#meshugganah

[just-about-nothing]

my brother has a recital today and he did great as per usual blah blah. but now he's back on stage and is just sitting there? what is happening. there's a singer (normal), a guitarist (not my brother, also not as good as he is), and my brother (sitting there with a shit-eating grin & no guitar). what is happening??

[butterfrogmantis]

The rains hadn’t come for ages. Even with the promise of dark skies overheard that afternoon, his fields lay as dry as one of Brainy’s speeches. Surely it could only be a matter of time now, the village needed it if these fields were to yield any stock for the autumn. Plink. A single droplet, cold and hard, landed on the tip of his nose. Then another. Then several. All at once, the heavens had opened, bringing forth the promised crop-saviours. Farmer stood, arms outstretched, basking in it all, not noticing nor caring about his sodden attire, until the patter of raindrops stopped falling on him all at once. He turned to see a familiar face holding a large sarsaparilla leaf above him. “Farmer! Are you a meshugganah?! Look at this rain, you’re going to make yourself sick – come back inside at once, your overalls are soaking” But the cultivator didn’t move. He’d been overcome by a strange sense of peace. He was so relieved to see the rains again that he barely felt them lashing against his skin, and hardly heard Tailor’s protests about him standing in them. It was as though for a moment he was trapped in a little pocket of his own reality, merely watching through a screen. And then, all of a sudden he WAS back. The rain was roaring in his ears and Tailor was standing mere inches away from him, trying in vain to shield the much taller Smurf from the torrent, because he cared about him. “Farmer Smurf, are you listening to me?” “I love you” “Well I should think – what did you say?” Tailor blinked, caught off guard for the moment. It was the first time Farmer had said it – REALLY said it, with words. “You heard me” Farmer murmured softly, leaning down a little and cupping the clothes maker’s chin gently with his hand, tilting his face to meet his own. “But I don’t mind saying it again” //////////// First XYZ headcanons are very important to any ship of mine that actually means something to me <3 Farmer and Tailor (c) The Smurfs

[breshnyda]

"Oh, so we want to make jokes at my Re-Bar Mitzvah? Y'all got MJF meshugganah up in this b*tch!" 🆗🆗

[jellybeanium124]

some more yiddish words I forgot:

keppe: head/little head. a diminutive/endearing term, compared to "kopf" or "kop" which is the more standard word for head.

mishegas: craziness/silliness. colloquially, in my family (so may or may not be standard usage, this is just how I've heard it used), this often refers to a person's individual quirks or eccentricities. "everyone has their mishegas" is a commonly heard sentiment in my family.

meshugenah: (also transliterated as: meshuggana, meshugganah, mishugganeh, meshugane, and probably more) a crazy person

[theeclectickoalastudent]

Not to be confused with line dancing in The Moon is a Harsh Meshugganah

in trouble for referring to a friend's polycule as a "ship of theseus type situation"

[homemeansthehills]

watching Mad Mad 2: The Road Warrior,

or as I like to call it "Mr. Gibson Drives Like a Meshugganah"

[dyezzsurveillance]

It’s going to be beautiful outdoors next couple of days so we’re trying to feature some of our clients with the finest #AustinPatios . You’re missing out if you haven’t tried @JewboySubs #DyezzClients Shoutout. Hola! It’s time to get #meshugganah. Welcome to the #JewBoySubShop. We are a sandwich shop in #Austin, Texas inspired by both Border and #ReformJewishCulture. Hope you’re hungry.

[alien-animal-propaganda]

Maybe im just a dumb meshugganah

[daylinleach]

Why Term Limits are a Terrible Idea

We’ve all heard the cliche that there are “lies, damn lies, and statistics”. Well, in the context of political reform, there are blunders, meshugganah blunders and term limits (I’m quite sure this cliche will soon sweep the nation).

Term limits for elected officials are often sold as some sort of cure-all for all of the myriad flaws in our political system. If we just sweep out the old and bring in “fresh blood” every few years, congress and state legislatures will no longer be gridlocked. They will pass more laws, all of them good and they will be less corrupt, stupid, reactionary or Communist (depending on your ideology) poorly dressed and just plain weird.

Put another way, term limits will force us to elect young, bright, pristine, honest politicians we are lucky to have, who will all, within a few years, turn into crusty, crooked, worthless dingleberries we must get rid of. Every single one of them.

This argument is false. It is nothing more than wishful thinking. Having served in both the House and Senate of a legislature for 18 years, I had occasion to observe hundreds of colleagues. Some, on both sides of the aisle, were brilliant, sincere and insightful. Others were fine. Not stand-outs, but did their jobs and represented their constituents satisfactorily. And of course, there were some who were either dumb as a tub of prunes or so corrupt that I counted myself lucky when they didn’t actually rob me at gun-point right on the senate floor.

