Archive of Our Own

Dorothea

“BASIL!”

My dog just took off. We were minding our own business under a tree, hiding from the Texas sunshine and she simply decided it’d be a great time to charge off without me. 

Dumb dog.

Seriously, my dog takes stupid pills on a regular basis. I love her, don’t get me wrong, but she took an extra does of moron this morning. It’s the only explanation on why she just took off across the expanse of grass after she had clearly told me through her actions she was too hot to move. 

I hate Texas. Espeically in the spring. And summer. And fall. The only time Texas is okay in my books is in the winter, as it’s usually not a MILLION degrees. It’s just slightly uncomfortable for winter. Take right now. It’s the middle of January and it’s maybe sixty something. Sixty is not a temp one wants to have in January. Thirty is what you want in January— and that’s warm. It’s twenty degrees in Anchorage today and I thought, “Ah, heatwave.” 

I love Alaska. Especially in the winter. And fall, spring. I kind of hate it in the summer because the sun is always out and it’s SUPER intense. But, I love winter in general, and Alaskan winters while dark and void of sunshine are COLD. And it’s like only abnormally dark in December. And a little in November and January, but February is awesome.

I love cold weather. When it is cold, you bundle in your sweaters, long sleeves, down coats, scarves and mittens. One does not need these in any combination in Texas unless the world is ending and it kind of attempts to snow. 

(I’ve never been in Texas when this has occurred. The coldest it’s been is thirty-two degrees and the people of Del Rio were walking around like they thought it was the Arctic. Even today, I’ve seen more people in North Face coats than I saw in Anchorage when there’s seriously brumal temps.) 

My dog is not a fan of hot weather. She likes snow, below forty degrees, late winter sunshine and would rather be in purdah. 

I guess she forgot she hates hot blacktop, hot Texas sunshine and the fact she’s misanthropic.

Where the hell is she going? 

“BASIL!”

I think she is deaf. She can lip read and knows things like DINNER, OUTSIDE, TURKEY, FRENCH ROOTS (don’t ask), SIT, PAW, and kind of knows ROLL OVER (and by kinda, I mean she usually does a strange combination of sitting, spinning, jumping and rolling over at the same time). 

I used to think she knew her name…but, clearly, she doesn’t.

“BASIL!”

She is heading right for this guy on a bench. She’s zeroed in on this guy for some unknown reason. She hates people.

I guess I ought to stop her.

And she doesn’t hate people. Just some people. There is no rhyme or reason to who she likes and doesn’t like. I’ve given up trying to figure it out. 

“BASIL! COME HERE!”

Great. I guess I’m going to have to RUN across this great expanse of grass and get her. Not that I’ll ever catch up. I cannot run. I should never be seen running. I look like a total freak.

“BASIL! COME HERE!”

Hauling myself to my feet, I start after my dog as she continues her sprint towards the guy on the bench. He still hasn’t moved, so I guess he hasn’t realized Basil Bea Dog, the Idiot Dog Who Barks Too Much, has decided she fancies him. No clue why. I do not see a dog with the man. Usually that’s the only reason she’d take off. She loves other dogs, even though they never seem to return her feelings. I’ve yet to figure out why other than she’s over zealous and does this strange high pitch whining noise whenever she sees another dog. Unless she’s inside. Then she barks till your ears bleed.

“BASIL!”

I am running. This is embarrassing. I should have taken her to a freaking dog park instead of where ever we ended up. We’re near the airport.

Basil is not keen on dog parks. Last one she was at, she hid under a picnic table digging herself into a hole. Lieterally. She dug a hole and pawed dirt down the front of my sweaty shirt. 

We were not friends for the rest of the day. 

Oh, no. She knows I’m following her. She’s zig zagging now instead of running in a somewhat straight line. 

“I am not playing you mutt!” I shout at her as she darts out of my grasp.

I’ve at least distracted her from whatever she had started to go after when she emancipated herself. 

I slide sideways a few times, as I’m wearing flip flops. I didn’t think my dog would want to a) walk a lot as it is almost seventy degrees and that’s above her threshold of comfort and b) after residing in Alaska for three years I was a little too excited to wear flip flops today. In January!

