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prototypesteve · 4 months

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1994. A little story about my asexuality being misinterpreted (by a professional) as a disorder, and how that led to years of trouble.

Animation Description: An aromatic-asexual sense pride flag, onto which someone writes "So the thing is… I don't think I've ever had what my friends say would qualify as a real crush, and even after four years of college I still haven't started dating, but maybe the weirdest part is that I've never wanted to." Then, abruptly and violently black paint is spattered across the message and in white text someone superimposes the dismissive message "It's just low self esteem! – Expert opinion"

In 1994, I went to see a counsellor.

What happened was some friends and I were just talking about life. We were all in our early 20s, and so of course sex came up, and I confided that no, I hadn’t had it yet. In fact, I hadn’t even been on anything that would qualify as a date, yet.

I’ve always had good luck with friends. Instead of teasing me about it, one of them gave me the name of a counselling clinic, because they thought it might be worth checking that everything was okay, and there wasn’t something getting in the way. (It was the 1990s, and Generation X didn’t have taboos about getting help.) So I made an appointment.

I described what we’d now call textbook aromantic asexuality. I explained that I was 22, and hadn’t yet been in a relationship. I hadn’t even had anything like a crush. I hadn’t experimented; no kisses on a dare. I had pretty good friendships with guys and girls, but nothing closer than friendship. I felt “behind schedule,” especially because my friends all found it odd that I was still inexperienced.

The counsellor gently asked if I felt it was because I wasn’t allowed to be “experienced”. They noted that I referred to everything euphemistically. Experienced. Relationship. Spark. Feelings. Dating. I never said love, sex, aroused, boyfriend, or girlfriend. I never said romance. Was it because my parents had some strict taboos around seeing girls while I was just fresh out of college, when I should be focused on my career? (I’m half Japanese so that was plausible.) Was it because I felt I wasn’t allowed to love the people I felt attracted to, because I might have been gay or bisexual and hiding that? (Also a fair question, because, sadly, the 90s still weren’t a safe or fair time for my gay and lesbian friends—I didn’t know that I knew any bi or trans people at the time, although I’m sure I did.)

I thought about it. The honest answers were no. My family didn’t make me feel like dating was inappropriate or wasteful, and I just didn’t feel anything “special” for any of my guy friends (and I had guy friends who were comfortable telling me they were gay).

I went on. I explained that I felt happy. I didn’t see any obvious signs of depression or illness or anything. All I felt was a little embarrassed about being so far behind all my friends. Not dating, not “feeling the spark”, not having a “type,” and not having any thoughts on a future family all made me feel immature, and like maybe I had some kind of developmental thing going on. I knew what all those things were. I wasn’t some sheltered or repressed prude. I just wasn’t doing any of that stuff. Not even the perfectly innocent stuff like having a crush, or even really having a “type.”

But it was 1994 and counsellors didn’t have asexual or aromantic on their list of things it might be. So the best the counsellor could guess was that I just didn’t feel good about myself. It must have been low self esteem. (The early 90s still reeked of the yuppie success-or-die greedhead era.) Their guess was that I might have felt my sexuality was something I didn’t feel I had earned the right to access yet, evidenced by my using euphemisms to describe love, romance, and sexuality.

They suggested I read “Feeling Good, the New Mood Therapy” by David Burns, and not worry, because some people are just late bloomers.

And I left there, redirected away from a truth that neither of us knew about. And it would be nearly thirty years before I “reopened the case”, and asked the same questions and got a better answer: Some people experience little to no sexual or romantic attraction. They aren’t necessarily repulsed by sex, or driven away by trauma. They might even have perfectly natural responses to sexual stimuli either alone or with others, but they just don’t feel “I want that, and I want it with this specific person, or this specific sort of person”. They call those people aromantic and/or asexual, based on a presumption that romantic and sexual attraction can sometimes be experienced independently.

I learned that in 2022.

I needed to know that in 1994.

I know I’ll gradually get over that. But yeah. I feel a lot of things about it. Some of them are bad things. But what I’m going to choose to feel about it is grateful that the person who needed answers in 1994 made it to my answers in 2022, and didn’t fall apart in 2022 when I found those answers.

I didn’t let that lost time break me. I didn’t let the mistakes I made crush me. I didn’t find anyone to blame. (That counsellor in 1994 wasn’t hiding anything from me. The world just didn’t talk about people off the Kinsey Scale.) I didn’t let it derail my faith. Asexuality isn’t a curse, and our confusion and fear about the gift of being different like this isn’t the Gift-Giver’s fault.

