#selling the house means making a jumbo bed in the back of the car and listening to my dogs pant

[ohlovxr]

when i tell you guys that this has been my literal everyday now

[hookedonapirate]

As Luck Would Have It

Summary: What Emma wouldn’t give to make one of her many fantasies starring her favorite customer come to life (one that either takes place at work and involves a good, hard fuck on the break room table or against the stockroom shelves (hey, what can she say, she gets bored) or one that takes place in her bed). She wouldn't be too picky about the location, just as long as she had a chance to be with him.

It’s just too bad none of her fantasies will ever come true though. And it’s not because there’s zero chance he would ever be interested in her because, well, she works at Walgreens and he’s way too good for her. 

No, it’s too bad because he’s totally and completely gay.

A/N: This is something short and fun that I wrote for @onceuponaprincessworld. I talked to you about writing this before, well I finally got around to writing the thing. I hope it at least puts a smile on your face. Happy Friday! 

Thank you @resident-of-storybrooke for looking it over!

Rated: a very Mature Teen for salty language and mature topics

For someone who hasn’t had sex in faaaaaaar too long (much longer than she cares to admit) Emma knows way too damn much about condoms. Like more than any one human being should. There are flavored condoms, ribbed condoms, dual-action condoms, pleasure shaped, lubricated, colored, french ticklers and even edible condoms. Who the hell even comes up with this shit? There are twisted condoms, her pleasure sensations, intense, warming, and pleasure packs. There are latex and ultra-thin and bare skin and ultra-smooth. The list goes on and on. 

  Way too much. 

 Emma never even uses them, or at least she hasn't in years, but she works at Walgreens. She’s a Designated Hitter, so she does a little bit of everything there, and when she’s not working in the pharmacy or behind the checkout counter, she’s working in the feminine hygiene/baby/contraceptive aisle which means she orders the products, stocks them, prices them, hangs up sales tags and does it all over again the next week. 

 At first, she would get all squeamish whenever she was working with condoms. Every time a male customer passed by or stopped to take a gander at the condoms, she would move down the aisle, pretending to work on something else. Now, she sells them like she’s selling candy to a child. When the male customers are browsing through the selection, she asks what kind they’re looking for and happily suggests one, grabs it off the shelf and hands it to him.

 Tonight she’s working behind the front counter on a Friday night, selling lots of alcohol and snacks and wishing she was on the other side of the counter, buying wine and chocolate so she can go home and veg out on the sofa of her lonely apartment watching her favorite rom coms. Instead, she’s here at work, forced to engage in monotonous small talk with strangers while doing her best to ignore the thieves who wander in and out of the store because she’s not allowed to say anything to them, even when she sees them taking packs of hand soaps or household items off the shelves and stuffing them into their bags so they can sell them on Facebook. 

 She has to put up with these antics until midnight before she closes the doors and prays she doesn’t find a drunk, homeless person on the restroom floor again while cleaning. Yep, that’s happened twice since she’s been here. And she’s only been working here for eight months! Which is one of the many reasons why she’s going to school to get a decent job. The pay isn’t too bad, and the insurance is great, but she sure as hell doesn’t see herself selling condoms and waking up hobos in the restroom when she’s eighty years old. Because if that’s what she has to look forward to when she’s eighty then, Lord, just end it now and get it over with.

 The only thing she can look forward to while working at Walgreens, however, is Mr. sex on legs—a Greek god with a pair of the most alluring blue eyes she’s ever seen. She’s never had a particular thing for men in uniforms, men with dimples, men with accents or men in general, really, but Killian fuck-me Jones is hotter than a scolding cup of coffee in his uniform, has the most adorable dimples on his cheeks and has a sinfully decadent British accent that makes her panties melt.

 What Emma wouldn’t give to make one of her many fantasies starring her favorite customer come to life (one that either takes place at work and involves a good, hard fuck on the break room table or against the stockroom shelves (hey, what can she say, she gets bored) or one that takes place in her bed). She wouldn't be too picky about the location, just as long as she had a chance to be with him.

 It’s just too bad none of her fantasies will ever come true though. And it’s not because there’s zero chance he would ever be interested in her because, well, she works at Walgreens and he’s way too good for her.

 No, it’s too bad because he’s totally and completely gay.

  Of course he is. After getting her heart stomped on years ago by he who shall not be named, she hasn’t been with anyone, not even for a one-night stand. And the one time she actually has eyes for someone, the one time she meets someone she’s even remotely interested in, he’s gay! It's like the devil is mocking her. 

 It’s just her luck.

 Officer Jones frequents this location with his partner on a daily basis. They work together and she’s pretty sure they’re not only partners on the streets but also partners in the sheets. 

 At first, she thought they were only joking around, like the one time when Killian was trying to pay for his purchases but was short on change, and David handed him a dollar bill and said, “Here’s a dollar, sweet cheeks. Keep the change.” He slipped a dollar bill into Killian’s pocket, kissed him on the cheek, winked at Emma and said, “I’m his Sugar Daddy,” He walked out the door, leaving Killian blushing adorably as he handed her the cash for his morning blueberry muffin and energy drink. 

 He rolled his eyes and his deep, rich laugh warmed her heart. That's right, even his laugh is fucking perfect. 

 “I can’t take him anywhere.”

 “I see that.” Emma giggled with him as she took the cash from Killian’s strong-looking hands, which certainly did not play a vital role in her fantasies. Which also does not bear any sign of a wedding band, she had noticed at the time (and several times before that). She’d brushed off Killian’s interaction with the other cop at the time, thinking there was actually a real connection between them and not one between the two men. The signs were all there, she just read them all wrong.

 But now they’re both standing at the front counter in their street clothes, buying two jumbo packs of condoms, claiming it’s because the Trojans are on sale if you buy two. But she has a feeling that’s not the only reason why they’re buying in bulk, because if she had a lover like Killian, then she too would be having sex with him all the freaking time. In fact, she wouldn’t let the man leave the damn house. So yeah, she can understand why David would want that fine piece of British ass all the fucking time. And no, she’s not insanely jealous of a dude. Definitely not! 

 ~*~

 “Buying condoms isn’t gonna get me laid, Dave.”

 “Well no, but then you won’t have an excuse to back out when a gorgeous woman hits on you. And who knows, maybe you’ll finally gather the courage to ask the checkout girl out.”

 “Don’t call her that,” Killian chides, scolding his friend briefly before returning his eyes to the road. “She has a name.”

 David holds up his hands in defense. “Sorry, I didn’t mean any offense. I just meant you’ve been obsessing over Emma for six months and it’s time you make her more than your checkout girl, don’t you think?”

 “What does that have to do with buying condoms? You think buying condoms will automatically get me into bed with her? Even if it did, Emma’s too good to be someone's onetime fling.”

 “I’m just saying, buying condoms is the first step. The next step is to ask her out. What happens from there is up to the two of you.”

 Killian chuckles as he pulls into the Walgreens parking lot. “Thank you for the inciteful advice on how to pick up women, but I’m not some horny sixteen-year-old boy, and this isn’t my first rodeo.”

 “I know that, but you haven’t dated anyone in five years. You fell off the horse, and I’m afraid if I don’t give you a boost, you’re never gonna get on that horse again.”

 Killian rolls his eyes and unbuckles his seatbelt once he parks the car. “I’m perfectly capable of getting back on the horse without your help.”   

 David cocks his head at Killian and shrugs, unconvinced. “Then prove it.”

 “I will.” Killian accepts David’s challenge and hurries out of the car, determined to prove his partner wrong. He doesn’t need help getting Emma. He just has to be himself, right? If only it were that simple because as soon as he steps inside Walgreens and gets one look at the beautiful blonde behind the counter and those sparkling green eyes, his mind becomes an empty void of darkness and his brain turns to mush. 

 He quickly makes his way through one of the aisles to avoid her. Now he remembers why he hasn’t asked her out already. He’s never been this nervous around a woman, but Emma… she can turn him into a complete nervous mess just by casting a glance his way. 

 He can feel her stare burning into his back as he stops and turns in the middle of the aisle to make it look like he’s nonchalantly browsing the razors rather than coming here to ask her out but failing miserably to gather the courage to do so the second he saw her lovely, smiling face. She’s so fucking adorable, he can’t even turn his head to look at her without grinning like a fool. 

