#getting up the gumption to put this in their mail

[attic-nights]

To whomever lives here,

I was once four years old and I used to look at your home.

I don’t know if it was your home then. I don’t know if you rent – if you’ve only lived here for a little while. You might have checked your letter box and been confused as to why anyone would write.

This letter is for me. Just in case it was your home then. Or, just in case you like the idea that a four-year-old used to look at this house.

I don’t expect a reply. I don’t know if I want a reply. I just want to let you know.

There used to be a paediatrician in that plain building next to you. I think.

This was the very early 90s and I was very very young, so it might have actually been something very different. But it had a waiting room, magazines, yellowish lights, and it was a very dark and rainy day. I remember looking out the window at the rain. Then at the coloured glass in the window of the building opposite. I stared and stared at it.

When we left, I made my mum walk around outside in the rain so I could look at your building a bit more. It was small and beautiful, like a possum in a hedge. Little squares of colours in the windows. I’d seen their like in church; I didn’t know you could have coloured glass in a home.

I asked mum if it was bigger on the inside. My mum answered it probably wasn’t. This answer excited me. I wondered if the walls felt like a hug. The garden was small and green. I imagined fairies living in it.

In that childish way, I very suddenly decided that was the sort of home that I wanted to live in when I was grown. Not a mansion, or a manor, or a castle, or a house.

I asked my mum what sort of home was that.

She told me it was a cottage.

I asked my mum if it was rare. I’d learned that word just now in a National Geographic my mum read to me, and now I looked upon the cottage as if it were a Przewalski's horse. My mum gave me a true, dull, disappointing, practical history of our town's housing development.

I could see why they would replace cottages, but I couldn’t see why anyone would want to.

I now live in one of those buildings that replaced those cottages. In the sunlight my apartment building gleams like a boxy orange tom cat. On Sundays I clean my tiny home – top to bottom, cracks and all – in half an hour – and this is marvellous. I hear the lorikeets more than my neighbours. I have a tiny 1.5x2.5m balcony where I squeeze two aging wicker chairs, two clothes airers (for drying), and twenty-seven pot plants. I wave at Maria, the elderly woman who lives in the apartment opposite – she used to grow tomatoes on her enviably larger balcony before a storm ripped her greenhouse. I walk to the shops, to my doctors, to my friends.

And sometimes I walk past your place. I’m four years old again. And I look at the coloured glass in the windows.

[not-gonna-lose]

Leavanny mail!

Perhaps surprisingly, a certain Leavanny is on a mission today; the second she spots Kieran, she'll gently trill to get his attention and go up to him with a letter and...some kind of drink? Upon closer inspection, it seems to be some kind of drink with extra added vitamins. Huh.

The letter reads as follows, in likely very familiar handwriting. ...Neater than usual, at least--

"Kiki,

I don't know how to start this. I've gotten the gumption to try and write something multiple times, but every time I've tried, it just feels like it's not enough. But I'm going to try.

I want to apologize to you, first off. For...I guess to start, for everything that happened during the Festival of Masks--I lied to you. I...deceived you, whether I thought it was that at the time or not; the only thing I had been thinking of was trying to keep you safe, because I was worried about what could happen to you. I didn't think about anything else, and I never wanted it to spiral out of control so bad that it'd hurt you. But whether I meant it or not, I hurt you deeply, and I want to apologize for that. If I'd known how things could have gone, if I had a bit of faith, maybe things wouldn't have turned out like this.

Which...I guess brings me to this: I'm sorry I thought you weren't strong enough. I'm sorry I never realized just how much I was hurting you. Or coddling you, or--just not letting you get the chance to spread your own wings. I know I'm not the easiest person to get along with, to put it lightly, but the fact that I took all of that out on you--that's wrong. That's so wrong. I thought for the longest time because nobody said anything that it was all okay, but I let my ego get in the way of your own feelings. And I'm sorry for that. I'm sorry for ruining your friendship with Juliana, too, because of that. I got so focused on what I thought was needed, without even thinking...

...I don't know what else to say, if I'm going to be honest with you. I keep wanting to bring this to Briar, to Amarys, to someone to make it sound less like a moron who doesn't know what she's doing is writing this, but--I'm sending this to you as is. If you want to read it, feel free to. If you want to just get rid of it...feel free to, too. I screwed up, and I've been screwing up for years, but--if I can't make this truly right, I want to at least apologize from the heart. Or something.

If you ever want to talk...I'm kind of withdrawing from my extracurriculars a bit, but pick the time and place. I'll meet you there. But if you don't, I accept that, too.

...Please take care of yourself, Kiki. I really hope that you beat her.

-Carmine/@ribesrubrum

p.s. Leavanny should have brought you a drink, too. I went with Briar on the mainland and was checking things out--you said you've been having trouble eating, right? I don't know if drinking has become difficult for you too, but I found something that said it's supposed to help with missing nutrients. I don't know if you've tried this already, but...I wanted to help. Or at least try."

Know I haven't really- I haven't... Haven't made it easy, either... Been a real jerk this whole time... I just- I've been tired of it... For a really- Really long time, even before that... Hated just being some- Some scared little kid who couldn't... Couldn't do anything for himself... Or being- Being brushed off that much... Was- Was building up for a long time... That's just- Just what finally did it, I guess...

It all still feels like- Like my own fault, anyways... I shouldn't have... Shouldn't have been such a weakling... I just... Just wish I could've been braver- Been able to speak up more... And been strong enough to- To not let it get to me... Even now, I've still been... Been too much of a coward to talk to you... So I- I'm sorry-

Drinks are- I can still handle that okay... That- That does help... Thank you- I'm really... I'm sorry again- For- For all of this...

[1-800-roflmao]

PffFT- Yes, write it. 🤲🏻

Y'll are terrible influences. I love it >:3

Wrote down the ideas for that title, one is more plot driven then the others. CW: Discussion of sex toys, genitalia, bribing.

One::

Reader is working in a field they never expected to utilize their engineering and math degree-- designing and making sex toys, specifically the adventurous types, and they are good at what they do. One day, they start getting calls from someone claiming to be connected to Fazbear Entertainment. They let it go to voice mail. Then emails come in. Still, ignoring because they think it's a scam. It's not until a letter comes in. It's got the official signature and all the security features check out. Couple meetings and phone calls later, they're supposed to help Fazbear Entertainment break into the adult entertainment industry, but after finding out just how sentient the Animatronics are, they are hesitant: "Do they want this?"

Two::

"Let me this straight..." you were currently elbow deep in Monty's chassis; the automaton gator put in a forced sleep while you work. "You want me to slap a dick on this gator?" you aimed the question at the manager standing across the operating chair.

She squirmed under your stare, but still had the gumption to lift her chin and nod, "And the others." Your eyes narrowed. Your fingers working on muscle memory to wrap a damaged wire in Monty's chest. "You will be generously compensated of course..." she had that sales smile going now, pulling out her phone and tapping away, "...it'll be under the table though."

You held your smart tongue. Swallowing down sass and jokes as the manager turned the phone towards you and showed you a number that nearly had you buckling. Not only that... "That's a fucking gofundme," you gaped, "Do they know what the money is going to be used for?" Was this woman before you seriously this slimy?

She just smiled and a few taps more, she pulled up a group chat. "Holy shit..." They definitely knew and most of them were coworkers, with a few strangers thrown in.

"So... you in?"

You looked up from the phone, right into her eyes, "Straps and flesh lights exist. Certainly cheaper, too."

Manicured nails traced the edge of the gator's open chassis. "We'd like our partners to feel as much as we do." You could hear the hunger in her voice and those eyes were pinning you to the spot. For a while, the two of you simply held eye contact in a silent battle.

"Double and you got a deal."

"I knew we could count on you."

Three::

You had questions. So many questions, but currently the one at the forefront of your mind was... "Why... who?!" you were choking on words as you stared at the extra equipment between the puppet's legs. How hadn't you felt it all the times this beanpole had carried around?

Sunny's own mind caught up with the situation and they finally pulled on the spare pants they had been changing into, turning away and, you guessed, tucking themself away. They were babbling and spouting apologies, but also chiding you for not knocking or giving warning before entering the room behind their balcony.

You weren't hearing any of it. You just stood. Mind still reeling and trying to work out all the why's and how's and who's. This was an animatronic in a daycare. Someone consciously gave this robot a-

Yellow and orange filled your vision, bells ringing in your ears, and then long careful fingers tipped your head up to look into milky white eyes. Sun's faceplate was cocked to the side worriedly, now fretting about his friend was broken and how to fix them.

One thing stuck out in your mind though and you needed to know. "Sun..." you finally spoke and watched his rays jump, his string of words halting.

"Oh! Yes, Sunshine?" He was practically vibrating as he gave you all his attention. They had started babbling again while you tried to word this right.

"Was a that a fucking bad dragon?"

