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ptahrrific) wrote2011-07-23 01:24 am
ptahrrific) wrote2011-07-23 01:24 am
Entry tags:
Fake News: Sweetness Follows (The Clownfish Files)
Title: Sweetness Follows (The Clownfish Files)
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Transphobia, hazardously placed toys.
Characters/pairings: Jo(a)n/Tracey and kids
Disclaimer: #NotIntendedToBeAFactualStatement. Characters belong to the Report. Names of real people are used in a fictitious context, and all dialogue, actions, and content are products of the author's imagination only.
Outtakes from Sweetness Follows (and thus a part of Transverse). Joan's family reacts to the change.
*
"Would you like some more tea, Mr. Bartholemew?"
"He's full," Maggie announced firmly. "Mr. Snuggles wants tea."
Jon dutifully mimed pouring the pink plastic teapot above the cup, large enough to be a bucket in the paws of the tiny cream-colored teddy bear. "And what about, uh, Mrs. Godzilla?"
"She wanna sandwich," explained Maggie.
The tea party was disturbed by the light rap of Tracey's knuckles on the door. "Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but dinner's ready."
While the kids were washing up, standing on tiptoe on their twin stepstools (A Bug's Life for Maggie, Spider-Man for Nate), Tracey looped an arm around Jon's waist. "Was that Godzilla in a frilly dress?"
"It gets better." Jon gave her a rueful smile. "Yesterday Nate roped me into Mega Apocalypse Total War Showdown, with the dinosaurs on one side and the Polly Pockets on the other."
"At least they're learning that Polly Pockets can be soldiers too," offered Tracey.
"No, no, it's fine. It's not like I have a problem with them going the normal route. Just so long as they know they don't have to." Jon leaned against her wife's shoulder. "I mean, do you know how much I would have killed for a Color Magic Barbie when I was their age?"
*
Nothing had prepared Joan for this.
Sure, she had faced tough audiences before. From the jeers of hecklers at her early standup to the dismissals of a few lousy therapists to the withering disdain of particularly angry guests, she had spent her whole life dealing with them. With time and practice she had learned to weather the lot, honing the internal barometer that let her trust her own instincts about what was funny, what was honest, what was good.
But no crowd had tried those instincts so fiercely as the parents of preschoolers.
Nate, like most of his peers, was far too preoccupied with his Play-Doh to notice anything amiss. Joan hesitated in the door, trying to ignore the glare of another mother whose daughter was demonstrating an intricate hopping dance over by the alphabet-shaped animals, until the teacher tapped her son on the shoulder. "Nate, honey? Your—"
She didn't have to finish; Nate spotted Joan instantly. "Hi, Mama!"
"Hey, slugger," smiled Joan. "Come get your stuff."
"Where's Mommy?" asked the kid, obediently making a beeline for his cubby.
"She had an emergency at work. Somebody's dog got hit by a car." It always gratified Joan to know that, as far as her kids were concerned, Tracey's superheroic animal-saving job was infinitely more important than anything she did on TV. At least someone in the world had their priorities straight. "Hurry up, now. We're running late."
"Mr. Stewart?"
Joan suppressed a twitch as the teacher cornered her. Tracey's call had come too late to leave her time to put on makeup, but she was wearing a nice outfit and had even managed to throw on a shoulder-length wig (and anyway, she thought bitterly, surely these people had TVs). "Is it important?"
"Miz Holmwood?" piped up Nate, clutching his miniature Dora the Explorer backpack.
"Just a minute, honey." Ms. Holmwood patted the boy's head before smiling thinly at Joan. "Mr. Stewart, I'd like to schedule an appointment sometime next week to talk about Nate."
"Is he in trouble?"
"Oh, no, not at all!" exclaimed the teacher. "I just think it's important that we check in...talk about his progress...make sure we're all on the same page."
"Miz Holmwood?"
"You'll have to talk to my wife," said Joan shortly. "She's the one who schedules things like that."
"All right, Mr. Stewart. I'll be giving you a call."
"Miz Holmwood!"
At last the woman turned her spidery smile on her increasingly excited student. "What is it, sweetie?"
"Mama's not a mister," said Nate firmly. "She's a missus."
The smile remained awkwardly pinned on Ms. Holmwood's face. "Well, honey, I didn't call him 'missus' three months ago, did I?"
"Nuh-uh," conceded Nate, then stamped his foot. "But you gotta call her that now. She 'volved. Like a Pokémon. Unnerstand?"
