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My mom is having surgery in a few weeks and the doctor abruptly changed the date and time on her. Since she's had this scheduled for several months, she promptly calls the doctor and demands to be surgered early in the day.
When she tells me this, I suggest that while she doesn't want to be last in the queue, she also may not want to be first. After all, what if he's not a morning person. She may want him to warm up first on someone else. She pauses and says, "Well, that's true. For instance, if it were you operating, I definitely wouldn't want you to do it first thing in the morning." My mother, she knows me far too well. Anyone who's spent time with me in the morning knows it is not my preferred milieu. Hussy gatherings here or on the East Coast are always categoriezed by, "Okay, who's going to get Thea coffee so she'll get her ass out of bed."
I took my nap (ah, naps, how I missed you in the throes of my Sudafed addiction!!) to Murder on the Orient Express yesterday, waking up when Hercule Poirot is in mid-investigation and the train is stopping in this snowy nowhere and it's just so utterly romantic. Snow, expanses of nothingness, an elegant train. I have a secret fondness for being warm and wrapped while the world outside is white and stark and daunting. And yes, I also have a not-so secret fondness for Doctor Zhivago for the same reason. But there is a romanticism that I find so appealing in this imagery (not get it on romanticism, but the sort of dazzling fall into yourself conceptual romanticism of heightened senses and awareness, of contrast and contact and daydreams).
I'd love to see snippet fic surrounding this, either fannish or original. Tiny moments of a scene that seems both unreal and delirious and yet very, very tangible. Moments that make you want to press against someone, see your breath on cold glass. C'mon folks, it's spring and I'm oddly missing snow while the rest of you are waving goodbye to it. Work with me here.
When she tells me this, I suggest that while she doesn't want to be last in the queue, she also may not want to be first. After all, what if he's not a morning person. She may want him to warm up first on someone else. She pauses and says, "Well, that's true. For instance, if it were you operating, I definitely wouldn't want you to do it first thing in the morning." My mother, she knows me far too well. Anyone who's spent time with me in the morning knows it is not my preferred milieu. Hussy gatherings here or on the East Coast are always categoriezed by, "Okay, who's going to get Thea coffee so she'll get her ass out of bed."
I took my nap (ah, naps, how I missed you in the throes of my Sudafed addiction!!) to Murder on the Orient Express yesterday, waking up when Hercule Poirot is in mid-investigation and the train is stopping in this snowy nowhere and it's just so utterly romantic. Snow, expanses of nothingness, an elegant train. I have a secret fondness for being warm and wrapped while the world outside is white and stark and daunting. And yes, I also have a not-so secret fondness for Doctor Zhivago for the same reason. But there is a romanticism that I find so appealing in this imagery (not get it on romanticism, but the sort of dazzling fall into yourself conceptual romanticism of heightened senses and awareness, of contrast and contact and daydreams).
I'd love to see snippet fic surrounding this, either fannish or original. Tiny moments of a scene that seems both unreal and delirious and yet very, very tangible. Moments that make you want to press against someone, see your breath on cold glass. C'mon folks, it's spring and I'm oddly missing snow while the rest of you are waving goodbye to it. Work with me here.
