Potterlock AU: John was wounded as an Auror, not in Afghanistan. He gets away with a bit of magic in the flat, because Sherlock doesn’t pay much attention to domestic things.
GRABBY HANDS
I LOVE EVERYTHING ABOUT THIS.
ohhh, fabulous
And who will be writing this story? Just asking for a friend…
THIS WOULD BE DELIGHTFUL
Fans are awesomely creative people…especially in cross-fandoms.
‘we are dumping all this waste that will not biodegrade and will still be present intact in hundreds of years’
‘we also have these roads that degrade in less then twenty years and need frequent costly repairs’
‘guess these two completely unrelated problems will never be solved’
WHAT ARE WE WAITING FOR
The government’s justification: tons of road construction workers will be out of work if we no longer have roads to repair.
Discuss.
Conversely, they could use the newfound time previously spent repairing roads and build new long-lasting roads in previously unpaved areas.
as i understand it, the problem for most places is that these plastics don’t respond well to extreme temperature differences. they could be a solution in places that don’t freeze, and don’t have wild temperature swings, like india. but in someplace like, say, new york, where it gets icy, or arizona, where day and night can be fifty degrees apart, the plastics break down.
they’re still working on it! but roads are a really high stress application. recycled plastics are a great resource but they can be brittle and they degrade under some conditions. the park benches in my minnesota town are made of recycled plastic, and they’re perfectly serviceable for five years or so, and then chunks start snapping off without warning. you don’t want that happening with roads while you’re driving on them. that would be bad.
Yeah, until they iron out those problems, recycled plastics wouldn’t work for roads in…90% of Canada. Especially not in areas where it’d be hard to get people out to, in order to do repairs.
It’d be enough of a mess for chunks of the road to start breaking off, without warning, in an urban area like Toronto. For it to happen somewhere rural, like most of Nova Scotia or Nunavut? That’d wreck people’s ability to even get to places that aren’t local, and it’d be months or years before anyone was sent out to fix it.
Asphalt isn’t great, but it at least lasts more than one winter.
who thought it was a good idea to put the big writing event in november? it’s all i can do to get out of bed in november. my brain is telling me it’s time to hibernate. my instincts are Eat Everything, Sleep All Day, not Write A Whole Novel. not to mention all the college kids are having exams and oh ALSO there’s the big cooking holiday coming up, which is generally gonna divide the middle-aged writers by gender, as it’s still usually not dad who organizes family get-togethers and does all the cooking and decorating.
why isn’t the big writing event in june, for crying out loud?
#writing#i am a dad who does the cooking#but i’m aware how unusual i am#and it’s really not fair to put a challenge like that#in a month when a bunch of the women are going to have major social obligations#that the men really don’t
Yeah, I don’t know who originally started Nano but – yeah. It was easier when I was in high school, and they’ve got writing camps during the summer. But the writing camps aren’t the same as the whole big Nano Event.
rightwingers constantly parsing gun control as “they want to TAKE our guns” is so dishonest and sleazy. it’s like if there was a crackdown on reckless driving and DWI’s and car theft and driving without a license, and a bunch of people went on fox news crying about how “they want to take our cars!”
no, we don’t want to take your guns, we just want you to have to be a responsible goddamn citizen about them, instead of a hooting yahoo.
the fact that this is a problem for you says some things about your personal issues that you maybe don’t want to air in public.
When you’re illiterate and don’t have an argument you resort to offensive language and name calling.
since this is the only post on your blog, i suspect you made a brand new blog simply to say this. which is a huge waste of your time. are you implying that i don’t know anything about guns? i’ve been hunting since i was a kid, bro. i know guns. i know how to be responsible about them. i know no gun control measures that have actually been proposed by actual civil servants would have kept me from buying or using them. because i’m not a damn idiot. are you?
oh for crying out loud. they deleted their post and blocked me, so now it looks like there are no responses. wouldn’t be surprised if that was the whole point of posting in the first place. folks, if you get a ‘cannot be reblogged’ message, reblog from my original post. i haven’t blocked anyone but pornbots.
“They have guns, wear badges and patrol Michigan’s streets.
They’re even in uniform. But they’re not real cops.
Across Michigan, police departments have enlisted civilians to work alongside licensed officers to patrol communities and even assist real cops with arrests. But unlike the regular officers licensed by the state, these armed civilians are unregulated.
A Detroit Free Press investigation found there are no state-established training requirements for reserve officers, as they are commonly known; no standards for screening their qualifications, and no process for monitoring their conduct. The state agency responsible for police licensing and training is not regulating reserve officers — despite gaining authority last year to do just that — and has no idea how many such unlicensed volunteers there are statewide.”
Trans-inclusive language in religious texts is SO IMPORTANT. There is nothing in some young people’s lives that can either validate or dehumanize them so quickly as how they see themselves represented in the words of their religion.
So it’s 2001, and my family drives from fucking California and like three blizzards to get to Ohio for thanksgiving, becuase my grandparents are moving into a nursing home and it’s their last holiday in that house. So its a bit bittersweet but ultimately a good thing.