  God, he’s in love.

 He remembers the first time he saw her. He came to the pharmacy to get pain medication after he broke his arm during a softball game with his colleagues. He stepped up to the counter and saw her long golden hair, dazzling emerald eyes and the most beautiful smile he’d ever seen in his life. Since then, he never starts his day without stopping in and getting his daily energy drink and muffin. Even if she’s not working at the front counter, just seeing her and saying hi is all he needs to get through the day.

  Fuck, he’ll never be able to ask her out.

 Killian lets out a frustrated sigh as he looks at the razors again.

 David was right. Damn bastard.

 Speaking of his partner, Killian hears David’s arrogant whistle; he’s obviously gloating as he enters the store and sees that Killian had hidden in one of the aisles instead of going up to Emma and asking her out. The aisle with the razors is in front of the checkout counter, giving Killian a clear view of Emma, so he can hear David when he approaches Emma and asks her in a loud and rather obnoxious voice, “Hey, Emma, where are your condoms?”

  Bloody fucking hell.

 Killian curses under his breath as Emma leaves the counter to show David where the desired merchandise is. He can smell Emma’s intoxicating perfume when she passes him. David follows behind her with a shit-eating grin on his face.

 “Hey, Killian, Emma is kind enough to show us where the condoms are.”

  Fan-fucking-tastic.

 Grumbling under his breath, Killian begrudgingly follows David. He’s going to kill his best friend.

 The three of them reach the condoms, and Killian is contemplating murder when David asks, “What do you recommend?”

 Okay, now David is just trying to mess with him. David doesn’t need help picking out condoms, and he certainly didn’t need to be directed here in the first place. He and his girlfriend are sexually active and they always use protection.

 “Um… besides the obvious, what are you looking to achieve with condoms?” she asks, glancing between Killian and David. “Something to get the job done or to add to the sensation?”

  Oh, God. 

 Killian buries his face in his hands to hide his burning cheeks; he could die from mortification right about now.

 When he drags his hands from his face, David still has a stupid grin on his face.

 “These are buy-one-get-one-free with your Balance Rewards card, so you might as well get two,” Emma suggests, handing David two boxes of the condoms she’s referring to, which are jumbo-sized. Of course they are. Because Killian doesn’t need anything to add on to the humiliation he already feels burning his cheeks. Certainly not. Then again, it’s not like things can get more embarrassing than they already are.

 “Great, I think I will. Killian, you like ribbed too, right?” David asks casually as he tries to hand one to Killian.

 Correction. It can get ten times more embarrassing.

 Killian’s face is on fucking fire and he wants the floor to open up and consume him because it beats being humiliated by his best friend, who he’s doing his best not to punch in the face.

 He snatches the box from David’s hand and storms away to avoid seeing the look on Emma’s face right now. She’s probably laughing at him with her eyes, either that or she’s glaring at him, thinking he’s a total douchebag or maybe she assumes he’s in a committed relationship. Or maybe she’s indifferent and couldn't care less. Neither thoughts are good ones as far as he’s concerned. He wants her to care enough to wonder why he’s getting them, but he’s too embarrassed and flustered to think that’s a feasible possibility.

 Killian grabs a six-pack of beer as he thinks about how he will murder David. But if he did, he’d spend the rest of his life in a lonely prison cell and he’d never get to see Emma’s pretty face ever again. So he supposes he won’t kill his best friend. He doesn’t know what he’d do if he didn’t get to see Emma’s face every day during his morning commute. She’s a good enough reason to not want to go to prison.

 He and David place the items on the counter as Emma returns to her spot behind the register and rings them up. Killian reaches for his back pocket to retrieve his wallet, but David puts out his hand to stop him. 

 “Don’t worry about it, I got it,” David offers. “I’m the sugar Daddy, remember?”

 Killian forces out a strained chuckle and doesn’t argue as he slips his wallet back into his pocket. After the shit David just pulled, he owes Killian. Big time.

 Emma calls out the total, and Killian finally gathers the courage to look at her face. She’s offering him a warm smile, a small amount of blush painting her cheeks.

 She doesn’t hate him. That’s a good sign at least.

 She starts to put the boxes of condoms in a bag, but David stops her.

 “That’s okay. We don’t need a bag.” He grabs one of the boxes and hands it to Killian before picking up the other one for himself.

 Killian manages a small smile at Emma and leaves the store without his dignity or his pride. He doesn’t kill his best friend, but he does make a promise to himself; he’s never taking David with him anywhere ever again. He may just have to find a different partner.

 ~*~

 Emma yawns and slowly nurses her coffee. She hates closing and then opening the very next morning. She’s told her boss several times to stop scheduling her like this, but he never listens.  

 She hears the automatic doors slide open and has to force herself to remove her lips from her coffee lid so she can lift her head and greet the customer who’s just walked in.

 She’s not prepared for sex on legs today or those smoldering blue eyes, or how ridiculously attractive he looks in just a t-shirt and snug-fitting jeans, but she’s not complaining when he walks up to the counter without even purchasing anything.

 “I was hoping you’d be here…” he says with a timid smile as he scratches behind his ear and draws a shaky breath. “Although I’m a little surprised you’re back at work so soon.”

 Emma shrugs. “I know. They should give me a cot in the back because it feels like I’m always here anyway, so why not sleep here too?”

 Killian flashes a small smile, and she can’t help but notice that the air between them is more tense than usual. He seems nervous and she’s not sure why. 

 “So, how can I help you today?” She narrows her eyes at him. “You didn’t use all those condoms already, did you?”

 He chuckles, his cheeks turning crimson. “God no, actually, I wanted to…” he pauses and scratches behind his ear again, taking in a long, wobbly breath. “I wanted to… will you have coffee with me tomorrow… or whenever you have a morning off?”

 Emma hopes the shock she feels isn’t evident on her face, but she finds her mouth opening on its own accord. “Sure,” she blurts out, “but… well…” She stumbles for words. She’s not opposed to hanging out with Killian as a friend, but she’s not exactly sure how same-sex relationships work. Do gay men get jealous when their male partners hang out with female friends? “Would David be okay with that?” 

 Emma’s surprised when Killian laughs at her question. “Why wouldn’t he be okay with it? He’s the one who’s been trying to get me to ask you out for months. Not that he’s the reason why... ” He buries his face in his hands. “Bloody hell, I’m severely fucking this up,” he mumbles into his palms. Dragging his hands away, he reveals those stormy blue eyes again, and he looks completely wrecked and apologetic. 

 She’s utterly confused. “David suggested this?” Wait. Is Killian bisexual and David was trying to find his partner a woman to scratch an itch of Killian’s? Are they swingers or—what the fuck is going on? 

 “No, he just encouraged me because I’ve been too fucking nervous to ask you out. You’re...” He plants his hands on his hips and closes his eyes briefly, taking another long breath. “I like you, Emma. I’ve liked you for a while, and I would very much like to take you out on a date, that is, if I didn’t completely screw this up already.”

 “Wait, I’m confused. So David’s okay with this?”

 He furrows his brows in confusion. “Love, I don’t need his permission to ask you out,” he chuckles. “I’m a grown man.”

 Emma frowns in frustration. It’s too damn early for mind games right now. “Yeah, you’re a grown man who’s in a relationship with another grown man,” she says louder than she had meant to. Her words draw the attention of other customers passing by and she receives some odd looks.

 “Wait a bloody minute. You think David and I are…” Killian pauses to burst into laughter.

 Emma wrinkles her brows. “Wait, you’re not?”

 Killian shakes his head, laughter still booming from his chest. “No, I can assure you, I’m very much into women. David and I are best friends and partners when we’re on the job, but we’re not gay.”

 “Oh.” Now Emma’s so thoroughly and utterly confused, her head is spinning. She hasn’t had nearly enough coffee to deal with something so confusing and her head’s starting to pound. “But what about the condoms?”