You do not wear flip flops in Alaska unless you enjoy dirty feet and rocks stuck to the bottoms of your feet. While the good people of Alaska attempt to wash away all the rocks they use instead of salt on the roads during the winter months, the tiny buggers never leave. Anchorage, Alaska is also a seriously feculent when it’s not raining and/or snowing. No clue how it is so filthy, as it doesn’t look dirty till you look at your feet after wearing flip flops. Luckily, though, it rains a good majority of the summer months— well, till it’s time to go to bed and the sun decides it’s high time to show itself. Land of the midnight sun, duh. 

The point is, it is best to keep your feet inside of shoes at all times, no matter how nice it might look out the window. Unless you want dirty feet and tiny rocks stuck to your soles.

Kind of like you should always have a coat, no matter how warm you think it is out there because it might not be as warm as you think it is.

Or it might start raining.

Or snowing.

I hate Texas. Can I go back to Alaska? 

I love rain. I love cold. Hell, I even love the tiny rocks stuck to my feet.

“BASIL! Get your furry butt back here!”

Ooof.

Okay.

If anyone just saw me face-plant on the ground, I will kill them. Or I will just lie here and die quietly of mortification and obloquy.

Worst. Day. Ever. 

Basil Bea Dog— also known as Moron, Basildorf, Idiot Dog, and other such names— will not be getting any treats today. Or tomorrow. Or the next day.

And we are not friends any longer. 

Pushing myself to my elbows, I look around for the stupid mutt. She’s decided I’m boring and has gone back to pelting towards the man on the bench, who is no longer staring at the sky and is paying attention to my dumb dog and myself.

I face-plant in the grass again. 

Did I mention I hate my dog? I hate my life. I hate Texas. I am so filled with hate at the moment I’m haterific.

Yes, I make up words. It’s what I do. 

I get to my feet and trot off towards the stupid dog and the man, who has caught her furry butt before she reached the bench. She’s barking at him like the moron she is while lying on her back asking for a belly rub. Yes, she is barking at the person she wants attention from and it’s not barking in an excited manner. She is simply barking just like she does when a doorbell rings. Or babies cry. Or she hears something that sounds remotely like the FedEx/UPS truck.

Seriously.

They don’t even have to stop near our house and she’ll bark her tiny head off.

Her head is tiny. Too diminutive for her long legs, longer body and furry tail. She’s also a gimp, yet don’t tell her that one of her back legs is shorter than the rest. She fails to notice she’s a tripod half the time, even while channeling a greyhound. 

Yeah, she’s a gimp and she can run faster than me and my limbs all operate correctly. She can also run for a lot longer than I can. I’m not made to run. 

“Sorry,” I apologize before I reach the man who has stopped Basil Bea’s Escape from Woman Who Feeds Thee. “She, er, got away. Thought she was content to sit under the tree and recover from heat exhaustion. Guess not.”

“She does seem rather warm,” a British accent says in response, his hand glossing over Basil’s super shiny black fur. “She’s quite soft.” 

What is a British person doing in San Antonio, Texas? Is he lost? Has he lost his mind? And why on earth is he at this park by the airport? It is not a popular park. I’m seriously the only idiot who decided today was a great day to go to the park— well, other than Mr British Dude. Most Texans are huddled under layers of sweaters and coats with the heat on. They think it’s cold today. 

“Well, black dog, sunshine, equates warm fur,” I offer, coming to a stop a few feet from the guy and the barking menace known as my dog.

The man chuckles and looks up at me. 

I blink several times behind the safety of my sunglasses. He’s got shades on as well, but there is something about the rest of his face that knocks me off kilter— well, further off kilter. It’s on the edge of my mind why this guy looks familiar, but I cannot figure it out. 

All I really know is my face is channeling a tomato.

“I noticed you and this dog— Basil did you say?” 

He said it like Americans say the world, not how British people say it. Bustamundo. Sometime I say Basil name as the British would say it, because I like all things British.

I nod and he goes on, “I noticed you two when I arrived. What breed is…she?”

He sounds confused on the fact her name is Basil and she’s a girl. 

“Er, she’s a mutt,” I reply. 

Everyone wants to know what breed Basil is. Lots of people think my moronic dog is adorable. I guess she is, as sometimes I think she’s the cutest thing on the planet. I love the mutt most days, honest.

Just not today.

“When they found her drooling and scared in a field outside of San Antonio, they thought she might be a doxie/beagle mix, but then she grew. When we got her, the lady said she was just a beagle mix. Then she grew. Multiple times. Now we don’t know.”

