone throws bigger parties than I could so I don't really bother."  Here he grinned.  "You see, my poor sainted husband died in a mysterious boating accident, leaving only his gobs and gobs of cash to comfort me, but the authorities think I killed him.  So I escaped to the States to avoid all that unpleasantness."

Aziraphale should have been telling Crowley off for his ridiculous plan, for all this dastardly deception, and for making a mess of the table.  But he couldn't help it; this was exactly the sort of harebrained nonsense Crowley loved most, and it probably wasn't even hurting anyone much, so Aziraphale didn't feel guilty about not thwarting it.  "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself, dear."

"I'm not done!' said Crowley.

"Of course not," said Aziraphale.  "Please, go on."

"So this," said Crowley, reaching for the sugar, "is --"

"Uh.  'Scuse me?"  They both turned to look at the waitress, who was precariously balancing Crowley's apple pancake, and Aziraphale's omelette, corned beef hash, mushroom sauce, and side of extra-crispy bacon.  "Sorry to interrupt... whatever this is, but where'dja want me to put all this?" she asked.

"Naperville," said Crowley, pointing once more at the empty space to Aziraphale's left.

"Uh.  Sure," said the waitress.  "You had the, uh --"

"Apple pancake here, everything else is his," said Crowley.

She put the dishes down carefully, managing to avoid damaging the map.  "And I'll get you a fresh napkin to clean up the --"

"No, that's the lake!" said Crowley.

She paused to look at the map, then studied it with the expression of someone who thinks the street preacher is probably wrong about the End Times but is more interested in correcting him on a small detail about the life and wine preferences of Christ.  (Not that Aziraphale had ever done such a thing.)  Finally, she said, "You got the lake coming out too far west, I think, but I'm impressed you got Montrose Harbor on there.  How'dja get it to curve like that?"

Crowley shrugged.

"I'm expecting a helluva tip," she told them.  "Enjoy your meal."  And she left them in peace.

"Right," said Crowley, seizing the sugar bowl, "so this is City Hall."  He plonked it down on the map, dividing salt from South. "Now, I, Felix, used to --"

"Felix hasn't got a last name?" Aziraphale asked. He examined his omelet, which smelled amazing, and took a little taste of the mushroom sauce. Delightful.

"Nobody asked," Crowley said, while Aziraphale dumped sauce on his omelet. "To be honest I think they assumed it was fake when I gave it to them."

"Convenient for you, then," said Aziraphale, sampling the omelet. The egg was nicely fluffy, the mushroom sauce was extraordinarily creamy, and the overall effect was delicious. "This is wonderful, Crowley, would you like to try some?"

Crowley looked across the table at the apple pancake, exiled, as it was, to Naperville, whatever that was. It was bigger than his head and smelled of cinnamon and future dental cavities. "Think I'm good for now," he said. "You can have some if you like." He turned back to his impromptu map. "So, as Felix I used to work for the old mayor. But he ran off to the South Seas to look for a climbing fish."

"A climbing fish?" Aziraphale asked.

"Yeah, I don't think it's a thing. Not sure what that was about, really. Anyway, Big Bill left us all in the hands of this appallingly incompetent wet blanket Dever who likes things to be --" here he used his fingers to put quotes around his speech "-- 'above board,' or something, so I don't work for him. Hinky Dink and Bathhouse John are still in the game though, so I do odd jobs. Mostly encouraging people to vote."

"Hinky Dink," repeated Aziraphale, distastefully.

"Yeah, and you're called Aziraphale, what's your point?" Crowley asked.

"My name was given to me by the Almighty, and cannot, therefore, sound absolutely ridiculous," said Aziraphale. "Anyway, is it so demonic to encourage voting?"

"It is when the voters have been dead for years," said Crowley.

"Ah. And they don't... question...?" He was glad Crowley was having such a good time, but really, using resurrection to gain political advantage really was fiendish, in an actively distasteful way, and he thought he'd better at least register his objection.

"Oh, they don't check," said Crowley. "Really, they're just like my lot. Long as it gets done they're pleased. They pay a lot better, too."

"Seems a little gauche if you ask me," said Aziraphale.

Crowley shrugged. "Well, good thing I haven't asked you. Less fuss than doing the paperwork to make it say they voted, at least for me."