 Killian presses his hands against the counter, drops his head, shaking it furiously, like he’s silently cursing. “I’m going to kill David.” He lifts his head, his expression etched with apology. “The condoms weren’t for us. David was buying them for himself and his girlfriend. He was only taking advantage of the sale and wanted me to have the other box because he thought if I carried condoms on me then I wouldn’t have an excuse to not ask you out.”

 Oh. Now it makes sense. Kinda sorta. “Okay, so let me get this straight,” Emma sucks in a long breath, “you and David aren’t lovers, and you’re currently single and asking me out on an actual date?”

 “Now we’re on the same page,” he says, his eyes lighting up as a smile curves his lips.

 Emma sighs in relief. But now remains the other question weighing on her mind. “But why me?”

 He furrows his brows. “What do you mean?”

 “I mean, I work at Walgreens.”

 “I fail to see the problem, love.”

 “But you’re…” she waves her hands, gesturing at him and his glorious form, “you’re you, and I’m… well,” she shrugs, “I’m me.” 

 “I know.” He smirks, and it makes her heart do a little flip. “That’s why I’m asking you out. Because you’re you, not because of where you work at.”

 Emma’s heart flutters at his statement and she smiles. They’re silent again, but this time it's a comfortable silence as they stare into each other’s eyes. She knows the moment is about to be ruined though because a customer approaches the counter, impatiently waiting to be rung up as Killian backs away from the counter. Emma really doesn’t want this conversation to end, but she knows it has to, at least for now.

 “So, is that a yes or a no?” Killian asks, his lips slanted into a grin when Emma starts ringing up the customer without giving him an answer.

 She looks up from her task of scanning the items and flashes him a frail smile. She knows what her answer is, but she doesn’t want him to leave yet. “Can you wait outside for a few minutes?”

 Killian nods without hesitation. “Sure, love.”

 Emma sighs in relief and finishes ringing up the customer. When she’s done, she quickly picks up the store phone to page another cashier so she can take her fifteen-minute break. Once Emma is relieved by her coworker, she hurries out of the store and searches for Killian, her heart slamming in her chest. She sees him, leaning against the building with his hands in his pockets. Emma marches up to him and takes his hand, leading him to the side of the building, where they'll be less visible. 

 "Where are we going, love?" he asks.

 She doesn't answer, but she's pretty sure the determination in her step says it all. She presses him against the wall when they reach the side of the building, and without any sort of warning, she grabs a fistful of his shirt and crushes his lips with hers.

 Killian responds with a groan as he cards his hands through her hair. His lips are even softer and more luscious than she’d imagined. And God he’s a good kisser; she’d nailed that part in her fantasies. They get caught up in a delicious, mind-numbing kiss that has her heart racing and her breathing shattered. She can't believe she's kissing Killian fuck-me Jones, sex on legs , the man who's been the star of her dreams for six months. 

 How did she ever think this guy was gay? Because judging by the way he kisses her and teases her bottom lip with his teeth, the way his tongue greedily explores her mouth to find her own tongue, the way he wraps some strands of hair around his fingers and grabs her hip with his other hand to tug her toward him, pressing her against him, judging by the hard bulge in his pants that causes the heat to spread to her core, he’s definitely not gay.

 When they break for air, they’re both panting as he gently leans his forehead against hers. He caresses her cheek, his eyes flickering with hope as she licks her lips. “Should I take that as a yes?”

 “No.”

 His face clouds with disappointment, and his expression makes her heart hurt.

 “You asked me to go out for coffee with you tomorrow, but I’m thinking; what if we went out for dinner tonight after I get out of work instead?”

 A slow grin spreads across his lips. “I wouldn’t say no.”

 Emma smiles vibrantly and blushes. “Good, then it’s a date.”

 He pulls away, taking a shaky breath of relief. “And just so we’re still on the same page, I don’t want you to think I’m expecting anything more than dinner since David bought me those condoms last night. As I said, that was David’s twisted attempt at trying to get me to ask you out.”

 Emma laughs. “I’m not worried. Either way, there’s no rush to use them up. Condoms have a shelf life of five years.” She flashes him an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I know way too much about condoms.”

 Killian chuckles and presses a kiss to her forehead. “It’s okay, love. I told you I don’t care about your occupation… or that you thought I was gay.”

 Emma swats him playfully on the shoulder. “In my defense, David did call himself your sugar Daddy.”

 Killian blushes. 

  God, he’s so fucking adorable when he blushes.  

 “You’re right, he did. He likes to joke around like that… and embarrass the hell out of me.” 

 Emma laughs. "I've noticed."

 He takes out his phone to punch in her number and address and agrees to pick her up later tonight. Then they go back to making out until she has to get back to work. They bid each other farewell, and she practically floats through the automatic doors with a smile blooming across her face, her lips red and swollen. 

 She’s so glad Killian’s not gay. 

 They end up making use of the condoms David bought him, but it sure as hell didn’t take five years to use them all. More like two weeks. If that.

[vmheadquarters]

Happy Birthday @shesgotalionsheart!

In honor of your birthday Logan decided to share this story about bringing home baby (ghostwriters: @susanmichelin a/k/a CMackenzie and @cheshirecatstrut). We hope you enjoy both your story and your day! Have a very happy birthday!

It Won’t Be Like This For Long

One day soon we'll look back laughin’ At the week we brought her home This phase is gonna fly by So baby just hold on ‘Cause it won’t be like this for long... Darius Rucker

Hospital. Car seat. Hospital.

Logan’s gaze moves from the sliding glass doors of Neptune Memorial to the backseat of the Audi where Veronica’s adjusting the five-point safety harness around the baby. “Do you think she’ll sleep for the entire ride home?” she asks, backing from the car and straightening. “Maybe I should sit-- what’s wrong?” A slight frown puckers her brow.

“I keep waiting for someone to stop us,” he admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “To realize they’ve made a mistake and there’s no way Logan Echolls and Veronica Mars should be allowed to leave with a baby.”

“Well, she IS ours.”

“Yeah, but…” He looks over Veronica’s shoulder at the sleeping baby. She’s so tiny and helpless and… completely terrifying. “Aren’t there child welfare laws to protect them from the clueless?”

Veronica��s frown morphs into a smirk. “Is the fearless fighter pilot afraid of a wee little baby?” His gulped yes makes her grin. “It’ll be fine.” She carefully shuts the car door, leans against it to make sure it’s closed tight, and peers through the window, confirming an undisturbed baby. “She’s only going to sleep, eat, and poop, just like last night.”

Her calm is not reassuring. “If you say so.”

“I’ve read the parenting books and we’ve got the internet and, if we get desperate, we can call my dad.” She curls her fingers under the handle of the passenger door, pulls it open, and asks, “What could go wrong?”

Everything - is his answer, but since she obviously means the question to be rhetorical, he keeps it to himself.

They make the twenty-five minute drive from hospital to house in quiet. Veronica doesn’t even mock him for driving too slow, or for his constant checks of the rearview mirror. He knows she’s in pain, and—if the heavy eyelids and yawning are any indication—she’s also exhausted.

He pulls the car into the driveway and turns off the engine. “Do you want me to--” His question’s cut-off by the deafening wail from the backseat. “I guess she’s hungry.”

Fully-alert now, Veronica snaps off her seatbelt, and scrambles from the car. “But she just ate before we left the hospital.”

Logan shrugs. “Diaper?”

Veronica shoots him a look as she tries to disengage all the belts and buckles strapped across the baby. It all looks more complicated than the inside of a cockpit, but she manages to free the now-screaming Wyatt from her car seat. “Get her stuff and meet me inside.”

“Yes, ma--” At her glare, he chokes down the rest of the word ma’am.

Standing silent, he watches until they disappear into the house, and then unloads Wyatt’s ‘stuff’ i.e. all the hospital freebies Veronica jammed into an oversized tote bag. He wraps the nursing pillow around his neck yoke-like, balances two jumbo boxes of impossibly small diapers in his free hand, and closes the trunk with his elbow. Heading inside, he follows the crying to their bedroom.

Veronica has wasted no time; she’s stripped off the baby’s pajamas and is busy putting on a new diaper. “I’m going to try feeding her again. Give me that boppy-thing.” She waves at the u-shaped pillow around his neck. “And find me one of her t-shirts.”

