That king of thing.

Some Sunday nights you hear Mavis Staples and Bonnie Raitt sing Will the Circle Be Unbroken, and you smile so hard your face hurts. Aand it almost makes up for the fact that Mavis doesn’t sing You Are Not Alone. Almost. And for the fact that when Bonnie sings I Can’t Make You Love Me as an encore, there’s a woman really tryin’ to move her extra inventory standing nearby shouting, “Water! One dollar! Water! One dollar!”

Like last Sunday night.

We were in Annapolis. Sandy Point State Park. It was a place to see, even without the tunes. Our car was parked off-site, and the fancy “shuttle” was a school bus. I haven’t been on a school bus since high school, probably when I went to the symphony and City Center Mall in Columbus my senior year, where the whole thing was always paid for by a guy who went to my high school and then got rich off potato chips and gave back every year by sending a bus-load of high school kids from a tiny town out for a night of culture in the big city. I didn’t realize until I was on there that I had forgotten the jostle of a school bus without enough people on it. I even got to use those little pull-tab springs to put the window down.

That’s livin’ right there.

The night and morning before, we were in Alexandria, which I may very well love as much as Charleston and New Orleans. The traffic around it hurts my head, but there’s little to complain about once you are walking those narrowish streets and looking at the old all around you.

Plus, they have a Le Pain Quotidien and a La Madeleine on the same street, which is like food heaven, and Le Pain Quotidien had a quinoa and spelt scone that brought a tear to the eye and a ginger-grapefruit tonic that brought some serious pleasure to my sour-sensors.

The night before, we tried Z Pizza for the first time. Not the best experience. Apparently, the motto at that one is ‘Service with a scowl.’ Wouldn’t have minded my first time with Z Pizza to have happened at another Z Pizza, but this exchange did happen -

Customer: Can I get a large pizza?

Employee: We just ran out. You can order small or extra large.

At which point, the customer ordered two smalls of the same pizza at extra expense to herself without question.

For those of you who are, as we were, scratching your heads in confusion, what they had run out of were large boxes. Boxes. Not large pizzas. And, apparently, improvising was above everyone’s pay grade.

We also had our pre-paid room swapped for us with this dramatized scenario.

Them: We don’t have any king-size beds. Are two queens okay?

Me: Since the room is pre-paid and I can’t get a refund, I guess.

Them: Good. [By the way, we swapped your room to put you right next to the large party of high school kids and the teenagers beside you are going to keep running across the room and slamming into their door all night, until you call the front desk. At which point, they will only be loud in other ways. By the way, they will also get up at roughly 6 a.m. after this shenanigans, so don't plan to sleep.]

Me: I hate hotels.

So, the entire point of this silly bitching is that the hotel stay was so rough the night before that we cancelled our Sunday night reservation, left Annapolis at 10 p.m. and drove all the way home.

On the plus side? That sleep was fuckin’ awesome.

Right before we made it home, though, something happened. I had heard, of course, of Carrie Underwood’s song Jesus, Take the Wheel, but, somehow, until 3 a.m., driving just east of Raleigh on May 20, 2013, I had never actually heard it.

As soon as it started, I kind of saw where it was all heading, i.e., having never heard it, I could still name that tune in five words. Yeah, it’s just that kind of a song.

So, the first verse is an over-dramatic tale about a woman driving with a baby that reaches its climax when she loses control of her car on the ice, then throws her hands in the air and prays “Jesus, take the wheel.”

To which I say, Yes. Someone needs to take the damn wheel. If you’re sliding on ice, throwing your hands in the air, not the best course of action. And, also, really? Someone writes a song called Jesus, Take the Wheel, and kicks it off with a literal steering wheel?

Have mercy.

Lindsay didn’t want Cindy to go, and she spent the earliest part of the morning filled with the belief that she could convince her not to leave.

Waking with her lips a breath from Cindy’s shoulder, Lindsay closed the distance, pressing a kiss against the soft, pale skin, rewarded when Cindy sighed in her sleep and nestled closer on instinct.

Hand slipping over a small hip, Lindsay’s fingers found their target, and Cindy awakened on a gasp, her hand covering Lindsay’s for an instant before she apparently decided she liked it as it was and left it to its exploration.

“Good morning,” Lindsay husked against the curve of an ear that turned an interesting shade of red in response.

“I should say so,” Cindy breathed, pressing back against Lindsay until she fell to her back before her, gazing up with something resembling wonder. “You’re still here.”

“Yeah,” Lindsay returned. Thigh edging between Cindy’s to push against the back of her hand, she watched brown eyes flutter. “Where’d you think I’d be?”

“I…” Cindy trailed off on a moan, eyes closing, before she forced them open again. “I don’t know. Usually, when I have this particular fantasy, you’re gone by morning.”