[what-a-messsss]

2x2 rewatch

Eeeeehehehehe, why the fuck am I laughing this hard when I realized it was the roadkill compost episode?  That is not in the least funny, it’s actually pretty gross, but I’m literally paused 3 seconds in chortling to myself so hard that I’m having to wipe away tears.  ...I think the stress is getting to me.  Anyway, back to fictional Wyoming!

It’s actually a pretty genius business model, to be honest.  Taking a sadly repeating resource and using it to enrich the soil?  Tough work, no doubt, physically and mentally, but a smart and very niche thing.  I hadn’t thought about the fact that cleaning up roadkill would have been part of Walt’s job as a deputy.  Lucian said in S6, in his fantastically circuitous way, that it had been 10 years since he and Walt had worked together (if I remember correctly).  Which... wait, is that right?  Had Walt really only been sheriff for 4 years when the show started?  Which is a single term, before Branch ran against him.  I think I’d had the impression that he’d been sheriff for longer than that.  Or is my math just super borked?  (A very real possibility.)  Who were Walt’s deputies before these three?  Branch has  probably been a deputy for a while, Vic was hired a few months before the show and it isn’t clear for Ferg but it’s implied at least a chunk longer.  So who were his deputies for the rest of those 4 years?  (Aaaaaand this is how I grow OCs.  Shit.)

She names the roadkill?  Eeeeeh...

Branch, you douchecanoe.  You are very clearly not welcome in her home anymore; the fact that she hasn’t moved the spare key isn’t a fucking invitation to break in and invade her privacy, oh my gods I hate you so much.  This is predatory behavior.  You need to either go through official channels with the department to do a wellness check or FUCK RIGHT OFF into the deepest reaches of hell.  Excellent plan, fucking off.

Henry,  I adore you beyond measure.  “Thanks-taking.”  Vic... Seriously?  “God, you people really hold a grudge.”  Somehow, I think they’re kind of entitled to, what with all of the wars, genocide, stolen land, racism, broken treaties, and the like.  Get bent.

Genuinely, Henry’s dry as anything sass is quite possibly the best thing about the whole show.  We didn’t get nearly enough of it during the later seasons.  And his little smiiiiile at having made Walt chuckle, oh my heart.

The “Hands up!”  O.o  “Hands down!” little comedy gag is totally sold by KS’s face, haaaa.  And Ferg’s bafflement, but collected response to those truckers thinking he was a rentboy was solid.

I kind of have to applaud that sex worker’s gumption to just try to take off in the truck.  Not the best thought out plan, to be sure, but gutsy.

Ok, Branch has just had a line establishing that they’re not in Absaroka, and then Vic and Ferg look annoyed/confused when Walt tells them to cut the sex workers and customers loose, but then Branch finishes with, “Absaroka County wishes you all a fine evening... at home.”  So are they in Absaroka, or not??

Kudos to Walt saying, “Which will allow you to get out of here.  If that’s what you want.”  Not falling completely into the savior complex bs is good, and acknowledging that she is an adult who can make her own decisions, even if they’re ones he would wish she wouldn’t is good.  ........If only he could extend that same courtesy to his own daughter.  

Branch, wtf.  It’s a felony to even have burglar’s tools.  Legit, it’s a felony punishable with up to 3 years in prison or up to $3k, or both.  Unlawful entry is 10 years and/or $10k, and I’m pretttttyyyyyy fucking sure you don’t have a warrant to be in Cady’s house.  FUCK OFF.  You giant douchecanoe.  (Min and I also have a headcanon that the random coloured empty frames are Branch’s fault, because they don’t really go with any of the rest of the decor, and we hate them.  So we decided that when he saw the Andy Warhol style print she had that he got those for her and she just never got around to taking them down after they broke up.)  And isn’t tampering with someone’s mail a federal offence?  You are the worst.

Aaaand then Walt calls the Collettes showing Ross Lanten’s wife video of him with prostitutes “interfering in his marriage.”  Okaaaay.  Because helping get a woman and kids out of what has several hallmarks of an abusive marriage is “interfering,” I guess.  Not the happiest about that word choice, I’m not gonna lie.

Aaaaaand then Whitish is super racist, and I hate her.  Henry handles it with grace, but fuck, I cannot imagine how wearying that must be.  And Branch makes obnoxious and offensive assumptions (playing to his strengths, natch), and Henry once again demonstrates how he is also the Actual Best.

Nobody has heard from Cady recently, but the tiny little hesitation Henry has before he confirms that he hasn’t heard from her either is so good.  LDP is so good.  Just from that, it reinforces how much that bothers him, and that he’s worried, but also that he really doesn’t want to talk to Branch about any of it.

“If you do, will you let me know?”  “I most certainly will not.”  Such a classy way to basically tell Branch to fuck off and get wrecked.  

A lady threatening Henry with a knife and I should not be focusing on how great he looks in a vest, but heeeeere we are.  (I do love that brown vest.)  And even after she is drunk and rude and racist and threatens him, Henry’s look when she says that she knew the dead man still has concern and compassion in it.  Waaaaaah.

Do I remember what Walt did to his hand?  Was that something from this episode that I’m not remembering right now, or are they actually having some intra-episode continuity and that bandage is him still recovering from the start of frostbite?  [Dang it, my Xbox controller just pooped out.  Now I have to go swap it out for the other one and stick this one in the charging dock.  But I’m so cozy in bed with my jar o’ tea and everythinggggg.  Boo.]  ...  [It has been long enough since I wrote that last bit that my Xbox has shut itself down twice in the interim.  Oops.  I’m super great at focusing.]

Fuck, that “I was some place I shouldn’ta been” hits hard.  This whole seen in rough.

Aaaahaha, why is the fact that Ferg is also standing there looking at Walt when he wakes up so much funnier than if it had just been Vic?  And his little grin.  And Ruby with a mug of his toothbrush and such for Walt!  Rubyyyyy!  (Holy shit, the fact that they have this little set up is alarmingly adorable, and I heckin’ adore Ruby.)  And then she sasses Branch, and I just want nice things for her.  

Walt’s “If you want,” to Ferg came off to me more like, ‘waste your time if you want to,’ (though that could well be my own issues projected” but I’m proud of Ferg for running with it.  And I do appreciate Walt calling the sex worker a lady.

Of course, he pulls Henry into his bs, getting him to solicit a sex worker.  Why does Henry put up with him?  I’m sorryyyy, but the pointing is so awkward and I cringe so hard, but what else is he going to do, I guess?  And how does he recognize her anyway?  Did Walt take a picture of her before letting her go, or something?  It doesn’t seem like he even got her name, to pull up a picture from a rap sheet, sooo...  Why am I even worrying about it?  And at least Walt doesn’t think that it’s not rape just if it’s a sex worker.

The flashback scene sure hits hard, too.  Damn.  I’m trying to remember the last time I saw anybody other than Vic actually pull on a glove in consideration of fingerprints.  I think there might have been one time or something, but nothing comes readily to mind.

For all that I rag on Walt for just collecting his assumptions and taking them to the bank, there is heavy irony with him now laying out the reasons he’s not arresting Whitish, because there is reasonable doubt in the form of the Collettes.  

Ooooooope, and then Branch brings up Cady.  I sure this can only go really well.  Aaaaaaaaand of course Walt has one of his Longmire Epiphanies and just walks off in the middle of the conversation, such as it was.

Does a college registrar’s really have your birth certificate on file?  I’m pretty sure I didn’t have to submit a copy to mine, but I also don’t really remember?  But that seems weird.

Ah, the bandage was about the frostbite.  I appreciate the continuity.  

Hmmmmmm, Cady leaving her phone at home when she drove to CO seems unlikely.  It seems unlikely as a generality for her generation, and on practical levels (directions to the precinct and such?), and just... That’s pretty hard to buy.  If I don’t want to talk to somebody, or even a bunch of people, I’d ignore calls or even block numbers, but her not taking her phone gives the impression that there is literally nobody that she would want to talk to, and that plays into this really weird bit of characterization void that the writers fell into of Cady just not knowing any single person other than her dad, Henry, Ruby, Branch, and Ferg, and I guess Vic.  As if she just doesn’t exist outside of her relation to one of them.  She doesn’t want to talk to any of the 6 of them, so there is not a single other person on the planet who she would want to be able to talk to/have them contact her?  There’s not a single other person on the planet that she knows who if they called and said, “I have an emergency, can you talk/help?” that she wouldn’t want to be available for?  Bullshit.  The entire rest of the series when she’s onscreen is showing how much she cares.  She’s a fucking Hufflepuff, and she’s not going to leave her damn phone at home while she drives 6 hours away into another damn state.  If you so desperately need to that she’s not even seeing his call, have her leave it in her car when she goes into the Denver station.  Like, unless she has a second phone that she did take, I’m not buying it.  Even as an attempt at “she’s so caught up in her mother’s murder now, oooo, Longmire tantrum and singular focus’ characterization.  Just, boo.