He upends the tote bag on the bed, weeding through the assortment of nursing pads, pacifiers, wipes, blankets, and clothes to find a clean, pink onesie. Logan hands the shirt to Veronica. “Maybe she’s not getting enough food?”

“Well, it’s not like I have ounce measurements on my boobs.” She finishes fastening the multitude of snaps on the onesie and tugs the mitten cuffs over Wyatt’s hands. Logan frowns. Tie the arms in back and it could be a baby straight-jacket.

“Do you want to try giving her a bottle?”

Veronica doesn’t even bother with a response. Picking up the baby, she cuddles her close, rocking and patting Wyatt’s back until the screaming mutes to crying, and then subsides into tiny whimpers, and finally silence. “Can you take her while I change?”

They make the transfer without any fussing. “Hey there, jellybean.” Logan continues the patting and rocking, mimicking Veronica’s rhythm. “You know you’re not supposed to give your mother a hard time until your like sixteen and arguing over boys and makeup, right?”

Wide, unblinking blue eyes stare at him.

Logan lifts her foot and kisses her tiny toes. “I’m sure you’ll give her a run for her money, but be warned, her size is deceptive.” He glances at Veronica, smirks. “She’s like a tenacious little pitbull.”

Veronica rolls her eyes.  Leaving her pajama top unbuttoned, she climbs into bed, and props pillows against the headboard. She repositions, adjusts and plumps the pillows in search of comfort. When she’s finally satisfied, she holds out her arms for Wyatt.

After giving her the baby, Logan clears the bed, and covers Veronica’s legs with the blankets. He kisses her forehead. “Need anything?”

Yawning, she shakes her head.

Liar. Logan can run through an entire list of things she needs and won’t ask for. At the top is probably her pain pills and a nap. He clicks on the bedside lamp and turns off the bright overhead.

“Are you trying to make me fall asleep?”

That’s the plan. “No, I’m trying to make WYATT fall asleep.”

“Well, it’s working,” she says with another yawn.

Skeptical, Logan looks at the baby. Her eyes are closed, but there’s no slowing to the sucking and swallowing, and her little fist kneads Veronica’s breast like she’s ravenous. “Eats like her mother.”

The lack of sarcastic comeback tells Logan what he needs to know. He watches them for a few more seconds and then returns to the car for Veronica’s suitcase. After securing the bottle of Vicodin, he stops in the kitchen to make her a sandwich. Midway through spreading peanut butter on bread, the crying resumes. Louder and angrier than before.

Foregoing the jelly, he slaps another slice of bread on top, grabs a glass of milk and the pills, and rushes down the hall. Veronica’s leaning over the co-sleeper trying to give Wyatt a pacifier. He sets the food on the nightstand. “What happened?”

“I don’t know!” Agitated, Veronica tosses the unwanted binky on the bed. “She fell asleep so I put her down and she started to scream.”

He eyes the bawling infant. “Do you think there’s something wrong?”

“How should I know? All her cries SOUND THE SAME.” Frowning, she bites the corner of her mouth, and chews her bottom lip. She surveys their dresser and the items from the hospital as if searching for an answer. Marching over, she snatches up a blue-and-pink striped receiving blanket and spreads it on the bed. “Can you get me my laptop?”

Dutifully, Logan bounds from the room and double-times it to her office for the computer. When he returns, Veronica is unsuccessfully trying to make snug folds around the wriggling, crying baby. “Here, you take this, and I’ll finish,” he offers.

Veronica relinquishes the swaddling to boot up her laptop, but she doesn’t cede control. “You fold up the bottom next, and don’t try to straighten her legs.”

Even if he was supposed to, straightening Wyatt’s kicking legs would be impossible. He holds her arm down to her side and pulls the bottom up, folding it over her shoulder.

“It needs to be tight.” No longer content to issue stage directions, Veronica abandons the computer to help him finish rolling and tucking and folding Wyatt into a cotton cocoon.

Logan scoops her off the bed, and cradles her head in his palm, starts to gently bounce. “Is this what they mean by snug as a bug in a rug?” He makes soft shushing noises until her warbling cries fade.

Veronica sits on the bed, pulls the discarded pacifier out from beneath her leg, and tosses it on the nightstand next to her sandwich. “Thanks for my snack.” Scooching back on the mattress, she reclaims her comfortable spot, and takes a bite of the peanut butter sans jelly. She lifts a corner of the bread, wrinkles her nose. “It’s crunchy.”

“That’s all we have. Do you want an omelet instead?” Her head tilts like she’s considering, and Logan tries to sell it. “With cheese and bacon?” Anticipating what is bound to be a yes, he returns Wyatt to the co-sleeper. The crying is instant. Loud and insistent like an ignored car alarm.

Dropping her sandwich on the plate, Veronica leans forward to peer over the edge of the bassinet. “Swaddling is supposed to work. Think we did it wrong?”

Logan doesn’t see how - it’s not that complicated. “Maybe she doesn’t like it?”

Veronica huffs in frustration, grabs the computer and Googles--how to swaddle your newborn--clicks the video link. The man totes the ‘happiest baby on the block’ method of swaddling and generously refers to the bawling infant as “a little fussy.” Veronica watches the two minute video twice.

“See? You’re supposed to LIKE being swaddled.” Veronica angles the laptop screen so Wyatt can witness the happy, quiet baby in the video. It doesn’t have any effect. Actually, Logan’s pretty sure Wyatt’s cries get LOUDER. Her scrunched face turning red with the effort. Veronica looks ready to cry along with her.

“You should take your pain pills and get some sleep.” Logan leans over the side of the co-sleeper, untucks the burrito-folded blanket, and picks up the baby. Turning her on her side, he holds her to his chest. “Wyatt and I will bond.”

Relief spreads across Veronica’s face—forehead unwrinkling and the pinched lines around her mouth disappearing—and then she bites her bottom lip, anxious. “Are you sure?”

“It’s not my first time being yelled at by a tiny, angry blonde.” And from the way Veronica glares at him, it won’t be his last. “Get some rest,” he amends, kissing her temple. “I can hold down the fort. You’ve done more than your share of the work already.”

She smiles, corner of her mouth quivering in a way that proves even HER endurance has limits, and sinks back on her mountain of pillows with a sigh. He grabs the laptop, which is autoplaying the fourth in a series of apparently-unrealistic swaddling videos, and carts both it and his still ‘fussing’ daughter out of the room.

Halfway down the hall, the cries climb in volume, thin and shrill like the howl of some small exotic animal. He sets the laptop hurriedly on the foyer console so he has both hands free to pat and rock.

“Got her looks and my impulse control, did you?” he asks stroking a palm along her tiny back and marveling that an actual human being can be this small. “Good thing this household will be liquor cabinet and Aston Martin free.”

Wyatt grumbles but subsides, head tilting to rest on his shoulder. “Hey, what about we try out that sling thing, huh? It’s what all the best-dressed dads are wearing, they tell me, and you know how particular I am about clothes. Or rather, you DON’T know yet, because you’re twenty-eight hours old, but if you’re anything like your mother you’ll catch on quick.”

She grunts, opening her mouth over his pec--maybe she’d enjoy a third dinner. Carrying her into the nursery Veronica nested all over like shopping was going out of style, he says, “Sling first, then bottle. Believe me, I’m familiar with the Mars appetite, but I like to do one thing at a time so I can do it well. Blink if you agree.”

A small fist flails, catching him beneath the jaw, and he says, “Okay THAT you got from me. But thumb on the outside and put your weight behind it, or you’re really only hurting yourself, jellybean.”

“So this is your room.” He spins in a slow circle, supporting her head so she can see the soft green walls and classic Winnie-the-Pooh decals. “Every comfort money can buy And I’ll let you in on a secret we with our inherited wealth seldom admit… money can buy a LOT. Anyway, we hope you like it here, because incompetent though we may be, we plan to keep you for the whole eighteen years. Don’t worry about the crib, I promise to put it together well before it’s needed.”

Last-minute packages are spilled across the waiting crib mattress; he locates the sling, still boxed, and grabs the already-assembled bouncy chair for good measure. “Right, diaper bag is… in the kitchen, if my sleep-deprived memory is correct. Afraid you’ll have to settle for formula just this once. The milk factory is enjoying a well-earned nap, and that thousand-dollar breast pump has yet to earn out.”