“Funny,” Lindsay murmured, head dipping to the crook of Cindy’s neck, tongue trailing over sweet skin, made tangy by the undeniable workout she got in the early morning hours, before insisting she be allowed a few hours of sleep to recuperate. “When I have this fantasy, I’m always still here.”

“You don’t have this fantasy.” Cindy said it matter-of-factly, as if she was somehow privy to the workings of Lindsay’s mind, and Lindsay retreated from her comfortable position to study Cindy’s face.

“Actually, lately,” she began, fingertips sliding against warm, wet flesh until Cindy moaned and grasped at her shoulder, both hanging on and encouraging. “I’ve been fantasizing about this a lot.”

Eyes opening at the admission, Cindy’s hand slid across her shoulder to her hair, tugging Lindsay down, and Lindsay was more than happy to oblige the silent command. The feel of Cindy’s lips parting beneath hers was met with the unwelcome sound of the alarm, but Cindy put a prompt end to the racket by sweeping her arm out without looking and sending the clock skidding off the bedside table to the floor.

Lips still melded, a surprising amount of strength flipped them until Lindsay found her back pressed against the mattress, as Cindy broke the kiss to sweep her tongue down the column of Lindsay’s throat and string a trail of hot kisses down Lindsay’s chest, pausing at an overly-excited nipple, before moving quickly downward.

“Cindy…” Lindsay whispered, before she could say nothing else, voice lost in the shaky exhalation that passed over her lips.

A gentle hand on the back of her thigh, Lindsay moved at Cindy’s direction, foot sliding up to brace against the mattress, as her fingers threaded through thick red hair. If someone had told her at the start, the day Cindy leaned over that cubicle wall at The Register, that Cindy would one day have this much power over her, Lindsay wouldn’t have believed it. She didn’t give up power easily, but, as she had discovered sometime in the night, Cindy was undeniably persuasive.

It felt like eternity and no time at all from the instant Lindsay lost herself in the sensation of Cindy’s tongue and fingers taking control of her to the instant her body abandoned itself completely to Cindy’s touch, and, a few seconds later, Cindy was sliding back up her body, and Lindsay opened her eyes to a wicked grin on Cindy’s face, before Cindy’s head dipped to kiss her, lips pulling away again before Lindsay was fully satisfied.

Then, it grew worse, as Cindy rolled away so quickly, Lindsay couldn’t catch her. “Wait. Where are you going?” she asked, reaching out for Cindy’s hand, Cindy’s total nudity only partial consolation as she evaded Lindsay’s seeking digits.

“I told you I have to go to a conference,” Cindy returned.

“Yeah, but…” Lindsay’s eyes trailed Cindy’s body, and she wondered what chance Cindy would stand against her if she shot up with a quickness and tackled Cindy back to the bed.

“But what?” Cindy smirked. “You thought a little morning sex meant I wasn’t going to go?”

“Yeah, kinda,” Lindsay pouted, feeling oddly vulnerable as her arms crossed before her.

Smirk softening to a smile, Cindy slid onto the bed beside her, leaning in to press a more lingering kiss to Lindsay’s lips. “It’s only three days,” she said softly. “And when I get back, there’s plenty more where that came from.”

Smiling at the promise, Lindsay tried to wrap her tentacles around Cindy, but Cindy was expecting it. Holding Lindsay’s arms at bay, she jumped up from the mattress and darted into the bathroom, and Lindsay heard the very distinct click of the lock. With a sigh, she fell back in the bed, wondering how she could be so satisfied and so frustrated at the same time.

In the sudden silence, the sound of Lindsay’s phone invaded Cindy’s apartment from somewhere in the next room, and Lindsay got up in defeat, pulling her shirt on as she realized she had nothing better to do.

Answering the call when she saw Jill’s name on the screen, Lindsay cringed when it was Denise’s voice she heard first.

“If you were inside Cindy last night, did you happen to find a sapphire in there? One fell out of my Grandma’s antique setting.”

“Denise, for God’s sake.” There was commotion at the other end, as if Jill was rushing to take the phone off of speaker. “I am so sorry, Linds. You know how it is when you…”

“Date a hell bitch?” Lindsay cut in. “No, can’t say that I do. I try to avoid those with the mark of the devil on them.”

“So,” Jill went on as if Lindsay hadn’t just called her quasi-girlfriend a demon. “How was it?”

Glancing toward the doorway to Cindy’s bedroom, Lindsay hated that Denise could be anywhere within hearing range, but felt oddly like bragging. “Oh my God,” she responded.

“That good, huh?” Jill sounded pleased. “Did you really scream her name?”

“Half the time I couldn’t remember my own name,” Lindsay fondly recalled, as a beep came across the line. Pulling the phone away, she glanced at the caller ID. “Jill, can I call you later? It’s work.”

“Oh, sorry,” Jill said. “Yeah, sure. But I want details.”

“I want a diagram,” Denise yelled in the background.