[bmblb-fanatic]

For those of you just starting out on their own

Moving out and leaving the nest is a pretty big step and, like almost everyone, you'll find yourself under prepared. So I just thought I would throw together a few tips on being on your own for those who need it. Feel free to add your own tips as well.

Don't move in with your best friend. I know it's tempting and it may work for awhile or you may get lucky and it works out just fine but coming from experience and research into the matter, living with your best friend (especially right out the gate) puts a lot of strain on your friendship. Roommates argue and fight just like couples do and you don't wanna spend it fighting with the person you should be venting to.

Invest in a crock pot. For the love of God they are a saving grace. Recipes are easy and all you gotta do is toss in the ingredients and leave it to cook overnight or while you're at work.

Stock up on toilet paper, paper towels, and other various cleaning supplies. You never know when you may need them. Magic erasers are a good investment too.

Get a basic tool kit. Hammer, screw drivers, nails, wire cutters, etc.

Clean things as you go. When you're caught up in living the adult life it's easy to forget to schedule a day to clean your house. Instead make a note to clean as you go. Finished getting ready in the bathroom? Run a cleaning wipe over your counters. Finished eating breakfast? Wash your dishes so you don't have to later when you get home and don't feel like it. Take the trash out when you leave for work. Got a few spare minutes? Maybe run the vacuum real quick. This will keep your place looking livable until you can finally get the free time and gumption to really scrub down and clean it.

Yard sales! I know you wanna get all the newest and best furniture and whatnot for your new place but don't waste the money you could use for other things. Local yard sales can have some pretty good stuff for really cheap. I got a big ass solid oak bookshelf for twenty bucks.

Invest in a wax melter. Some apartments won't let you burn candles or incense so wax melters are a great way to keep your place smelling like a fresh fairy forest or whatever the hell scents you like.

Don't horde your shit! You're out on your own and you make your own money now so you're gonna be buying stuff and I can tell you than some of that stuff will become irrelevant really freaking quick. Don't keep it locked up in a box somewhere just because you don't want to get rid of it. Donate that shit to someone who could actually use it.

Don't waste your money on cable. You'll be getting a lot of mail from companies trying to sell you internet and cable bundles. Don't. Just don't fucking do it. Cable just isn't worth it anymore. Get a decent internet connection that won't cost you an arm and an leg and get Netflix and/or Hulu.

Don't spend your whole paycheck. Sounds pretty obvious but when you've got that money it's real easy to be like "Oh it's just twenty bucks that's not too bad." Those twenties add up quick. Save some of your check a a cushion just in case you really need it.

On the topic of money, make yourself a damn budget. Figure out what your bills are gonna round up to each check and subtract that amount from your total. Now you know about what you got to work with.

Don't always eat out. It's real convenient to order delivery or whatever is close to you but that drains your funds like nobodies business! Cook your own food. A big ass pot of spaghetti can last several days. Don't like left overs? You may have to get over that depending on your financial situation. Leftover Mac n Cheese is better than wasting that twenty you were saving for gas to get some Taco Bell.

Don't overwork yourself. Between work, friends, family, and errands you're gonna be busy. Don't let it overwhelm you. That option overtime would look nice on your check but you've only gotten four hours of sleep the past two nights, pass it up for a few more hours of rest. You had plans to eat dinner at your mom's but gas is running low and you just really don't wanna go anywhere. Stay home and relax. You earned it.

Got insurance? Go to the damn doctor! Yes living on your own means you have to call and set up your own appointments. It's really not as scary as it seems. If you have the medical insurance to be seen at least annually by a doctor then do it. Keep yourself healthy.

Treat yourself each paycheck. I know I said don't blow your whole check but there's nothing wrong with setting aside at least twenty bucks or so each check in order to get yourself something. Go out to eat, get a new outfit, buy a movie you wanted to see, get a video game, just something that will make you happy and not break you at the same time.

And finally, take care of yourself. Adulting is stressful and can take a lot out of you. Don't be afraid to ask for help or find someone to talk to when things get to be too much.

[seilune-ffxiv]

Mimic: A stranger is caught rifling through your muse’s possessions! How do they react?

Void-Sent Asks

“Another one? That’s the third one this week.”

Seilune shot a sidelong glance towards her faithful butler, Chapsie, who was equally as bemused as her. Seeing strangers popping up on the grounds of Aubade was not a rare occurance. The woman had admirers from both near and far, and typically they were harmless in their pursuits. Most just wanted to get a mere glimpse of her as she went outside to check the mail. The others, who had much more gumption, took their swings at courting her. As admired as their efforts were, however, the men didn’t get very far.

But this was a new sight. A man inside the mansion and doing, of all things, pilfering through her dainty linens? My, how incredibly ambitious, to say the least. Normally, one would have put a stop to this long ago, seeing to it that the strange man be in quickly thrown over the towering ledges of the Goblet. But Seilune was more amused than offended, and so she let the man continued just a little while longer.

“How much longer ‘til you think he notices?” The Viera continued, flicking a pale brow inquisitively.

“I’m not sure, my Lady, but don’t you think you should—“

“Let him enjoy himself a bit longer, Chapsie. And then I’ll have my fun.”

[thelastspeecher]

The AU where Stan goes through the portal— Stan and Angie’s first holiday season without each other

I cheated a little bit.  This isn’t their first holiday season without each other, since the first holiday season would be while Angie is pregnant, and I wanted this to take place after the babs had arrived.  Also, this became REALLY long and I apologize for that, but I was struggling to find a good way for it to end, so.

              Standucked into an alleyway.  He stoodstraight against a brick wall, waiting for his pursuers to pass him.  After a few minutes, the footsteps hadsufficiently faded.  Stan slumped inrelief.

              Thank god. It’s getting tougher and tougher to lose those guys.  He rubbed his face.  I needto get outta this dimension.  Stanslid down the wall.  I need to get home.  He dugout his wallet, where he had stuffed a piece of paper with numerous tick markson it.  He unfolded the piece of paper.

              “Twenty,one hundred…” he muttered to himself.  Heleaned his head back.  “I’ve been gonefor over a year.”

              It’s already December back home.  I’m missing the holidays with my kids.  Not just any holidays.  The baby’s first ones.  And unless there’s some sorta miracle, I’llmiss the baby’s first birthday, too. Stan swallowed.  He took out oneof the other few things in his wallet, a photo of Angie and the girls fromHalloween.  Angie was wearing a queencostume, while Danny and Daisy were dressed as princesses.  He smiled. I wonder what they dressed up asthis year.  Maybe Angie got a frogcostume for the baby like she wanted to for the girls. His smile faded.  Thebaby.  He looked at the photoagain.  Without me around to be the voice of reason, she probably named itPosey.  He stroked the photo.  Posey’sprobably got Angie’s eyes.  My ears.  A snowflake drifted onto the picture.  Stan sighed.

              “MerryChristmas and happy Hanukkah, kids. Sorry I couldn’t be there.”

----- 

              Lutestrolled into the living room, bouncing Emory in his arms.

              “Theworld’s cutest lil reindeer has been changed,” he sang.  He looked over at the fireplace, where Angiewas hanging up the stockings.  “Banjey,aren’t ya goin’ to look at yer lil boy?”

              “Gimme asec,” Angie said.  She stood on hertiptoes and carefully slipped the last stocking on a nail.  “Okay.” She turned.  “Aw, my goofy lilboy,” she cooed, crossing over to Lute. “Emory, yer such a looker!”  Angiecarefully took Emory from Lute.  Shekissed the top of Emory’s head.  “Thankyou fer changin’ his clothes.”

              “Noproblem.  I’m happy to put him into thecute outfit Ma ‘n Pa sent.”  Lute lookedaround.  “Is Emmett in the playpen?”

              “Yep.  The fussiest snowman to ever exist is playin’with his teddy,” Angie said, continuing to nuzzle Emory.  Lute walked to the playpen.  Sure enough, Emmett was sitting in there inhis snowman onesie, excitedly tugging on a teddy bear.

              “Hereally likes that stuffed animal,” Lute remarked.  “Where’d ya get it from, again?”  Angie took a while to answer.

              “When thegirls were born, Stan’s mom sent us his old teddy bear,” she said quietly.  “Danny ‘n Daisy weren’t too fond of it, butwe held onto it anyways.  Turns out itwas the right thing to do, since it’s Emmett’s fav’rite thing.”

              “…Oh.”  Lute cleared his throat.  “Well, uh, Ford ‘n Fidds ‘ll be here soon to helplight the menorah.  Did ya…”  He caught sight of the menorah resting on thefireplace mantle.  “Oh, good.  Ya did put it out.”

              “We’llmove it before we light it, but I set it there while I was hangin’ thestockings.”

              “Why’d yahang the stockings so early?” Lute asked. “It’s not even the Advent yet.”

              “Lastyear when ya took down the decorations, ya packed the menorah with thestockings.”  Angie shrugged.  “Figured I might as well put ‘em up.”

              “Makessense.”  Lute eyed the stockings.  Each one had an embroidered name on it.  “I don’t have one up.”