The man looks back at the dog, who is still on her back, long legs straight up in the air, tongue lolling out of her mouth between random barking outbursts.

“Ah. I can see a little beagle in the ears,” he admits. “Does she grow often?”

“Yes,” I grouse. “She keeps getting longer. And taller. She doesn’t seem to get fatter, just longer and taller. And I swear her head is shrinking.”

The man laughs, petting the dog’s belly while she’s still barking at him. 

That laugh sounds oddly familiar. His voice sounds familiar. But, I know it’s not him. He wouldn’t be in San Antonio talking to my dog. No, I’d be able to tell him anywhere. 

I wish my brain would work so I could figure out if I ought to know the man or I’m hallucinating.

At least I’m ninety-nine point nine percent positive this man is not Tom Hiddleston. (Insert ode to Hiddleston’s mad acting skills here along with dramatic swoony noise that someone my age should not be making, but is perfectly able to make within the confines of her own head.) 

Bark, bark, bark, bark, bark, bark.

It’s like a bad recorded loop, my idiot dog’s barking. I ought to record it and post it on the internet along with a dumb video and share my pain. 

“She barks a lot.”

“I noticed.”

“I’m so sorry. Basil, shut up.”

“Basil’s an interesting name,” the man comments, slowly standing up. He brushes his hands together, sending fur off into the air. 

Shedding wonder— that is my dog. Wanna see my dog loose ten pounds— brush her.

Whoa. He’s tall.

“Yeah…”

“Any reason for it?”

“It was…well, long story short it was either name the dog Basil or the first female child,” I inform him, knowing he likely didn’t want to hear the entire story on how the dog wound up named Basil. (Honestly, it’s long and includes the name Merv.)

The man appears to be confused. Basil rolls back onto her uneven legs and decides it’s really a tripod kind of a day, so she stands there on her three good legs with the back good leg turned in at an odd angle that looks painful and the shorter one dangling above the ground and barks at the man who is no longer petting her.

“Basil, sit down and shut up.”

She sits down, but continues barking. I bend over and grab her lightly around the mouth and clamp her jaw shut. 

“We get the point. You can bark. Parade’s tomorrow.”

Basil continues her attempts to bark with her jaw shut.

“What do you theorize she’s composed of?” the man asks.

“Oh, a little of this, a little of that,” I say, letting her mouth go. She goes back to barking and stands up, now standing on all four legs, which makes her lopsided in the back. “Beagle, terrier of some sort, whippet, greyhound, moron…”

“I don’t believe I’m familiar with the breed of moron,” he laughs. 

“Well, it’s a breed all her own then, isn’t it, Basil?” I ask the barking dog, who glares at me for some reason and attempts to back away. I suddenly realize I am not holding her leash. 

Crap.

Oh. The guy is standing on her leash.

Basil gives up her attempts to escape when she realizes the guy is standing on her leash and collapses on the ground. She’s given up completely.

“Well, uh, thanks for stopping her,” I say. “While the vet insists her hearing is fine, I think she is hard of hearing.”

The man snorts. “I gathered that. Or she was simply focused on whatever she thought she was chasing.”

“Sure. She tried to chase a chipmunk once,” I say, looking down at the dog as she pants, her legs stuck straight out and stiff. She always lays like this, so it’s nothing new. “It didn’t go well for her. She was always three steps behind the little bugger.” The man chuckles again. “Well, I guess we’ll head home. Thanks for stopping her.”

I bend over and the guy lifts his foot (he’s shoes are huge). I grab the leash, warp it around my wrist and stand up. 

“My pleasure,” he says, smiling at me as I peer up at him. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“I didn’t give it to you.”

Where do I know this guy from? It’s more than likely best I not figure it out, as then I’ll become a babbling moron. Or more likely, a non-babbling moron who is unable to form a sentence and will simply channel a tomato.

I cannot meet someone I know looking as I do now, covered grass stains. And likely red faced from my embarrassment. 

I’m a hot mess. 

“I’m Ben,” he announces, extending a huge hand.

My god. I thought my husband was tall and had large hands. This guy’s hands dwarf mine completely. 

“Door,” I reply. 

His handshake is firm and his hands aren’t overly sweaty. 

“Your name is Door?”