The reality is that things like intelligence, diligence, integrity, etc., are character traits, innate to an individual. An honest person comes to the legislature as an honest person, and in my experience, is still an honest person when they leave the legislature, even if that is decades later. Conversely, it won’t take much Googling to find a long list of first or second term lawmakers who have been sent up-river upon conviction of all manner of crimes. There is just no evidence that replacing one legislator with another simply because the incumbent has been in office for a set number of years, will bring us a better legislator. In fact, it seems at least equally likely that we will be trading a very good legislator for a very bad one.

Given that term limits confer no obvious gain, they become difficult to justify when balanced against the clear losses these limits bring.

First, putting the character of the individual lawmaker aside, we indisputably lose experience, which can be very valuable. Institutional knowledge is often hugely helpful in helping us avoid the mistakes we’ve made in the past. For example, if we were debating a lengthy commitment to staying in Afghanistan, I think it would be helpful to have people in the room, and voting on committees that can speak to what we did right and wrong in Vietnam or Iraq. It’s one thing to read an editorial in the newspaper. It’s quite another to hear from someone who was there and can say “these are the mistakes we made back then and this is why we made them”.

A frequent argument that is made in response to this point is that “we don’t want to have career politicians”. I find this argument to be like nails on a blackboard. And to be clear, I don’t like nails on a chalkboard, even a little bit. Nobody would ever show up at a hospital and say “I don’t want a career neurosurgeon. I want my operation to be done by someone who dabbles in it.” Similarly, when it matters to them, nobody asks for the lawyer, or accountant, or mechanic with the least experience. It is only when it comes to making the laws that govern society, often with life and death consequences, that knowing stuff is considered a negative.

The second, and perhaps even more important reason that term limits are bad is that they are blatantly anti-democratic.

I have never been to Forest County Pennsylvania in my life. I say that in a proud and boastful way. Forest County, feels the same about me. In fact, I’m told there’s a whole festival dedicated to me never having been there. There is a parade, marching bands, and some game that involves shooting children out of a cannon, all in celebration of my never having set foot in within their borders. Although, the festival has been going on for decades longer than I’ve been alive, which is odd. But hey! That’s Forest County!

If, as a state legislator, I had voted for term limits, I would have, in effect, been saying, “I have never been to Forest County, and I know nothing about it. But I do know better than they do who they should have as their representative. And even if they want to keep the one they have, I am telling them they can’t, whether they like it or not.”

My ego may be big (huge, gargantuan, corpulent, choose any word you like) but it’s not that big. Who am I to tell other people who I have never met and know nothing about who they should choose to represent them? The good people of Forest County should decide for themselves who they want and what the criteria for so choosing should be. If I think my legislator has been in office to long, fine. I should try to vote them out. But others are perfectly capable of doing their own analysis on their own terms. And if they have what they consider to be an amazing legislator, they should absolutely have the right to keep them.

Term limits were a fad for a while. But they didn’t deliver the promised benefits and often led to pissy 28-year olds who had been in government for all of 3 years being Speaker of the House and running the whole show. This has resulted in an end to new states enacting term limits and six states actually repealing them. It simply makes far more sense to elect or defeat politicians based on their qualifications, character and record than on artificial limits on terms.

And now, screw it. I’m off to Forest County!

[nodynasty4us]

It has long been true that political parties have quietly ignored wacky candidates within their ranks running for unwinnable seats. But as the Republican Party has gotten progressively more meshugganah under Donald Trump, its candidates have blossomed into a virtual cornucopia of the worst, basest nature of the party. From QAnon nutters to car thieves to white supremacists, these Republican congressional candidates are some of America’s worst selves.

Molly Jong-Fast in The Daily Beast

[mannytoodope]

Homer:"Wel-diddly-welcome, Simpsons." Oh, geez! He actually wrote "diddly."

Marge: That was thoughtful.

Homer:(reading note)"I left a few helpful notes around the house." Ah, come- Gee.!

Marge:(reading note) "Put food in me."

Homer: I'll take that.

Marge: Well, duh! With what, Ned?

Bart: Nice try, Todd.

Marge: Isn't this fun, honey?

Lisa: It must be exciting to make a different set of beds.

Marge: I know you're joking, but it is! Say, why don't you put on your swimsuit and head for the beach?

Lisa: Well, it's kind of funny. With all the craziness and confusion and meshugganahs of packing, I forgot to pack.

[godlessondheimite]

30 Rock of Horrors

a quick little crossover script

(INT: Dentist Office)

Dentist: Good to see you again, Liz.

Liz: I don’t really have a choice, do I?

Dentist: No, you do not. Now, this procedure can be particularly unpleasant, so I highly recommend some laughing gas…

Liz: No. Last time I had laughing gas, I wound up dating an irritating Welshman. And the time before that, I almost got engaged to a fussy Brit. And the time before that, I met Wesley in the waiting room. So no laughing gas for me.

Dentist: As you wish.  (turns on the drill)

 Liz: No! No! Stop! I want drugs!

(CUT TO--A camp-gritty, stylized New York street. Liz wanders around, like Dorothy entering Oz)

Liz: Where am I? Is this...is this the set from my college production of Little Shop of Horrors, where I did the tech and understudied Audrey Two? (She spots two figures sitting on a stoop) Urchins!