Since it’s their last holiday there, the family pulls out all the stops when it comes to dinner, all the Russian desserts come out, as does the Lethal Bacon Mashed Potatoes and the horrible candied yams with the mini marshmallows dish because not all expressions of love are good, even if they are sincere. In the spirit of going all-out, Uncle Bobby smokes a Turkey.
Uncle Bobby started cooking as a boy scout by tossing foil-wrapped potatoes into a campfire and has been addicted since, and now has a hand-made smokehouse in the backyard where he makes various cured meats and other delights. He seasons the turkey in the traditional manner, but he and grandpa have a shared passion for a spicier mesquite-style bird, so Bobby makes a Cornish Game Hen seasoned that way, for them.
Then Bobby has a Brilliant Idea. He realizes that he can stuff the turkey (once it has been smoked) with regular stuffing, and there is still plenty of room for him to put the game hen inside THAT, and stuff the game hen becuase why not? He confers with Mom, and she explains how to cut open the turkey so there’s dramatic reveal as the stuffing and game hen come out. It’s Genius.
Except, of course, that my Aunt Sue is attending, Uncle Cliff slouching after her.
So the day of the dinner, tensions are running a bit high, between the marathon cooking, the kids all being trapped indoors due to aforementioned blizzards, and Uncle Cliff deciding that the best way to amuse himself is by hiding from the adults in the basement, getting drunk and rambling about how various ethic groups were destroying America. Being that I had close Muslim friends that were leaving the country becuase of 9/11, I was near tears from this nonsense and ready to fight a man roughly five times my size.
Sue, for some reason, keeps coming down and defending him, or telling us we’re rotten children for ‘attacking’ him, becuase she Must Stand By Her Man, even if her man is a hefty bag of dog feces with an ugly mustache.
My sister eventually bolts upstairs to tattle and my grandfather limps down to the basement and brandishes his Hip-Bone Cane, hands rock-steady in spite of the Parkinson’s slowly taking over him.
“Firstly Cliff, It may not be my roof much longer but while you are under it you will be civil, or I’ll beat your skull in. Also, dinner’s ready, everyone go wash up.”
We go upstairs and sit down, and do the traditional “Name one thing you’re thankful for” as the bread gets passed around the table, and things calm down a bit. Bobby brings out the Turkey and everyone goes OOH becuase it’s really pretty, them Mom carves it open so that the stuffing spills out dramatically along with the game hen and there’s an appreciative gasp all around becuase it looks cool.
Only Sue KEEPS gasping, in utter horror, before getting up and clasping her hands to her face ala Edvard Munch and shrieks-
“OH MY GOD IT WAS PREGNANT!”
We all stare at Sue. We all look back at the fully-dressed-cooked-and-stuffed birds that in no way had any internal organs in them or ever gave live birth. Then we all looked back at Sue, trying to figure out where to begin but since she’d been trying to justify Cliff’s behavior she was pretty much free-associating conspiracies and scandals now, and just kept going.
“IT WAS PREGNANT MY GOD WE’VE COMMITTED AN ABORTION WE’RE ALL GOING TO HELL FOR THIS, I’M SO SORRY JESUS-” She goes into full pearl-clutching gibbering horror at this point and falls back into her chair like it’s a Victorian fainting couch only it’s a shitty chair from the Eisenhower administration so it collapses and she slams into the floor, sobbing and kicking her feet like a toddler.
Everyone watched for a moment before my Mom sighs heavily and starts carving and serving the turkey while my grandmother mouths “she’s not coming back”.
Cliff, reactions delayed by about six beers, finally notices his wife is on the floor and tries to pick her up, falls on his ass himself. They are assisted by Dad, who is saintly patient man and less immune to this jacknapery at that point. I am stuffing dinner rolls into my face to keep from laughing at this grand spectacle and it’s not working.
“I CAN’T EAT IT, I REFUSE TO PARTAKE IN THIS BARBARISM-” Sue begins but Dad puts on his best Kindly Father voice (he was heavily involved with the catholic church and even considered becoming a priest before getting drafted but that’s another story) and assures Sue that she need not eat, or even be in the room if she wants. She nods, placated by being the center of attention again, and Dad goes in for the kill.
“I wouldn’t want you to go hungry. Can I make you some Eggs?”
“That would be lovely.” Said Sue, joke flying over her head like a boeing 747. I recall watching my grandmother nearly choke to death on the green beans over that, and everyone pointedly trying to avoid talking about anything poultry-related while Sue sat there and ate the most ironic scrambled eggs in the history of mankind.
Shortly thereafter, Cliff threw up in the sink and they went home, and the party got underway properly, with Grandpa raising a toast to Mom and Uncle Bobby “For marrying well, for a change”
“Pregnant Turkey” has been an Ohioan thanksgiving staple since then. I’ll see if I can hit Uncle Bobby up for instructions but if you decide to make it 1. you HAVE to shriek “OH MY GOD IT WAS PREGNANT” when you carve it open, or it’s not authentic and won’t taste as good 2. Share the pictures with me.
Dove's Tumblr Archive 