Work Text:
OoOoOoOoO
Dorothea
I bang my head against the steering wheel. Several times.
Sitting up straight, I take a deep breath and start the car. I turn the a/c on high and as cold as it’ll go. Basil Bea is collapsed somewhere in the back. I can’t see her, as she’s down for the count. Least she won’t be whining and crying the entire ride back to the apartment like she was on the ride to the park. The dog cannot handle being in the car. It’s like too much for the poor thing.
Gripping the steering wheel, I put the SUV into reverse and back out.
“You cannot hyperventilate at the moment. You have to drive home,” I inform myself. “And you know how much you simply adore driving through the streets of San Antonio.”
I hate the streets of San Antonio.
Actually, I hate the interstates/highways of San Antonio. The actual roads are perfectly fine, as long as they are not interstates/highways. I don’t understand the whole interstate/highway system here. They are obsessed with access roads. They don’t have on ramps or off ramps like one is used to with cloverleaves. Instead they have butt load of access roads and whoop-arounds. (Also known as roads made purely for u-turns under the interstate.)
And everything is located around the intestates.
And the access roads…oh, the access roads. How I hate access roads, let me count the ways.
Give me some nice suburban streets that require no merging. Why?
No one knows how to merge.
Especially here.
I learned to drive on the mean streets of Chicagoland. I know how to merge, man. I know how to use an interstate and merge lane.
In Anchorage, they never made the merge lanes long enough to actually merge (thus no one knew how to merge), but at least they knew how to make a cloverleaf.
In San Antonio, they want you to merge, get off and about a million other things the minute you get onto the interstate. And everyone is on and off, on and off.
I hate Texas. I am simply not designed to be in Texas. Too hot, roads too crazy, hair too big, dog too mental.
I steer the car out of the parking lot and onto the road, mentally trying to remember how I got here in the first place. I’ve made it my goal to get everywhere here by avoiding the interstates. I can’t always avoid the stupid access roads, but I’ve made it an art to not get on the actual interstate.
Okay, so sometimes I get lost, but I always wind up where I wanted to be in the first place. And I do it without the aid of Siri or GPS. (I hate Siri. We do not get along. Also talking at my phone freaks me out. Plus, she doesn’t know that Basil is a dog. And she can’t pronounce “basil” right. Also, my phone is named Sherlock and he’s a boy, not a girl.)
OMG. I named my phone Sherlock.
OMG. I met Benedict Cumberbatch today.
“Drive, Dorothea. Drive.”
I make it home without getting on any interstates and I only got lost once. Granted, by the time I get home, I have to leave to head to the base to retrieve my husband.
Unfortunately, I have not calmed down.
“I MET BENEDICT CUMBERBATCH TODAY!” I yell the moment my husband gets into the overly air conditioned car.
Jason stares at me blankly for a long beat, having no idea who the hell I’m talking about. Out of all the actors I troll after, the only one he remembers is Tom Hiddleston. And he doesn’t remember his name. He usually refers to Hiddleston as That Other Guy You Love.
I do not love Hiddleston. I appreciate his acting skills. That is ALL.
Instead of reacting past staring at me blankly, Jason then turns the a/c off and opens the window. It’s only seventy degrees. To Jason, it is not hot enough for a/c.
He did not spend enough time in Anchorage while we were there. He was always off in tropical regions during the worst of the cold spells. He’s not hardy like me.
“How can you NOT know who I’m talking about! We only spent the entire trip from Anchorage to San Antonio listening to Cabin Pressure!”
He blinks at me. Slowly.
“Martin? You met Martin today?” he finally asks in his slow speaking manner. He’s from Indiana and has the oddest accent. No one in his family sounds any different than me— that bland Midwestern accent— but Jason has always had this odd cadence to his voice that makes people think he’s from Texas.
He does not sound like he is from Texas.
He does have an accent.
It’s one of the reasons I liked him.
When he strung together more than five words.
“Yeah! Your stupid dog ran right at him,” I inform him, putting the SUV into reverse. “I found a new way home!”
“From?”