I’m just going to keep moving. With answers. I’m looking forward to seeing what happens next.

#aroace #asexual #aromantic #questioning #aromantic asexual #aspec #asexuality

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vivalski · 2 years

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People wondering about Drunk Steve and honestly I think Steve’s such a Mom™️ and, also;

“A cosmopolitan? Really dingus?”

Steve, sips his cosmo, dressed to the nines because when he goes out drinking and actually wants to drink he’s got to gussy up because that’s what happens when you are, as the Reba theme song goes; 🎵 A single mom who works too hard, who loves her kids and never stops 🎶 so any occasion to go out that doesn’t involve snacks and token money must not be taken for granted.

“You guys laugh it up and drink your swill.”

“Man, you look like a waspy mom or like a Sex and The City mom, you know, trying to figure out which character you are. Cosmos are for old ladies.”

“Yeah man you’re a Charlotte. Charlotte’s not even the cool one!” Robin says, surprisingly.

Nancy tilts her head.

“It’s weird that you can accurately categorize Steve as Charlotte. Didn’t know you were a fan.”

“Oh is that the tight assed yuppie one? Cuz it fits!” Eddie and Robin stare at Steve and laugh.

Nancy giggles.

“One,” Steve puts down his fancy glass and glares at the three. “I am proudly a Charlotte. She’s a solid somewhat neurotic character who knows what she wants and goes for it despite the romantic foibles. She got Harry. We should all be so lucky to have Harry. And two,” he points at them, listing their drinking faults on by one.

“You,” Points to Robin with a sneer. “Drink shit vodka out of the plastic bottle, two chugs and your so drunk you scream profanities in the night and keep trying to get us to dare you to kiss Nancy.”

Robin blushes, puts down her glass of clear vodka.

“Yeah,” Nancy looks at Robin confusedly. “Whats up with that?”

“You!” Points to Nancy, she jumps. “Actually like Goldschlager and commit crimes like a feral mongoose and lord forbid you stop at that felony because, no, you’re constant mooning and flashing people of authority. Hopper still can’t look you in the eye after the sheriff’s station incident.”

Nancy blushes, glares and pushes her tall glass to the side. It glimmers in the light.

Eddie giggles, actually giggles at her.

“I still can’t believe you photocopied your ass and left a stack in a folder on his desk.”

“She labeled them important.” Robin grins. “And stole all the illicit evidence.”

“So. Much. Weed.” Eddie grins.

“And handcuffs!”

Steve takes another sip, and then pokes Eddie hard in the chest.

“And. You.”

“And…me?” Eddie points to himself.

“You hit on me constantly, Eddie.”

“I really do.” Agrees, unashamed.

“You try to take off your clothes.”

“I get hot when I’m drunk.” Shrugs.

“You ordered $500 worth of pizza and wings to be delivered to Carver‘s house. With his parents credit card information which you somehow have.”

“Totally guilty.” Nods.

“And that’s not counting the time before that, when you got drunk and you paid two lesbian hookers to show up at his house to perform on each other in front of his mother’s dinner party. And they were paid to also say that Jason was the one who paid them and scheduled this private showing!”

“You know he’s in an all boys Catholic school because of me, right?” Says proudly.

“And the worst part about all of this, because I could excuse it all if you were drinking some sort of crazy hard obscure liquor but it’s not even that. You get White Claw drunk like some white sorority girl on spring break. What the hell is that?”

“…”

Nancy and Robin sip there drinks at the awkward silence.

“I’m not apologizing.”

Turns out Steve is a judgmental drunk. Or buzzed.

Just a bunch of silly goofballs, I adore them.

Thank you so much for this, you made my day ;o;

#I need to continue the drunk series damn #I wish I understood the Sex and the city refs tho #never watched it #fruity four #steddie #ronance

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knightsickness · 7 months

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funniest subgenre of rhaenicent modern au fic features criston as alicent’s conservative catholic yuppie fiancé or whatever rhaenyra is cucking just because it’s such a clear indicator they’ll come to the stepmom-fucking pool but refuse to drink they will not let viserys into the picture. you’re into the married woman you’re into the lesbian cucking yet you balk at the last second. let rhaenyra cuck her dad !!