              “Ma ‘n Pasaid they’ll send yours in the mail, since it looks like you’ll be stayin’ hereto help with the kidlets fer longer than we first thought.”

              “Good.”  Lute’s gaze landed on the stocking hung nextto Angie’s.  He sighed.  “Angie…”

              “What?”Angie asked.  She joined Lute by theplaypen.

              “Stan’snot here.”

              “I know,”Angie said shortly.  She set Emory in theplaypen.  Emory immediately crawled overto a set of plastic toy keys, grabbed it, and began to chew on it.

              “Why’d yaput up his stocking, then?” Lute asked. Angie’s face hardened.

              “I puthis stocking up last year, too.  Yadidn’t say anything back then.”

              “You werea wreck.  Even sayin’ Stan’s name made yaspiral.  I didn’t have the heart to bringit up.”  Lute rested a hand on Angie’sback.  “Yer in a better place now.”

              “I won’ttake it down,” Angie said.  Her handsgripped tightly on the fence of the playpen. “Ma made him that stocking the first Christmas after he moved toGumption.  I’ve put it up every yearsince.  I ain’t liable to change that anytime soon.”

              “He’s nothere.  There’s no reason to-”

              “No.  If I take down his stocking, thatmeans-”  Angie’s lips quivered.  She set her jaw firmly.  “That means I’m movin’ on, abandonin’ thepossibility of his return.  And he will come back.”

              “Banjey,I don’t think that-”

              “Drop it,Lute,” Angie snapped.  She glared athim.  “I mean it.  I’m not takin’ the stocking down.”

              “Fine,”Lute mumbled.  He looked down at Emory andEmmett in the playpen.  “I’ll drop it.”  The front door opened.

              “Mama!”two voices shouted.  Angie’s frustratedexpression was wiped away.  She turnedand beamed at her twin daughters rushing to her.

              “Howdythere, my babies,” she crooned, crouching down. Danny and Daisy embraced her. “Did ya have a good time at yer uncles’ house?”

              “Yeah!”Danny enthused.

              “UncleFord tried to make latkes and burned everything,”Daisy said with relish.  Lute looked overat Ford, who, with Fiddleford and Tate, had entered the living room behindDanny and Daisy.

              “Thattrue, Stanford?” he asked, amused.  Fordturned pink.

              “I don’tknow where I went wrong.  I made themsuccessfully last year,” Ford said.

              “We havedif’rent definitions of the word ‘successful’,” Lute said.

              “Angieate them!” Ford protested.

              “Angiealso ate a country-fried steak last December,” Fiddleford pointed out.  “The food she hates most in the world.  Ya can’t judge a food based on whether or notsomeone who’s pregnant would eat it.”

              “Youdon’t like country-fried steak?” Ford asked Angie.  Angie stood and shook her head.  “And you didn’t like my latkes, either?”

              “Honestly,Stanford, the best that could be said about yer latkes last year was that theywere edible,” Angie said.  Forddeflated.  “What if I help ya out?  Did ya bring the recipe with ya?”

              “Uh,yes.  I did.”  Ford beamed. He held up the bag he was carrying. “I also brought dreidels and gelt. The girls are old enough now that I think they can learn the rules.”

              “Thatsounds like fun,” Lute said.  He smiledat Angie.  “Don’t that sound fun?  We can all learn how to play withdreidels.”  Angie crossed her arms.

              “Don’ttake that condescending tone with me,” she hissed.

              “Somethin’wrong?” Fiddleford asked.

              “No,just- Lute and I had a lil bit of a tiff ‘fore y’all showed up.  That’s all.”

              “Overwhat?” Ford asked.

              “Thestockings,” Lute said.  He rubbed theback of his neck.  “We- we had adisagreement over whether all of ‘em should get put up.”

              “What doyou-” Ford started.  He looked over atthe fireplace.  His face fell.  “Oh.”

              “I thinkwe should revisit the stockings at a later time,” Lute said.  Angie stormed out of the living room.  Lute sighed. “I’ll go talk to her.”

              “No, I’lldo it,” Fiddleford said, starting to go after Angie.  Ford shook his head.

              “Let me.”

              “You?” Lutesaid.  He crossed his arms, scowling.  “I think you’ve done enough to Angie.”

              “What’sthat mean, Unclute?” Daisy piped up. Lute looked down at his niece like he’d just now realized she was stillthere.

              “Uh,nothin’, sugar cube.”

              “What didUncle Ford do to Mama?” Danny asked. Lute ran a hand through his hair.

              “Oh, geez,”Lute mumbled.  While Lute fumbled throughan answer for Danny and Daisy, Ford headed into the kitchen.  Angie stood in front of the sink, her handsgripping the counter so tightly her knuckles were white.  Her shoulders shook.  Ford took a nervous step back.

              “What isit, Stanford?” Angie choked out.  Hervoice was thick with tears.  Ford clearedhis throat.

              “Ithought I’d offer comfort, but I’m beginning to think that I might not be theone best suited for that.  I’ll getFiddleford.”

              “No.”  Angie let go of the counter.  “No, it’s fine.  I’m fine. I just-”  She rubbed her eyes.  “It’s the most stupid thing fer me to blow mytop over, but I can’t let it go.”

              “What is?”

              “Thestockings.  Normally they wouldn’t evenbe up this early.  Lute just packed theboxes wrong last year, and stuck ‘em in with the menorah.  It would be so, so easy to just take downStan’s stocking.”  Angie’s headdrooped.  “But I can’t.”

              “I’mgoing to bring him back, you know,” Ford said softly.  Angie nodded.

              “I know.”

              “You don’thave to worry about the symbolism of the stockings.  Stan will be back soon enough to put help putthem up again.”

              “It’s theonly thing I can do, Stanford!” Angie said fiercely, slamming a fist down onthe counter.  Ford took another stepback.  “I can’t help with the portal, ‘causeyou and Fidds refuse to allow me down there. I had to take a sabbatical from my research fer my mental health.  I can’t even take care of my children alone.”

              “What doyou mean, it’s the only thing you can do?” Ford asked.

              “It’sstupid.”

              “I’veknown you for years.  You’re many things,but stupid is not one of them.”  Ford steppedcloser.  “Explain.”

              “If Imove on, if I take down the stocking, put away his clothes, he won’t come back,”Angie whispered.  “He needs a beacon tobring him home, and severing my ties to him will just ensure he never finds usagain.”  She shook her head.  “It’s stupid. He wasn’t here when the boys were born. There’s nothin’ I could do that could bring him back, if that didn’t.”

              “All Ihave to say about Stan not being there when the boys were born is that I knowhe wanted to be,” Ford said after a moment. “But that thing about a beacon…” He dug his journal out of his coat. Angie sighed.  “I believe Stan tobe hopping from dimension to dimension, on his journey.  Where he arrives is random, each time.  But his destination could be swayed byoutside forces.”  Angie eyed him.

              “…Go on.”

              “Stan’smolecules will want to return to their home dimension.  That’s why he hasn’t stayed in one spot.  Every fiber of his being is being drawn tothis reality.  He won’t be content to stayin one place until he returns.  But hismolecules aren’t certain of how to return.” Ford flipped his journal open to a specific page and handed it toAngie.  She took it from him cautiously.  “Your fondness for Stan could serve as a beacon,indicating to his molecules that this is where he is from.”

              “Stanford,how would my love fer Stan be a beacon?” Angie asked flatly.  She handed his journal back.  “Yer tellin’ me empty platitudes in anattempt to cheer me up.”

              “Strangerthings have happened,” Ford said.  “You’vebeen there for some of them.”  Angieshrugged.  “And if I know one thing aboutStan, it’s that he’d do anything for his family.  I wouldn’t be surprised if the mere presenceof his family in this dimension is what guides him home.”  Angie managed a small smile.

              “That’strue.  Stan would move heaven and earth ferhis fam’ly.”  She cocked her head.  “Hang on, you did the opposite of what Iexpected.”

              “What doyou mean?”

              “Iexpected to be talked into takin’ the stocking down.  All you’ve done is convince me it needs tostay up.”

              “Whywould I convince you to do something I wouldn’t do myself?” Ford asked.  Angie chuckled.  “So, how would you feel about attempting mymother’s latke recipe with me?”  Angiefinally grinned.

              “I’d loveto, if it means you’ll keep tellin’ me I’m right.”

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The CRA passed in the Senate, there’s still the matter of the House of Representatives

If I have offered up any misinformation, I apologize in advance.

WEDNESDAY, May 16, 2018, the Congressional Review Act passed through United States Senate in what Fight for the Future.org is calling a “historic” 52-47 vote.  According to The Hill, “Three Republicans — Sens. Susan Collins (Maine), Lisa Murkowski (Alaska) and John Kennedy (La.) — joined the 49 Senate Democrats to pass the bill 52-47.”  Sometimes Public Shaming works, y’all.