“The base. I used it to get here from the one we used this morning,” I say cheerily. “And I took Idiot Dog to the park. Near the airport. The one Rose and Jack showed us when we all were here last time.”
Jason hums, but doesn’t reply.
He smells like the Sim (short for simulator, what most pilots fly instead of planes). I’m not sure why, but the Sim smells like the tiny trainer plane he’s re-learning to fly and it’s not a pleasant scent. A little better than how a C-17 smells. I’m not sure what it is about the C-17 (no one pukes on a regular basis in a C-17), but it reeks. So does the trainer plane. Mostly because people puke in it on a regular basis. Pulling Gs and all. Or something. I’m not a pilot.
“I told him to Google me,” I go on, heading off base.
“Do you know how to get off base? How did you get here?” Jason asks, not replying to me. “Did you get lost?”
“No. I followed the school bus till I saw the tennis courts. Then I kinda guessed,” I reply.
I will never be able to find my way around the base, as it was built by someone on drugs. Or someone who thought the layout of Washington DC made sense. At least all the buildings don’t look exactly the same like they do on every other air base I’ve ever been on. They are all still painted the same shade of bland brown (my mom jokes they must have gotten a discount on desert sand brown) but they look different from one another.
Jason hums again. “So, you told Martin What’s His Face to Google you? You know when you do that, nothing really shows up about you.”
“There’s that picture of me from that stupid Econ fair I went to when I was in college,” I remind him.
“They spelled your name wrong. And you got married,” Jason reminds me.
“I gave him my other name.”
“Fake name.”
“My internet name.”
“Fake name.”
“I hate my name.”
“You do not.”
“Fine. I don’t.”
Jason hums again.
“Do you think he’ll Google me?”
I can’t really see Jason as I am driving, but I know what look he’s giving me right now. It’s the Why-Are-You-Asking-Me-This look.
“Yeah, you’re probably right. Why would a big, old, busy, famous actor Google me? Hilarious right? Oh, god. I totally face-planted before I met him. I had grass stains on my knees and shirt. Don’t get me started on the melting makeup.”
“Made a great first impression,” Jason offers.
“Of course I did. It’s what I do.”
“Besides making up your own words,” Jason reminds me.
“Totalishous,” I proclaim.
Jason hums again, twirling his hat in his hands. “Where are you going?”
“This way!” I happily sing. “I missed this turn this morning, but I took that turn you mentioned this afternoon and avoided all those stupid left hand turns and going over the train tracks down there with the light.”
Jason hums.
Jason hums a lot. It’s just a bland note, the same note and it’s usually short. He hums instead of agreeing with an actual word.
“You know,” I start as I also try to manage my speed.
The roads here go from twenty-five to forty-five to thirty and then fifty-five. It’s so confusing. I’ve come to realize that Anchorage has somewhat fast speed limits, especially for a city. Most roads I tended to use made one drive at least forty. The road I lived on, a nice suburban street, the limit was thirty.
“I know what?” Jason prompts.
“You know,” I begin again, “it’d be awesome if he did Google me and decide I was interesting and attempted to keep in contact. I’d have a famous friend!”
“You’d have a friend,” Jason says, frowning as I roll the window up and turn on the a/c.
“It’s bloody hot.”
Jason sighs deeply, then hums.
“It is seventy degrees! It’s January!”
The Hum again.
We fall silent as I wind my way through the back roads of San Antonio. For a major city, there are a lot of country-like roads around here. The suburban sprawl hasn’t gotten out to the outer reaches of the city, I guess. It’s working on it. The area we live in is newly building itself up.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Food?”
Jason hums and pulls out his own cell phone. He pokes around for a moment before sighing and pocketing the phone.
“Chicken and rice?”
“Sounds good. You needed your phone for that?” I tease.
“No. Someone texted me,” Jason replies.
I don’t ask. People are always texting Jason. He’s social and popular— even if he claims he hates people. And that he’s not social.
He’s a freaking social butterfly. Why he married me, the well dressed hermit, is a mystery to me.
I pull up to the gate for the apartment complex and hit the button at the same time the theme song for Sherlock (the TV show) blasts through the car’s speakers extra loudly, meaning I’ve got a text.
