November 30th, 2007 Riley
…since I have mentioned Women’s Murder Club. I agree. It’s completely unacceptable. So, this is my shout out. It should be, but it isn’t, on tonight. That makes me sad. Luckily, the Latin Grammys are on though, featuring the uber-sexy Laura Pausini, which will satisfy my hottie quota for the day.
I soothed myself about Women’s Murder Club by making a fan video. That is also sad, but in a different way. I was delighted to find that this show is so rich with the innuendo that I could make a very believable Lindsay/Cindy fan vid with only one episode of the show. That’s some damn impressive subtext.
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November 30th, 2007 Riley
Ow! No really. Damn ow. I just got the biggest paper cut on my finger. It hurts like a mother bitch and it’s bleeding all over everything. And do you know why I got this big, bleeding mother paper cut? Because I am actually working. I am opening envelopes and pulling out claims. Please excuse me while I throw up a little in my mouth.
Do you see what happens? Do you see what happens when you bow to the man and actually perform the menial tasks you are being paid to do? Maiming occurs. Personal injury. Physical pain.
God damn, work sucks.
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November 30th, 2007 Riley
So, the Keith Urban fanatic at my job obviously listens to country radio. She listens to country radio all day every day. She listens to it loudly enough that, when I am not listening to my MP3 player, I too have to listen to her country radio station of choice. In the short time that I have been working here, I have learned the following things.
No country singer has had more than one song.
Martina McBride has only “Independence Day”. Trisha Yearwood has only “She’s in Love with the Boy”. George Strait only recorded “The Chair”. (I’ll give them that one, because George Strait really should have stopped after that.)
Except for Garth Brooks, who apparently stopped recording after the mid-90s, because that’s the time frame where the musical selections by him are all pulled from.
There are only ten country singers in existence. The one song they have each recorded is played in rotation, with one mid-90s Garth Brooks song between each.
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November 29th, 2007 Riley
Why when I am walking down the street, talking on the cell phone, at a brisk pace, do people want to ask me questions out-of-the-blue? The other day, a woman called to me to ask if the stores I was walking past were open. Why would she assume I knew this? Because I was on the phone and she wanted an excuse to interrupt me?
And sorry if this makes me seem all Scrooge, but you don’t get a pass just because you are homeless. All I wanted to do was sit on the park bench and have my conversation in peace. When the homeless guy approached, I stupidly assumed he would see that I was on the phone. He did, but he started talking anyway.
Hey Sweetheart. Can I ask you a question? (By the way, being homeless doesn’t get you a pass on that either. Unless you know me well enough to have seen me in pajamas, or you are a person over the age of sixty-five, you best keep your terms of endearment to yourself.)
I responded with what I thought was a very polite, “I’m on the phone sir.”
I got back a “Damn!” and plenty of mumblings that I’m certain weren’t kind words regarding my character.
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November 29th, 2007 Riley
As much as I hate it, we are a cell phone culture. Everybody either has one, wants one, or can’t afford one. So, how is it we have managed to become a cell phone culture with absolutely no cell phone etiquette? Why do people think that it is okay to carry on a phone conversation while trying to operate the self-checkout at the grocery store with only one hand while a line of people wait behind them? If they do go through a cashiered checkout, why do they think it’s okay to be unable to answer questions asked of them, because they are too busy talking on the phone? Why do people talk on cell phones loudly in restaurants? Why is it that the first thing that people do when going out to dinner is set their cell phone up on the table beside them in case they get a call or text message? Why do people take text messages constantly while engaging in a conversation with you? Do cell phones really make people ruder or do they just give people the opportunity to showcase how just how rude they are?
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November 29th, 2007 Riley
So, next week, at the office to which I am sentenced at this time, the board of governors (ridiculous) will be meeting to discuss their plans for, I don’t know, world domination or something. It was asked of everyone not to wear jeans those days out of respect for the governors. Throw up. But I haven’t been wearing jeans anyway, and here’s why.
When I started here, I was told that I could donate to Toys for Tots to wear jeans. $5 per week or $30 for the rest of the year. Due to the fact that I never expect my jobs to last that long, I declined to give up money I hadn’t yet earned. However, I’ve seen many people wearing jeans.
So, my question is, how can they have people paying to wear jeans and then tell them not to? And why is it so hard for companies to just tell people who are visiting the office that the employees are permitted to wear jeans?