#asoiaf #a song of ice and fire #hotd #house of the dragon #rhaenicent #rhaenyra targaryen #alicent hightower #criston cole

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mourningmaybells · 6 months

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jekyll and hyde but it's in the 80s and a trashy movie cat and mouse game between a public defense attorney lesbian and a yuppie 80s gilf two-faced conservative. we are snorting the evil potion.

#it's been in my head. animatic set to fright night #jekyll and hyde #the strange case of dr jekyll and mr hyde

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yallemagne · 5 months

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Instead of sleeping or doing anything else productive, I'm gonna talk about Monster High.

So like. We all know. About the new generation. I'm gonna get out all my complaining here: wahhhh I don't liiiike it, it's not like the original!!

Okay, that's done. What can we do about it? Nothing. But I can DREAM.

So in the shower, I was just thinking: "This doesn't feel like Monster High. It feels like a yuppie middle school. This is Monster Middle." and is it mostly just because all the characters look like babies? yeah. Also from what I've seen of it... it feels like none of the characters are allowed to be mean. If you're gonna set something in high school, where are the catty mean girls?? the bull-headed bullies?

BUT THEN BUT THEN--- so my major problem is that the characters don't really feel like themselves. I would like them better if they were their own original characters, not burdened with the titles of their forefathers.

Forefathers. Foremothers. Foreparents.

Now, picture you are tied to a chair and I'm showing you my corkboard right now.

Imagine how cool it would be if they made the reboot about the children of the originals! So many fusions also!!

The new Cleo is so nice because she's not actually Cleo, she's the daughter of Cleo de Nile and Deuce Gorgon. Hell, you could keep the name if you want, have her be Cleo II, that fits the original Cleo's vanity. Deuce's kind personality mellows out Cleo's diva and we get this character I cannot believe they tried to pass for THE Cleo de Nile ijoergpoi.

The new Draculaura's whole witch thing doesn't really make sense to me and it never will. (especially her apparently being the bio daughter of Dracula now when she was previously adopted-- also Dracula is scared of witches or smth but if you READ THE BOOK HE IS A SORCERER) Buuuut if Draculaura and Clawd had a daughter and she just happened to be into witchcraft, sick dude. Also, even though it's such an obvious fusion I don't think Mattel ever did a Vampire/Werewolf hybrid. Now is the time, people!!

I don't think Clawdeen would really have children of her own? She feels like... a lesbian aunt. She and her wife are career women and shower Draculaura and Clawd's kids with gifts. Maybe Clawdeen's married to a witch and that's why their niece became so enamoured with witchcraft.

New Frankie would be made by Old Frankie in a lab and... with that robo leg... and blue highlights... hear me out... So one time speaking with a friend, we were kinda spitballing who would be a good match for Frankie with her endless line of suitors... I suggested hmmm maybe Robecca Steam?? I just think it'd be neat! Imagine them married and in the lab piecing together their perfect child ahhhh. Cute?? Right??

It's not a perfect solution because we have so many characters to reckon with. Maybe some drama from older fans mad that their pairing is not canon... but that's just already true. So many ships, characterizations, and backstories have been scrapped :(((.

like... not all of my thoughts can fit into this post but CAN YOU BELIEVE THEY ERASED MY SONS JACKSON AND HOLT??? and made Clawdeen half-human (bitch werewolves are already half-human what the fuck) so they could slap Jackson's/Holt's conflict onto her. They couldn't handle my sons' autistic swagger.

#update #monster high #monster high au #and characters that might not be parents can still be involved. like say finnegan wake? make him the gym teacher #why didn't they get me to write G3 /j

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djzbasement · 4 months

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I wanted lesbians.. but I wanted Goshi.. so I combined the two!! Yuppie!

(Im gonna cry if I hear one more hang in there joke I’m not even kidding.)

#goshi #hang in there #gosh i love them #genderbend #wlw post #danganronpa v3 #danganronpa #killing harmony #danganronpa killing harmony

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prettykikimora · 4 months

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Listen it's corny as fuck I recognize this but being in Chicago for a day really was a breath of fresh air, I feel like it healed me like i think that's what i want just to be closer to people and have community. There's alot more gays out there we held hands in the streets and passed by 7 lesbian couples out doing the same thing.

It led us to the theory that mondays are for lesbians, mondays definitely appeal to us, doing something during the day means less families and kids with their nasty dads walking around. Monday night everyone's pissed off and don't wanna do anything so there's less folks going out to eat. It's like a simulation of what it's like in a normal world without people being as disgusting to you. We went to mackinaw city at the end of the tourist season once and it was hell, some of the nastiest suburban hogs you can imagine. I think only evil people go there.