Jason makes a noise and tries to figure out how to shut my phone up. While we have the same phone, I’ve got the newest model and he’s got an older one. While the actual phone has not changed much, my iPhone confuses my poor husband.
“Just unplug it from the car,” I tell him.
He does and reads the text. Instead of reading it out loud to me, he snickers.
“What?”
“You’ve blown up Twitter,” Jason snickers.
“Huh?”
The 4Runner serves a bit and Jason shouts, “Drive! Drive! No running into things!”
He’s been annoying like this since I accidentally drove our old car into my parents’ garage. A week before he told me we were selling it to buy the stupid SUV I’m currently driving (we drove to Alaska, we needed the SUV’s storage, four wheel drive and ground clearance). I did not mean to drive the s40 into the garage. It’s not my fault my parents’ driveway is crooked and it is difficult to pull into. It’s not my fault the stupid car needed new windshield wipers and the only place you can get them was the Volvo dealer and I didn’t want to go to the dealer. It is not my fault none of the wipers I bought that morning fit the dumb car. It’s not my fault I was in a bad mood and it was raining. It was not my fault we bought a Volvo. It was not my fault Jason ignored me when I suggested we get a Subaru because we MIGHT need all wheel drive at our next base.
Lesson: don’t drive mad into my parents’ garage. You’ll dent the car, scrape paint off the garage and never live it down.
Also, LISTEN to your WIFE when she says you might need all wheel drive so four months later you’re not buying another new car when you move from one extreme to the other.
“Fine!” I shout.
I concentrate on driving till I pull into the covered parking spot and turn off the stupid 4Runner. Jason grabs his backpack and hops out of the car. I gather up my purse and look for my phone.
“Do you have my phone!”
Jason doesn’t answer. He slams the door.
Hoping he’s got my phone, I tumble out of the car and hurry up the stairs. Jason is standing by the door, waiting for me to unlock it with the odd thing this place calls a key. Seriously, it’s five kinds of strange. It’s a piece of plastic with a metal disk at the end and you scan it to open the lock.
Totally high tech and ood.
Basil the Idiot is barking even before we open the door, joining the chorus of other barking dogs that live in our building.
“I swear she’s going to get us kicked out,” Jason grumps, heading into the bedroom where Basil the Moron is locked up on her crate.
She’d be in there even if I didn’t lock her up. For the first two years we lived in Alaska, I didn’t lock her up and nine out of ten times she was in her crate when I got home. We started locking her up again because she’s a barking menace to society. Or it was simply she barked her little head off at our neighbors she decided she hated with a flaming passion. We never did figure out why…all we know is she hated them and we got a notice for a barking menace. (She so did not bark more than any other dog in the neighborhood.)
After Basil the Shedding Wonder stops barking and dancing in circles (fur flying everywhere) around Jason, I ask, “So, what was this about me blowing up Twitter?”
Jason extends the phone to me and I find my brother texted me.
Since when are you friends with some British guy? You’re blowing up Twitter according to Jen.
“Huh?” I ask. Why is Jen, my brother not girlfriend, trolling me online?
Trolling. Such a funny word. I also get that song from the VW commercial in my head that’s about rolling whenever I think about trolling.
I tap to the Twitter app I use and wait for it to load. It chirps at me as the tweets begin to post. I notice there are a lot of tweets at me.
No one usually tweets at me.
Mostly because I still don’t get Twitter. It’s been three years and I still don’t really get it. I tweet, yeah, but I never tweet to people, I’ve never had a conversation with anyone and I don’t DM people unless they DM with a question. And that has only happened once. I’ve had a few people tweet at me, usually after they follow me and see something and they respond and I freak out because I have no idea what to say to them.
I blink a few times. Most of the timeline is filled with people re-tweeting a tweet with my name in it.
What the hell?
Why is Mark Gatiss tweeting about me in the first place?
I hit the link in the tweet.
My world goes very tiny and I drop the phone.
OoOoOoOoOoO
OoOoOoOoOoO
Benedict
Several people are staring at me, but I do not care in all honesty. I’m too amused by the entry of Door’s blog I’ve just read.