The Image above shows who voted to pass the CRA and who voted against it. With the help of the public voice and various media websites making a ruckus about it. The initial hurdle that the FCC hoped to pass in their mission to Repeal Net Neutrality was not a successful one.

HOWEVER, there is still the matter of the House of Representatives, a far more difficult hurtle. The issue of the CRA, as I understand it being told, can be blocked entirely by the House by simply ignoring it, or enforcing a rule that can prevent any kind of legislation from passing through House period. In addition, there’s Trump and the power to veto. But it’s not hopeless.

According to Battle for the Net’s scoreboard, 161 representatives in House are in support Net Neutrality. A total of 57 VOTES in the House of Representatives is all that’s needed to make sure the FCC’s continued push to repeal Net Neutrality is halted (for the time being). That’s 218 votes.

According to Gizmodo:

“[...]While the Senate had only 60 legislative days to discharge the resolution from committee and force a vote, the House will have until the end of the 115th Congress, on January 3, 2019, to pass it. It’s entirely possible, ergo, that we won’t see any movement on the CRA front for months”.

Here’s the official schedule and floor summary for the House of Representatives. Back in December 2017, the bill “H.R.4585″ was introduced by New York Democrat Sean Patrick Maloney. It has presumably not progressed further, but Maloney is still championing it and asking that the public support it.

The political body that is meant to represent us knows that how they decide on this matter will have an affect their turn out for their next political campaign (here is a list of people not to reelect for example). 

If the procedure with House is the same with the Senate, then, when contacting the representative of your state within the House of Representatives, let them know that Net Neutrality not only continues to matter to you, but will definitely effect their futures as well.

Be polite about it of course, and most of all, be persistent. tweet, call, hand-write, and e-mail your representatives. Meet them in person if you’ve got the kind of gumption and wherewithal for public speaking. Make others aware of this issue as well, and tell them to pass along the information to others (unaware or misinformed) as well.

Keep the momentum going through word of mouth and hope that major websites and companies that put on display their support of Net Neutrality on May 9th, 2018, will continue to do the same for their consumers. Don’t get slack because we may or may not hear anything right away. Keeping this within immediate or close recall is important.

If applying pressure and making others remotely aware of what’s happening around them is all that we can do, then we can make sure the GOP, FCC, and Ajit Pai’s misinformation campaign doesn’t get any further than it has.

@ineeddiversegames @blackfangirlsunite @disneyforprincesses

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Various responses

Don noted:

“In a recent post, Don noted that: “I don’t have any hope whatsoever, that that petition is going to have any effect at all, on how Mrs. Moon runs her organization.” Honestly, that is not what I have in mind…What I am looking for is to awaken members to the failure of leadership to exercise proper stewardship over those assets…I was asked to serve as a front person in an accountability effort…“

(http://whatisonthemoon.tumblr.com/post/181503904803/realistic-expecations-regarding-the-petittion)

I’m a little confused. I took excerpts out of the post cited above…but if you read the entire post, there’s no name at the bottom. So I guess I’d like to know who submitted the post first, before commenting on it.

Sorry, this is a mistake I continue to make because I am used to signing my name at the beginning of an article, not the end.  (Which we have to do when we submit a post)  I wish this site would identify the poster when they put their name to a submission, so that submission does not have to be signed again.  Anyway, this is Robert Maynard.

I dug up the videos of Hak Ja Han's deposition, started a Go Fund Me site to purchase them and posted on Youtube in the name of transparency.  That cause all site a still from FF headquarters and they wanted these videos sealed from the public.  About the same time, a group of members were toying with the idea of an unofficial accountability committee.  One of them got in touch with someone who knew me and asked if we could talk.  I was introduced to the notion of an actual committee and told the a number of members were interested in such an effort, but very few wanted their name to b publicly out there representing that effort.  Since I had already taken a very public stand on accountability, I was asked to save as a visible voice for the effort, which was inspired by the Jonathan Park report.  The idea was to hold leaders accountable for the stewardship  over UM assets.  I was brief about the petition and agreed to it, but wanted to go a step further and propose alternative projects for members to support.  

Basically, I really do not think that we will change the leadership and am more interested in awakening the average member.  As Frank just noted:

I think the “remnants” are psychologically ready to take ownership of the movement without the Moon family. They will get a lot of support from the ex-member community whose numbers far exceed the remaining members. 

The numbers that Frank mentions is really where my hope lies.  I can tell you that some second generation members read sites like this and agree with a lot of it, but are looking for a positive alternative, rather than merely repeating critiques.

Again, Frank puts his finger on what I see the accountability effort as potentially accomplishing:

In my own local, I’ve noticed that there hasn’t been an acting Pastor for quite some time. True Democracy has to spring from the grassroots level but usually it only happens when provoked. Should the local churches wait for a change at the top or can they take initiative to elect their own leadership and take control of local church assets?

I vote for the latter, and I think that the accountability effort will get support from the grassroots, but be ignored by the leaders.  That will be the instigation we need, in addition to mobilizing inactive members.  As for our teaching:

Will they have to define their own beliefs in a legal deposition like Mrs. Moon or have they the gumption to clarify it for themselves? Totalitarian organizations thrive by reducing individual rights and freedoms through coercion, but there is enough language within the Unification platform to redefine the relationship.

This is something I have been wrestling with ever since I got out of UTS in 1989.  As it is currently presented, in my opinion, the DP supports totalitarianism.  If it wasn't the Moons running the show, it would be other family.  Frank once asked me in a private e-mail what would stop a reformed UM from becoming another cult.  While there is not perfect guarantee, I think that reforming the DP and focusing on the Purpose of Creation could go a long ay toward fixing things.  The Fall and Restoration part is a mess and needs cleaning up.  The physical blood lineage as the means by which we are either tied to God to Satan, has to be scrapped, interpreted symbolically.  Likewise, we need to can the nonsensical idea that the path of restoration is the reverse of the path of restoration.  Restoration is "re-cration" and should follow the same path, with the understanding that there will be added difficulty due to missing the mark the first time.  

The Bible is filled with very profound archetypical stories that provide a lot of insight into the human condition if we can look beyond the literal surface meaning.  Our presentation of the DP should explore this potential.

Finally, Domino noted that:

I don’t think like Robert Maynard ( answering to Frank F) that you can differentiate the movement, it’s views and Moon.

I think it’s the same package all along, even if Moon may have borrowed other’s ideas to make them his own. But eventually Moon and the whole system of beliefs were intertwined, including the “Korean centered” view of history, status and Kingdom of God.

Yes and no.  Yes, that is how it starts out, but there is no reason why it needs to stay that way.  Look at the example of the "Church of England."  It was started by King Henry VIII and had a very "British Centered" view of a lot of things.  Today, it is more prominent in places like Africa.  Modern Anglican Church members acknowledge their Church's origins, but do not se those origins as authoritative in deciding their religious identity today.  I see no reason why we cannot do the same thing.

[ct-multifandom]

Could it be, then, that Rei is the original Sou Hiyori? And I don’t mean Midori, I mean the human one before he turned himself into an immortal doll. Shin wouldn’t “recognize” him because he’d totally forget he even existed. Midori was allegedly supposed to be a participant along with the rest of them from the beginning until Alice “killed” him. At least, that’s the explanation we got, but the Alice thing was a setup. It could be that participant #13 is the guy on the bed in Miley’s office, who is Rei. Rei says he created the island, meaning he worked for Asunaro. Maybe he even started the AI initiative it’s built on. He could be a villainous character who was mind-wiped into being alright, like Meister, or he could be another Hayasaka who helped set things up and ended up getting put in the game himself.

It’s possible for Midori to be memo man if we assume he’s been rebuilding his body for a very long time, which is kind of implied. The problem is that memo man and Meister seem to be the same guy, which makes sense. MM supposedly won the Hades Incident which has control over the mafia as its prize, and Meister is in charge of the game if not Asunaro as a whole.

Mr. Chidouin appears dressed as Meister, but in his e-mails, he sounds like he works underneath other people. He could’ve been lying, but he’s too young to have been around that long, unless he also does the doll thing. Meister is depicted as having white hair, after all. And I feel like the motivations of doll Midori don’t match up with Meister’s. Plus, his reaction to being given that name at the start of ch3 implies that he’s also a subordinate under him.

Another thing is that YTTS is very low-spoiler for the main game, and we’re only two big updates in. If YTTD decided to, for example, make Megumi, Kugie, and real Hinako important on screen with more development, then I’d expect them to be worked into the game. Even Alice still goes by Gonbee Yamada.

I do think Touko and Jin have some significance, though. If Sara and Nao can show up as older versions of themselves, then the ages of the other two don’t have to match up perfectly with the memo. To me, Kai’s comment about Touko was that her determination and gumption reminded him of Sara, not that she physically looks like her or something. Sara’s mom is blonde as well, though, and we haven’t gotten content of her since the beginning when she was KO’d on the floor.

What’s the (in universe) point of Your Turn to Shine?