Being in a wider city with so much history and life on a weekday in winter there isn't anything like that here you gotta go to eastern market, there isn't an equivalent "downtown" most everything here was built up for suburban tourists within the last 10 years. My favorite shithole dive in midtown you gotta pay $14 for a cheeseburger now. There's streetlights now, paved sidewalks, yuppie shit all around it was so different 10 years ago.

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cdyssey · 1 year

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Advocate

Prompt (@kalikoke):

CW: Alcohol Mentions

AO3 Link

As they’re walking out to their cars, Barbara insists on going out to dinner that night to celebrate the reigning Read-a-Thon champ.

Her treat.

“Oh, so you’re takin’ me out on a date, huh?” Melissa grins widely, full of piss-and-vinegar. She loves to flirt with Barbara Howard—married woman, woman of God—thinks it’s fun to see her nearly bend over backwards trying not to accidentally flirt back. Meanwhile, the second-grade teacher has long made her peace with the fact that after nearly thirty years of friendship, the two of them talk like old lesbians who probably own a cat named Fred Astaire.

It’s just one of the occupational hazards of being work wives.

Somewhere along the way, they started to sound like actual wives too.

She likes that.

A lot.

Much more than she reasonably should.

They stop in front of Barbara’s car, a gray sedan that is meticulously washed every weekend. The windshield is completely white with recent sleet, and both of their breaths gather in pockets next to their faces.

“As a matter of fact,” Barbara only harrumphs, at once pompous and playful, a teasing glint in her eyes, “I am. Wear something befitting your winner status.”

“I got a new thong from Victoria's Secret the other day?” She immediately suggests, arching a positively lecherous brow. “Red. Matches my hair ‘n everything.”

Melissa tells herself that it doesn’t mean anything to her when Barbara visibly swallows at these words, when her dark pupils dilate, when the heavy binder in her arms abruptly slips from her grasp and onto her knee, causing her to cluck at Melissa like a mother hen.

“Lord Almighty! Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?” The other woman moans, rubbing her leg as Melissa bends down to retrieve the binder, snickering silently.

“Yeah, and everyone else too,” she replies in her most suggestive voice.

“Melissa!”

But the second-grade teacher just laughs and laughs—and she carefully ignores the way Barbara’s cheeks have flushed—and she laughs.

This is all she ever feels comfortable asking for, these infinitesimal moments with Barbara Howard, snatched from the relentless march of time. She cups the nanoseconds in her palms just to hold them, if even for a little bit—which is precisely how long that a moment lasts anyway.

There and then gone, lived and then a fragmentary relic of the past with all the rest.

But, Jesus, how they kiss her fingertips so gently—these moments, these relics, these precious nanoseconds—dusting them, like falling snow.

—

A few hours later, they’re sitting across from each other at a booth in Mamma Mia’s, a relatively new and upscale pizzeria that used to be a laundromat a couple of years ago until the feds finally figured out it was another front for the Philly Mob. (None of Melissa’s idiot cousins were involved this time, thank God. Even they weren’t stupid enough to launder money in a goddamn laundromat.)

All of the washers and dryers and probable bloodstains were removed a few years back, and a yuppie couple has since gutted the rather sizable space, remodeled it, and turned it into the talk of the town. Barbara, completely unaware of its history, has been begging to try it out for lunch sometime.

She’s heard that their salads are excellent.

And Melissa, entirely aware of its history, has always entertained the proposition with a secretive chuckle at the thought of her very proper friend unwittingly stepping foot into a building where at least two men have definitely died.

Yeah, sure, Barb. Let’s go.

Which is how they end up here for dinner, blissfully sipping on their Merlots as they wait for their waitress to come back and take their order. Melissa is indeed wearing something befitting her victory over Janine—a short, green dress with sleeves that billows out around her wrists—but she thinks Barbara has her beat, so elegant in a teal blouse and black vest. Her fitted slacks—also black—accentuate the shapely curves of her hips.

Melissa appreciates the way her friend looks.

(Again, much more than she decently should.)

“You know,” Barbara begins without looking up. She’s been busy scanning the menu for the past few minutes, her readers delicately perched on the bridge of her nose. Melissa’s own menu is still on the table, unfolded and untouched. “I didn’t get to have one blessed slice of pizza today. My kindergarteners were simply voracious.”