Wyatt emits a squawk, and he grins. “Elitist already, huh? I like it. Only the finest formula for you m’dear, cross my heart. And the bottles, I promise, are top of the line.”

It’s relatively simple to haul his catch into the living room; the harness on the bouncy chair isn’t nearly as intimidating as the car seat. He straps her in snugly, since her head has a tendency to loll. She watches him with bright, curious eyes as he rips open the sling-box and withdraws what looks like a Lawrence of Arabia cape.

“Fabulous.” He twists yards of soft grey fabric between his hands, trying to picture how they might comfortably cradle an infant. “I can build a lean-to in ten minutes flat, and survive drown-proofing with flair, but this definitely wasn’t covered in survival training.”

Remembering the computer, and the YouTube videos it can access, he books back to the hall. The minute Logan clears the living room door, the screeching resumes...louder, now, as if she’s got a forty-year-old opera singer’s lungs hidden in that six-pound frame.

His mouth shapes the word fuck but he manages not to say it, since begin as you mean to go on. In one move, he swoops up the computer, pivots, and heads back to the world’s smallest drill sergeant before she can wake her exhausted mother.

Wyatt’s gaze locks on him when he reappears, and her screeches seem to GAIN intensity--short, sharp bursts of offended noise like she’s chewing him out, pissed-off-Mars-style. He can’t help but laugh, bends way, way down to kiss her forehead; this decreases the noise level from ‘beyond furious’ to ‘baleful’.

“Cleary this chair is substandard,” he says, bouncing it with one foot as he types, thanking god his Naval-aviation career taught him fine-motor dexterity and multitasking. “I’ll be letting you speak to the manager’s manager about it, since those screams of yours could make anyone do ANYTHING.”

There’s a video from the sling-maker’s website in the list, so he plays that; follows the directions of the world’s most monotone Earth Mother as she expertly drapes the thing around herself and deposits a Betsy Wetsy inside. Wyatt’s chair harness unbuckles, thankfully, with the press of one latch. But when he deposits her in the supposedly-cozy nest he’s fashioned, it closes around her like an Invasion of the Body Snatchers pod, and she disappears from view.

“Shit,” he says, breaking his own rules as he shoves fabric aside, and rescues his daughter from the evil-but-kitten-soft depths. He tucks her against his chest, struggling to remove the strap from around his neck without garroting himself. And just like that, again, she quiets.

Light dawns at last in his badly-undercaffeinated brain.

“It’s not about independence at all with you, is it?” he asks, tilting her far enough back to study her face. She blinks at him, mouth twisting, and emits a complacent squawk. “You could care less about swaddling versus freedom--you just want to be HELD.”

He traces a finger along her brow, marveling at how, despite her tininess, he can already see Veronica in her face. Her little hand flails, opening like a starfish. Smacks against his pinkie and closes on it, gripping him tight. And he’s had enough experience falling in forever-love to recognize the emotion washing over him.

“If that’s what you need,” he tells her, serious. “It’s what you’ll always get. I’m here for you, jellybean. In this house, you’ll be treated like the queen you are.”

Wyatt grunts, wiggling closer, and he says, “Yeah, that’s nice to know, huh? And it’s a nice house too, don’t you think? I mean I realize it’s your first, but you’ve already proved you’re discerning.”

“Ah-na-na-na,” she says, and he says, “I completely agree. And it’s just dawned on me that this is MY first real home, too, so I think we must just be...really, really lucky.”

He settles back into the comfortable sofa, making the infant equivalent of an easy chair out of his leg and arm. Wyatt cuddles in, eyes starting to drift closed, and he smiles.

“This parent thing isn’t too difficult - you just need to stay this little,” he tells her, reaching for the remote. Clicks the TV on and hits mute, activating the subtitles with his thumb.

By the time he’s got the search menu up, she’s almost asleep, drowsy gaze still fixed on his face.

Logan flips through the channels. “What should we watch? Easy Rider?” He glances at the baby; with a sigh, her eyes shut at last. “Too soon? Okay, what about The Good, the Bad, and the Ugly?”

The title ‘Parenthood’ stops his channel-surfing. He hits the info button: Steve Martin’s character is driven to be the best father he can be because of his dissatisfaction with his own childhood.

Logan smirks. “Looks like we found the perfect movie,” he tells her, and settles in to watch.

Lyrics are from this song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=y5zCaRaJ-kE

[ciathyzareposts]

Missed Classic: The Archers – Won or Lost? (With Final Rating)

By Ilmari

Last time I managed to complete two of the four parts of The Archer. Now, it’s time to try the two remaining ones.

Part three: Eddie Grundy

Trevor Harrison, the voice of Eddie Grundy

After a droll old conservative and a love-sick teenager it’s time to let the comic relief in. Eddie Grundy was born in 1951 to Joe and Susan Grundy. The Grundy family didn’t really play any role in the life of Ambridge until 1970s, when Joe Grundy was introduced as a tenant farmer at Grange Farm and a widower with two sons, Alf and Eddie. Alf was always an on/off-character, who spent a lot of time elsewhere – usually in jail – while Eddie soon joined his father to become staples of Ambridge life. From the very beginning Grundys got the role of perpetual underdogs, who never had the opportunity or good luck to rise above their working class position.

Come the eighties, Eddie Grundy had already settled into the role of a lovable rogue. He spends a lot of his time at Grange Farm, although he also hopes to make it big as a country singer. In 1980s, Eddie has recently married Clarrie, the daughter of farm labourer Jethro Larkin, and this marriage will last all the way to the present day. And oh yes, he has ferrets as pets.

New arrival

Really, do I have to spell it? You have to choose between Chicken Kiev, a ferret and a baby, which one is going to interest the audience?

The problem is that the Grundy family is poor and Eddie doesn’t have the money for an extension that a third child would require. So, Eddie has to make one himself. He starts digging something, puts his boot on it and falls into septic tank. I think I’ve set the standards for the rest of the season.

In the end this plot line goes nowhere – Clarrie wasn’t really pregnant after all.

The love life of Joe Grundy

Joe Grundy refuses to do work and is just a nuisance. I make Eddie suggest Joe could move in with Martha Woodford, the village shopkeeper and a widower. Joe asks Martha to a movie, where the romantic atmosphere affects him and he proposes to Martha. Martha is excited, but Joe backs up when he hears that Martha would want costly wedding with champagne and caviar.

Holiday

Clarrie wants to go on a holiday. Having no clue where to take this plot line, I make Eddie suggest that Clarrie should look at paper for ideas. At first Clarrie wants to visit Disneyland, but then she settles for Torremolinos, since Andie and Fergy went somewhere nearby. Although it would be a nice little surprise that they would find on the spot that their hotel has not yet been built, that gets a reprimand from BBC, because Spanish tourist council complained.

The sad tale of Jumbo the sow

Joe Grundy has purchased an old sow, Jumbo, from the market. The problem is to get the pig back to the farm. I make Eddie put Jumbo at the back of his van, together with his wife and children. Then the pig makes a mess and Clarrie won’t have it. Eddie tries to sooth the sow with some music and she does like “June is busting all over”, but gets all restless with Eddie’s hit record “Poor Pig”.

Jumbo puts her weight onto the back of the van and flies out. Where does it land? As you can see from the picture, on the bonnet of Jack Woolley’s Bentley, driven by Higgs. Jack tells Eddie to move the pig, but she won’t budge. They have to drive to Grey Gables, and when Eddie goes to ask for Jumbo, he hears that Jean Paul, “Wally’s froggy cook, has cut Jumbo into little cutlets”.

Audience loves the story, censorship brigade not so much – they are after my head because of Jumbo’s fate.

Eddie’s cars

Eddie’s van is on its last legs and its doors keep falling off. I decide Eddie should get it renovated. Later I learn that Hollerton Motors did a lousy job, since the doors open just when Eddie has a load of poultry in it. Eddie phones infuriated to Hollerton Motors and demands a repay. The company suggests a new car in return, and Eddie chooses a Triumph Stag.