Joan made a mental note to stop on the way home and get her son the biggest ice cream sundae money could buy.
*
Joan rarely noticed the shifts in her gait, the adaptation of her posture to the changes in the way her body balanced. Then something happened like coming home to a hallway blocked with the dismantled remains of a Fisher Price playset, and it reared its head with a vengeance.
The crash summoned Tracey; from the floor, Joan sheepishly reassured her. "I'm fine. Brought down by a plastic hamburger patty, nothing hurt but my pride."
"Those burgers can be vicious," said Tracey, offering a hand. "Sorry, I knew Maggie was pulling things apart, but I didn't know it had gotten this far."
"It's fine. At least I wasn't wearing a skirt."
"Hey, speaking of the kids...do you have any idea why they've been begging me nonstop for a clownfish?"
"Um," said Joan.
Tracey raised her eyebrows.
"I sort of explained how male clownfish will change sex if there aren't enough female clownfish around. And when I say 'explained', I mean 'shouted at the television why their rerun of Finding Nemo was a huge missed opportunity.'"
"Probably doesn't hurt for them to have more realistic models than Pokémon," allowed Tracey, putting her arm around Joan's waist and walking with her away from the danger zone. "But we can't bring either home. Tropical fish and cats don't mix."
"Yeah, I know. I'll try to talk them down."
They came to a stop at the framed wedding portrait hanging on the wall: Tracey radiant in her sleek white dress, next to a Joan who had clearly made her living in T-shirts and acid-washed jeans, and, at the time, badly-fitting suits from a Comedy Central throwaway show with a wardrobe budget to match.
"People are starting to ask me why we still have that up," remarked Tracey.
"I can see why. Someone really should have shown me how to wear a tux."
"You know what they mean. What do you want me to tell them?"
Joan shrugged. There were plenty of options — that it was one of the happiest days of her life, and she didn't mind remembering that; that if she had a problem with being seen in a suit and tie, she wouldn't have done it on TV four nights a week for the past ten years; that it was okay, she didn't feel awkward about it, so nobody else had to...."Tell them it's because of what I have on under the tuxedo."
Tracey's brow furrowed. "Joan? You were wearing boxers. Not every day, but I definitely remember them that night."
"True...but they don't have to know that."
Rating: PG-13
Warnings: Transphobia, hazardously placed toys.
Characters/pairings: Jo(a)n/Tracey and kids
Disclaimer: #NotIntendedToBeAFactualStatement. Characters belong to the Report. Names of real people are used in a fictitious context, and all dialogue, actions, and content are products of the author's imagination only.
Outtakes from Sweetness Follows (and thus a part of Transverse). Joan's family reacts to the change.
"Would you like some more tea, Mr. Bartholemew?"
"He's full," Maggie announced firmly. "Mr. Snuggles wants tea."
Jon dutifully mimed pouring the pink plastic teapot above the cup, large enough to be a bucket in the paws of the tiny cream-colored teddy bear. "And what about, uh, Mrs. Godzilla?"
"She wanna sandwich," explained Maggie.
The tea party was disturbed by the light rap of Tracey's knuckles on the door. "Sorry to interrupt, ladies, but dinner's ready."
While the kids were washing up, standing on tiptoe on their twin stepstools (A Bug's Life for Maggie, Spider-Man for Nate), Tracey looped an arm around Jon's waist. "Was that Godzilla in a frilly dress?"
"It gets better." Jon gave her a rueful smile. "Yesterday Nate roped me into Mega Apocalypse Total War Showdown, with the dinosaurs on one side and the Polly Pockets on the other."
"At least they're learning that Polly Pockets can be soldiers too," offered Tracey.
"No, no, it's fine. It's not like I have a problem with them going the normal route. Just so long as they know they don't have to." Jon leaned against her wife's shoulder. "I mean, do you know how much I would have killed for a Color Magic Barbie when I was their age?"
Nothing had prepared Joan for this.
Sure, she had faced tough audiences before. From the jeers of hecklers at her early standup to the dismissals of a few lousy therapists to the withering disdain of particularly angry guests, she had spent her whole life dealing with them. With time and practice she had learned to weather the lot, honing the internal barometer that let her trust her own instincts about what was funny, what was honest, what was good.
But no crowd had tried those instincts so fiercely as the parents of preschoolers.