“Mine too,” Melissa chortles, recalling how she’d had to tell at least five kids not to chew so fast. They were gonna get indigestion! “And I gave my leftovers to little Benji.”

Sweet kid, Benji Andrews—the youngest in a family of seven.

There sometimes isn’t enough food to go around at his place, so she and Barbara—(who’d had Benji in her class two years ago, and they'd both had several of Benji's siblings)—worked out an agreement with the lunch ladies to make sure that he gets sent home with extra meals a few times a week.

“Ah, that’s my Melissa,” Barbara murmurs fondly, her gaze flicking upwards from the glossy foldout.

“Yeah, well, you would have done the same, ya schmaltzy gagootz,” she readily deflects—never one to accept unadulterated praise without a fight—but even still, she can’t help but smile at the quiet intimacy of being called Barbara's own.

Damn her and God bless her, she always knows how to tease the softness right out of Melissa.

“Oh!” The older teacher suddenly gasps, glasses slipping a little down her nose. “Shame on me—I almost forgot. Melissa, would you like me to call out some menu items for you? There’s a spinach-ricotta calzone that might have your name on it.”

And Barbara glances at her perfectly unopened menu then, apology flashing in her eyes, but Melissa only shakes her head. She’d taken one look at the front of the pamphlet, seen its kookily stylized typeface, and quickly placed it down before any of the letters started doin’ any funny business.

“Don’t worry about it,” she says firmly. “I looked at their menu online before we got here, and I'm fine if you just wanna share a pizza."

“Are you sure?” Barbara frets, conscientious about her reading struggles—always—from the very moment she found out about them some two decades ago when she was the first person to ever realize that Melissa only rarely peruses menus at restaurants.

And that’s only if the font is just right or if there are helpful pictures or if there’s not too damn much happening on the page at one time.

Before the Internet really took off, and Melissa didn’t have a reliable way of checking a menu before she went to a restaurant she was unfamiliar with, she’d just ask the waiter for the specials and choose one that sounded the most appetizing to her—far too humiliated to spend the necessary time trying to decipher a block of text that almost looked comprehensible to her. She didn’t have the luxury to chisel the individual words out, unit by unit, as she did at home with her books. The someone sitting across from her was unfailingly impatient. Her siblings. Some of her antsier friends. Her own ma.

Joe.

He got so freaking annoyed when she took forever to order, even though he knew she had a hard time with menus.

He just swore up and down that she needed better glasses.

But Barbara, from the very moment she found out, approached the matter far differently than her ex-husband, which is to say with the same determination and kindness that governs most of her actions. She suggested that she could read some parts of the menu aloud for Melissa—so as to provide her with options—and for years upon years, she’s done so every time they’ve tried a new restaurant together.

Melissa hated that at first.

Hated that her weakness had been seen and so thoroughly identified by another.

Hated that someone would ever have the guts to call her out on it.

Hated that all of her dozens of coping techniques were stunningly powerless against a goddamn laminated piece of paper.

Hated that it was so obvious if anyone cared to notice.

Which the kindergarten teacher absolutely did.

But then again, Barbara notices a lot of things about Melissa, even the all-too-vulnerable details that she refuses to articulate aloud.

She notices baseball bats firmly taped under desks and irrational fears having to do with ever facing away from a door. She notices new scrapes on her knuckles from bar fights and dark shadows turning circles beneath her eyes after restless nights. She notices when Melissa is having trouble with dinner menus and eighty-paged curriculum updates and legalese from divorce papers that get served to her two days before her fifty-fifth birthday.

And yes, she once hated all of that—Barbara's keen eyes and Barbara's annoying inability not to intervene.

Barbara's hero complex.

And Barbara's pity.

Melissa hated the pity most of all.

But time and trust and her repeated exposure to her friend's particular way of being in the world have ultimately softened her initial understanding of this point, have made her come to terms with the fact that Barbara Howard doesn’t exactly pity her when she reads menus aloud to her, when she sends her emails in big, uncrowded fonts, when she helps her mark up stupid administrative packets with their stupid, tiny text.

She accommodates her.

And this is to say that she loves her.

“I’m positive,” she nods vigorously, well-aware that it takes a lot of verbal and physical gesturing for her friend to ever drop something. She doesn't necessarily want to talk about her insecurities right now—has had to think about them a lot these past few days with Maya, dredging up so many memories—but she damn well won't be responsible for Barbara feeling bad about herself because of them too. “I’m covered tonight.”