I glance at my watch and debate on if it’s too late to text London. Deciding it’s not, I scroll through my contacts and call up Mark’s number. I paste the link and send a text asking if we could use penguins diving off an iceberg instead of saying Sherlock’s mind is a hard drive in the next season.
I move onto the next blog entry. I still have at least two hours till my flight leaves (if it leaves) and I’ve only been back at the airport for about an hour. I’m pretty sure several people have all ready snapped photos of me, due to the fact I keep chuckling rather loudly.
I ought to stop.
I don’t think I can.
My phone beeps.
Penguins, Benedict?
Yes. Did you read it?
I did. Highly amusing. How on earth did you find this?
I Goggled Cricket Heidi.
The phone falls silent and I go back to the blog. The next entry is about the dog. There are quite a few stories about Basil Bea Dog. I like the full name.
I read through the adventure the dog had going to a park in Anchorage. The entry ends with an exploding mouthful of dog food all over the kitchen floor. Oddly, I can picture the strange looking dog behaving in this manner and food rolling all over the place at the sight of a more savory bite of people food.
The phone beeps again.
Why did you Google Cricket Heidi?
I met her.
You met a handbag designer on the plane to London?
I’m in Texas.
You met her in Texas? Did she get lost?
No. I believe they recently moved.
She is on Twitter. I think I’ll give her a boost.
I’m about to point out her shop is empty when I change my mind. I have no idea what Mark exactly means by giving her boost, but if she gets more traffic to her blog, then when she does start selling handbags again, it’ll be beneficial.
I go back to reading.
Twenty-four hours after I was baking to death in Texas, I am freezing cold and wet in London.
But, I’m in London.
I have a day before I have to get on yet another plane and head off to continue filming for The Fifth Estate. Closing my eyes, I step outside the airport and suck in the polluted air of London. Reopening my eyes, I sigh tiredly and head for the car my PA assured me was waiting.
Luckily the car is waiting and I can go home and collapse in bed. My bed.
My flight to Berlin is early in the morning and luckily not as long as the flight from America.
I should have just flown my arse to Berlin instead of London.
Berlin is cold.
For some reason, I keep thinking of Alaska. Berlin doesn’t look like the photos of Alaska Door posted on her blog. Iceland could work, but not Berlin.
Why do I keep thinking about Alaska? I do not have time to think about Alaska.
“Hey, Ben, did you see this?”
I turn to find the makeup artist holding an iPad, tapping it with her index finger while somehow managing to hold the powder brush still. I’m sure there is makeup all over that iPad— between her fingers and the fact she’s scrolling through something with the brush still in her hand.
“See what?”
She looks up at me, frowns, then powders my nose of all things.
“Those Sherlock fans are sure strange. Have you seen this yet?” she asks, turning the iPad towards me. Once she’s handed over the rather dirty thing, she begins to dig around in the belt she’s wearing for something else to attack my face with. I throw the white blonde hair of the wig I’m wearing out of my face and attempt to see what she’s trying to show me on the smudged up screen.
I mostly see finger prints.
“What’s the deal with the penguins?” she asks, tilting my head back so she can apply a few more touch ups while the director is distracted.
“What penguins?”
“I know those Sherlockians are strange and are kind of going whacko since it’s been almost three years since the last season and you jumped off a roof, but I really don’t get the penguins. Less than I get the otter and hedgehog thing. I mean, I don’t think you look like an otter.”
“Thanks,” I say dryly.
She stops attacking me with a brush and gets a sponge out from somewhere and starts dabbing my forehead. I hold the iPad in front of my face and angle it, finally making out an illustration of what looks like Sherlock’s head in silhouette. There is an iceberg in his head filled with cartoon penguins and a few are falling out of his head.
“Weird, huh?”
“Yes,” I slowly say, thinking Mark is behind this.
The thing with Sherlock fans is that they will take the strangest thing and run with it. They’ve clearly taken whatever Mark said about the blog post I sent him and turned it into this image.
“Does it move?” I ask.
“Yeah. The penguins fall off,” she laughs. “Okay, you’re done. Gimme.”