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November 28th, 2007 Riley
I’ve been sickly today. Due to this sickliness, I stayed home from work. Even though I just sit behind a desk when I am at work, and I sat behind a desk most of the day here, I still think it’s justified, because there is just something about work that makes me sicker.
So, anyway, from shortly after I got out of bed around eight until about eleven o’clock, there was a terrible roar outside. I went to check on said roar, because I was curious as to what could make such a loud and horrible sound. What I found were three men on three riding leaf blowers. I am not making this up. I wasn’t even aware that they made these. I’m still not convinced that they do, but that is what I saw with my very own eyes.
Later, when they had moved to the patio, I watched from above as one of the men abandoned his hand-pushed leaf blower (cause the big ridin’ wouldn’t fit) to try to open our patio door. I’m going to assume he wanted to make sure we hadn’t forgot to lock it. It’s always good to know that people are looking out.
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November 28th, 2007 Riley
This question was posed by Team Tripe just yesterday. I don’t know the answer, but God I hope not. I know I shouldn’t want it as much as I do. It’s a surefire way to get take an incredible beating from reality. But I do want it. I really do. The script that I sent in is deserving. The extra writing samples I sent, in the forms of a bio and statement of interest, are worthy too. I know this, because I spent a lot of time on them, and I was actually completely pleased with the results. For me, that is a rare thing.
And, if the writer’s strike is still happening, and I do get it (Please! Please! Please!), will that make me a scab, as Team Tripe discussed. I hope not, because I can’t think ’scab’ without thinking about the scene from Newsies where the scabs are buying their papes to sell and the Newsies are all waiting outside the gates for them, and then Jack Kelly yells “Let’s soak ‘em for Crutchy!”
I don’t want soaked.
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November 28th, 2007 Riley
TITLE: Truth Comes Out
PAIRING: Lindsay/Cindy
DISCLAIMER: Women’s Murder Club does not belong to me. The characters do not belong to me. They are the property of James Patterson, 20th Century Fox Television and ABC. I have no problems with that as long as I can borrow them for short bursts and use them in pursuit of my own enjoyment. I am not trying to infringe. Though, I don’t know why anyone has a problem with fan fic. After all, it really is a compliment. If anyone wants to write fan fiction about my book, feel free.
As a self-described thesaurus whore, and a proud word-of-the-day calendar owner, Cindy could say with some degree of certainty that there was no single word in the English language that described the look on Lindsay’s face when she’d suggested the night’s activities. It would take a whole lot of words strung together to do it any kind of justice. If asked about it in court at a later date, Cindy would have testified that the look said, “I’m going to make you moan, beg, laugh, cry, scream, whimper, almost pass out, and too sore to go to work tomorrow, and you are still going to love me in the morning.”
And when she woke up to a vaguely familiar song and looked over at the slow-to-rouse Lindsay, she realized that she did. Love her. Completely. She may never have the nerve to tell her, but it didn’t make it any less true.
As the song played on, and Lindsay continued to sleep in time, Cindy sat up, stretched and glanced around the inner sanctum. What can be learned about people by studying the things with which they choose to surround themselves is infinite, and about this particular person, she wanted to know everything. It wasn’t exactly a new fascination. She’d been overly curious about Lindsay since the day they met. Perhaps this love thing went back further than she wanted to admit.
The first thing she noticed in the room made her laugh out loud. She remembered getting undressed in a hurry, but she didn’t recall so much flinging of the clothes. It looked like a tornado hit a boutique store. There was the normal path to the bed, and then more abnormal landing spots. Lindsay’s bra had somehow attached itself to the window blinds, and the pants that she’d worn over here had ended up in a neat pile on the bedside table.
“Morning,” Lindsay drawled from beside her.
Important fact 1: When groggy, Lindsay’s accent was considerably more pronounced. Cindy put it in her internal Lindsay file as she looked over at her.
“Good morning,” she said and started picking at the comforter. She felt almost shy around her now, and suddenly very, very naked. But, when Lindsay put her hand against her back and raised up from the bed to kiss her, she was brought right back to her comfort zone. Kissing Lindsay was the secret to life, she was pretty sure. She just hoped no one else figured that out.