“Yes. Kind of. It’s actually Dorothea. I prefer Door. Or Cricket,” I admit. I laugh a bit nervously. He is staring at me, that odd shaped mouth of his twitching. I square my shoulders and add, “I assume your parents didn’t name you Ben, did they?”

“Er, no. I can’t say they did,” he admits, running a hand through his reddish brown hair. It’s unruly and, like most hair in Texas, it’s huge. It’s impossible not to have huge hair in Texas. My hair is out of control since we’ve gotten back to Texas. After three years of flat, limp hair, I almost forgot I actually have wavy hair.

“Well, then,” I say when he says no more. I then laugh.

Luckily, he joins in. 

I wait for him to say see ya later and walk off back to his bench, but he is still standing here next to me and my idiot dog, who is still lying on the ground like a dead dog.

She’s not dead. She’s panting too loudly to be dead. (The sunbathing is doing her in. She used to sit inside our house in Alaska when the sun was pouring in the windows panting up a storm, refusing to move even though she was hot. The funniest was when she’d do it in the backyard— when it was filled with snow.)

“But, Cricket?” he inquires, and pushes his sunglasses up onto the top of his head.

Any words I might have said in response die a painful death in my throat.

OMG.

I think I am going to drop dead, pick myself up, get into my car, drive it off a bridge, die again, get out of the ditch, go home, scream and finally ram my head into the wall a few hundred times.

I’ve been talking to Benedict Cumberbatch.

I am covered in dirt, grass stains and I fell flat on my face in front of him.

My dog barked at him. Incessantly.

Can I tell you again how much I hate Texas? Only in Texas would I be less than perfect when I meet a celebrity.

At least it wasn’t Tom Hiddleston. Then, I’d really have to walk off and live in a ditch for the rest of my life. (Tom Hiddleston has been my all time favorite actor since I saw in him Gathering Storm in 2002. I knew he was going places. I was right!)

But, enough of that. Must go die now. 

Benedict

For a spilt second, I think I’ve lost her. I had a feeling she had not been able to pin point where she knew me from. I’ve yet to dye my hair back to Sherlock’s darkness, but it’s getting longer than I care for— as I think Sherlock’s hair makes me look a bit feminine. 

No one agrees with this statement.

I forgot for a moment, though, she hadn’t placed me when I pushed the sunglasses I had been wearing off my face in order to see her better. I’ve been wearing these blasted things for the past twelve hours and find them somewhat maddening. LA was sunny, the plane was sunny, this city in Texas is sunny. I believe all of America might be sunny except where I want to go. 

That part is covered in storms planes are unable to fly in, hence why I am here in Texas of all places rather than New York or Chicago.

It’s snowing. Or is going to be soon. New York’s flights were all cancelled preemptively after the storm buried Chicago. I was diverted to Texas due to the snow. I’m not sure why the plane was unable to fly around the snowstorm, as it was a direct flight from LA to London, but who am I to question the FAA gods? 

I give her a sheepish look as she stares at me with an expression that clearly states she is thinking fuck my life. 

“I take it you know me,” I say, hoping to get some sort of reaction. Hopefully, not a screaming one. I get those sometimes, but most times the people that approach me behave somewhat normally. 

Though, she might hate my work. Or might not like me in general— one of those people who thinks my acting is shoddy and doesn’t get why other people find me attractive. 

Not that I get it, really. I’ve been staring at this face for over thirty-six years and I don’t understand what they all see that’s any different than it was before I…blew up, as some say.

I am still simply me.

I still am not too crazy of the reflection in the mirror. It’s just me. Not George Clooney or Brad Pitt.

“Oh, yeah,” Door says, twisting a ring on her left hand with her left thumb.

How did I miss that before?

Especially in the sunlight, the diamonds of the ring catch the light easily. And she is rather frigidity. She hasn’t been still since I spotted her when I arrived. 

“Well, I best not keep you. You seem to be melting,” I joke, scratching my head. Her face is quite red. It’s quite warm. Not as warm as LA during the Emmy’s, but still rather uncomfortable for January. 

Who would have thought it’d be January and I’d be melting in Texas? 

I shouldn’t be in Texas. If this was a perfect world, I’d be on a plane over the Atlantic Ocean rather than standing in a park in Texas. 

I’m only at the park because I couldn’t stand to be in the airport any longer and the next flight scheduled to London isn’t until seven this evening. 

If it even leaves. 