(Spoiler warning)

When Mishima’s story first came out, people immediately started theorizing about the island, the endings, Jin, Touko, and Rei, but with the addition of the Kai ending, we have a fraction of an answer and way more questions.

When the side game dropped, the biggest question was, “what’s the point of the simulation?” The Sara scene shocked people, wondering what she’s doing and at what point in time.

Allegedly? YTTS is supposed to be able to stand independently from YTTD, but I can’t believe there’s no overlap in new information.

When the protagonist (Mishima or Kai as of today) escapes, she tells a mystery person to delete the simulation and to start it again “as many times as it takes”. As many times as it takes to do what?

Previously, this was the only decent outcome to the game, but now we have two “good” endings where this scene doesn’t show up.

When Kai decided to stay on the island and be a chef, or when Mishima decides to stay and be a teacher, Sara doesn’t shut things down or interrupt at all. Does this mean that these are the results she’s looking for?

I saw someone in the YouTube comments say that Asunaro’s motto is about becoming who you want to be. I totally forgot since it’s been a while since I played the whole game. I would imagine that being an inspirational teacher is Mishima’s ideal lifestyle and being a respected head chef at a restaurant is Kai’s.

When they return to their normal lives, the simulation failed, but when they put their dreams first and grow into their fantasy, it’s a success?

In the endings which I assume are acceptable to “Sara?”, the PC meets the person they care about most. They look fantastic older to me. Sara is just herself with her hair down, maybe a bit longer, and non-uniform clothes, but Nao’s bangs and most of her hair texture are totally different, not to mention the clothes. She has an overall more mature vibe. Plus, she says she’s not in college anymore and is instead entering the workforce as a teacher.

But if Nao dies at the age of 19, how does Asunaro and/or Sara? know what she looks like past that age? Are they using AI to age her up? That’s very possible. I’d think that future endings will have different characters show up at the end e.g. Reko for Alice, but as of right now, it could be that YTTS takes place after the massacre ending and that the mystery person talking to Sara? is Nao.

Anyways, why does Sara? want the people to achieve development and pursue their dreams? Does she want to resurrect her dead friends as dolls? Is this her rebellion against Asunaro; forcing the participants to become happy, successful individuals instead of turning them into hardened killers? I believe Sara? is some sort of post-ending survivor version of herself.

Popular idea, but I think Jin, Touko, and Rei are participants of the Hades Incident, Touko being memorandum girl, Jin being the man whose views most align with hers, and Rei being the memorandum man. So he’s Meister, I guess. The man who created the simulation world. Mr. Rei Chidouin? Since he dies in every simulation, did Sara? rig the game against him?

There’s not a lot to go off of yet, and unless we’ll keep getting new routes within character stories, we won’t get much. When will these questions be answered? After the regular YTTD game ends? After you complete all the PC stories? It seems like all PCs learn the same info in their routes, so any conclusive ending can’t just be a normal route unless maybe it’s Sara’s or something because she might read the diary and recognize Rei’s name despite the memory erasure. Kai didn’t, but maybe he never knew it?

What do you guys think?

[bamboola]

You Really Can Make 1,000,000 on the web

The key to successful marketing on the internet is to drive traffic to your website. Having a website that just sits un-promoted in cyberspace is not only a waste of time but also highly frustrating.

I have been intrigued by the idea of internet marketing for years, but it has taken me a long time to overcome all the gumption traps involved in actually getting started (the biggest one being that I am a cyber-dinosaur — my only real experience using computers for anything other than glorified type-writing involved Fortran IV and IBM punch cards almost thirty years ago).

What I have learned is that the internet marketing process can be relatively simple. You have to find a market, develop a product, and build a website to promote your product and process transactions. But, all of your efforts will be useless if nobody visits your website.

I have been studying a course that discusses the problem of driving traffic to your site in great detail. There are at least six ways to increase the number of visitors to your site, including word of mouth from one web user to the next (you are reading this letter, aren’t you?), buying targeted hits to your site using paid keyword advertising on search engines such as Google, sending advertising e-mails to your proprietary list of prospects which you generate by signing up previous visitors to your site, exchanging links for your website with other websites that have similar products to your own, paying someone else with a proprietary e-mail list to send sales letters for you (you can pay for this with a flat fee upfront or in the form of commissions that result from the e-mails they send), and paying fees or commissions to other websites for putting your banners, ads, or links on their pages. By using these techniques you will increase the number of visitors to your site, which is almost guaranteed to increase your sales.

In addition to pointers on increasing website traffic, the course I am studying includes incredible amounts of information about many other topics. It is a free course (amazing, but true!) which covers every aspect of marketing on the internet. It covers material from the very basic to the very complex, including the nuts and bolts of building a website, the basic ideas behind the concept of selling on the web, and strategies for finding the right niche for marketing specific products. It is a tremendous resource for the beginning marketer and is full of not well-known tips for even the most experienced internet marketing experts.

You can visit this link to know more about this free course https://l-ink.me/F83bZ

[humanityinahandbag]

DWD Head Canon: Drake Mallard is an absolute SMUSH when it comes to his daughters baby pictures

@miilkydayz AS YOU KNOW I am convinced that Gosalyn is little more than a Huffy Puffy gosling with soft feet and downy fuzz. And I have to then assume that when she was a baby, she was fucking fluffy as all get out. Just a little, sickly, soft footed dust bunny. 

I understand that the grandfather died (or most likely died, but that’s another AU for another, sadder time) so that means that all the items that were left at his house that technically belong to Gosalyn have to be mailed somewhere. 

They’d be mailed to the Mallard home. 

She tries to stop him from opening it. She really does. But he has to. It’s addressed to him and the curiosity was too great and...

and....

and oh my god... 

Her baby pictures, still in their frames, and still dusty from their spaces on the walls. He’s holding her baby pictures. HE’S NEVER SEEN HER FUCKING BABY PICTURES. 

HIS LITTLE GIRL

RIGHT THERE

IN FRONT OF HIM

AS A BABY

AND SHE’S SO CUTE

But then... then, when he rummages towards the bottom, he finds even more and oh boy... oh fucking boy... his world changes. Forever. 

An old VCR with her entire hatching video on it. 

She was a premature baby. Hatched an entire two weeks before she was even supposed to be out. Which... makes some sense. His little Huffy Puffy Gosalyn at nine years old still has the immune system of a flea, weak lungs for days, and soft feet and downy feathers to boot. She’s a fragile, sickly thing with enough spirit and gumption to keep her strong. 

At the same time, though

That VCR. 

He must watch it at least twenty three times before she nearly destroys the television. The way she’d hatched out with such a pitiful little noise. The way the doctors had closely monitored and waved to the shaky camera work, telling the person holding the bulky camera that if she didn’t get out on her own, they’d have to help her. But there she was, a few hours later, all tiny and fluffy. Scooped up fast and put into an incubator with a little monkey stuffed animal (which he finds later on the bottom of the box) clutched between her tiny fists. 

“Dad, oh my god,” she’ll complain, pulling at her pigtails, “it’s over, and I’m right here. Do you have ta’ make such a big deal about it!?”

“Yes. You’re my baby.”

“I’m someone else's baby in that video!”

He ignores the snip and kisses the top of her head instead. “Nope,” he says, popping the ‘p’. “Mine.” Then he rewinds the tape. It’ll make it easier when he watches it again from the beginning. 

That day, every baby picture goes up in their house. 

[sleepykittypaws]

Klaus

Original Airdate: November 15, 2019 (Netflix) Where to Watch?: It’s a Netflix original, so it should be available on the service forever

This gorgeously-animated Santa origin tale is a joy from start to finish. The Scandinavian-set story of a dilettante heir who goes into the family business, which happens to be postal work, and is assigned to the most remote, inhospitable location in the district, as patriarchal punishment for his greed and laziness.

Once there, he finds an almost unlivable town mired in, and obsessed by, a centuries old feud, making his task of getting these uneducated bozos—the town teacher has turned the school into a fish market to survive, since no one will let their kids learn with those of the enemy—to send letters near impossible.

But, in a fit of gumption, the postman decides to give the gig his best effort, almost convincing one child to mail his picture, but all his exertions seem to be for naught, until he finds just one more distant house, inhibited by a recluse named Mr. Klaus, to try.

There, he’s greeted with the same sort of anger that he’s met everywhere else, and he feels like he narrowly escapes with his life, but not before seeing a huge cache of toys and accidently leaving behind that young boy’s drawing.

As the postman is finally ready to call it quits and flee town, Mr. Klaus stops him with the sad drawing, wanting to share one of the toys he’s made with the boy in the picture. The harrowing delivery spurs friendship, and tall tales, amongst the town’s children and gives the postman and idea for who kids might want to send letters to.

From that one good deed, a torrent of niceness emerges that infects the town from the youngest up. Though not everyone is excited about the mending (literal and figurative) of fences amongst the populous, and are determined to put an end to Mr. Klaus’ legend before it can begin.