“Bye, Linds,” Jill said, hanging up before Denise could get in another word.

“Boxer,” Lindsay answered the incoming call.

“Detective Boxer,” the voice sounded nervous. “It’s Officer Cho.”

“Okay,” Lindsay uttered. “What do you need, Cho?”

“I was told that I should call you and say, ‘Congratulations on solving your case with such expediency. I do hope your night with Miss Thomas was as sexy as the costume you wore to arrest F-Dog.”

A growl rumbling up her chest, Lindsay clamped down on the urge to make Cho cry. “Put Jacobi on the goddamn phone,” she said instead.

“She wants to talk to you.” She heard Cho’s voice at a distance and imagined him rushing away from Jacobi’s desk.

“What?” Jacobi answered. “I bring you great tidings.”

“I’m going to bring you a world of pain,” Lindsay promised him, her patience further fraying when he only laughed.

“Hey, is that Lindsay?” she heard amidst the clatter of his laughter.

“Say no, Jacobi. I mean it. Say no.”

“It sure is,” Jacobi responded. “Here, talk to her.”

“Hey, Linds, how’s it goin’?” Tom asked.

“Fine, Tom,” Lindsay replied, her hand squeezing the phone too tightly as she imagined Jacobi’s neck. “What do you need?”

“Did you get Heather’s basket?” he asked.

“Her what?”

“She wanted to get you two a basket. She spent all night shopping. Isn’t that the sweetest thing?”

“Oh, Tom, it’s damn near a toothache,” Lindsay replied, as a knock came suddenly at the door, reminding Lindsay she was half-naked. “I have to go, Tom,” she said with a strange sense of fright. “There’s someone at the door.”

“That’s probably it now,” Tom said. “You’ll have to tell me what you get. I didn’t get a chance to see it.”

“Yeah,” Lindsay muttered, hanging up without giving Tom a chance to respond.

Going to the door, Lindsay took a peek through the peephole, eyes going wide when she saw a very large, brightly-colored toy that wasn’t made for children. Then she saw the furry handcuffs. And the weird black face mask. And the whip.

It wasn’t until the basket moved, though, that Lindsay saw the bearer. Wearing what Lindsay thought looked like a maniacal grin, Heather clutched the basket in her arms.

“Open up,” Heather called. “I know you’re in there.”

Lindsay grimaced at the request. “Go away, Heather.”

“Lindsay!” she squealed.

“We appreciate your enthusiasm, and your gift, but Cindy has to leave, and I don’t have time for your crazy right now.”

“Whose crazy?” a soft voice asked from behind Lindsay at the same time that Heather replied, “Crazy? Who’s crazy?” on the other side of the door, and Lindsay turned to find Cindy standing there with wet hair in a towel, and forgot all about the dirty blonde nutbag in the hallway for a moment.

Then, the knocking started.

“Heather, go away,” Lindsay threw back at the door, unwilling to remove her gaze from Cindy’s body. “You’re disturbing the peace. I will have to arrest you.”

‘Heather’ Cindy mouthed, and Lindsay rolled her eyes and nodded. “What is she doing here?”

“But I have a basket for you,” Heather announced, and Lindsay threw her hand up in reply to Cindy’s question.

Ignoring the crazed lesbian-fan for a moment, Lindsay walked across the room, eyes trailing over Cindy’s exposed skin, as she tugged at the towel Cindy held in a death grip. “Do you really have to go?” she tried again.

“I really have to go,” Cindy responded with a sigh.

“All right,” Lindsay conceded. “You get ready, and I’ll take care of our Heather problem.”

“Why do we have a Heather problem?” Cindy questioned.

“It’s a long story,” Lindsay returned. “I’ll tell you on the way to the airport.”

“All right,” Cindy nodded, and Lindsay’s hand fell reluctantly from the towel as Cindy slipped back through the bedroom door.

Returning to the door just as Heather called out for them again, Lindsay adjusted her shirt to cover as much of herself as possible, and opened the locks. Pulling the door open, she watched Heather rush in and tackled her to the floor, the basket falling from her hands, scattering everything Lindsay needed in perfect reach.

Only moans of protest following the action, Lindsay walked into the bedroom in time to see Cindy finishing up the last of her trip preparations, and knew that they were working on limited time. Pulling her clothes on quickly, she glanced across the bed at Cindy. “Don’t worry. I’ll put the siren on. You’ll get to the airport in time.”

“Thanks,” Cindy’s smile was perfection, and Lindsay wanted nothing more than to drag her back beneath the covers as she waited for her to finish packing and followed her into the living room.

When Cindy stopped cold at the sight of Heather inside the door, Lindsay put her hand soothingly on her back. “Don’t worry,” she assured her. “She’ll be all right.”

Taking her at her word, Cindy went through the door to Heather’s muffled protests, and Lindsay followed her into the hall, dialing the phone as Cindy locked the door behind them.