I had her the iPad back, shake my head and get back into character.
After we wrap up for the day, I collapse on my bed in the hotel room, dragging my laptop over to me. Perching it on my stomach, I log into my email and notice a few family and friends have forwarded the newest odd ball thing the Sherlock fans have come up with. I always look, as the fans of the show are some of the strangest and brightest followers. And…they are a very unique bunch.
I find an email from Martin and open it first.
I always knew your head was filled with birds.
I hit the link and it takes me to the Tumblr page with a moving image thingy. It looks better on my finger print free computer screen. I can actually appreciate it.
I laugh out loud as the penguins for the solar system, Lestrade’s first name, the prime minister, One Direction and a few other well known facts fall out of Sherlock’s head and are replaced by seemingly useless information— stuff only Sherlock would bother to remember. There is a link back to Door’s blog, which I hit before I write the response to Martin. I haven’t actually checked up on the blog since I got back to London, as I’ve been a bit busy.
I chuckle as I read the most recent post
AHHHHH!!!!!!! *Ducks for cover as life blows up in my face*
25 January 2013
I’m Twitter famous! And I inspired a Sherlock thing-a-ma-bob. Who knew the fact some random pilot guy said pilots heads were filled with penguins would be my crowning glory?
*Puts on Crown of Glory*
New readers, ‘allo! See entry below for That Time When Basil the Shedding Menace Barked at Benedict Cumberbatch.
The old five, Look! I updated!
For those asking about the handbag line, I’ve set the shop up to take custom orders. If you live in TX, might take some time, as I gotta wait till I process the paperwork right. Blasted paperwork…but, go in, order one and it’ll be a few days before I ship it out. (Well, unless I get swamped…I’m assuming demand will dwindle…how many of y’all need a purse?) I’d sell you the ones I already made, only they are sitting in storage somewhere down the road. I only have my sewing machine with me due to the fact I do not trust the movers to move it from Alaska in once piece.
And yet I let them take my scrapbooks again…after they got all wet last time.
I promise to get writing some witty, amusing, random personal essays along with churning out purses. However, right now I have to watch The Avengers. Why? Because I finally sent back that True Blood disk I’ve had since September and transported from Alaska to Texas. And yes, Mom, I didn’t see it in the theater because Pilot Boy was…somewhere not Alaska. He saw it without me and, gasp, said it sucked.
I do no believe him. Hiddleston is in that movie. It cannot suck.
*Music: “Roll With It,” Oasis
*Mood: Overwhelmed, y’all. But I got a crown. *Adjusts Crown of Glory*
I eye the entry about me and debate on reading it now or later. Or not at all. Thinking it might be a laugh to see how she took the whole thing, I scroll down to the next entry titled: Live From Texas, It’s Cricket Heidi!!!!!!
By the time I finish, my side hurts from laughing.
I am sure no matter where you spend the month of February, if you are in the Northern Hemisphere, it’s just dreadful.
I am sitting in my trailer, waiting between takes for the horrible drizzle/mist/rain to stop so we can get an exterior shot. I yank out my mobile and scroll through my texts. I have a few texts from my agent, PA, and directors I’m in contact with. Nothing all that important. I’m about to close the text inbox, when I notice a text from Tom Hiddleston.
Door is a huge Tom Hiddleston fan. I’d say she’s obsessed, but I’ve met obsessed fans and she’s not actually obsessed with him as some fangirls. She is fixated on his career, not him. She doesn’t care about how he looks, what he says during interviews, or his addiction to pudding. She doesn’t even care he’s nice. She is single-mindedly fixed upon his acting. And has been since 2002 (I learned this when I found the blog entry for her review on Thor).
I haven’t spoken to Tom or seen him in quite awhile. We travel in similar circles, but our projects keep us out of London as of recent.
When are you going to be back in town? Didn’t see you at the Globes…
Was Tom at the Globes?
Were you there? I’ll be in town starting in March.
I don’t think he was at the Globes. If he was, he failed to show up at the BFTA Tea Party.