Later, Eddies notices that brakes of Triumph are very sluggish. He decides to get the brakes fixed, but then someone nicks the car. “Oh well, it wasn’t much use to getting the pigs on the market.” BBC thinks I am getting too unrealistic – how can the Grundys afford so many car repairs?

Fred the Ferret

Clarrie doesn’t like that Eddie is keeping a pet ferret Fred in their bedroom. Eddie puts ferret in the kitchen, where his son William pokes his finger into the ferret cage. Result is Fred biting William.

I could let Eddie bang either Fred’s or William’s head, but this seems too drastic a method. Instead, Eddie lures Freddie away with Clarrie’s chicken, and Clarries gets mad, because it was their dinner. Fred is banished outside.

After a few days, Fred’s cage door is open. Eddie finds him in the shed, nibbling his way through some sacks of feed. Now the ferret goes out into the dog house and has strict rations and no treats for a month.

After all the turmoil, Fred gets sick and doesn’t want to eat at all. Eddie calls in the local vet, Martin Lambert, which always means a call from Veterinary Association afterwards. Old Martin doesn’t fail us. He insults Eddie for calling him in to see a ferret, Eddie insults him back and the next thing you know is that Eddie’s nose is bleeding. Eddie goes to see the local doctor, who thinks that the only condition Eddie has is an unhealthy obsession with ferrets.

“The whole world is going barmy. I sit and wonder why the world is not kinder to ferrets.”

The Jailhouse Rock

Eddie’s bigger brother, Alf, is getting out of prison. Since he has no money nor job, Alf wants to be with his kin. Eddie dislikes the idea and goes to meet him with Clarrie. Eddie tries to persuade Alf not to come, but Alf starts to cry, which makes Clarrie go soft and invite Alf in.

Eddie has to now decide a proper way to celebrate his brother’s arrival. I at first suggest that Eddie just gets some cans in, but he and Joe drink them before Alf arrives. Instead, Eddie arranges a party at Cat and Fiddle, a local pub. Clarrie and Eddie go to the pub, and Clarrie complains about people being sick. Then Alf arrives with his lady friend, Delectable Dolores, and the party really starts. Clarrie can’t stand it and goes home.

When Eddie, Alf and Dolores get back to the farm, the party continues. Alf gets the lager out and Dolores dances in tune with Joe Grundy’s gramophone. Clarrie doesn’t like it and threatens to move to her father with the kids. Eddie begs her to come back, which she does, but only on the condition of getting a new dress. Eddie sends Alf and Dolores to bed and breakfast – at his father-in-law.

Country road

Eddie’s band is finally hitting it big, and they got a real gig! The only problem is that Eddie needs fancy cowboy boots. I make Eddie go around the town asking for work, and Phil Archer hires him to help with harvesting. Unfortunately, Eddie backs the combine into the shed.

Next, Brian Aldridge (Phil Archer’s brother-in-law) hires Eddie to paint some holiday cottages. While Eddie is whitewashing the fence, his friend Bugsy arrives with biker girls. Eddie invites them in to have some quality time. While they are busy with drinking and smoking and Eddie has his hands filled with a biker girl called Big Bertha, gamekeeper Tom Ferret bursts in and Bertha hurls a can at him.

Eddie ends up nicked because of all the damage done to cottages. I get in trouble too. BBC is furious, because my script pandered into lower instincts. Besides, people were worried what happened to old Tom. I get sacked!

I start all over again from the spot where Eddie needed some money. This time, I make him raid Joe Grundy’s sock drawer. Eddie finds £ 40, but also a love letter. Eddie decides to leave the money and blackmail Joe with the letter – unless Joe will improve his wages, Eddie will pin the letter up at the local pub. Joe does give him a raise, but only for two quids. Eddie cannot afford the new boots and has to wear his old wellies for the gig.

Part 4: Nelson Gabriel

While I managed to complete third part with only one reload, the fourth and final part was a different matter. I tried different tactics five or six times, but without success. I suspect the ending won’t be worth the effort of continuing, so winning the game is left as an exercise for the reader.

Jack May, Voice of Nelson Gabriel

Unlike with the previous characters, it was difficult to find information about Nelson Gabriel. Main reason for this is that the actor Jack May – and with him, the character he portrayed – died in the nineties, while the majority of Archer pages on the web focus on the current set of characters. Still, from what I’ve managed to learn, Nelson had been a major figure of the show almost from the very beginning.

Nelson Gabriel was born to Walter and Annie Gabriel in 1933. Gabriel family had traditionally been blacksmiths of Ambridge, but Walter had chosen another career and worked as a tenant farmer. Walter’s wife had died young, and Walter spent the rest of his life, until his death in 1988, dedicated to his son, always willing to turn his blind eye to Nelson’s failings.

And failings Nelson was rumored to have. Notoriously, he had been suspected of the 1967 Borchester mail van robbery, especially as he had faked his death just around the incident. Jury never found enough evidence to convict him, but rumours of illicitly gained riches persisted.

Nelson tries to keep a veneer of respectability in his role as a man of the world, owning both a sophisticated wine bar and an antique shop. Still, local police force has doubts about Nelson: could he be selling stolen goods?

Spoiled brat

Elizabeth Archer has a considerable debt for Nelson’s wine bar. Nelson can threaten to phone her dad and he can even go to Sicily to learn some creative ways for collecting debts (although Italian embassy will then complain to BBC about this misrepresentation of harmless Sicilian farmers). Eventually they come to an agreement that Elizabeth will do some cleaning for Nelson. I have little sympathy for Elizabeth, the whining teenager, but I must feel pity when I see how Nelson treats her. Nelson makes her polish all the brass in his house – and he has lot of brass items. “What it is to see an Archer toil!”

Nelson’s regular cleaner, Elsa, goes after Elizabeth, pointing out all the smears she hasn’t noticed. Elizabeth can’t take it anymore, so she pours a bucket of water on Elsa. Nelson gives Elsa an extra £ 10 as a consolation money and adds it to Elizabeth’s debt.

Later, Elizabeth is hired as Ms. Snowy the ice cream lady and makes enough money to clear her debt and to buy a bottle of Monet for Nelson. Nelson thinks he might have chosen the wrong career, if ice cream sellers are paid so well.

Depressed dad

Nelson’s father, Walter, is depressed and thinks his days are numbered (well, he will die in a few years). One possible answer is to buy a small macaw to Walter, but it will eventually grow up and Nelson has to get rid of it by selling it to a gypsy. Back to square one.

Finally, after other false leads, Nelson organises a tea party for his dad, inviting all the Oversixties of the village. Nelson catches Joe Grundy nipping some chocolate fingers into his pockets. Whatever Nelson does, it all turns against him in the end, but let’s say he suggests to Joe that milking time is coming soon. Joe doesn’t get the hint and finally someone else notices the missing chocolate fingers. Nelson accuses Joe, but then Tom Ferret makes a crying confession that he has been eating chocolate fingers for the whole evening. Meanwhile, Joe has managed to sneak away and the common opinion turns against Nelson, for blaming an innocent man. Nelson tries to point out how suspicious it was that Joe Grundy left so suddenly. “It is the milking time”, all say in chorus.

Renewing the wine bar

Nelson does not have enough money for sending his satin sheets to French laundry. He can try to cut back the expenses by sacking Shane, his cook. Unfortunately, Shane is the only gay person in village, and BBC needs to fill its minority quota.

Eventually, Nelson decides to go into partnership with Pat and Tony, another line of the Archer family (seriously, Ambridge citizens should really consider extending their gene pool beyond Archers). They are going to open a whole-food restaurant “Wild Oats”. Problem is that local organic food provider (yet another Archer) cannot provide Nelson with the products he requires.

After trying to get organic food elsewhere and making for a few weeks multi-hour driving trips to another town, Nelson decides to stop. Instead, he listens to Shane’s advice and starts a gay discotheque Adonis, where Joan Collins lookalike competitions are held (male strippers are strictly forbidden by BBC). The discotheque is at first successful, but then it becomes hip in the gay community to look straight, and Adonis has to be shut down for too little audience.