“Tom,” she said when he picked up. “Your wife is handcuffed in Cindy’s apartment with a ball gag in her mouth. You might want to come pick her up.” Then, she ended the call and turned off the sound, feeling the phone vibrate in her pocket all the way to her SUV.

Here’s how I told them that I don’t owe them the money they think.

Names have not been changed.

To Whom It May Concern at the IRS  -

I have received a Summary of Proposed Changes notice for the tax year 2011, showing a discrepancy between what I reported on my tax return and the total reported to you on the 1099-K form from PayPal.

The amount reported to you by PayPal was $#####. The amount reported to you by [redacted] was $#####. As an independent contractor, I was paid by [redacted] through PayPal, so that [redacted] money is being double-reported as PayPal money. That’s $##### – $#####, which is a difference of $#####.

I have a long-term partner. Her name is Shawna Newman. Her social security number is ###-##-####. In 2011, she also worked for [redacted], and, during that period, her payments were also going to my PayPal account, because we simply didn’t know that it would end up being such an issue. (We have since remedied this situation to make the lives of all involved parties easier.) The total that she earned in 2011 from [redacted] was $#####. That’s $##### – $#####, which is a difference of $169.

We have already paid taxes on this income, as Shawna filed her own tax return in accordance with the law.

I see now that there is a discrepancy between the reported and actual earnings reported by PayPal, but it is a $169 discrepancy, not a nearly $40,000 discrepancy. If need be, please send me a Summary of Proposed Changes for my apparent clerical error of $169, but I do ask you not to expect $11,000 in extra taxes from me, because I am a middle-class working stiff and a wannabe full-time artist, and coming up with $11,000 would be like pulling diamonds from the wind.

I appreciate your hard work on behalf of the American people. You see, unlike some, I’m not confused by what taxes do, and, personally, I like having roads without holes, bridges that work, and that one police officer who once pulled my girlfriend over just to remove the plastic bag that was stuck to the car’s undercarriage. I would like the option of getting married, not to have to pay two application fees every time we change apartments, and a sense of security that, should I ever have to go into a hospital, my relationship will be given the respect it deserves, but none of those are your department.

So, here is my amendment of your amendment.

Wouldn’t this have been so much simpler if we could have filed our taxes jointly?

With all due respect,

Riley LaShea, Gay American

If Emma and Regina Aren’t Endgame, I Don’t Know What the Once Staff is Writing

- OR -

I Ship These Ladies So Hard, Packing Peanuts Fear Me

Well, it’s the end of another season of Once Upon a Time, and, once again, the season finale saw the forces of good and evil coming together to fight the good fight.

Let’s save Henry!

Let’s save Storybrooke!

Let’s save anything! (so long as it means we spend an entire episode together and look at each other in anger and surprise and sadness and wonder and joy)

Seriously, for a couple of people who supposedly despise each other, Emma and Regina spend an inordinate amount of time looking into each other’s eyes feeling things.

So, in the finale, the subtext kicked off early when Emma returns with Mommy and Daddy Charming and the littlest Charming-Mills, and Henry rushes into Regina’s arms and calls her “Mom” and it’s like “aww” until the room shakes them apart, and they get the reminder that everyone in the room, sans Henry, is about to take the last portal to the Neverland in the sky.

Upon the discovery that he will live, Henry realizes he’ll be alone, and Emma blows up at Regina – with good reason – but Henry jumps in to remind Emma that, while she thought she was punting long and was waitin’ to tackle a bitch, it was really an onside kick and they are all on the same team.

So, then there’s a plan and Hook enters and gets a comical nose-punch, and it’s decided that Regina will slow down the trigger so that everyone in Storybrooke can escape to the Enchanted Forest before Storybrooke is no more.

Then, Emma utters the opening line to subtext-fest 2013.

“I’ll take Regina to slow down the diamond…”

And naughty shippers hear only “I’ll take Regina” and giggle at the fact that Emma totally said that right in front of her parents.

Fast-forward through the start of the last of Lana Parrilla’s emotional heavy-lifting for the season, and Emma and Regina are alone together in the mine. Around a glowing blue diamond. Which, we pleasantly discover, makes for some serious mood lighting.

At this point, Regina tells Emma how she’s about to go dead so everyone else can escape and Henry won’t be alone.

And Emma could have said “Sounds good.”

Emma could have said “Justice served.”

Emma could have said “Ding dong, the witch is dead.”

But what Emma said was -

“You’re not coming with us, are you?”

Who’s this us, Emma? All those people who hate Regina? Or you and Henry? Don’t worry, you don’t need to answer. We know.

And if we hadn’t known already, we most certainly would have when your usual go-to Henry factor failed to convince Regina not to throw herself on her proverbial grenade, and you were all “Regina, please…” with that look, and Regina looked at you with that other look, pleading with you to let her die as the woman you fell in love with and not the one you discovered her to be.

