I am not at all sorry to see January end, I have to say. Kind of a rough month, busy too, and I always love February, a short winter month, my birthday month.
I did my taxes this weekend -- hurray for mortgage interest deductions -- and also took the cat to the vet. He was very sweet AT THE START, so much so that the vet asked if he was always this friendly, then behaved very, very badly -- howling, hissing, ran away and had to be chased through the animal hospital, tried to bite the vet. I actually got worried that he was sick or something was wrong and he was in pain, but the vet said he was just ornery. Apparently he's in perfect health. "Keep doing what you're doing," the vet told him, so I guess eating a lot and 19 hours of sleep a day are good practices. A lesson for us all.
There's about nine million things I'm going to write this month, my help_haiti
story and bandombigbang
(once I decide on what I'm writing for bigbang, but I'm almost decided. I know what I'm writing for help_haiti
.) I've been reading a lot lately too, though, and that always gives me ideas for AUs I would like. imogenics
got to hear about the horrible book about the mail order bride in 1860s Seattle, and of course the natural progression to Tom Conrad: Hot Mail Order Bride. But I also just finished a quite good novel that had as its background British suffragists, their friendships and projects artistic works and alliances and dissensions, and it made me want an AU with The Like, bosom friends, sleeping in the same beds when they're not sitting up all night talking and working, Tennessee maybe running a printing press for their magazine, serious and dedicated, and Z the charismatic center of their group, a little careless but inspired when she wants to be, criticized for the frivolity of her dress and her speech but refusing to change, or even to talk about changing. She smokes sometimes, in public, more to occasion talk than because she likes it the petty gossips say, but Tenn knows she smokes even more in private, cigarettes with red lipstick traces scattered through Tennessee's rooms in Z's wake. Sometimes Tennessee picks them up and puts her lips where Z's have been, so gently that she doesn't smudge the marks Z left. There's more Z leaves in her wake, in Tenn's rooms, magazine articles with outraged notes scribbled in the margins, a small evening bag with a thin gold bracelet inside. A sheaf of manuscript pages, a half-finished story, tossed in a corner, half-hidden by a thin abandoned white chemise edged in lace.