Nelson also tries to redecorate his wine bar in a more Oriental style. He doesn’t have money to buy real Oriental, so he settles for fake Sari. He also wants some Oriental style statuettes, and he can try to dupe local art students to do them for him. Unfortunately, their teacher gets angry and threatens to release the local education committee on Nelson – and BBC gets complaints about Nelson cheating students.

Oversixties trip

Peggy Archer has too much things to do on Grey Gables hotel, so she cannot chaperone the Oversixties annual field trip. The Oversixties are terrified when they hear that a recent arrival to Ambridge, Mrs. Antrobus, known also as “The Dog Woman”, because of her kennels for Afghan hounds, has volunteered to lead the trip. Oversixties want Nelson to help them.

One possibility is to let Nelson ask Jennifer Aldridge, Peggy’s daughter, to take the lead. Nelson samples some of Jennifer’s yoghurt, when meeting her, and the next night he wakes with stomach pains. Nelson tries to extort Jennifer with this information, since she has been trying to sell her yoghurt into a health shop. Unfortunately, Jennifer knows some dirt of Nelson. “History has never seen a Gabriel retreat from battle so hastily!”

Nelson has then no other choice but to lead the tour himself. He has to choose the destination – either Weston-super-Mare where the Oversixties have traditionally traveled, or the more sophisticated Longleat. If Nelson chooses Longleat, Mrs. Anthrobus gets excited and starts calling to Marquess of Bath, who resides in Longleat. Marquess isn’t happy with Mrs. Anthrobus’s antics, and the Oversixties are banned from entering Longleat.

Weston-super-Mare it is then. Nelson still has to hire some entertainer for the long bus trip. The only real alternative is Mick ’n Dick, Borchester’s answer to Chas ‘n Dave – they do not have “any musical talent, but one rousing chorus of Knees Up, Mother Brown is much like any other”. After some amusing incidents, Mick ‘n Dick start to sing Eskimo Nell. The Oversixties men are delighted and join in, while the women and Nelson are too flabbergasted to say a thing. BBC isn’t and says a lot, since Morality Brigade are horrified (then again, some members of audience request lyrics for the song).

Antique shops

Nelson’s antique business is not doing well and he has to step up his business. One thing he can do is to read a DYI guide and start an antique restoration business. This evidently backfires sooner or later, and the local police officers pay a visit of a suspected fraud. Nelson might also start to knock on people’s door, offering cash for what might seem like junk to them, but what really are priceless antiques. Unfortunately, BBC vetoes this plan since older listeners are already afraid of con-merchants.

Eventually Nelson starts a house clearance service. He hires Stewart, one of the Horrobins – a family of local ruffians – to do the heavy work. Due to an extremely bad luck, during the first gig Nelson’s competition, Chippendale Charlie, sneaks in, locks Nelson and Stewart inside a closet and steals all the furniture. Stewart breaks the door and Nelson has to pay the damage so that he has no money to pay for Stewart. Next night, Horrobin clan pays a visit and demands the paycheck of Stewart. Nelson placates them with some whisky.

Final Rating Puzzles and Solvability

The Archers shares a central failing with Secret of Adrian Mole, namely, that the player often has no reasonable way to know what the choices made imply. Didn’t you know that a character going to Channel Islands meant writing that character out of the series? Too bad, you are dead already. And when the solution can be solved beforehand, it is usually too easy.

The case looks a bit different, when we do not focus on individual choices, but on a series of them. Adrian Mole tracked only a single number throughout the game (your score), and that number had nothing to do with your ability to move forward in the game. The Archers, on the other hand, tracks several attributes (at least realism, the opinion of BBC and the number of viewers). Furthermore, these attributes are essential for moving forward, since after each part their status is evaluated. Thus, as a whole The Archers feels more of a challenge than Adrian Mole.

Score: 2.

Interface and Inventory

I complained that Adrian Mole had too simple an interface, since the player could do nothing beyond choosing a number between 1 and 3. The Archers seemingly uses the very same interface, but the feel is quite different. Partial reason could be the complexity behind the surface that I mentioned with the previous score. Partly it is all about the context – while making decisions from three well-defined choices is something we rarely do in everyday life, I can imagine a showrunner having to choose from few possibilities to continue a plot (i.e. scripts).

Score: 2.

Story and Setting

The town of Ambridge and its occupants, as described by the radio series, form a rich background for the game. What is more, this background has an actual effect on the events of the game, which now feel like an organic growth of the history of the radio series instead of mere tacked-on stories. In addition, there’s the interesting metaelement of the player being the showrunner striving to find balance between spectacle loving audience and conservative BBC authorities. The biggest failing storywise is that all the little stories form no grand thematic whole, but are mere daily stories in the life of Ambridge.

Score: 5.

Sounds and Graphics

Every plot line has its unique distinguishing picture. Some of them just show the place where the main action happens, others reveal more plot details. Just like with Adrian Mole, the graphics are a bit more memorable than they have usually been in Level 9 games.

Score: 4

Environment and Atmosphere

The Archers is essentially a soap opera producing simulator. The idea may seem daft, but it is surprisingly fun to tinker and try to find different plot lines and reactions from the audience. I can just imagine that a similar concept with some modern genre show would be great fun:

Tyrion Lannister stands upon the Wall and decides to relieve himself. What happens next?

1) Tyrion makes a quip about people on top of the world being able to throw their wastes on the lower classes. He then soliloquises about the unequal division of power and muses about the possibility of people governing someday themselves.

2) Suddenly a hand appears from the other side of the Wall. It’s a White Walker! Tyrion grabs a sword, cuts the hand and kicks the body down. He says to the corpse: “I am sorry we couldn’t arrange a warmer welcome.”

3) One drink too many tonight has deteriorated Tyrion’s sense of balance. He leans a bit too far and falls to an icy death. Nameless watchman says: “I thought he would make a bigger splash.”

Results:

1) Entertainment Weekly writes a detailed and approving review of the show: “Rarely is a sword and sorcery show so deep and thoughtful. We may be watching a new Wire.” You gain +10 % general viewers.

2) A Song of Ice and Fire Wiki section “How the show differs from the book” has grown. You lose -20 % G. R. R. Martin fans.

Reddit goes hot: “Best action scene EVER”. You gain +30 % preteen viewers.

New Yorker columnist writes about the empowerment of minority groups in modern fantasy. You gain +30 % viewers with university degree.

3) A Song of Ice and Fire Wiki sections “How the show differs from the book” and “Beloved characters killed off too soon” have grown. You lose -40 % G. R. R. Martin fans.

Teacher from Minnesota sends an angry tweet about school children imitating the death of Tyrion: “Kids dropping from roofs like apples!” Parents all over the country restrict their children’s screen time. You lose -50% viewers under twelve years.

Little People of America is offended by the exploitation of persons of short stature in modern media. You lose -40% progressive viewers.

4chan goes viral: “This ain’t free country if we can’t make fun of dwarves!” You gain + 60 % alt-right viewers. Don’t expect to visit your mother anytime soon.

Fox Corporation considers purchasing the rights for the next season of GoT. Kelsey Grammar rumored to get the role of Sir Davos.

What doesn’t work very well is the need to carefully min/max your audience reactions. Especially the fourth part started to feel stale, because I was forced to replay the same events over and over again, when trying to find a working combination of events. Either more variation in the possible storylines or less stringent criteria for a successful run would have been appreciated.

Score: 4.

Dialogue and Acting

I enjoyed my time reading this satire or parody of a soap opera. Some sites suggest that the writers of the show wrote parts of the text, and it is quite believable that some professionals were involved. The writers showed a good sense of humour and wit, especially in their descriptions of what the BBC executives and the audience liked about the show. Furthermore, all the four characters have a different and believable voice.

Score: 5.

(2 + 2 + 5 + 4 + 4 + 5)/.6 = 37. Most of you had significantly lower score guesses, but Will Moczarski nailed it almost perfectly and chose a one point too high a score. Congratulations!