D’Fwan: Don’t call us urchins, girl. We got names. That’s Angie.

Angie: And that’s D’Fwan.

Liz: And you’re gonna sing the song now, right?

Angie: The song?

D’Fwan: What song?

Liz: You know. (trying, weakly) The alarm goes off--

D’Fwan (pushing her out of the way and belting): The alarm goes off at seven

And you start uptown

You put in your eight hours for the powers that have always been

Angie: Sing it, child!

D’Fwan: ‘til it’s five PM--

Liz: Wait, aren’t there supposed to be three urchins?

D’Fwan: Yeah, but the other one thinks he’s too good for us ‘cuz he went to Hartford.

(Toofer enters, dressed exactly like Seymour Krelborn.)

Toofer: You’re putting me in the role of a street urchin?

Liz: Er…

Toofer: This is so offensive. Look at me! I own Rick Moranis’ glasses from the movie! Find someone else to do this.

Liz: Uh…I guess there’s Tracy, but…

Toofer: You don’t know any other black people? 

Liz: I met Oprah on an airplane once…

Toofer: You want Oprah to play a street urchin. OK, I’m out.

(He walks away. Danny enters, giving it his all)

Liz: Ew, is this better?

D’Fwan, Angie, Danny: Uptown you cater to a million jerks

Uptown you’re messengers and bathroom clerks

Eating all the lunches at the hot dog carts

The bosses take your money and they break your hearts

Uptown you cater to a million whores

Disinfect terrazzo on the bathroom floors

Your morning’s tribulation

Afternoon’s a curse

And five o’clock it’s even worse

That’s when you go--

(Cerie starts to make an entrance, but Jenna shoves her out of the way)

Jenna: Downtown, where the guys are drips

Downtown, where they rip your slips

Downtown, where relationships are no go

Down on Skid Row

D,’Fwan, Angie, Danny, Jenna, all fighting for dominance: Down on Skid Row

(Kenneth emerges from the Skid Row Flower Shop, hauling trash bags and discordantly cheerful)

Kenneth: Poor!

All my life I’ve always been poor!

I keep asking God what I’m for!

And he tells me “Gee, I’m not sure--sweep that floor kid!”

Oh! I started life in the ether, a golem made of peat

Liz: What.

Kenneth: Here on Skid Row

He took me in, gave me shelter, a bed, crust of bread and a job

Treats me like dirt, calls me a slob, which I am

(He straightens his slightly crooked tie and cheerfully jumps in the air)

All: Gee, it sure would be swell to get out of here

Bid the gutter farewell and get out of here

I’d move Heaven and Hell to get out of Skid

I’d do I don’t know what to get out of Skid

But a hell of a lot to get out of Skid

People tell me there’s not a way out of Skid Row!

(INT--Skid Row Flower Shop, which is basically Jack Donaghy’s office filled with plants for sale. Jenna dusts a window.)

Liz: Did the set just change around us?

Angie: Yep. We are omnipresent observers. You can’t interact with the others, just us.

Danny: Unless there’s a scene where we function as characters instead of a Greek chorus, but--oh, you’ll figure it out.

(There’s a crash from a back room.)

Jack (Tevye-esque): Kenneth! You meshugganah. The tsuris you give me. I let you into my misphoceh and feh! 

Liz: Oooh, that’s not good.

Jack (Irish brogue): Ay, laddy, you best watch them taters afore the famine gets ye.

Liz: Nope, not that either.

Jack (normal Jack): Kenneth! 

Kenneth (off-screen): Yes, Mr. Donaghy?

Jack: Kenneth, what is going on back there?

(Kenneth emerges from the back room.)

Kenneth: Sorry, Mr. Donaghy. I was just taking care of this strange and interesting plant I got. I call it the--

(He looks adoringly at Jenna)

Kenneth: Audrey Two.

Jack: Terrible name. 

Kenneth: What about Tracy?

Jack: Kenneth, it is your right to name your discoveries whatever terrible name you want. You found it, it’s yours. 

Kenneth: Tracy it is!

(Jenna stops dusting the same spot she’s been dusting the entire time)

Jenna: What a day’s work. I hope I didn’t wear my arms out before my date.

Jack: You’re still seeing that no-good lout? 

Jenna: He’s a tech mogul!

Jack: Every man nowadays is a “tech mogul.” What does he own that he can touch? If he vanished to an off-the-grid island, would the lights go dark on the mainland? Would the economy collapse?

Jenna: He’s an innovator--he’s the only man in his field. And unless I get a better offer…

(She starts to sidle over to Jack and he quickly moves)

Jack: There is a midpoint between scraping the bottom of the barrel and aiming...into the stratosphere. I trust you will discover it. Kenneth, watch the shop while I’m away.

(Jack puts on his suit jacket and leaves)

Kenneth: I don’t think you should keep seeing that guy.