But there was saving that needed to be done, and you were both thinking of your son, and so you thought you could walk away, but you couldn’t, could you, Emma? And you turned back and you had something to say and you just looked at her with that other look that was all awe and pain at the same time, thinking “Damn, that mood lighting is sexy against my woman’s hair.”

Back from the mine, Emma tells Henry that Regina is going to die, and Emma is amazed to discover that the town isn’t utterly against her trying to save both Storybrooke and Regina, which, despite all protests, Emma so obviously wants to do since she swings instantly from adamance on one side of the debate to adamance on the other. And when asked why she’s so passionate?

“Because the kid just lost his father today. I’m not letting him lose a mother too.”

I’m not saying it’s my ideal outcome, but there is some serious polymonogamy potential in that sentence right there. And I would certainly prefer that to some of the other possible outcomes. You know what I’m sayin’?

So, back into the mine the Charmings go, little Charming-Mills taking the lead. And Henry calls Regina a hero and there’s no time to “awww” because they’ve come to be the heroic Charmings they are and save Regina and the town from destruction. For some reason, though, neither the bounty hunter, who doesn’t trust anyone, nor Charming, who doesn’t trust Hook, thought to check the little pouch, so everyone but the viewing audience is surprised when there is no bean with which to make a portal.

Meanwhile, Hook is riding off on his ship and Storybrooke is being destroyed by plants, which apparently come from the same pissed-off species portrayed in The Happening.

In the mine, Regina says she can’t contain the trigger much longer, and there’s a Charming family moment <— heh, see how that worked — and some much appreciated love for Regina, before Regina admits she’s not strong enough to break the anti-curse of the curse.

Then, Emma turns from Mommy and Daddy Charming, walks up to her beloved and turns a dream-ship canon with a single line -

“You may not be strong enough. But maybe we are.”

Come. The fuck. On.

So, Emma and Regina combine their magic in a orgiastic display so homoerotic, they may as well have had a rainbow form between them. And Regina smiles, ’cause she can feel that shit. Then, there is an explosion of ecstasy so powerful, they both get knocked out for a few seconds.

And when they come to again?

Emma announces ”We did it!”

And Regina purrs “Yes, we did.”

And naughty shippers smirk, ‘Yeah, you did. You saved an entire town with your combustible magical/sexual chemistry.’

Then, Charming says Henry’s right about a lot of things and Emma agrees with the sentiment. So, let’s review a few things Henry has been right about over the first two seasons -

My mom is the evil queen.

My mom is the child of Charming and Snow White.

I should bring my mom to Storybrooke near my other mom.

Mom, you have to protect mom.

Mom, you have to save mom.

Mom, I think you should invite mom to the party.

No mom, mom didn’t do it.

Moms, we have to work together.

Moms, we’re family.

Unfortunately, Henry gets nabbed from the mine before he can revel in his rightness, and the season ends as his moms sail off on a ship together to rescue him.

Due to the fact that Regina was such a perfect everything in this episode and the subtext was at an eleven, I’ll even forgive them the moment of Henry being the sense in the room at the beginning, and Archie’s “Yes we will. Because it’s the right thing to do,” which is, frankly, one of the most annoying carried-through devices in the show.

And where were all the dissenters who wanted Regina dead in the first episode of the season? Oh, conveniently not in the diner? As in the perfect citizens of Storybrooke were going to leave them behind?

As alternatively-titled, if Emma and Regina aren’t end game, I don’t know what the Once staff is writing. Of course, for most of the season, I’m not sure the Once staff has known what the Once staff has been writing.

But if this - True love is the most powerful magic of all – is truly canon, then so is this -

Regina.

It’s coming. I know it.

Wait…

It’s not my show.

a) the subtext has been painfully non-existent
b) the show has been so painful, I don’t want to relive it
c) I’ve busy with more important things
d) all of the above

Answer: d, but mostly a (if there had been something truly worth my while, I would have found some time)

As it is, though, I have been rather bleh in my Once viewing lately, even considering the ‘stop watching and catch it on the flip-side’ viewing technique, knowing the entire time there will come a scene in these last few episodes that will suck me right back in.

So, in the hopes that just that scene is on its way, like tomorrow, I realized I should catch up on subtext (or lack thereof) ‘caps.

As usual, spoilers…

2.18 – Selfless, Brave and True

An August-centric episode, in which I realize, yet again, that I truly like only a few characters on this show, and August is one of them.

Before we get to the main event, though, a few things that don’t happen:

1 – A woman who just attempted to kill your mother runs into her at the door of a diner you’re sitting in, and you just sit there and wait for your cue. In fact, you wouldn’t even disregard the entrance of said deadly foe, whether your mother was there yet or not. I get not wanting a lot of set changes for production purposes, but for plot purposes, let’s stop pretending master bounty hunter and lie detector, Emma Swan, doesn’t notice anything happening around her until the bell on Granny’s door sounds. For the second time.