"Ah, well. As long as you put them back when you're finished with them, I suppose," said Aziraphale. He had another bite of omelet.

"'Put them back when you're finished!'" said Crowley, doing a very bad imitation of Aziraphale. "Well of course I do, what else am I gonna do with them?" he snapped. "They'd ruin my parties." He reached for the tabasco sauce, and put it just west of the sugar.

"You're going to run out of condiments soon," Aziraphale said.

"Nah, we've still got ketchup," said Crowley. "Anyway, this is Jane Addams."

"And what band of cutthroats does she run?" Aziraphale asked.

"The most dangerous ones, at least to me.  They're social reformers.  Do-gooders."  Crowley made a face.  "I've been working on this woman for years now and I think the only dent I ever made is that she contemplated lying once and then wasn't good enough at it to follow through.  It's maddening."

"Poor Crowley," said Aziraphale.  "Still, it sounds like you're making a little progress!  If you keep trying maybe you can budge her a little more?"

Crowley gave him a wide grin.  "Thank you for trying, Aziraphale, but I really think she's got me beat. She's already in her sixties, and her health's never been good, so I think she'll be gone before I can get her soul.  But I haven't quite given up yet.  Besides, hanging around there is fun, really."

"And I suppose you're somebody called Merit when you're hanging around tempting her?" Aziraphale prompted, mopping up the rest of his mushroom sauce with the last of his omelet

"Yes!  Merit O'Malley!" said Crowley.

Aziraphale paused, omelet halfway to his mouth.  "Please tell me there's not a bad Irish accent involved, Crowley.  Please?"

"Well, there was but both sets of O'Donnells sussed me out," said Crowley, "and then I had to wipe their memories and stop being a safecracker in a hurry.  Which was fine, really, being a safecracker is dead boring actually, unless you do it by miracles.  Anyway, I decided to try and corrupt all the nicey-nice reform types.  But most of them are very... churchy, and it's difficult to get at them."

Aziraphale smiled to himself.  "Quite."

"Also most of them are full-up on Pride and Greed and Envy already," said Crowley.  Aziraphale stopped smiling.  "Not really as fun if you're going to corrupt someone who's already almost there, you know?  So I found Jane Addams and I started volunteering at her... thing, and I thought, aha, I'll work my way into her confidences and find out what her weaknesses are."

"What are they?" Aziraphale asked.

Crowley shrugged.  "I mean she second-guesses herself quite a lot.  But that's no good, it means I can't get her for Pride.  Greed, Gluttony, and Envy don't really seem like her thing.  And Sloth is right out, her schedule would drive anyone to madness.  Except her, apparently."

"Wrath?" Aziraphale suggested.

Crowley shook his head.  "I mean, she's quite angry a lot, but..."  He gestured at his map.  "I think that's fair.  And she's a total pacifist, she'd never hurt anyone."

Aziraphale couldn't help notice Crowley'd been leaving one out.  "Is she married?  Maybe Lust--"

"She's got a wife, sort of.  Very much in love.  I couldn't do anything there," said Crowley.

"Oh!" said Aziraphale.  "Are the humans letting themselves do that sort of thing now?  I hadn't realized."

"They're not," said Crowley, "but nobody particularly lets Jane Addams do things, she just does them."

Aziraphale started on his corned beef hash, and stared at the map.  "I know it's a bit out of fashion, my dear," he said, "but what about Acedia?"

Crowley looked appalled.  "I would never!"

"All right, sorry, I was only trying to help," said Aziraphale.

Crowley sighed.  "I know you were.  You always do."  He rubbed his eyes under his glasses.  "I was thinking of turning her over to you, actually.  I can introduce you if you like."

"Oh!  That sounds very nice, actually," said Aziraphale.

"I will warn you, she is a bit insufferable about Prohibition," said Crowley.  "Don't talk about wine around her, she'll just give you this disappointed look and you'll feel you've let her down."

Aziraphale considered this.  "Are you sure your lot won't take her?"

Crowley laughed, and waved a hand over his mess of a map, and in an instant the water and the breath mints were gone, and the condiments were back where they started.  He reached across the table and retrieved his apple pancake from its long exile, and a delicious waft of cinnamon reached Aziraphale's nose.

"Oh!  I was looking forward to seeing what the ketchup was for, though," said Aziraphale.