The way the bits of the Santa story come together organically, and the redemption of almost everyone, is just extremely well done, and a delight to watch, with a great Christmas Eve resolution, and an interesting (and unexpected) ending.

This one is destined to be a classic and will certainly be enjoyed by the whole family. Not only my favorite of the season, but an instant add to my all-time favorite Christmas movie list. Loved it!

Final Judgement: 4 Paws Way, Way Up

[fitnesshealthyoga-blog]

New Post has been published on https://fitnesshealthyoga.com/where-is-the-outrage-for-us/

"Where is the outrage for us?"

MARLBOROUGH, Mass. (AP) — The moms meet in a parking lot overlooking the little white funeral home and watch the mourners drifting toward the chapel doors — a familiar scene, beginning again.

Cheryl Juaire taps nervously on her steering wheel.

“Are we ready?” she asks the two other mothers leaning into the window of her SUV.

The wake starting inside is for a stranger, another young man consumed by the great American plague. These women drove nearly two hours to shepherd his mother into their club, its thousands of members all bound by the same hell: They are parents of the dead from addiction, tasked with the unnatural act of burying their children at a rate unprecedented in modern American history.

“I’m going to stay in the car,” one mother says. “I just can’t go in.”

“I get it,” Cheryl assures her.

Cheryl, the leader of this unhappy welcoming committee, fishes a sympathy card out of her purse. She bought some in bulk not long ago and was stunned to find this was the last one left.

Each card equals another set of parents, their lives clawed apart by the opioid epidemic. Many are broke from paying for treatment or raising their grandchildren at retirement age. Some have been diagnosed with post-traumatic stress disorder.

The chaos of addiction consumed their lives. Then the chaos ended with a funeral, and the quiet proved far worse.

Cheryl reads newspapers hunting for obituaries and searches social media for the newly bereaved, to invite them into the fold. You are not alone in guilt and grief and regret and rage, she needs them all to know. It has become her own kind of addiction, a habit to quiet the demons.

Her son, Corey Merrill, overdosed on heroin at 23 years old in 2011, just as the crisis was turning into catastrophe. She had thought using drugs was a failure of morality and gumption. Back then much of America thought the same — that addiction was merely a bad choice.

So, no, she had told Corey, he couldn’t stay with her because she hadn’t raised him that way, and he’d slept instead on a park bench.

Then he died alone, and she slowly arrived at the sickening realization that addiction is a disease she hadn’t understood, and because she hadn’t understood it, she couldn’t save him. She didn’t even know he needed saving.

Now this is her penance: wake after wake, mother after mother, trying to spare them the solitary torment that almost killed her.

Cheryl straightens the gold cross around her neck, smooths her bob, freshly dyed chestnut brown to hide hints of gray, and climbs out of the car.

“That mom gave birth to that child,” she says. “When those doors close today, and they put her son in the ground, it’s not the end for her. It’s just the beginning.”

___

Earlier in the week, four bereaved mothers who make up the board of Cheryl’s nonprofit met poolside at one of their homes on a suburban cul-de-sac in Wrentham. A white sign was staked out front in the grass, with #2069 printed in black. That’s the number of people opioids killed in Massachusetts in just one year, one state’s slice of the more than 400,000 who have died in the U.S. since the epidemic began in 1999.

Overdoses now kill more each year than guns or breast cancer or AIDS at its peak. They kill more than the entire Vietnam War. They kill nearly 200 people a day on average, the equivalent of a 9/11 every few weeks. “One analogy that can sometimes get people’s attention is that it’s like an airplane full of commuters crashing every single day,” one mother offered as the group struggled to somehow depict the magnitude of their mission.

And yet it feels to these mothers that the world is getting tired of hearing about all their dead kids.

They led a campaign of thousands across America to send President Donald Trump photos of their children, all mailed last Feb. 10 to reach him by Valentine’s Day. They expected the president to say, or tweet, that he heard them and would do something. They expected media coverage from coast to coast — that people would look into their children’s eyes and be so enraged they’d march in the streets.

But there were no marches for them. That Valentine’s Day, 17 people were gunned down at Marjory Stoneman Douglas High School in Florida, consuming political and public attention. Cheryl grieves for the parents who lost a child there. But she did the math, and that many people will die from drugs by the time this three-hour board meeting concludes.

“Where is the outrage for us?” she asks. “Our kids are still dying, and the only thing I can do is try to pick up the pieces for the moms once they do.”

Her organization’s official name is “Team Sharing.” But she usually just says: “My Moms.”

When she started this group on Facebook three years ago there were only seven members, all mothers near her home in Marlborough, Massachusetts. Then another parent joined and another, as overdoses became the leading cause of death for young Americans, dragging down the nation’s overall life expectancy three years in a row for the first time in a century.

Now Cheryl, 60, begins each day at dawn in her recliner, before her part-time job as a receptionist at a church, studying a 25-page document, single-spaced, that lists the hundreds of Team Sharing members and details about their children. Some on her list have lost two children to drugs. One lost three. One lost four.

On a recent Sunday afternoon, Cheryl got a call from a mother who had already buried one addicted son, and she was screaming, incomprehensible. Cheryl sped to her house to find that her second son had overdosed in a bedroom upstairs. The paramedics were still there, and Cheryl held this mother as they carried his body out into the coroner’s truck.

Many parents of the dead try to channel their grief into change. The nation knows how to fix this, they insist; all that’s missing is the will. “Let the junkies die,” they’ve heard people say, even though the American Medical Association, the American Society of Addiction Medicine and the surgeon general all define addiction as a chronic brain disease that is, like some cancers and diabetes, fueled by a mix of genetics, behaviors and environment. The surgeon general notes that unlike those with cancer or diabetes, only about 10 percent of those with addiction get effective treatment.

This coalition of mothers believes the epidemic is unfolding much like AIDS did, with a society indifferent toward people believed to have brought their deaths upon themselves. That disease killed unabated by the thousands until masses started protesting.

So these parents testify before Congress, tell their stories in school gymnasiums and cry on local television news. They proselytize at rallies, warning that any family could be next, and see crowds filled with people who’ve already learned that the hard way. Cheryl led a picket outside Purdue Pharma, whose mass marketing of the powerful painkiller OxyContin helped unleash the crisis.

“What more do we have to do?” she wonders.

Cheryl doesn’t like to talk about politics. Both Republicans and Democrats have failed to stop this, she says. She voted for Trump, who declared a public health emergency in 2017, and remains hopeful that he’ll keep his promise to end the scourge.

Last year, Congress passed a legislative package designed to combat the crisis and appropriated $8.5 billion, a figure experts say is a welcome step but far short of the sustained funding required to build the necessary treatment infrastructure. During the AIDS crisis, the federal government increased funding by tens of billions, says Keith Humphreys, a Stanford University professor and drug policy expert. “The opioid epidemic is as serious as that one and will require similar resources.”

It overwhelms Cheryl to think of all the things the nation needs to do to solve this, and so she tries to focus on what she knows.

She knows parents with no money left to bury their children; the ashes sit in cardboard boxes. So the first agenda item at her board meeting this week is to decide how much to donate for headstones and urns. Her board members grimace.

There’s Cindy Wyman, who used to knock on drug dealers’ doors carrying a picture of her daughter. And Lynn Wencus, whose son emptied her bank account and pawned her wedding ring and still she borrowed against her 401(k) to pay for treatment. She once drove him to buy heroin because he was desperate to get into a detox facility that would only take patients with drugs in their system. She sat next to him as he shot up, holding overdose reversal medication and weeping.

“That’s what we were willing to do to save our kids,” Lynn says. “And even at that, it wasn’t enough.”

They dreaded the phone call for years. For Cheryl, it came in the middle of the night, from her oldest son, Bobby, a police officer.

“Mom, Corey’s dead,” he said. Cheryl felt her knees buckle.

That call is her marker in time: There was her normal life before it and her life now, which includes an unwanted expertise in burying young Americans.

Maybe, she suggests to the board, they should give parents $500 to help bury their first child and $1,000 for their second?

Lynn rubs her temples and groans. “Second child,” she repeats. “Oh God.”

“I know,” Cheryl says. And then, before she could stop it, her mind wandered down into the basement of a funeral home and she was shopping for caskets seven years ago. On that worst day of her life, her oldest son, the officer, collapsed weeping. Her middle son, Sean, was still addicted to the “happy pills” Corey had introduced him to. And Cheryl felt helpless to fix any of it.

She had stood at her son’s wake, shaking hands, smiling awkwardly — unaware that the fog would lift and the reality would crush her until she wished she would die, too.

__

When Corey was born, Cheryl had pulled his bassinet next to her bed and slept with her hand on his back, counting his heartbeats. She’d had her first two sons young, but Corey was planned. She always feared she would lose him.

“I just felt life was never going to be good for me,” she says. “And then something so good came along.”

Corey’s father left when the boy was 5, and for a few years it was just Cheryl and her sons. Corey slept in her bed every night. Four years later, she met Peter Juaire, a firefighter, and was smitten.