But the “blackened sole” line was killer, so bully for the comedy. It’s much better when it’s intentional.

2 – A woman meets a man in a bar, and leaves the wad of money she just showed him in his possession. Yeah, that’s a two-fold ‘what the fuck?’ right there.

3 – A woman recognizes a man she had one of her only real human connections with in 28 years and threatens him within two minutes. Evil queen or not, no.

So, after zero subtext or even interaction, despite them being in the same fuckin’ scene, August makes it back to Storybrooke and gets reverted back to a young boy and bygone fashion sense. At which point, the girl in me who wants to actually like the show she spends so much time on thinks, “Really, they just got rid of one of the few characters I care about,” and the shipper in me thinks, “One suitor down.”

2.19 – Lacey

As previously discussed, this show has been character assassinating all season. So, at this point, it’s kind of like, “Eh, whatever.” But, damn. While Belle’s transformation into Lacey actually gave her something to do, I’m not sure it’s anything I’m gonna want to watch her do.

Bye bye another character I like.

Also, how proactive of Regina to start serving as acting mayor again, and how understanding of the noble-hearted citizens of Storybrooke to just not give a good goddamn.

Continuity, the other white meat.

On a slightly better note, Emma and Regina share a scene in which they actually notice each other. In which they discuss the dynamics of their family. And Regina wants Emma to explain why she didn’t tell her that she has new competition in town in the form of Henry’s father. And Emma tells her she was going to tell her, but she was busy keeping from getting dead at Regina’s hands. And, while Regina doesn’t look apologetic exactly, she does seem to respect the explanation, and she doesn’t tear out Emma’s heart either.

Then, Regina wants to know why Neal’s there, and Emma’s all “Relax. Dude’s just here to hang with Henry,” as if it’s not Henry Regina is concerned about. Basically, projecting her own queen love and hoping it comes back at her. Then, she gives Regina some sincere advice, hoping they can keep their not-so-happy-but-still-destined family together.

Also, the scene was on benches. Which is awesome. And I love that Emma never looks frightened of Regina when she approaches, like “Bitch please, you ain’t gonna do nothin’.”

2.20 – The Evil Queen

Ah, meat, where have you been? You tasted so good in this episode.

Subtext? Not so much.

Everything that makes this show watchable? Word.

The truth as I see it -

Regina is the soul of this show.

Emma and Henry are the heart.

All three of them should be in every episode, or I don’t know why I’m watching.

The scenes between Regina and Snow were amazing. And, seriously, how can I love Snow so, and be so ready for Mary Margaret to leave my screen whenever she appears on it?

Emma and Henry were actually fun. What a welcome relief. Until, of course, after referring to Regina as Mom, he was perfectly ready to dump her to live in a castle with Emma and Neal in the Enchanted Forest. How quaint, and biological-family-advocating.

Also, Regina wants love. Regina wants family. Regina wants forgiveness. Regina wants to be a hero.

Mostly this, though -

“Why would you even tell me this?”

“Because I don’t have anyone else to talk to.”

Sniffle-biffle.

So, I intended this post to be supplementary to my cherry blossom post, because it happened in DC and it was logical.

Some stuff happened with the world, though, and I find it in poor taste to complain about something completely insignificant when there’s some immediate, important shiz going on. Of course, there’s always something major happening somewhere in the world, and, you know, Chicago gun violence and hatin’ and all that are pretty much nonstop, but I have to tell my chicken story some time.

That time is now.

Chapter 1

Having worked in a restaurant, albeit briefly and not in the back, and having known people who have worked in restaurants in a cooking capacity, I am hesitant to send things back to a restaurant kitchen. Those plates pass through a lot of hands on the way from stove to table, and the nasty things that can be done to an entree are limitless.

My imagination doesn’t generally go so far as the scene in Waiting, but I’m not real interested in consuming anyone’s spit either.

Chapter 2

While in DC, we went to a barbecue restaurant at which we dined the last time we were in town. Apparently, we were exhausted enough from having just flown back into the country, and having been up roughly 24 hours, on our last go-round that the food seemed good when it wasn’t, because the food, well, it wasn’t good.

This isn’t a review, though.

Chapter 3

At our last dining, we tried only pork, so this time around I suggested a three-meat plate in order to give the barbecue a full try, and sharing it, because restaurant entrees are ridiculous anyway, and entrees that come with three different meats should not be eaten by one person.

So, upon placement of said order, it is discovered we have a “Look how cool I am that I can take your order without a notepad” waiter, which is only acceptable when the orders come out right, which inevitably they don’t, and is never as cool as they think. This of course meant, despite only a single meal, we got an incorrect meat.

Chicken.

Nobody wanted chicken.