Lindsay lied back, pulling Cindy down with her, and when the kiss ended, Cindy put her head on Lindsay’s chest and took special notice of how tight Lindsay’s arms were around her. She could feel Lindsay’s heart racing beneath her cheek, watch the rise and fall of her chest, and there was nowhere else on Earth she wanted to be. The hottest tip on the planet couldn’t have dragged her out of bed at the moment. And there was a great deal of comfort in the fact that Lindsay hadn’t jumped up immediately upon waking, rushed to shower and taken off for the precinct. Who knew Lindsay had it in her to cuddle?
Important fact 2.
“I still think you’re young,” Lindsay said out of the blue.
Cindy smiled. So when Lindsay made all those comments about how young she was, she really meant ‘you’re too young for me’. Guess she changed her mind.
“Cradle robber,” Cindy returned.
Lindsay laughed lightly and started running her fingers through Cindy’s hair, leaving goose bumps in their wake.
Cindy concentrated on the path of her hand across Lindsay’s stomach beneath the sheet and took a deep breath.
“Is this something we can tell Jill and Clare, or is this an… um… if you tell anyone, I know where all the best spots are to hide a body kind of thing?
Lindsay laughed again. Cindy realized how seldom she heard her do it, and how nice it was to be the cause. But she got no answer.
“I mean, it’s not just for purposes of bragging. It’s just that they always try to set you up with people, and I’d really rather they not do that.”
Lindsay still didn’t say anything, but this time it was more worrisome. Cindy raised her head to look down at her.
“Unless you’d rather they do,” she said in a small voice.
Lindsay gave Cindy her best “you should know better” look.
“They know,” she finally responded.
“They know? How do they know? We didn’t know?”
Lindsay tilted her head and raised her eyebrows.
“Okay. So maybe we knew,” Cindy prattled on, “but they shouldn’t know.”
Lindsay raised her hand to Cindy’s cheek, traced the tips of her fingers across her cheekbone.
“Truth comes out. My godfather always said that. You can’t hide truth from yourself or from anyone else. You only think it’s hidden. Then you tell it and you find out everyone already knew. And they just assumed that you knew.”
“Really? You think they know?”
“I think they know. But you can confirm anything you’d like. I’m not going to lie.”
Cindy smiled and kissed Lindsay hard on the mouth, then returned her head to the place on Lindsay’s chest it had already gotten quite used to. She was vaguely aware of Lindsay reaching for something and a rustling sound above her head, but she couldn’t bring herself to lift her head to investigate.
Important fact 3: Lindsay respects the wisdom of her elders.
“And Cindy,” Lindsay whispered.
“Hmm,” she breathed back.
“Puppy love is only cute in puppies, sleeping with me won’t get you scoops any faster, and you’re out of the club.”
Cindy tensed. What was this? A nightmare? Slowly, she lifted her head to see if Lindsay had turned into some demonic being. But the sexy smile aimed her way was definitely not nightmare material.
“Did you read my mind?”
“I read your notes.”
Lindsay held up the paper from Cindy’s pocket. Cindy stared, in horror, at the list, hoping it would catch fire and disappear. When it didn’t, she grabbed at it only to find herself being flipped onto her back by the significantly stronger detective.
“Those are really the things you thought I would say?” Lindsay asked, trying to sound intimidating.
But with the way their bodies were intertwined, and the lack of oxygen to her brain, Cindy wasn’t feeling particularly intimidated.
“No,” she lied, badly as usual. “Yes.”
Lindsay shook her head and looked at the list in her hand. She stared at it for so long, Cindy was starting to worry that she was really upset about it.
“Where is ‘silently ravages me against the door’ on this list?” she finally asked.
“That’s the thing about pleasant surprises,” Cindy responded. “They’re always a surprise.”
Then, Lindsay was kissing her again, and the piece of paper was fluttering to the floor next to the bed.
Important fact 1: Cindy takes notes on everything.
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November 27th, 2007 Riley
Why is it that when you can’t sleep, people always recommend a warm glass of milk. I even see it in movies and TV shows.
Insomnia?
Yeah. It sucks.
Try some warm milk.
Good idea.
Good idea? No it isn’t. Sure, milk has tryptophan in it, which produces serotonin and helps you conk, but when since infancy has the idea of warm milk brought a smile to your face? If it doesn’t have cocoa and marshmallows in it, it’s just nasty.
Just once, I would like to hear this exchange. (In real life or on film. I’m not picky.)
Insomnia?
Yeah. It sucks.
My mind-blowing orgasms usually knock people out for several hours.
Hold on. Let me get lubed up.
See? Now that would be awesome.
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