Jenna: Why? Because you’ve been in love with me the entire time? And you’re also secretly rich and just took this job at a flower shop to find a woman worthy of your lust and wealth?

Kenneth: No, it’s because every time I see him, he puts me in a headlock and gives me a noogie, and I don’t care for that at all...Pardon my language.

Jenna: Well, that’s just his way. I better get ready. He likes being the latest. 

Liz: Who is it? Who is she dating? (a motorcycle revs) Oh no...

(Dennis slams open the door)

Dennis: I am the Dennis!

Urchins: He is the Dennis!

Dennis: I have a talent for causing things pain.

Urchin: Pain!

Dennis: I am the Dennis, the inspiration for the word “mansplain.”

Urchins: He won’t shut up!

Dennis: My favorite movie’s Jaoquin’s The Joker

But I think Jared Leto’s legit

Because I am Dennis

And I’m a shit

Hey, loser. Wanna buy another beeper? Just got a new shipment in from 1998. 

Kenneth: No, thank you! I still haven’t used the six that I bought. No one else seems to have one, so it’s really hard to talk to people.

Dennis: It’s not about communication. It’s about the battery. See, you break open the battery and then you…(He puts the battery up to his nose and  inhales deeply) 

Kenneth: Oh my goodness! Are you using the beeper as a...as a d-r-u-g?

Dennis: Only if you think drugs are cool addictive substances that alter your brain chemistry.

Kenneth: I think that’s what they are.

Dennis: Huh. Loser. (inhales) 

Jenna (emerges from the back room): I’m ready! 

Dennis: Alright. Just gotta stop at my store first for some inventory. You never know who’s gonna want to buy a beeper. (to Kenneth) Smell you later, weirdo.

(Dennis and Jenna leave)

Kenneth: Well, it looks like it’s just you and me, little plant, alone for the night. How about we snuggle watching Lucy on our big, enormous, twelve inch--

Tracy: Feed me!

Kenneth: --screen. Pardon?

Tracy: Feed me!

Kenneth: I just gave you water and fertilizer. Should I roll you out to craft services--

Tracy: Nooo! Must be blood! Must be fresh!

Kenneth: I don’t think they sell that at Duane Reade…

Tracy: I’m dying here! Feed me!

Kenneth: Does it have to be human?

Tracy: Feed me!

Kenneth: Does it have to be mine?

Tracy: Feed me, Kenneth. Feed me all night long.

Kenneth: Oh, no. This is getting too sexy. Fine! I’ll get you whatever you want. Just--don’t use that voice anymore. (He self-consciously covers his crotch with his hands.)

(INT-Dennis’ Beeper Store)

Liz: These set changes are making me nauseous.

Angie: Fucking deal with it. You’d rather walk?

Liz: Uh...good point.

(Dennis walks in)

(Dennis rummages through a cardboard box filled with batteries and inhales a few of them. Kenneth is crouched behind a table with a gun.)

Kenneth: Now, do it now

While he's gassing himself to a palpable stupor

The timing's ideal and the moment is super

To ready and fire and blow the sick jerkhead away

Now, do it now

Just a flicker of pressure right here, right here on the trigger

And Jenna won't have to put up that pig for another day

Now. For the girl. Now. For the plant

Now. Yes, I will!

(He shoots, splattering blood all over Liz.)

Liz, wincing: I was not expecting that.

Kenneth, dragging the body out through the back: I hope this makes Tracy happy and he never asks for anything again. If there’s one thing I learned from history, it’s that appeasement always works!

(INT-Skid Row Flower Shop. Tracy gobbles up Dennis’ body and Kenneth watches, mildly tiffed.) 

Kenneth: I hope you’re happy now. 

Tracy: Of course I am! But I won’t be for long. What about you, Ken? Haven’t you ever dreamed of something more?

(Kenneth stares thoughtfully into the middle distance.)

Kenneth: A matchbox of our own

A fence of real chainlink

A grill out on the patio

Disposal in the sink

A washer and a dryer and an ironing machine

Are the wishes of the devil, lurking unseen

No, sir, Mr. Tracy. Wanting is the whispering of Satan.

Tracy: No it’s not! Wanting things is great. Wanting means you’ll never be happy, but you think you will be.

Kenneth: Thinking is the devil’s sport.

Tracy: Come on. Don’t you love America?

Kenneth: Of course I do!

Tracy: And who’s the most American person you know?

Kenneth: I guess that would be my Mee-Maw. She gave birth to thirty kids and sat in the same rocking chair in the same decrepit old shack for sixty years. Why, she’s probably rocking in it right now!

Tracy: And who’s the second most American person you know?

Kenneth: I suppose that would be Mr. Donaghy...He picked himself up from nothing, and now he has more money than he can use in a lifetime, but he always wants more…

Tracy: And who would you rather be, Mee-Maw or Jack?

Kenneth: Well, since Mee-Maw died twenty years ago...I guess I’d rather be Mr. Donaghy!

Tracy: If you keep taking care of me, then I’ll take care of you.

Kenneth: Really? Like friends?