Chapter 4

There sat the chicken, not under-cooked, not overcooked, a totally wrong food item. I didn’t want the replacement meat to be spit-meat, but if I wanted chicken, I would have ordered chicken, and maybe the waiter could have spared us all if he invested in a notepad.

So, I told the waiter that nobody wanted that chicken, and he was all “Aww shucks. Yeah, it wasn’t supposed to be chicken. I’ll take care of it.”

Chapter 5

Minutes went by, and, at last, the waiter returned. With a small plate. The manager, we’re told, needed his chicken back.

In disbelief, I forked the untouched chicken onto the manager’s little plate, and swore I could hear him whispering “Gotcha” on the wind. Obviously, the confrontation-phobic manager thought we were trying to quadruple our triple for free, just because we were sharing, and sent the “Aw shucks” waiter, whose admission that he’d made a mistake didn’t make it as far as the kitchen, to catch us in the act.

Then, the restaurant died.

The End

I sat on the edge of her bed in the nursing home, next to the wheelchair she has to ride in, despite the fact she can hold up her own feet when someone is pushing it.

Half the time, her head was bent down against her chest, her eyes open, but looking as if she didn’t want anyone to look at her, like she was ashamed or scared.

She didn’t know who I was, but I was okay with that. I didn’t expect her to remember me. She didn’t remember anyone, not even the nurses she sees every day.

I gave her a peanut butter cup. She asked if she could have two. I told her she could have as many as she wanted. Less than a month shy of 93-years-old and with all her original teeth, she’s earned the right to eat as much candy as she can stomach.

She asked about her kitty. She asked where her parents were. It seemed like she was slipping back in time. Then, she said, “I’ll see them,” and it was more like she was slipping forward.

I got a smile out of her when I reminded her that we used to play as partners in euchre sometimes, and again when she asked what my dad was doing over there and I told her he was leaning against the wall, trying to look like a movie star.

Most of the time, though, she was just confused. She kept saying, “I don’t understand anything that’s going on.” I said I didn’t understand most of what was going on either, and meant it.

Then she said, “Just let me go.”

She didn’t know me, but she knew enough to know I am still hanging on. As I have all my life. As I always will.

A few years ago, my sister made Aunt Mary get legal documents drawn up, because Aunt Mary wanted all life-saving efforts made to keep her alive and my sister didn’t want to make those decisions for her.

Now, Aunt Mary is ready to go.

Every god knows, I don’t want her gone, but I’m not sure any of us are supposed to outlive our memories or our desire to live.

When we said we were going to leave, Aunt Mary said, “Not yet.” So, we stayed a while longer. But eventually we did leave, because we all have to leave sometime.

Before we were out in the hall, though, when I was talking to Aunt Mary in near-confidence, she said to me, “I don’t like the way things are going. Do you?”

“Not always,” I answered honestly.

For a second, she sat there thinking, shaking her head as if neither of us had any hope at all. Then, she looked me right in the eye and said, “It’s going to be all right, I think.”

And I really don’t know, but I’d like to think so too.

Using Periods to Differentiate Our Nation’s Capital from Skaterwear

Generally speaking, I like to write Washington, DC just like that. Those periods always seem so stuffy and technically incorrect, since you don’t abbreviate Ohio O.H. or California C.A. I also prefer the comma over Washington DC, but, then, I’m a bit of a comma-addict. And a hyphen addict. And a dash addict.

Punctuation is like the time signature, the notes and the sharps of writing. The words tell the story, but the cadence is in its dots and lines.

Most of the time.

The dots in my title are solely for the purpose of not getting people too excited over a hip new line of floral-printed skate shoes or a new comic line about prepubescent superheroes. For our intents and purposes, D.C. is the District of Columbia, and if I had chosen to add Washington to the title, I could have spared everyone 150 words of explanation.

Of course, if brevity is what you’re looking for, you’ve got the wrong blog, my friends.

Living near enough that DC is a relatively short drive has proven rather advantageous. It’s good for international flights, it’s where I’ll be seeing both Beth Hart and Bonnie Raitt/Mavis Staples next month, and it’s home to this country’s most famous Cherry Blossom Festival. Sorry, Philly, but it is.

Being free of a typical work schedule has proven advantageous for travel. In this case, it was possible to follow the bloom watch and hold out for peak bloom, though, in the end, it was luck, and a little poor work planning, by which we ended up in DC on the exact day of peak bloom.

As per usual, nothing went exactly as planned. Instead of seeing the blossoms at sunset Tuesday night with another stroll Wednesday morning, there was a five a.m. rising to beat the sun to the Tidal Basin, and we only half succeeded.

Still, though, it was early enough that the trees and sky retained that pre-reality surrealism that diminishes in the glaring light and stifling heat of day. Especially that day. And though nothing seemed to go right, nothing at all went wrong.

Here’s some photographic evidence. They get bigger if you say “Engorgio”… while clicking them.

This terrible photo is terrible. But this was my only tree with sunset. Obviously, I was outside dining. Which is a story in itself. For an upcoming day.