"I think some people like it on their eggs," said Crowley, making a face.  He took a small piece of the apple pancake.  "This is good.  Aziraphale, you've got to try --"

"No thank you," said Aziraphale, primly.

"Oh come on, it's their specialty," said Crowley.  Aziraphale tried not to watch as Crowley licked the fork off.  Licking anything like that in public could probably get you arrested in some places.  Safer to look at the pancake.  Which also looked good, definitely.  "Will you at least come with me to Al's birthday party?" Crowley asked.

"Well."  Aziraphale hesitated.  "I don't know that it's really the place for me..."

Crowley gave him a pleading look that was only slightly less effective for the dark lenses covering his eyes, and said, "It won't be half as fun without you there."

He's only tempting me.  It's false flattery.  He wants to lead me into a den of iniquity, Aziraphale thought, watching Crowley pick at the apple pancake.

"Ah, well.  I understand, angel," said Crowley.  He sounded a bit disappointed.  "I'll have to find out when Miss Addams is going to be around, though, I still think you'd like --"

"No, no, I didn't say I wouldn't go with you," said Aziraphale, quickly.  "Of course I'll go.  Somebody's got to keep you out of trouble."

"'Course.  Definitely.  You'll keep me out of trouble."  Crowley looked skeptically over his glasses, and Aziraphale could see the yellow slits of his eyes, and he was looking so fondly at Aziraphale that he didn't think he could stand it, so he swallowed and tried to pay attention to his corned beef hash.  "Your food was good, then?" he asked.

Aziraphale nodded.  "The apple pancake?"

"It's pretty good," said Crowley.  "Sure you don't want any?"

Aziraphale resisted for all of two seconds.  "Just... just let me take a look at it."

"A look?" Crowley asked.

"Just a glance.  Here, we can switch," he said, offering to exchange his small plate of corned beef hash for the enormous apple pancake.  "Just.  Just for a moment."

It was a very good apple pancake, and Aziraphale ate most of it.  He tried not to notice Crowley's soft smile as they chattered about local theater here and in London, and reminisced.

When it was time to go, Aziraphale left a hundred-dollar bill on the table for a tip, and Crowley left a scrawled note to the waitress, with a suggestion as to where and how long to invest it; then they paid their bill and went back out into the fresh, chill air of January first.

[lifeofatvaddict]

One month in.

Today marks one month without TV consuming my life.

Let me explain how it all began.

I love television. Like really love it. Most memories of my childhood involve some version of watching a favorite TV show or movie with my dad. In fact, as I grew up, my punishments typically involved not being able to watch TV (and as a goodie-two-shoes type child, I often snuck upstairs to watch it in secret anyway). I just have always loved it. There's nothing like a great story. Like the relaxation that comes from sitting down after a busy day to watch something familiar, serious, or funny. the hours fly by and it's sometimes nice not to think about anything but what is in front of you... especially not the laundry you haven't done, food you haven't cooked, or work that you brought home that you haven't looked at.

One month ago, a typical Thursday night was the following:

Get home around 7:30pm, exhausted (I'm a teacher who works incredibly long hours btw).

Plan to make some food, but want to take a moment first, so I sit down and turn on the TV. I may or may not still have my coat on.

If I'm trying to be productive (which 9 times out of 10 I am) I put on something familiar. The Matrix, for example (don't judge me I love Sci Fi).

After about 45 min. of this, I find that I just don't have it in my to cook anything. Is there something easy I can eat? If I'm lucky I have a bowl of ramen. If I'm unlucky it's time to order some food.

By the time to food arrives it's about 9pm and the movie is ending.

It's too late to get any of that other stuff done. I might has well watch one more movie before hitting the sack.

My husband comes home and together we decide to start a show. Two episodes in and it's 11:45pm. We decide to do one more. I fall asleep on the couch. Best case: I have my work clothes on. Worst case: I'm still wearing my coat.

This has pretty much been how my life has been since... well... graduating from college.

I've known this is a problem for a while and over the last couple of years, have been taking some steps to reel my behavior in. I fasted from TV for a week once. I loved it! I was so productive. But once that week ended, I was SO excited to reintroduce TV to my life. About a year later I did it again. Again, loved the results. I got things done, but I missed having TV by my side to fill my time, especially if I just didn't want to get things done. It's okay to veg out sometimes, right?!?