Tracy: Yeah, like friends!

Kenneth: Wow! And all I have to do is keep killing people?

Tracy: Yeah! 

[Montage--Kenneth keeps killing, Tracy keeps eating, and Kenneth moves up the ranks at NBC]

[INT--Skid Row Flower Shop. Kenneth is in a suit.]

Kenneth: Wow. To think, in just a few short months, I became second-in-command at NBC. But…

Tracy: What’s the matter, Ken?

Kenneth: Mr. Donaghy still treats me like dirt.

Tracy: You mean a beloved and valuable haven in which to grow?

Kenneth: No, like bad dirt. Like Nevada.

Tracy: Sounds like you need to show him who’s boss, like when my son was acting up, I wrestled him to the ground and bit his ear, like in Snow Dogs! Cuba Gooding Jr. taught me that.

Kenneth: But he’s still the boss.

Tracy: Do you think he’s going to be the boss forever?

Kenneth: No, silly. Humans are not wedded with the concept of eternity. Mortals perish, and their souls vanish with their bodies. 

Tracy: So show him who’s boss! He’s the only thing stopping you from being King Capitalist!

Kenneth: Err…

(Jack enters and hands Kenneth his jacket. Kenneth puts it too his nose, inhales deeply, and smiles before hanging it up) 

Kenneth: Hey, Mr. Donaghy, I’ve been meaning to talk to you about something.

Jack: “Hey?” You’ve gone back to being a cattleman now?

Kenneth: I was never a cattleman, I just collected decorative horse semen for weddings receptions. Anyway. I just wanted you to know, I’m second-in-command now…

Jack: I’m aware of the poor decisions and Horatio Alger-esque falling-upwards comedy of errors that have led to your promotions.

Kenneth: Well...we’re just about equal. I worked just as hard as you, and I made it up here faster than you did, and I think you should start (he whispers guiltily) treating me with respect. After all, I might have your job one day.

Jack: Hah! Good luck prying it from my cold dead hands.

Kenneth: If you retire...

Jack: I’m never going to retire. 

Kenneth: So then...the only way I can become King Capitalist is to wait for you to die...or…

Jack: Amass enough power, wealth, and influence to overthrow me?  Good luck.

Kenneth: Well, that...or….

Jack: Destroy Jeff Bezos’ ninety-seven Horcruxes? Better get some SCUBA gear and a rocket ship.

Kenneth: No...I could...kill you.

Jack: What?

Kenneth: Instead of waiting for you to die, I could kill you. And feed you to the plant. Then he will make me King Capitalist and you’ll be plant food, the least noble food there is. 

Jack: Please, Kenneth, no, not a plant. Feed me to eels. Or to a pen of starving hogs. Something cool like that. Anything but a plant!

Liz (to the Urchins): But if this plays out like the show, then Kenneth will kill Jack...and Jenna will die! And then what will my life be?

(Cut to The Girlie Show stage except it stars Amy Poehler instead of Jenna)

Amy Poehler: In appreciation of our third Pulitzer, I’d like to devote an hour to honoring Virginia Woolf.

(Cut back to Liz)

Liz: What we have here is an ethical dilemma--

D’Fwan: Girl, stop. 

Liz: You said earlier that I can sometimes interact with the others, right?

Angie: Yeah, but only under specific sets.

Liz: Like what?

(Angie shrugs)

Liz: So what’s stopping me from taking the gun from Kenneth and killing him before he kills Jack?

Angie: Nothing, I guess...But wouldn’t that make you just as bad as him?

Liz: I don’t know, would it?

(Kenneth takes out his gun and points it at Jack)

Kenneth: Mr. Donaghy, I wanted to do this the nice way, but you are not very Christian. When I’m King Capitalist, I’m going to use my power to turn this great nation into a theocratic state, the way that God intended.

Liz: No, Kenneth!

Jack: Lemon? What are you doing here?

(She tries to wrestle the gun out off Kenneth’s hands, awkwardly)

Kenneth: Sorry, Ms. Lemon, that’s my horse semen hand. It’s forty pounds of muscle.

Liz: Jesus. 

Jack: Lemon, it’s fine. You’re in a drug-induced stupor.

Liz: A what?

[INT--Dentist office]

Liz, groggily: Is that how the set changed so quickly?

Dentist: The procedure’s all done.

Liz: I had such a crazy hallucination. There was singing and murder and  talking plants and you...weren’t there, oddly enough.

Dentist: I don’t care. Do you have anyone to take you home?

[Liz looks sad. The cast and crew of TGS shows up, singing the opening to Company.]

Josh: Lemon.

Jenna: Lemon.

Frank: Lemon, baby.

Peter: Lemon, bubi.

[The music stops]

Liz: Yes, I do.

[She texts someone on her phone. Kenneth is outside, waiting in a car]

Kenneth: Did you have a good time at your dentist appointment?

Liz: It was...interesting.

[Kenneth turns on the radio.]

Radio: President Parcell has issued sweeping laws against masturbation, or, as he calls it “seed spillage...”