Nate, like most of his peers, was far too preoccupied with his Play-Doh to notice anything amiss. Joan hesitated in the door, trying to ignore the glare of another mother whose daughter was demonstrating an intricate hopping dance over by the alphabet-shaped animals, until the teacher tapped her son on the shoulder. "Nate, honey? Your—"
She didn't have to finish; Nate spotted Joan instantly. "Hi, Mama!"
"Hey, slugger," smiled Joan. "Come get your stuff."
"Where's Mommy?" asked the kid, obediently making a beeline for his cubby.
"She had an emergency at work. Somebody's dog got hit by a car." It always gratified Joan to know that, as far as her kids were concerned, Tracey's superheroic animal-saving job was infinitely more important than anything she did on TV. At least someone in the world had their priorities straight. "Hurry up, now. We're running late."
"Mr. Stewart?"
Joan suppressed a twitch as the teacher cornered her. Tracey's call had come too late to leave her time to put on makeup, but she was wearing a nice outfit and had even managed to throw on a shoulder-length wig (and anyway, she thought bitterly, surely these people had TVs). "Is it important?"
"Miz Holmwood?" piped up Nate, clutching his miniature Dora the Explorer backpack.
"Just a minute, honey." Ms. Holmwood patted the boy's head before smiling thinly at Joan. "Mr. Stewart, I'd like to schedule an appointment sometime next week to talk about Nate."
"Is he in trouble?"
"Oh, no, not at all!" exclaimed the teacher. "I just think it's important that we check in...talk about his progress...make sure we're all on the same page."
"Miz Holmwood?"
"You'll have to talk to my wife," said Joan shortly. "She's the one who schedules things like that."
"All right, Mr. Stewart. I'll be giving you a call."
"Miz Holmwood!"
At last the woman turned her spidery smile on her increasingly excited student. "What is it, sweetie?"
"Mama's not a mister," said Nate firmly. "She's a missus."
The smile remained awkwardly pinned on Ms. Holmwood's face. "Well, honey, I didn't call him 'missus' three months ago, did I?"
"Nuh-uh," conceded Nate, then stamped his foot. "But you gotta call her that now. She 'volved. Like a Pokémon. Unnerstand?"
Joan made a mental note to stop on the way home and get her son the biggest ice cream sundae money could buy.
Joan rarely noticed the shifts in her gait, the adaptation of her posture to the changes in the way her body balanced. Then something happened like coming home to a hallway blocked with the dismantled remains of a Fisher Price playset, and it reared its head with a vengeance.
The crash summoned Tracey; from the floor, Joan sheepishly reassured her. "I'm fine. Brought down by a plastic hamburger patty, nothing hurt but my pride."
"Those burgers can be vicious," said Tracey, offering a hand. "Sorry, I knew Maggie was pulling things apart, but I didn't know it had gotten this far."
"It's fine. At least I wasn't wearing a skirt."
"Hey, speaking of the kids...do you have any idea why they've been begging me nonstop for a clownfish?"
"Um," said Joan.
Tracey raised her eyebrows.
"I sort of explained how male clownfish will change sex if there aren't enough female clownfish around. And when I say 'explained', I mean 'shouted at the television why their rerun of Finding Nemo was a huge missed opportunity.'"
"Probably doesn't hurt for them to have more realistic models than Pokémon," allowed Tracey, putting her arm around Joan's waist and walking with her away from the danger zone. "But we can't bring either home. Tropical fish and cats don't mix."
"Yeah, I know. I'll try to talk them down."
They came to a stop at the framed wedding portrait hanging on the wall: Tracey radiant in her sleek white dress, next to a Joan who had clearly made her living in T-shirts and acid-washed jeans, and, at the time, badly-fitting suits from a Comedy Central throwaway show with a wardrobe budget to match.
"People are starting to ask me why we still have that up," remarked Tracey.
"I can see why. Someone really should have shown me how to wear a tux."
"You know what they mean. What do you want me to tell them?"
Joan shrugged. There were plenty of options — that it was one of the happiest days of her life, and she didn't mind remembering that; that if she had a problem with being seen in a suit and tie, she wouldn't have done it on TV four nights a week for the past ten years; that it was okay, she didn't feel awkward about it, so nobody else had to...."Tell them it's because of what I have on under the tuxedo."
Tracey's brow furrowed. "Joan? You were wearing boxers. Not every day, but I definitely remember them that night."
"True...but they don't have to know that."
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