Pinching the bridge of my nose, I push those thoughts out of my head and go back to my phone. I exit the text app and open up my emails. I should check them on my laptop, but I honestly do not want to move from where I’ve fallen down on the couch.
Finding nothing of interest, I open a new tab and go to my newest guilty pleasure: Door’s blog. She hasn’t updated her actual blog, but her Twitter feed has updated often in the past few weeks. Her recent tweets show up on the side of her blog. There’s a link to the actual page. Curiosity getting the best of me, I head to her Twitter page.
CricketHiedi: Sitting on the floor, surrounded by leather. Remind me…what was I thinking? h ttp://img .55859998
CricketHiedi: *explosion* Oops. I think I buried the dog in leather and cotton.
CricketHiedi: Basil Bea just attempted to escape out the door. Fail. Juliet balcony strikes again. http://img.3834793
I open the link and see a photo of the dog attempting to walk out a door. There’s a small Juliet balcony made of metal slats that look like the dog’s foot could get caught between. Actually, I think the dog is stuck.
CricketHeidi: Starting new fabric stash. *Sneaks around apt hiding fabric*
CricketHeidi: Going to the store. Buying some fabric. And thread. And other notions. Didn’t bring any with me.
CricketHeidi: Gonna reopen shop.
There are quite a few tweets that make no sense after that one. Mostly asking her questions about her purses, me, and other things. I skip all tweets not actually from Door.
CricketHeidi: Is it bad I want to turn on the a/c? It’s like 75 today. And why is no one else enjoying this? We’re the only people with windows open.
CricketHeidi: *Blink. Blink* I have over 95 requests for orders. In a day. *Passes out*
CricketHeidi: *Muppet arms* Fifteen minutes of fame here I come! http://byt.8338397
MarkGatiss: @CricketHeidi You’re welcome. It was an enlightening personal essay.
CricketHeidi: *passesout* @MarkGatiss just tweeted at me. And about me. Well, not me. Pilot Boy, but STILL.
MarkGatiss: Benedict fancies Sherlock’s mind is an iceberg filled with penguins. @CricketHeidi http://byt.7463764
CricketHiedi: OGM. Just met a guy named Ben. Pretty sure the last name was Cumberbatch. *Twiddles thumbs*
CricketHeidi: at park. It’s totally flip flop weather here in Teh-has http://img.7766655
I open the picture. It’s the park I met them at. The sky is a deep blue, no clouds in sight. The grass is yellow and brown and Basil Bea Dog is sitting next to Door’s outstretched, extremely pale legs. It’s clear the photo is of her flip flops, though. Not the dog.
I didn’t notice before. Her nails are all different color on her toes. Interesting.
CricketHeidi: Basil’s just a puppy that I used to know.
CricketHeidi: Dog and I are not friends.
CricketHeidi: *sings Adele* I set fire to the dog, watched her shed off all her fur, so I set fire to the dog. *Not really. Picks up fur balls*
CricketHeidi: *sings* Basil’s got a pocket, a pocket full of dog fur.
CricketHeidi: My name is Basil Bea Dog and I’m a bark-a-holic. (Hi, Basil!) I have a barking problem and they keep on locking me up for it.
A loud banging on my door startles me.
“Benedict! Need you on set!” calls a loud voice and I throw the phone down.
I snort quietly as I exit the trailer to be attacked by the makeup artist.
“What are you snorting about? If you’d stop pinching your nose, I wouldn’t have to keep doing this,” she chides.
“Oh, no. Not you. Bark-a-holic,” I say, tasting the word Door made up.
“Uh, okay,” the woman says, eyeing me in a strange manner as we walk and she un-shines my nose.
She clearly thinks I’ve lost it.
OoOoOoOoOoO
OoOoOoOoOoO
Dorothea
I think I’m gonna die.
Honest.
I am going to go over there, keel over, and simply die.
It’s March.
I think. I don’t even know any more. When did I get here? Why am I here? Where is the dog? Where are my feet? When did my whole world become pink?
Maybe I am dead?
No. Not dead. Just almost murdered by this pink leather that is not my friend. We will never be friends.
I hate leather.