[They drive away]

[littlehungrywarrior]

#th......The Lion King 1 1/2.....#'my son is out there chasing METAPHORS?!?!?! We gotta go FIND HIM'#'Whoa whoa Uncle Max! Way to sell it to the cheap seats' 'APPLAUD NOW SONNY BOY! ...But try clapping when u don't have any hands'#'Past the trees...over the grasslands. Everything the light touches.....belongs to soMEONE ELSE'#'WHAT ARE YOU A MESHUGGANAH?!?!'#'It's either that slug I ate or I'm having an EPIPHANY!! I'M! GOING! TO THE....BIG!!! POINTY!!! R O CK !!!! R I GHT?!?!?!?'

what movie do y’all know front to back like it doesn’t even have to necessarily be Good,, it’s just something you’ve seen so many times that the dialogue is printed into the very core of your being

[chefmblends]

@withregram • @graciouskitchen_clt It’s hard to believe a year ago today, Gracious Kitchen went from a dream to a reality. I’m the midst of a pandemic, Stephanie Rickenbaker of @sweetselderberry realized some serious production changes needed to happen in order to keep up with demand. With a small (but mighty) team, we took on the challenge of opening our own FDA-inspected production facility for Sweet’s Syrup. What transpired next, we never knew was coming. We found a kitchen, thanks to Chef Charles Semail. Bought a steam kettle, secured our ingredients, retrofitted the space to suit our needs and still had room to grow. With the additional kitchen space, we knew we wanted to be able to help others in our community make their dreams a reality too. And there, an incubator kitchen was born. Fast forward a year, and we have now housed 13 different businesses, became a dietary supplement, produced over 32,370 bottles of elderberry syrup, all while adding three new products to the Sweet’s line.. and me tell you, this is only the beginning! Proud of this team for pushing through the long days and sleepless nights and am so excited to see where the next year takes us. We are so grateful to share this space with so many amazing businesses! A special thank you to @chefcharlescatering for his endless advice and support, @fortheloveofdutch and @meshugganah for baring with us as we got the concept off the ground and the ability to adapt at any given moment. Thank you to @updogkombucha for keeping us supplied with booch and wisdom of this industry, @chefmonicablends for help with recipe development and always rocking a smile, @offtheblock_clt for their organization and creativity, @queencitycrunch for bringing the HEAT and positive energy, @oldnorthshrub for his patience and invaluable insight, @onehotdadclt for appreciating the learning process, @_urbanhoney_ for managing our schedule while working a full time job, @kayceeskitchen for reminding us to always keep hustling, @justaddwineboards for always being on her A game, @takesthecakecharlotte for always keeping us laughing and feeding us cake!! When you hear the saying “it takes a village”, it truly does. 💞 https://www.instagram.com/p/CT0ngc2Md7J/?utm_medium=tumblr

[akatsukichelsei]

I'm proud of you Tumblr. I went in the Batwoman tag and there was only one goyishe meshugganah who wanted Alex to be Batwoman. A bit of faith restored in ya.

[trbl-will-find-me]

Every Exit, An Entrance (25/?)

There are two (and only two) possibilities: either she led XCOM to victory and they are now engaged in a clean up operation of alien forces, or XCOM was overrun, clearing the way for an alien-controlled puppet government to seize control of the planet.

She’d really like to figure out which it is, but asking hardly seems the prudent option.

“No!” Someone yells from behind her.

She turns around in time to see Steph Royston, two dresses slung over her arm, stalking through the Common Room with Isabella Molchetti in hot pursuit.

“Yes!” Royston counters. “I don’t know which one looks better. I want another opinion.”

“He’s not supposed to---“

“We live in the same tiny space, Molchetti. He’s gonna see before. Besides, it’s a silly superstition. We survived an alien invasion; he’ll survive seeing me in the dresses.”

“It’s bad---“

“It’s also bad luck to be mind controlled by aliens twice, yet here we are.”

She watches the scene with a sort of fond amusement pulling at her lips. Despite her icy demeanor on the field, Molchetti had quickly revealed herself as the closet romantic in the aftermath of Edouard’s proposal.

Quietly, she suspects the sniper is the only reason Royston has even given thought to anything other than the date and her vows.

“Do you really want to tempt fate?”

Royston stops dead. “Are you telling me you think there is something worse out there than an alien invasion? Really?”

Molchetti rolls her eyes. “I am telling you I believe in stacking the deck.”

“Commander,” Royston implores. “Please tell Molchetti that my fiancé seeing my in a wedding dress will not unleash a renewed wave of alien hellfire upon our heads.”

“If it does, we better hope the hellfire gives us a few weeks. Firestorm construction keeps getting delayed in favor of other emergencies, and we still don’t have global coverage.”

“See?” Molchetti crows.

“Oh my god,” Royston groans. “I can’t believe we’re having this conversation.”

“I can’t believe you want him to see you in the dress.”

“There isn’t even a dress yet!”

“It’s one of these two.”