The woman/girl turns even redder— if possible. It is easy to tell she’s red due to embarrassment rather than a sun burn as before when she was under the tree I entertained the idea that she was a vampire. She is very pale. Most people around here gallivant around various shades of brown or orange. I don’t think I’ve seen someone so pale since I left England. And I don’t think I’ve met an American who was pale. They all tend to be some shade of tan. Even the so called pale ones. 

I think she might be more pale than I am. 

“Oh, god,” she breathes, tearing her eyes off of me. “I know. I hate it here.”

“Yes, I cannot say I favor this weather. Where are you originally from?”

She no longer appears as if she wishes she were dead and isn’t in a hurry to leave. She is just standing in front of me, looking a little lost. 

“Alaska.”

I blink at her.

“I mean, I’m Alaskan at the moment,” she says, shaking her head. “I mean, well, I’m actually from Chicagoland.”

I knit my brows together.

“God, I wish I was from Alaska. Everyone is from Chicagoland.”

“I’m not.”

She forces out a laugh, shaking her head. “Well, yeah.”

“So, you’re not Alaskan, but you’re from…the land of Chicago?”

“Chicagoland— anything that is not the actual city of Chicago but is within a two hour drive of the city.” 

“Ah. Like…suburbs?”

“Exactly,” she agrees. “My husband gets mad when I tell people I’m from Chicago, even though if I told you I was from Villa Park, you’d have no idea where that was.”

“Quite true,” I agree. “So, what brings you to Texas?”

“Military,” she replies. “Just here, again, for a few months before going back to the middle of nowhere.”

She scowls down at the dog, who is still lying on her side panting up a storm. 

“Back to the start,” she mutters.

“What?”

“Oh, where we began this whole journey,” Door says, looking up and flapping her free hand. “A tiny, dirt hole town on the boarder. Top attraction Walmart. Seriously. I had a seventh grade student ask me why I hated the town so much and I just kinda gave her a look and she said, ‘We’ve got a Walmart!’ like it was the creme de la creme! Walmart! I grew up in a town with Walmarts, Targets, Sam’s Clubs, Kohls, Best Buys, Hobby Lobbys, and a MALL with ACUTAL stores in it!”

This all comes out in a voice that is becoming more aggravated by the second. 

“So, in a city in other words,” I surmise. “Not a quaint village.”

“Correct. I’m a city girl. Spoiled the last three years by living in an actual city. With weather that didn’t try to kill me,” Door grumbles, sighing deeply. 

“It gets quite cold in Alaska, doesn’t it? Like below…” I fish around for the correct temperature conversion. Math was not my strong suit. 

“Oh, it gets cold,” she agrees. “But I like cold. I like the snow. I love dressing in layers. The summers there aren’t so bad. It usually doesn’t get above seventy…air wise. It feels hotter in the sun, as the sun is super intense…there is no a/c in Alaska, so it tends to get a wee bit hot inside when you get a super sunny day. Well, there might be a/c in Fairbanks. It gets kind hot in the interior. I lived in Anchorage.”

“Did you enjoy it? Anchorage, I mean.”

“Yeah. It’s like the perfect place for me. It, if you can believe this, reminded me of London.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. In the summer the weather is very similar to London. Well, the winters were vastly different, but I plotted the weather between the two, and besides the super cold months in Anchorage, they had very similar weather. I loved London, though it doesn’t have mountains. Man, I miss the mountains. It was like no matter where you looked in Anchorage, you had a great view. Even from our house in the city, you always had a view of the mountains.”

Door sighs wistfully. 

“Sounds lovely. I’ve never been,” I admit. “They don’t usually divert to Anchorage.”

“Oh. OH!” she says, looking back at me. I imagine behind her sunglasses her eyes are going large. “The huge snow storm. My brother in Chicago told me it’s so bad he’s getting sent home. I guess you’re…oh, you’re trying to get back to London.”

I nod. “Yes. A few things to get done before I begin filming my next project.”

She nods, though, I get the feeling she doesn’t know what my next project is. 

“Well, I think my dog might die.”

And clearly doesn’t care.

“While she’s originally from here, she don’t like it here,” Door says, fondly smiling at the dog. “She was like a different dog after we got her out of the heat. And the first time she saw snow…we were all like how did this dog end up in Texas of all places? She loves winter. And snow. Poor thing.” 

She jerks the leash in her hands, but the dog doesn’t move.

