September 9th, 2009

the arch of the eyebrows gives it away

"Palimpsest" (gen, PG-13, post-4x22)

Hi, everybody!

In honor of our show (our show! our boys!) coming back tomorrow, I'm posting a little story. It's set sometime after 4x22, but the exact timeline is not specified, and the story contains no season 5 speculation or spoilers, because that's just how I roll. My thanks to janissa11, who was supposed to get this story as a birthday treat, but because of real-life stuff on my end, I couldn't get it together in time, at which point she stepped in to beta the thing. And my thanks too to musesfool, dotfic, and tenaciousmetoo, who strolled along Coney Island with me where we saw the bumper cars. Yes, ladies, here at last is the friggin' bumper-car story.

I'm going to make one more post (I know! why am I being so chatty?) and then will answer comments that you lovely people left on my last few blabby posts. [ETA: I meant to note that I stole a line from this from one of my favorite movies, Walking and Talking.]



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As always, I'd love to hear what you think.
happy!

Rafa!

Hi, everybody!

I come from a tennis-watching family with delusions of grandeur; a cousin on my mother's side was, for a time, ranked the #1 women's tennis player in India, and we've all turned this fact into proof that we are an athletic family, when the truth is . . . we're so not, aside from that cousin and my little brother.

Anyway. Tennis. I forgot how much fun it is, until I tuned in over the long weekend to watch Rafael Nadal play. I can't believe this kid is only 23. I feel like I've been watching him play for years - because I have, because he's been winning tournaments, Grand Slams, since he was a teenager. He plays a really beautiful, exciting game - groundstrokes and footwork, rather than a big serve and aggressive winners. And he takes it seriously, isn't a ham, but he's clearly having fun out there (even when he's playing with a torn abdominal muscle).

And he's just adorable. He lives with his family! He got all flustered when an interviewer noted the whistling and cheering that erupted when he took off his shirt (to get medical attention for his abdominal muscle)! He's lithe, with big shoulders and slim hips; he's got a crooked smile and eye-crinkles; he has the most beautiful skin ever.

I don't know why I'm rambling about him now, except that I was in bed, watching with sleep-droopy eyes as he finished off Gael Monfils, and that gave me some very nice images to go to sleep on. And then I promptly had a dream in which Patrick Warburton - in full Tick get-up - was trying to seduce Meryl Streep.
dean says wtf

WTF x 2

I just don't get people sometimes. Here's what my evening was like:

(1) Leave work early so I can be home in time for the plumber (to hook up my new washer and dryer). A group of seven or eight boys who looked like juniors or seniors in high school got on the same subway car and immediately started performing. But they were TERRIBLE. They couldn't stay on key, didn't even know the words to the songs they were "singing," so they kept switching like they were in the middle of the most demented medley ever: "Although we've come to the end of the road, / Still I can't let you go / I love you, you love me, / We're a happy family / In the still of the night / I held you, held you tight / All you single ladies, all you single ladies." And they were LOUD. And had the nerve to pass a hat at the end, laughing the whole time about how awesome they were.

(2) Then the plumber, who is awesome, brought an assistant along to help move the washer and dryer. They worked for about an hour, and they'd left and I'd just settled down with a mug of hot chocolate to watch Glee and Leverage when the doorbell rang, and the assistant was at my door. He asked if my hot water was working. So I led him to the kitchen, where I tried the tap. As we're standing there waiting for the water to get hot, he asked me where I'm from. "India," I said. "But I bet you're not Sikh, right?" he said. "Right," I said, wondering how he knew that - Hindu women and Sikh women are, in my experience, pretty indistinguishable. "Yeah, some of my customers are Sikhs. They're so cheap - cheaper than Jews," is what he comes out with next. I'm standing there with my mouth hanging open, and I guess he thought I hadn't heard him or fully appreciated his rapier wit, so he repeated it, this time with feeling: "They're cheap - even cheaper than Jews." I wanted this guy out of my apartment immediately. "Water's hot!" I said, and ushered him to the door. WTF?