After rising at 5 a.m., we determined this time of day the ass-crest of dawn. The ass-crack of dawn is the hours of 3 to 4 a.m., while the ass-crest rounds right around 5 to 6 a.m.

It’s early, but one thing can certainly be said for the ass-crest of dawn. It does give good picture.

The sun coming up in East Potomac Park.

It was a riverside, dawn walk to the Tidal Basin. Ignore the unsightly scaffolding.

This was the opening view. Clouds in the water.

I believe Monet would have painted this.

There were very many, many colors.

This is how I hide scaffolding.

The star of this photo? The bench.

How Monsanto is Being Acquitted of Crimes Against Humanity Even as They Commit Them

It’s a scary thing writing about Monsanto. They really like to sue people – to the point of suicide, if necessary – and our government has a collective hard-on for them, so they are sharing a bed, kitchen counter, picnic blanket, or whatever surface on which they prefer their hanky-panky with some very powerful people.

So, here’s that famous, necessary, Kathy Griffin-style disclaimer -

<<< THIS IS IN MY OPINION >>>

Case in point (i.e. proof of hard-on), the Monsanto Protection Act, which isn’t the official name, but really should be, since that’s exactly what it does.

Protects them from what exactly?

Lawsuits, of course, stemming from any proof that *may* one day link GMOs with health conditions. Like… oh, I don’t know… Celiac Disease, for instance. Or fibromyalgia. Or any other random illness that is suddenly, inexplicably, on the rise at an alarming rate since the introduction of GMOs to the food supply.

In my opinion, it all happened about the same time.

Since I’ve detailed this in the past, let me breeze by my personal experience with GMOS one more time to enlighten those who may not know. In my opinion, GMOS are mixed up in here, of course. Only in my opinion.

Circa Late-2006 – My occasional migraines become near-daily migraines. I break down and go to the doctor, get referred to a neurologist, am told I have dozens of scars on my brain, and I probably have MS. They give me medication for the migraines and schedule a retest in six months.

Circa Early-2007 – The medication doesn’t work. (Not much of a shock since GMO corn or soy constitutes a major part of inactive ingredients in medication… in my opinion, that’s what the packaging conveys). I stop taking the medication and try changing my diet. I attempt to cut out all processed foods, but continue eating at restaurants when traveling.

Circa Late-2007 – I go on a trip, go to a well-known restaurant, take roughly ten bites of my meal, sprint through my fellow diners and throw up.

Circa Mid-2008 – Still working on perfecting my diet, I go on another trip, to a different well-known restaurant, take roughly ten bites of my meal, sprint through the empty restaurant, thank goodness, and stop just short of throwing up.

Circa Late-2008 – I change my diet more, overhauling completely, including going entirely organic, and cutting out every food that has a single unnecessary ingredient. I eat processed and non-organic food only when I don’t have much choice, and I slowly determine exactly which additives/foods cause me major issues.

This is when I discover for sure that – in my body’s opinion – GMOs are artificial foods. I get as sick when I eat GMOs as I get when I eat MSG, chemical yeasts and the other crap they get away with calling “food.”

Now, to be completely transparent, I was a very sick kid, born with a compromised immune system and all that. The fact that my body fails to process some things that other people can eat without a blip of discomfort isn’t all that surprising.

I don’t, however, believe that I am a special case. Or even part of a small group. I think I am extra-sensitive to things that are hurting all of us. That’s what bothers me the most.

It was a miserable learning curve, that I won’t deny, but I am actually grateful for the fact that I cannot eat things that are harmful to my body without feeling them. Generally. There are definitely days I crave a Kit-Kat, which contains half a dozen ingredients I can’t eat at all, plus vanillin, which, in my opinion, no one should be eating.

I look around, though, and I see people who are sick, who feel bad constantly, who have serious mental or physical illnesses that I know could be at least partially controlled through changes in their diets. I believe this, because I now get migraines only when I take stupid food risks, because I don’t have MS, though I suspect that’s what would have eventually come to pass, and because I have not been truly sick with a minor illness since I’ve cut all fake foods (including GMOs) out of my diet.

In my opinion, Monsanto and the other agri-companies manufacturing GMOs know they aren’t safe, know they are making people sick, and the government agencies that are supposed to be serving our interests, the seed-producers who are supposed to protect our food supply, and the medical industry, which is supposed to keep us well, are engaging in a giant orgiastic consortium where the climax is profit.

In my opinion, 2+2 still equals 4, even if the agri-companies and the agencies intentionally failing to regulate them want everyone to think 2+2 = We have your best interests at heart.

And in my opinion, an innocent man doesn’t run into his grandma’s house and say, “Granny, protect me from nothing.” A guilty man runs into his grandma’s house and says, “Granny, protect me from the fuzz, because I’ve been a very, very bad boy.”