Why did I think I could sew leather? I had issues with canvas, leather is thicker than canvas.
Clearly, I am mental. I ought to be put in a straight jacket and hauled off to a safe location to protect myself from…well, myself. This was my idea. I opened the shop back up. I offered up custom orders only and allowed people to choose what they wanted. Granted I tried to keep everything simple and easy, but I’m Dorothea Zephyrine Judoc-Abercombie— I don’t do simple. I fail at simple.
Clearly. Look at my name.
I throw the failed pink leather purse body behind me and hear it hit the floor. I let my head drop to the desk and whack my forehead against the hard surface a few times. I only stop because my computer makes an odd noise.
I’ve got my laptop sitting on the crowded table along with my sewing machine. I’m honestly not sure how it all fits, but we no longer use the table to eat at. Actually, the dining area is no longer used to dine in at all. It is totally converted for purse making. I cut all my pieces on the floor.
I can say one thing about this: leather and dog fur get along fine.
Cotton and dog fur don’t.
At least I am stellar at de-furring purses.
“What do you want now?” I ask the laptop.
It’s always making noise, as I get a zamillion notices. Between Twitter and my email, Mr Laptop is almost making a ping noise.
Oh, Twitter…how you’ve made my life go BOOM.
I still do not understand Twitter. I think I might be mildly popular and I am totally overwhelmed. I don’t know how famous people do Twitter. I have met quite a few interesting people via Twitter in the past few months since I met Benedict Cumberbatch. I think my best moment was when Mark Gatiss followed me. I about passed out.
If Tom Hiddleston ever follows me, I might just die. I’m pretty sure Benedict Cumberbatch knows Tom Hiddleston. I’ve heard things. And they made War Horse together.
I’m not sure what I’d do if I ever met Hiddleston…pass out. Oh, more likely, nothing. I’d totally clam up and become a mute robot— thus unable to tell him how brilliant he is and embarrass myself further.
Actually, that might be okay.
I stare at the computer screen and see a blue circle with an S jumping in the dock.
Skype.
Urg.
I’ve been getting more spam via Skype than normal. I don’t actually use Skype other than to talk to my family via video chat during the holidays. I used to use it with my friend in California, but I haven’t been in contact with her in a year. My only other friend, Pamela, is currently in the mists of getting ready to go on her big European adventure before arriving here in Texas to go through the same program as Jason.
Pamela is a pilot. Just like Jason. She’s my only Air Force friend. You do not know how thrilled I am she’s following us back to Del Rio, where I first met her.
I let my head fall back to the table, then sigh deeply as the computer makes another noise.
I gotta work.
I have like twenty zamillion orders to fill this week. While the purses I make are not complicated, I’m making them out of leather and did not do my usual trial period to work the kinks out. At least I stuck to the most basic purses to offer the leather. Also, many of the orders are for all cotton purses, my speciality. Everyday, basic, casual handbags.
Pushing myself away from the desk, I retrieve the body I tossed over my shoulder and turn it inside out and begin to rip the stitches out. At least I found the problem before I tried to sew the liner in. Usually after I stick the inside in the outside shell I find issues.
At least I realized the problem before I put the stupid thing together.
That bouncing icon is driving me nuts. Might as well get rid of it.
I pause in my ripping to block whoever is contacting me via Skype.
I’ve actually had a few people try to contact me via Skype for purse orders, so maybe I ought to be nice to Skype?
I blink several times when I see the message.
747t38b2C112: Hi. Is this Door?
747t38b2C112: It’s Ben.
The user name isn’t anything a fangirl (or boy) would pick out. It actually looks like a randomized username.
Also, the person will have to actually personally know me to know I’m Door.
I move my finger across the trackpad and hit accept.
CricketHeidi: Yes. This is Door.
747t38b2C112: Ah, good. Feel somewhat silly, but didn’t want to set up a Twitter account.
CricketHeidi: I don’t even want a twitter account.
This feels somewhat surreal. I’m talking to Benedict Cumberbatch via Skype. About Twitter. Which I doubt either of us will ever understand.
747t38b2C112: I see from your online presence, you’ve been busy as of late.