Well, I wouldn’t have believed it when I started this game, but yes, this is one of the best Level 9 game so far. Of course, this is mostly due to the story and the writing being at least decent. Viewed solely as a game, The Archers is not much to look at, but as a piece of interactive fiction it is at least entertaining, if not that deep of an experience. In fact, the rating of The Archers might give us some indication how visual novels would fare with the PISSED ratings.

source http://reposts.ciathyza.com/missed-classic-the-archers-won-or-lost-with-final-rating/

[fashiontrendin-blog]

Accents, Language and Race: 5 People on Why They Code-Switch

http://fashion-trendin.com/accents-language-and-race-5-people-on-why-they-code-switch/

Accents, Language and Race: 5 People on Why They Code-Switch

The first time I actively noticed someone code-switch I was about 10. I told my mom (who is white) that she put on an accent around my dad’s relatives (who are black) at Christmas. “Please stop,” I said in the car one day. When you’re 10, everything is embarrassing, but I think there was something about that particular brand of code-switching that stuck out to me. It seemed so inauthentic, an attempt to belong in a way that just came off as awkward. So often when we talk about code-switching, we talk about a certain group shifting to meet the expectations of a dominant culture. I think watching that in reverse was what caused me to notice it, even though I had been code-switching for most of my life.

There’s the linguistic-focused dictionary definition of code-switching — “the practice of alternating between two or more languages or varieties of language in conversation” — and then there’s the more colloquial one that centers around changing one’s behavior, conversation topics and dress when around different groups of people. There’s a podcast, a Key & Peele sketch and a million memes about code-switching, and for Duality Month at Man Repeller, I wanted to hear from some other real-life, self-proclaimed code-switchers about their experiences. Below, five women talk about the hows and whys of their personal code-switching and how it feels to move between languages and identities.

Rachita Vasan, 24

I grew up not feeling at home in my own skin, feeling too Indian for Americans and too American for Indians. You internalize those judgements and value systems, not realizing that in doing so, you’re setting yourself up to fail because you consider yourself to be an inherent contradiction.

But you can’t sharpen a knife without a whetstone — as hard as my childhood was in a lot of ways, I credit it with so much of who I am today. Constantly having to reevaluate your audience and context can take a lot out of you when the entire world is trying to tell you who you’re supposed to be. So I developed a really strong internal radar for what felt authentic and honest to me — time spent understanding other people was also time spent nurturing my intuition and sense of self. Especially as an only child, I didn’t have anyone Indian-American to really model behavior off of other than myself, so I got really good at observing and learning from the people around me, even if they weren’t “hybrids” like I was.

When you code-switch, you get really fucking good at understanding the power of words

The practice of putting myself in other people’s shoes to delve into their state of mind is one that became critical to almost every skillset I’m proud of today, especially writing. When you code-switch, you get really fucking good at understanding the power of words, how to get people to take you seriously, how to override their lizard brains shouting stereotypes and misconceptions in the background of your conversation. I have an endless fascination with the nuances in language and communication because as far as I’m concerned, I am a nuance.

There’s a tension in code-switching, you know? But there’s also an energy and a power in that tension; eventually, I learned that being from two cultures didn’t have to mean I was excluded from both. It meant that, once I grew enough to feel secure about who I was and who I wanted to be, I could be greedy with my identity — I could have everything I wanted, I could be unpredictable, I could have all of the above instead of a, b or c. I might look like I’m caught between two cultures, but I am exactly who I am and where I belong. That hyphen in Indian-American could have been a shackle, but I turned it into a bridge.

Victoria

My brain subconsciously goes back and forth from thinking in Spanish to English. If I’m thinking in English, I’ll blurt something out in Spanish and vice-versa. I often find myself accidentally describing things using Spanish slang and being unable to explain to English speakers what exactly this slang word means.

Sometimes certain topics and emotions bring out the Spanish or English in me. It’s interesting because when I’m talking about love, joy and all things sweet, I tend to speak in Spanish. When I’m angry or annoyed or anything of that sort, I tend to speak in English. I think that has to do with how romantic Spanish sounds compared to harsh English.

Overall, it’s a blessing and a curse, but I consider it a huge part of my identity now.

Leslie Bartley, 26

I learned to code-switch from an early age. I watched as my mom, and our lineage of Kentucky women, find out that if we wanted access to jobs, mobility and respect, we better scrub our tongues clean and recognize that how we talk to our family is NOT how we talk in public. Put your shoes on and hang your banjoes up; it’s school time.

“I heard your accent. Thank god I got rid of mine years ago.”

A hellish CEO I met recently in an elevator in Bangkok asked me where I was from after a gregarious introduction from my end. After telling him Kentucky, he responded, “I heard your accent. Thank god I got rid of mine years ago.”

To create balance in spaces I own or feel responsible for, I draw on tropes of Southern women of yore, caricatures of my matriarchs who don’t sell used cars like my actual mom, but had the whole day to focus on buttermilk biscuits and receiving the boys for supper. If I want to make guests, new folks or students of mine comfortable, I’ll greet them with a plucky “Hay y’all,” clasp onto their forearms and ensure them that “I got you baby!” As I’m pushing into my late twenties, I’m starting to recognize the patterns of when I use my Kentucky accent outside of familial spaces, and every time it’s to create warmth.

Olha Kurenda, 18

As a native Ukrainian, I speak a whopping five languages: Russian, English, German, Polish and Ukrainian (naturally). In my country, code-switching is very common, since so many people speak both Russian and Ukrainian every day without realizing that they have changed languages.

I love code-switching with my mom. She doesn’t speak English and German fluently, so hearing her pick up the words I use when talking to my English friends, sometimes without knowing the meaning of them, is hilarious. All the languages I speak have allowed me to learn words which do not exist in other languages. German pick-up lines are amazing; you can compliment someone by telling them, “You look hot as a rat.” In Ukrainian, you can call someone a breadcrumb and they would feel flattered. In general, code-switching allows me to know so many idioms, and using them in other languages can be a lot of fun!

Code-switching really spices up my speech and makes people slightly confused. But sometimes you have to confuse people, right?

Jean Hall, 33

Code-switching is as much a part of growing up black as double-dutch and hot combs; you would be hard-pressed to find an educated black person who hasn’t mastered the art. I grew up in a predominantly white suburb of Washington, D.C., and commuted an hour each day to attend an all-black, African-centered private school in northwest D.C. I was labeled the “white girl” immediately. Not only did I live in white west bumfuck, but my mother is from Connecticut and my father is from New Jersey … I lacked that particular D.C. drawl, the one that pronounces crayon as crown, and so I “talked white,” too.

In kindergarten, I learned to minimize the parts of me that my black inner-city peers referred to as white. At school, it was “crown”; at home, it was “crayon” or my mother would pop me for talking [like that].” I spent kindergarten through high school switching between the codes of the streets and the codes of my mama’s house. In high school, I had more freedom and thus more access to the hood. My street code was solid, I dated boys who sold drugs, I had an adopted big brother from a hood that claimed me, I danced on speakers at go-gos (dangerous dance parties that usually ended with gunshots), I was all set! Then came college, where the hood persona became a bit less necessary. My mother was thrilled when she realized my D.C. accent was slowly fading away.

I learned that my underlying hood edge gave me a kind of cachet

I moved to New York after college, to Bed-Stuy, to be exact (not today’s Bed-Stuy, but the Bed-Stuy of 10 years ago when you could still get your purse snatched). I finally lived in the hood, and my years of practice served me well. If the little hoodlums came at me sideways on Nostrand Avenue, I knew exactly what to say to shut them all the way up. But at work as a visual merchandiser for Louis Vuitton, a different code was expected, and my education and upbringing prepared me to switch easily. I’d read the right books, visited the right countries, wore the right brands and pronounced them properly. While working in fashion — like magazine fashion, not retail — I learned that my underlying hood edge gave me a kind of cachet. I would find the white people I worked with picking up my slang that had now morphed into a weird amalgamation of Atlanta, D.C., New York and California hood.

Let’s fast forward 11 years … I’m 33, and Bed-Stuy isn’t the hood anymore. I’ve done enough soul-searching to know and love who I am: I’m a little bit country, a little rock and roll and even a little Soul II Soul. I’m educated, confident, well dressed and well travelled, but I prefer bodega coffee to espresso, consider “chicken and mumbo sauce with a jumbo mix” a delicacy and I am exactly the same everywhere I go.

Illustration by Emily Zirimis.