“You’ve seen. Dev’s seen. Pukkila has seen. Hell, Lan has seen. I am still no closer to deciding which very expensive dress I’m going to wear for one day and then never again.”

“So unromantic.”

“Practical,” Royston insists. “I’m practical.”

“Get her opinion.”

“Mine?” The Commander asks.

“Your grandparents owned a bridal shop, didn’t they?”

“My grandfather did, yeah. But I never picked up his eye for it. I was always better with menswear.”

“Menswear?”

“Grandmother was a tailor. She did a lot of bespoke work.”

“You must have picked up something,” Molchetti insists.

“I guess? I can tell you if it’s well made, but I don’t think that’s the issue at hand.”

“Good enough.” Molchetti turns her attention back to Royston. “Show her.”

“Show … ma’am, don’t have you have better things to do?”

“Yeah, but so do you. Faster you solve the dress question, the better it is for all involved.”

The bride-to-be sighs. “That’s … fair. But this is still ridiculous.”

“Complain after you have the dress on,” Molchetti chides. “Andiamo!”

She can’t be certain, but she thinks she hears Royston mutter something along the lines of meshugganah under her breath as she stalks away.

The first dress is pretty yes, all lacey and delicate, but it’s far too stuffy and swallows Steph whole, an angry imp consumed by taffeta.

The second is much better, liquid silk with graceful lines, the kind of dress you could hide a dagger under. She seems more at ease in it, more herself.

“That one,” the Commander says. “Hands down.”

“You don’t think it’s too under---“

“You heard the woman, Molchetti,” Royston insists. “This one it is.”

Someone lets out a low appreciative whistle, and the women turn towards the sound. Martin and Bernard stand in the doorway.

“Oui. Celle-là,” Martin says. “T’es belle.”

Royston beams as Molchetti launches into a string of Italian profanities.

--

She is not there when he makes the call, does not know what he says. She takes his place on the bridge, and he takes her quarters. He is still sober when he emerges, half an hour later, mission accomplished.

Questions claw at her. There is so much she wants to know, so much she wishes she could ask.

But she doesn’t.

They sit at the bar late that night during the shift change from second to third. He has switched from vodka to beer, though his hands still shake. Resistance radio yammers on in the background, and while she’ll take the DJ’s inanities over the Speaker’s, she’d still like to shut it off.

Central beats her to it, tapping the off button with the bottom of his glass.

“Thank you,” she signs, tension beginning to drain from her shoulders.              

“He means well.”

“I appreciate the enthusiasm. The death metal impressions are a different story.”

“Never was your taste.”

“Or yours.”

He chuckles and they slip back into a silence, one that feels less and less tense each time it settles.

“Thank you,” she ventures, “for the crates, by the way. It’s nice to have a few familiar things around.”

“Sorry it took so long.”

She shrugs. “There’s a lot to keep track of with everything going on. I was surprised you could save as much as you did.”

“The base aged alright. And I had help --- Sally still had some of Steph’s access codes.”

“But getting it all out from Kansas?”

“That was the trick. A lot of careful driving.”

“And getting it across the ocean?”

“A lot of bargaining.”

“How’d you do it, anyway?”

“Navy friends ignored an order to stand down after U-Day. Rallied the crew, commandeered the ship, and starting running counter ops. Virginia class, built for stealth.  They were the ones who got us across.”

“And ADVENT didn’t notice?”

“They don’t pay a lot of attention to what they can’t see. One of the few advantages of travel by submarine.”

She lets out a long, low whistle. “That was gutsy.”

“They ran a good ship. Was harder on Sally than anyone else.”

“Claustrophobic?”

He nods. “And afraid of the ocean, to boot.”

She lets out a pained hiss. “I’m sure that was a fun experience for all involved.”

“She spent most of the trip curled up in her bunk, trying to sleep or reading. Tommy bribed her out with oranges once he realized she had a taste for’em.”

“What about you?”

“There’s a reason I got out of submarines, Regan. You know that.”

She nods. “That’s about what I figured.”

He volunteers nothing about his earlier conversation and she does not ask. She gave him a job, and he did it. She is certain that he has not condemned their men to a week of alien tartare and that any additional terms were agreed to of his own volition. She has no right to ask.

But then he brings it up.

“Look, it’s not my business, but what are you playing at with the Reapers?” She swirls the water in her glass. “If I said a stronger alliance…”

“I’d say I know an ulterior motive when I see one.”

She nods. “I need a way to make Volk fall in line. I don’t get that kind of leverage without good intel.” “And the best intel comes face-to-face. You think you’ll get something out of him?” “No, but I think if you give soldiers the time and means to blow off steam, they’ll come back with better information than they realize.”

“Then what? Debrief everyone individually? Might blow your cover.”

She shrugs. “I play enough poker and throw enough darts. It’s not that hard to get people talking.”

He nods. “Not on this ship.”

--

They have always had strategy meetings.