“Come on, Basil. Up and at ‘em,” she demands.

The dog refuses to move.

Door sighs deeply. “Please don’t make me carry you. Up.”

The dog for some reason rolls over.

Door plants her face into her free hand. 

“Not roll over, stand up.”

The dog rolls over again.

“French roots?” she asks in a really bad French accent. 

For a moment I think she might have lost her mind, but the dog shoots to her feet and leaps around, barking in an excited manner.

“I really wish I knew what you thought I meant when I say that,” she grumbles. “Come on. Let’s go for a ride.”

The dog stops leaping around and sits down.

“Come on.”

The dog plants herself.

Door sighs deeply. Before I can offer to carry the dog, she scoops the lanky thing up into her arms. The dog looks even stranger and longer in Door’s arms. And awkward. Oh, and the dog doesn’t look like she enjoys being carried. Her floppy ears are plastered to the side of her head. She looks utterly pathetic. 

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Door says, attempting to smile. “Uh, good luck on…whatever you’re doing next. I can’t wait to see Star Trek.”

I blink. “Not Sherlock?”

“Oh, I don’t know when that’s coming out. I know when Star Trek is coming out. I was excited about it before I knew you were in it, though, if I’m honest. I’m a total geek. And by that I mean, I was excited for the sequel after seeing the first one. Before you were cast. Before I really…oh, no. I guess I knew who you were.”

“You did? Didn’t the first film come out before Sherlock?”

“Oh, I’ve known who you were since you popped up on Masterpiece Theater,” Door says, looking a tad embarrassed. “I’m totally obsessed with all programs on there. I’ve got this…well, weird talent for picking out the next big thing.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah. Granted, I pegged Hiddleston from something on HBO, but after I saw you in To the Ends of the Earth I had a feeling you’d go places.” 

She looks mortified she just admitted that to me. I smile and laugh.

“I’m flattered.”

“Well, uh, good. Wouldn’t want to embarrass you. I’m a total geek.”

“Aren’t we all?”

She shifts the dog in her arms and asks, “Oh, I don’t know, are we?”

“I say we are.”

“Well, okay.”

She begins to walk towards the parking lot. I pull out my phone, glancing at the time. It’s three. I have several hours before my flight boards (if it boards). 

“Wait,” I call out to her before she gets too far. 

She stops, looking up at me in question. 

I feel like an idiot, but something is telling me to keep in contact. I don’t want to give her my number, nor do I want to give her my personal email. I don’t have Twitter or anything because I honestly do not have time, so I’m at a loss. 

“Do you have Twitter?”

She stares at me, looking confused.

“I do.”

“Your name on there?”

“Cricket Heidi,” she replies. “Pen name.”

“You’re a writer?”

“No. Handbag designer. I thought Dorothea Judoc-Abercombie sounded kind of lame for a label.”

“You design handbags?”

“Yup. Cricket Heidi Designs. Google me.”

She gives me a rather breathtaking smile, salutes me with two fingers and turns back around, adjusting the dog again. I wait till she’s no longer in sight before I open up the web on my phone and do exactly as she suggested. 

A few minutes later, I’m staring at an empty Etsy shop. I don’t know anything about Etsy, so I go back to Google and look at the Facebook page. The Facebook page at least lets me see the handbags she designs. I don’t know anything about handbags, so I can’t say much other than they look nice. Colorful. Unique. Kind of loud. 

Google also leads me to her blog, which she hasn’t updated in a few months, likely before she moved from Alaska. Some of it focuses on her handbag line— designing it, making it, the hazards of running it herself. However, most of the posts are about her life. They are essays— her husband losing his wedding ring in a creek while hiking, how she found Harry Potter on the floor (the book, not the actual wizard), a few stories about her dog and the snow, her adventure in camping in the winter in the backwoods of Alaska, and a few heartfelt essays on her past. 

The story of how she managed to burn herself multiple times while doing ordinary things is rather hilarious. I’ve never known someone to burn their stomach whilst ironing a shirt. Granted, most people wouldn’t wear the shirt whilst ironing. 

She could be a writer if handbag designing failed her. 

By the time I call a cab to get back to the airport, I have a desperate need to go to Alaska. Also, if I end up trapped in Texas for the night, at least I have good reading material. She’s been blogging for four years and I’ve only read the last two years.   

Edited and reloaded 19 August 2013