About a month and a half ago I had to take a hard look at my habits. My husband went out of town. Now he and I are opposites. He likes to go out and hang with friends. He hates being cooped up in the house for too long. He wants to have adventures. Me, on the other hand... there are few things I love more than hanging out at home, watching my favorite show, and ordering out.  Anyway, his absence, is the PERFECT opportunity for me to indulge myself. First off, I get to watch what I want, as long as I want. I get to eat what I want, as much as I want. I get to isolate myself without guilt for as long as I want.

Before the weekend started, I did have a few plans. I planned to go to church, I had some friends who I hadn't seen in months planning a dinner together, and I had a few household chores to get done. As the weekend drew to a close I found I had done none of what was planned, was still wearing my pajamas from Friday, and was surrounded by empty food cartons, dirty dishes and a bottle of wine, and had minimally clocked in at least 18 hours of television consumption. It just wasn't okay.

I began to realize that maybe TV wasn't go good for me. As I began to think through taking a break from TV I became increasingly aware of the thoughts I'd have when I wasn't watching it. For example, I would say, "Okay, I'm not going to watch TV today. I'm going to clean my apartment." I'd get started, but then say, "Well, maybe I should reward myself for putting in a load of laundry." When I would, I would discover that by the end of the day, my to-do list wasn't nearly as accomplished as I thought it could be.

I'd try it all again. This time, instead of a reward, I would say, "You will only watch TV when folding the laundry, since that's something you have to be seated to do anyway." Again, after a day of work, the laundry still was far from complete.

I started looking up addiction. I kept thinking? Is it healthy to bargain with yourself for something like TV? Is it healthy to struggle watching just one episode, even when you told yourself that was all you wanted to have? Is it healthy to neglect things you really care about in order to watch TV?

While there really wasn't anything about TV specifically online, I came to the conclusion, that the healthiest way I could interact with TV would be to not interact with TV. So I decided that unlike a fast (which has an end date), I wouldn't watch TV anymore. Well not on my own. If my husband wanted to watch TV together, I would watch it, BUT I wouldn't dictate what we watch. And I especially wouldn't watch when I'm alone.

I have to say, this month has given me a lot of information about myself and about my television addiction.

I have more energy. Even when I come home feeling exhausted.

I am more productive. Especially when I am exhausted.

I have found hobbies... because guess what, I need shit to occupy my time.

I eat better. I cook more.

I read more.

And I get ready for bed and go to bed earlier.

Here's a quick anecdote from today.

So today was hard. My students were driving me crazy. I ran detention. I had to get a bunch of documents ready to be handed out today and didn't have much of a break. I couldn't wait to leave the building. Luckily, I was leaving early because tomorrow is parent teacher conferences and I don't have to be in until a little later (so I'll get to sleep in). As I drove home my first thought was, "Man, I would love to treat myself to some TV right now. I don't have to be at work right away in the morning. I can pour myself a glass of wine, relax, and eat some of the leftovers I made the other day." Literally, nothing sounded more perfect. BUT I knew I'm trying not to watch TV.

So instead, I came in, turned on the radio, poured myself the glass of wine, took off my work clothes, and decided to use up some of the bananas I'd bought a couple weeks ago in some banana bread. Then i did the dishes and hung up some miscellaneous clothes. I also decided to start this blog, write a bio for a meeting I plan to participate in next week, and begin a recommendation for a student that is due tomorrow.

There's still quite a bit of the evening left, but I just want to illustrate this point: Had I chosen to watch TV, NONE of these things would be done. And guess what, I feel relaxed right now with the smell of banana bread wafting through my apartment.

TV is not my friend.

I'm starting this blog to document my journey. Every single day I think about TV. Truthfully, when I husband gets home, I hope he turns on something I'd like to watch and invites me to watch TV with him (sadly we have very different tastes and he likes to watch sports on his phone). As I navigate this new lifestyle I want to share the challenges I face and the celebrate the small victories I win. I also want to encourage anyone else who may want to push TV out of their lives to know that even though it's hard, it feels really good to make a different choice.

And with that, I'll bring this incredibly long post to an end. Forgive any typos you see. I REALLY don't feel like copy-editing this right now.

It's 7pm and I think I'm going to go make some enchiladas and listen to some more NPR.