As to be expected, though, Barbara, still holding on to her guilt with a frown, sighs deeply.

“You shouldn’t have to be, though,” she insists, vaguely waving her menu around. “It’s absolutely absurd that no one considers how hellacious this font can be on the eyes.”

“Hah!” Melissa snorts, propping her chin up on her fist. “I know you’re angry when you start pullin’ polysyllabic words outta your ass.”

“I’m not angry,” Barbara sniffs (clearly angry). “I’m just disappointed in the lack of accessibility.”

“You should write an op-ed for the Times.”

“Melissa,” she pouts, now finally placing the menu down, crossing her arms over her chest, “I’m being utterly serious.”

And Melissa readily softens, knows that every word is true. Barbara cares so much about making sure that the world is a just place—for her students, for her family, for Melissa herself.

There’s a wheelchair accessible ramp at Willard R. Abbott Elementary School not because some egghead at City Hall gave a rat’s ass.

But because Barbara Howard is a goddamn amazing teacher who fought for it.

There's a reason why she's the best of them all.

“Yeah, I know,” she smiles sadly, impulsively reaching over and offering her upturned palm, an olive branch. But she waits, with remarkable patience, for the inevitable moment when Barbara unbends her arms and takes it, interlinking their fingers together over the checkered tablecloth. She squeezes once and desperately wishes that they could stay like this forever, suspended in time, connected by touch, but the elegant ring on Barbara’s fourth finger shimmers in the light from the tabletop candle.

And so she lets go in the end.

She always does.

(Relics and nanoseconds.)

“I gotta say, I'm... disappointed too,” she goes on with a heavy sigh, pulling her now free hand through her hair. “Had a talk with one of my kiddos today whose parents won’t let her get tested for dyslexia."

“Oh, Melissa,” Barbara murmurs, understanding dawning in her eyes, gentle and profound care. Her best friend knows the very specific way that this situation hits close to home.

It’d been a matter of time for Melissa’s ma.

Or, well, for the lack of it more accurately.

She had five children all under the age of ten to take care of, and she didn’t have the energy to wonder why her eldest daughter sucked at reading beyond thinking that she just wasn’t trying hard enough.

How hard, after all, could it be to read Dr. Seuss?

“I taught her one of my tricks—y’know, highlighting the first parts of words,” she adds quickly, as though to blow past the sentimentality of everything, of it all, “but it made me sad for my kid t’think that she doesn’t have an advocate…”

Maya's parents had been afraid—afraid for their child to get a label, afraid for her to be different, afraid for her to be perceived as less than.

She'd kinda wanted to key their car after that disastrous conference, but she also gets it—she really fucking does.

“She has you,” Barbara immediately says, adamant, adoring and so perfectly convinced. “You were her advocate today. You were there for that baby girl in a way that she will never forget.”

Melissa blinks rapidly, unable to stop a lump from rising to her throat as she suddenly recalls Mrs. Myrick, the teacher who had given her that book about a sad child who was also different all those many years ago.

She’d sat with Melissa in the hallway and taught her how to steady a highlighter against a page without messing things up.

But even if you do mess up, Melissa, the teacher had murmured, brushing a stray curl behind the then six-year old’s ear, that’s perfectly okay too.

You’re enough, Melissa, she finished, soft and so kind. You're always enough.

“I’m so proud of you,” Barbara intones in the exact same cadence some fifty-odd years later, eyes gleaming in the dim lighting of the restaurant, radiant with quiet affection.

Melissa falteringly opens her mouth to say something then, to tell Barbara thank you.

For reading menus aloud to me.

For making sure the school has a wheelchair ramp.

For not pitying me.

For loving me.

For always being in my corner.

For never once betting against me.

Other people have me?

Well, I have you.

You’re my advocate.

And I love you.

But their waitress comes up to them then, a slight, young thing who might be Kit or Kat according to the slightly distorted name tag pinned on her chest, and she’s asking if they know what they’d like to eat. So she closes her mouth again, the words dying away on her tongue.

“A pizza then?” Barbara asks, a smile rising to her plump lips. “To celebrate the fact that you’ve taken the prize home once again, Ms. Schemmenti?”

“Oh, hon,” she smirks, easily shifting back into utter asshole mode. “How can you say that when I haven’t even introduced you to my folks yet?”