CricketHeidi: One could say that. Here I thought I’d be sitting around gathering dust for four months…
747t38b2C112: Better to be busy.
CricketHeidi: Eh. I’m always doing something. Like now. I’m ripping stitches out of a purse.
747t38b2C112: You’re busy?
CricketHeidi: No, I’m ripping stitches. You’d be amazed at my skills at this. I can do it one handed and with my teeth.
747t38b2C112: I have a very strange mental image now. Thank you.
CricketHeidi: *evil grin*
CricketHeidi: I’m done now. I’ve got two separate pieces now. *Waves two pink pieces of leather around*
747t38b2C112: Don’t you have to sew them together?
CricketHeidi: Well, yeah. If I actually want to make a purse. If I just want two pieces of pink leather that are square, then I’m done! *Flays Muppet arms*
747t38b2C112: Brilliant.
CricketHeidi: Of course it’s brilliant. So, what have you been up to?
747t38b2C112: You don’t know?
CricketHeidi: Er, no…something with Sherlock I assume.
747t38b2C112: You assume correctly. We did a read through today. Martin put grapes in his eyes and took a picture. I’m amazed you’ve not seen it.
I pause for a moment, click the internet browser and hit the tab I’ve got open for Pinterest. I refresh and see the photo.
CricketHeidi: Totally funny. I can’t wait to see what the fandom does with that. I loved what they did with the iceburg.
747t38b2C112: I did as well. I hope you don’t mind me tracking you down.
CricketHeidi: No. Why would I? You’ve been commenting on my blog for the past month. You don’t creep me out if I don’t creep you out.
747t38b2C112: Well, your fixation on Tom is slightly unsettling.
CricketHeidi: Oh, come on now. I’m not a member of his army and I’m not obsessed with Loki. That’s not even my favorite role of his!
747t38b2C112: Curious, what is your favorite role?
CricketHeidi: Midnight in Paris. He made a killer F. Scott.
I’m amazed Jason married me. I was fixated with Hiddleston when I met Jason. Actually, I’m surprised he decided to even like me, as when I’m nervous I tend to babble and tragically, I met Jason around the same time I had managed to get my hands on A Waste of Shame. While it stars Rupert Graves (I love him too, but not to the extent I adore Hiddleston), I mostly yammered on about Hiddleston. Granted, I didn’t have a lot to talk about as by that point in 2006 I’d only managed to (illegally) get my hands a few things he was in, I still spent a good majority of the first weekend we spent together talking about another man.
Who I didn’t know.
Who no one knew at that point.
I was rather smug when Tom Hiddleston blew up in 2011.
And now I’m talking to Benedict Cumberbatch. About Tom Hiddleston.
747t38b2C112: I’ll let him know.
SQUEEEEEEEE!!!!!!!!!
Get a hold of yourself, Door.
CricketHeidi: Though, I did like his role in Wallander. Pamela liked him for his hair, but I liked the character. He was kind of quietly cranky. A nice contrast to the depressed main character.
747t38b2C112: What are your feelings on New York?
CricketHeidi: The city? Well, if memory serves me correctly, it’s dirty. My teddy bear was all grotty when I got home.
747t38b2C112: How old were you the last time you were there?
CricketHeidi: Too old to be sleeping with a teddy bear.
747t38b2C112: I’ve got the list of the publicity I must do for Star Trek in America in May. Seems New York might be the lone stop. They’re trying to work around Sherlock to get me to LA, but I can’t see it working.
CricketHeidi: Isn’t everyone trying to work around Sherlock? He’s not the easiest person to get along with.
747t38b2C112: lol.
I feel so utterly surreal. I’m chatting with Benedict Cumberbatch like we’re, well, old friends. We’re talking about…things I’d not normally talk about with anyone.
OMG.
He knows I’m preoccupied with Tom Hiddleston and he’s still talking to me.
Wait till I tell Jason!
(He bet me I’d never actually “talk” to Ben again…he was WRONG.)
This might be the start of a beautiful…odd…friendship. I can feel it.
Just like I knew Hiddleston was a talent to pay attention to.
So HA!