The kids will be happy, and you can pretend you're not at work, and get some sunshine in your pretty face, too.

As my mom's hair was just growing back after chemo, she threw a reception for my Brother and his wife, who ahd gotten married in Europe. She asked me to tell her honestly if her hair looked long enough to wear without her wig. Now, she still looked bald, but there was some hair there and I KNEW she hated the wig with a passion, so I said yes. She wasn't able to go to this shindig without feeling like she had hair and she needed my help believing it. She had a great time and never wore the wig again.

That being said, the "Does this make me look fat" line is one of those tropes which I think exists mostly in Comedyland and not in the real world, like brides going home to mother and people in West Virginia marrying their sisters.

Further, if I ask, "How do I look?" I am looking for a relatively honest answer, but of course, I am seeking a positive response.

Yes, but that's not a specific question. Big, big difference, in my perception, although my particular bizarroland form of simple-mindedness wants a very specific answer to that one, assuming I ask it. If I say to Nic - and not sure if I said this, but the entire thing arose because it seemed a lover/spousal question, not a question between friends - how do I look, I want a complete answer. And since he shares my bizarroland etc, he'll give me one, every time. I don't ever get "you look fine" without a full head to toe lookover from him. He respects my question, and he knows I'm going to respect his answer. I suspect that defines that part of our own contract.

Robin, that's a beautiful story. I'd have answered the same, I think, had I known her and known the circs. But had I been her, asking my own daughter, I wouldn't have wanted the reassurance; I would have wanted her opinion.

So yeah, I'm grokking the contract a bit better, just that mine seems to be slightly skewed elseways with the three men I've loved in this life.

I don't want this thread to be for hairpats. Surely I have written some things that are awful, and people should tell me so.

But, otoh, when people (like deb, who I know to be forthright) do give compliments, I take them in the spirit given, insofar as that is possible.

If you've written anything awful, I haven't seen it posted here. And I suck at hairpats.

I know when close friends mean something other than the literal reading of their words. So "Does this make me look fat?" really means "I don't feel good about how I look right now. Comfort me." and *my* answer would be "Why you gonna ask ME that? You look great, let's go."

Heh. My friend TOTALLY failed to do that for me when I was in a fashion show for her store last week. I was wearing a shorty-short mini and showing A LOT of my (substantial) bare legs. After changing into the skirt I told her "I'm feeling a little insecure about my legs."

She said, "Eh. It'll be dark out there."

I was like, "NOOOOOOO you're supposed to say my legs are totally sexy and hott!!!"

(Also, my friends and I like to ask each other, "Does my ass look fat enough in these jeans?")

Hairpats here (in this thread/at this board), are constructive criticism, I think. When I first committed fic, I posted it in the fic thread. My bad habits were kindly pointed out (too many dialogue tags, and the wrong sort), etc. I was given resources to help me clean up my style. Just last week, deb not only called to my attention, but talked me through a fix in a drabble, that significantly improved it. When I made the fix, then I got the ego pats. And really, that's what I'd prefer.

I've written more badfic and managed to get it at 100 words. Inspired by the phrase "impale me with your fleshy-headed crusader" which I found on livejournal reading a rant about cocks in fanfic (specfically HP) (see lj user alittlewhisper).

Tonight would be most specialist of all nights when her beloved would declare his undying love and claim her as his own sweetest treasure. She was untouched by man and unschooled in the ways of carnal matters. The mere thought of the night’s education made her blush, tinging her skin the rosiest of pinks. As her peginior slid down her body she felt the first warm stirrings in her most secret womanly place. Tomorrow they would leave for the uncharted West. But tonight she would be his Manifest Destiny and he would push forward into her with his fleshy-headed cursader.

I am DYING over here. Askye, that's - dayum. What I tend to think of as the "terrified salacious Catholic school" school of bodice-ripping.

Are the spelling mistakes deliberate? Specialist instead of specialest, tinging instead of tingeing? I couldn't tell. Because boyoboy, do they work.

Fleshy-headed crusader. Awe-inspiringly horrible.

I have been scarred by the fleshy-headed crusader. Or, in my head, the cervelliere.

Her rosy bosom swelled above the bodice of her torn gown. She gasped as he touched her for the first time. She all but sighed his name, “Colin, Colin….”

“Oh, Alicia, my sweet. How beautiful you are. I could see your perfection beneath your sarcasm and quick wit.”

“Colin, we musn’t. Your father will be angry and send you away to America! I will not be your downfall, my darling”

“A pox on my father. Let us run away and be married. I have my own land in America. We’ll sail tomorrow. Alicia…Alicia…”

“Colin…Colin….My name isn’t Alicia.”

“I’m not Colin.”

The bad spelling was a mistake. I was in a hurry to get this up because I'm at work and somehow Word didn't put the squiggle-y red line underneath.

I'll leave them though.