“Girlfriend!” Comes another scandalized groan, Barbara pinching the bridge of her nose. “Now is not the time!”

And Melissa laughs with all her belly as Barbara hastily explains to the waitress that they're not dating, they're just very good friends—(which somehow sounds even gayer)—and Melissa is merely being facetious. And she doesn't do anything to refute her, just savors the moment, reveling in the blush that has delicately darkened the skin around Barbara's nose.

#work wives #melissa schemmenti #barbara howard #abbott elementary #abbott elementary spoilers #s: abbott elementary #reginianwrites #LISTEN #OKAY #I KNOW I HAVE TO FINISH MY SECRET SANTAS #BUT THIS EPISODE MADE ME CRY

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theywerebothgirls · 8 months

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Got any sci twi/human twilight headcanons?

insert that tiktok audio that says oh my god I love this question!!!

- in my head she is a lesbian and the thing with timbet was comphet. (l love wlw couples where they are bi x lesbian)

- she is sunset shimmer's girlfriend, 100% real, I wrote equestria girls.

- i think she would be a Halo fan, just because i have a friend who reminds me a lot of scitwi and she loves Halo, so there it is.

- she is chilean just because i say so yuppie, bye

#mango thoughts #mango is too sick to keep thinking about hcs sorry guys

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gogetyrshovel · 3 months

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hello i am visiting chicago for the first time in march and have no clue what to do do you have suggestions …

YES !!!

feel free to PM me with specifics if u want (neighborhood you're staying in, dietary restrictions, interests) so i can make better recs but here are some general must dos

Attractions:

The Art Institute of Chicago is beautiful, huge, and world class and so you will not see everything but they have an app-guided tour that will take you around to some of the most famous works in their collection

The Museum of Science and Industry is a childhood fave but the interactive exhibits still hold up tbh. You can look at anatomical slices of real human bodies and simulate a tornado!

The Shedd Aquarium is amazing but pretty $$ ($40!!) so would recommend if you're super interested but maybe save your money if it doesnt seem worth it to you.

Millenium Park is a must see--weather is kinda touch and go in March but if you get a warm/sunny day I recommend renting a Divvy bike and checking out the Lakefront Trail (side note: Lake Michigan is way bigger than u think it is)

Navy Pier is largely a tourist trap and nothing special I would skip it LOL 1

The Architecture Tours are also amazing and worth it !! Plus the views from the river are unmatched.

Neighborhoods to check out/Food to eat:

(I'm assuming you're staying in the loop but if not I can give you more suggestions based on where you're staying/what's accessible via transit)

Wicker Park/Logan Square

Cool bookstores, record stores, thrifting, good breakfast/brunch, coffee shops up the wazoo. Easily accessible via the blue line (more on transit later), one of my favorite meals ever is the Chicken Fried Chicken from Dove's Luncheonette.

Chinatown

The Chinese American Museum is pretty interesting if you're into history, but the biggest draw of Chinatown is the food. Chiu Quon Bakery has delicious pork buns and egg tarts that are ridiculously affordable, Hing Kee's soup dumplings are top tier. Go4Food is another local favorite and I recommend Happy Lamb if you're looking for hot pot.

Lincoln Park

Lincoln Park Zoo is free!! Check out the lily ponds and the Lincoln Park Conservatory. The coffee and baked goods at Verzenay are a little $$ but totally worth it.

Andersonville:

My biggest pet peeve is when people tell queer tourists to go to Boystown just cuz they have the gay bars and rainbow sidewalks. Andersonville doesn't have as many lesbians as it used to, but the vibes are a lot more inclusive and it feels way less yuppie gay white guy in my humble lesbian opinion. Lots of cute boutiques and good food. Kopi Cafe is unique and has really great vegetarian/pescatarian sandwiches and snacks. Not too far from Little Vietnam either, get a big bowl of pho or a banh mi at Pho 888.

Getting around:

I will wax poetic about the CTA, but it can definitely be intimidating if you're not familiar with it! You can get the Ventra app on your phone and tap it at the turnstiles/on buses --any chip card will work too. The best bang for your buck is to get a 3-day pass or a 5-day pass depending on how long you'll be here, because those give you unlimited rides and you'll probably be doing a lot of running around. The L (for elevated trains) is generally faster than the buses and are named by color (e.g. the red line, blue line, green line etc). Buses are numbered and sometimes have letters too. Google Maps' transit directions are usually solid but estimated arrival times are more accurate on the Ventra app itself.

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