Once upon a time, they were formal things, around conference tables in office buildings, the kind of thing whose purpose no one could dispute. Once they started traveling, those meetings became, by necessity, far less formal; a casual observer might have easily mistook one for a date, a young couple abroad on some romantic getaway.

That all changed when XCOM activated, a stark turn towards late nights and casualty projections glaring at them from too bright screens, a grim ritual.

And now, the nature of those meetings has changed yet again.

She watches him dress from under the blankets: boxers, undershirt, shirt, slacks, belt, tie, watch, sweater. Her own clothes lay discarded on the floor nearby.

“Netherlands and Czech Republic have started taking notice. They’ve got their people reaching to see what’s out there.”

She nods. “Any more on New Zealand or Ireland?”

He shakes his head. “I wouldn’t encourage New Zealand. Too much a risk bumping up against Australian intel.”

“And you think there isn’t that proximity with Ireland and the UK?”

“I think Ireland has a vested interest in keeping Westminster out of its business.”

“Fair,” she concedes.

“Bahrain and Jordan are also interested.”

“Bahrain? Did they even get hit?”

He shakes his head. “But they’d be a good partner.”

“I have … concerns.”

“Post-oil economy. They’re stable.”

“That’s not what’s giving me pause.”

He stops and looks at her. “You can’t afford to have moral qualms right now. If we’re approached by Saudi Arabia, you can’t turn them down.”

She rolls over, and buries her head under the pillow.

She knows he is right, that if their plan is going to work, they’ll need to be as well funded as possible. She also holds no illusions about the moral rectitude of their current funding nations --- she does not get to pick and choose among moral atrocities.

“This didn’t bother you the first time around?”

“First time?” She asks, flipping over again. “First time, I was the messenger. It wasn’t my call. I was hired to do a job --- I knew I couldn’t convince the powers that be. But now it’s on me. I’m the powers that be.”

“You have a responsibility to this organization. It’s not about you.”

“But it is! Leaders set the tone. They say ‘this is what we won’t stand for.’”

He lowers himself onto the bunk next to her. “They also make choices they don’t like. They’re big picture people.”

She sighs. “This all seemed so brilliant on paper.”

“Reality’s always messier. There’ll always be things you can’t avoid. You just do what you have to do to get by.”

“Sometimes, I hate when you’re right.”

“Welcome to being in charge,” he says, voice gentle.

She rolls her eyes. “And here I was, thinking it would be easier once we’d dealt with the aliens.”

“Easier? No. Different? Yes.”

She reaches up a hand, and brushes her finger against the stubble lining his jaw. He turns his head and presses a kiss to her palm. 

“You got through the invasion,” he reassures her. “You’ll get through this.”

--

They touch down in a clearing not far from the Reaper’s main camp and, briefly, she wishes for illness. She’s not sure what ever made her think this was a good idea, that she would be able to endure prolonged exposure to Volk. What was it her mother used to say?

The best predictor of future behavior is past behavior.

She screws her eyes shut.

You did this to yourself, she thinks. You dug the pit, you jumped in, and now this is your best way to claw your way out.

The ship’s engines die down and she draws in a breath. Get off the train tracks, Regan.

The problem is not yet imminent. She still has time to gather her composure and steel her temper against the coming confrontation.

There are checklists to be completed, inspections to be made, crates to be loaded and unloaded, supplies to be gathered. The dinner is a joint effort, a mutual demonstration –or is it performance, she muses– of their newly minted alliance.

She will make this work; she has no other option.

The scouting team is not expected back for another several days. She will avoid an incident for at least that long. She will find things to do. She will make herself useful. She will keep her head down, and give Central and the crew room to work. She will not sabotage this.

The phrase “responsibility to the organization” floats through her mind. She shakes her head. It sounds like something her father would say, or maybe Central --- maybe not this Central, but certainly the one she once knew, the one who she sometimes catches a glimpse of, fleeting as it may be.

She thinks he might be under there after all, if he could ever put the bottle down.

It’s a problem for another day.

Her eyes settle on the three hard drives stacked next to her terminal keyboard. She rises from her spot on the couch and picks them up, picking at the duct tape on the bottom of one.

There’s nothing especially important on the drives, nothing that will strengthen their position against ADVENT. There are no plans for a secret weapon, no emergency fallbacks.

But, god, she’d kill for some music. For all that sound carries on board the ship, it is still far too quiet for her tastes.

She makes her way from her quarters, down to Engineering. She almost feels silly asking, especially in the face of far more important work, but the drives don’t do anyone any good just sitting on her terminal, collecting dust.

Lily is busy tinkering with a GREMLIN when she enters. “Commander,” she offers, looking up. “I’ve … got a favor to ask you. It’s not a priority.”

The Chief Engineer nods. “Alright.”

She sets the hard drives down on the worktable. “I know they’re old, but if you can pull the data off, I’d appreciate it.

Lily picks one up and turns it over in her hands. “Any damage?”

“Not that I know of. I just don’t know if you can make the systems talk to each other.”

The younger woman nods. “It’s not hard. Give me a few days, Commander. I’ll get it done.”