With a new husband there were new rules to follow; Corey was a jokester, always playing pranks, and didn’t like rules. He had been a Boy Scout and Little Leaguer, then he dropped out of high school and it all spiraled quickly. Cheryl saw him for the first time in shackles when he was arrested on a drug charge at 18. “That’s my baby,” she wailed, and the guards had to hold her up. Then he was in and out of detoxes and jails and called her sometimes to say he had nowhere to go.

Peter, a recovering alcoholic who got sober 31 years ago, thought Corey had to hit bottom, so Cheryl told Corey he couldn’t stay with them. Now when she envisions her son sometimes, he’s sleeping on a bench.

“Do you ever regret it?” she asked her husband once. No, he responded. Not that part. But he had made other mistakes long before, when Corey was young, and they didn’t get along.

Corey eventually went to rehab and moved into a sober living house, and Cheryl thought the nightmare was behind them — until the call came.

At first, she found herself going to the cemetery alone to lie down on his grave. She liked to imagine his bones and worried she was going insane.

She constructed a shrine by her front door, with piles of things she found and thought Corey had sent as signs: feathers, flowers, quarters.

She obsessed over whether he’d died believing he disappointed her and prayed he might come to her in a dream. He did once; she was washing dishes and turned from the sink and there he was, smiling, his baby daughter on his hip. Then “poof, he was gone,” and she feared that her sadness scared him away.

She wasn’t suicidal, exactly; she just didn’t want to live. She started drinking. She walked out onto the porch drunk one night and looked up at the stars and was overcome with guilt for seeing such beauty when her son would never see another sky. She collapsed to the ground and laid there begging God to kill her, until her husband came out, picked her up and put her in bed.

“I was watching her go away from me,” remembers Peter. “The road she was going on, I didn’t see us lasting.”

She heard from friends less and less until she stopped hearing from them at all. Years passed in isolation, until an invitation arrived to a dinner party with seven mothers whose children all died from overdoses. They sat talking for hours and confessed: They had felt compelled to sleep on their children’s graves, collected feathers they thought were sent from heaven, and begged God to kill them, too.

Cheryl went home that night and soon started her group.

“You’re not insane,” the moms tell each other.

Some tattoo their children’s ashes into their flesh. Some see mediums to try to connect with them. They share pictures of the sky and swear they see their children’s faces in the clouds.

Many worry people will forget their children or prefer to pretend they never existed, so Cheryl begins each morning acknowledging the parents whose kids were born that day, and the ones who died on it. She feels their rhythms: The first year is numbness, the second pure hell. She can tell which moms have been drinking, which have stopped leaving the house. “She’s a hard one,” she’ll say, making a mental note to keep a close watch.

She does this from the moment she wakes up until she falls asleep, sometimes phone in hand. Her husband tells her he’s worried it consumes her, but she shrugs and smiles at him.

Staying busy with other mothers means she doesn’t have to think about what she didn’t do for her own son.

___

All of that is what brought Cheryl to the little white funeral home in New Hampshire, a state with the nation’s fifth-highest rate of overdose deaths.

She had called in the troops: Cyndi Wood and Kay Scarpone, mothers of Marines who came home from the service changed men. All three women grew up in the same town, but they were never friends until heroin claimed their sons and lashed them together.

“All these beautiful lives,” moans Cyndi, who decides she can’t bear another wake and retreats back to the car. She pulls out a picture of her 20-year-old son Brandon, his cheeks rosy and his shirt collared. She was at the cemetery placing flowers on his grave recently and met another mother, visiting her son who had died of cancer. The woman asked Cyndi how her son died, and before she thought about it she blurted out, “An accident.” The instinct surprised her, like she’d absorbed the world’s stigma that being the mother of a drug addict is better kept a shameful secret.

“You feel alone when you lose a child like this,” she says.

Cheryl draws close to Kay as they walk together into the chapel, and she drops the sympathy card in a basket. She avoids settling her eyes on the photos of the person this young man had been or his wide-eyed child or the mourners shaking their heads because it didn’t have to end this way. The dam had broken at a recent funeral, and Cheryl had left the chapel sobbing.

“Break down later,” she tells herself, because she is supposed to be the strong one to show that life can exist after this.

Little is known about the long-term psychological implications for the hundreds of thousands of mothers and fathers who have buried their children since the opioid epidemic began. Grassroots organizations for these families are sporadic, funded mostly by bake sales and 5k races and spread out in pockets of the country at random, usually where someone like Cheryl lost a child and decided to start one.

The Partnership for Drug-Free Kids last year tried to drum up support on Capitol Hill for $10 million to establish a family support program so parents would not have to navigate the misery of addiction and death alone, says Marcia Lee Taylor, the organization’s chief policy officer. It got no traction.

“Who is saving us?” Cheryl wonders. “Nobody.”

Inside the little chapel, she folds her arms around this grieving mother. There is an electricity between women who’ve lost their children that no one else can feel, Cheryl swears, like they can sense each other in crowds.

“I shouldn’t be burying my son,” the woman says.

“You are not alone. We lost our kids, too,” Cheryl tells her, and the mother nods.

“We’re not going to have anyone left,” she says.

___

On the drive back home, Cheryl marvels at the sunny sky. Beautiful, she says. Maybe it’s a gift from Corey. Then she checks her phone and frowns. She was hoping for a message from another mother who recently lost her child. A mutual friend had asked Cheryl to call her, and she’s fretting now because she hasn’t heard back.

Two years ago, a member of her group told her about a mother who had just lost a son. Cheryl considered cold-calling her but didn’t want to intrude. The woman killed herself two days later, on her son’s birthday.

Regret tormented Cheryl — “What if I had called her first? Would that have made a difference?” — so she put the questions to her group on their Facebook page. They told her not to feel responsible; some told her she had saved their lives. “I know how this woman was feeling,” wrote one mother who had lost two children. “We don’t want to be on this journey.” A few months later, that mother killed herself, too.

These are the stakes for Cheryl, the keeper of so many parents’ grief. As she left the funeral home, dozens of them were starting to gather at a group member’s lake house for a potluck like any other, except the cars outside had bumper stickers or license plates commemorating lives cut short: “Jenn 29,” ″Joey 22.” And nametags read: “Debbie, Jay’s mom,” ″Lois, Robbie’s mom.”

Team Sharing’s annual party is one of Cheryl’s favorite days of the year. But to get there, she has to drive past the apartment building where her son died.

The first time she’d absentmindedly followed the GPS and suddenly there it was. “No, no, no, this can’t be happening,” she thought, and then: “Oh God, if only I’d understood. Why didn’t I spend more time with him? Ask him what was going on in his mind? Why? Why? Why?”

Now, as she passes the building again, she can’t resist the urge to pull into the parking lot. There’s the dumpster where Peter had hastily thrown the bedsheets before he let her go inside. A second-story window leads to the bedroom where Cheryl had curled on a bare mattress, imagining the imprint of Corey’s body. She remembers there were needles everywhere, even though she’d always thought he was scared of needles.

“When I’m sitting here and I’m all alone and I’m looking up at it, I don’t want to know, but I do want to know, but I don’t want to know what his last thoughts were. Was he in pain? Did he feel it? Did he know he was dying? Did he call my name?” she asks.

Most of the time, with the help of her moms, she manages not to think about it. And she has reasons to be hopeful.

Last May, personalized letters began arriving in her members’ mailboxes from the White House; they take that as a sign that the president was moved by all their Valentines. Her middle son, Sean, is in recovery and helps others struggling to get clean. Bobby, the officer, found a letter Corey had sent him and got his signature tattooed on his arm; the permanence helped him find peace.

Corey’s daughter, 4 months old when he died, is 8 and has her father’s green eyes. Cheryl takes her to the cemetery on his birthdays, sets up a little table, and they sing and eat cake. And her marriage survived. Peter accepts the shrine by the front door and her need to spend all day on the phone, talking to her moms.

She shakes her head to dislodge the tears. “OK,” she says. “I get to go to a party.”

In the SUV with a bumper sticker of her son’s name, Cheryl heads for the lake house. As she scribbles on her nametag, “Cheryl, Corey’s mom,” and stamps it to her heart, another mother steps out to take a phone call.

Three years ago, when a nurse at the hospital told this woman her son was dead from an overdose, she’d begged her to rip out her heart and give it to him. Now, her other son was on the phone, out of his mind. He just relapsed, he tells her, and he worries he won’t make it this time.

The mother tells a friend to thank Cheryl, and she quietly slips away.

___

Click here for more on Juaire’s group, Team Sharing, and here for additional resources on addiction and recovery. Go to this Q&A to learn more about the toll of the opioid crisis in America and the government’s response. For more in AP’s Left Behind series, see: https://apnews.com/TheLeftBehind

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AP National Writer Claire Galofaro has reported for years on the opioid crisis across America. Follow her on Twitter at @clairegalofaro or reach her at cgalofaro@ap.org

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