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Anabelle,

May we remember God’s love every day of the year. 

Wishing you and your family a beautiful holiday season.

Elise Berkeley xxx

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juliettejacobson:

“Oh, I’m not saying that my parents don’t have a giant blow up Santa in their yard to make my nephew squeal with delight, but I don’t think it’s really got a place in a party like this,” Juliette told her with a slight shrug.  She hooked a lock of hair behind her ear then while trying to place the woman.  “Christmas has become an increasingly secular holiday.  Given it was just the Roman’s monopolizing pagan traditions anyway to celebrate the birth of Christ there isn’t anything wrong with that either.”

Still, the woman introduced herself and Juliette took her hand.  She shook it.  Annabelle Brooke.  That was a name she’d heard before.  A lobbyist, if memory served, but she wasn’t sure for what.  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Annabelle Brooke.  My name is Juliette.”

“How… Quaint.” Anabelle Brooke replied, wincing slightly at the woman’s explanation of Christmas tradition. “Aren’t you just a ball of Christmas joy? Like a…. redheaded Cyndi Lou Who.” She flashed Juliette another pearly-white smile and nodded at the woman’s name.

“Juliette! How cute, like the play. Where do you, uh, where do you work?” She couldn’t imagine, with such a sardonic attitude that the woman was a senator. “I feel like I remember you from somewhere, but I can’t quite place you.”

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adamconnelly:

“They’re something else, aren’t they?” For all of how people seemed to receive Anabelle Brooke, there was something about her that Adam quite liked. A good, Southern woman who stuck to her principles - hard to find in DC. (Not that he himself was particularly a Southerner, but Virginia wasn’t so terribly far off, all things considered.) “Don’t think anyone in this town actually believes in what Christmas is actually about. Just whatever they can do to make a buck or win a vote, y’know? Don’t think I’ve seen a nativity anywhere, live or no.” He shook his head, taking one of bacon wrapped dates as the server circled back around. “Guess people like you and me need to stick together.”

Anabelle Brooke was taken aback by the man’s comments, until she turned and faced him, recognizing the all-american type standing before her. “Oh my stars, correct me if I’m wrong, but it’s Adam Connelly, correct?” She extended her hand immediately, planting herself more firmly in her heels. She was a huge supporter of Adam’s. There was something both soft and fierce about the man, qualities that made him stand out. 

 “It’s refreshing to see you here. It is so nice to see a gentleman amongst these politicians. I was beginning to feel like a fish in a sea of sharks for a minute there. And don’t get me started on their politically correct Christmas carols and season’s greetings. I mean, they might as well take the Christ out of Christmas in Washington at this point. Spending their time worrying about the political correctness of Santa Claus and no time considering the actual meaning of the holiday.” 

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juliettejacobson:

“Giant inflatable Santas might be a little too tacky for this level of society,” Juliette told her.  “Granted, I’m sure my parents will have one on their lawn when I get home for the holidays.”  Her little nephew made her parents want to make things even more special for him.

Her eyebrow rose slightly as she watched the woman.  “Well, it’s important for children of all races to see themselves reflected in the cultures and traditions here.  I mean, America is a melting pot, after all.”

Anabelle Brooke was vaguely familiar with the redhead that approached her. She knew that she was important enough to deserve pleasantries, but not important enough for Anabelle Brooke to make note of her name. Something that started with an “H,” perhaps? 

“Oh, I see. Well, daddy always taught me that the day you think you are above something is the day you’re unworthy of it. And, I would have to agree in saying some of these politicians aren’t worth the reindeer shit on Santa’s boots, much less inflatable snowmen and genuine Christmas cheer. After all, some of them have never uttered Christ’s name, now they’re here acting like the pinnacle of refined holy sugar.” 

She took a sip of her drink, turning to the redhead. “And as for the Santas, I agree with you. Which is why I said, diverse. We don’t really have diverse Santas back home, but then again, we don’t have many people who get their knickers twisted over the race of a fictional person.” 

Anabelle Brooke smiled, extending her hand. “Hi. I’m Anabelle Brooke. It’s so nice to meet you.”

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Christmas was Anabelle Brooke’s favorite time of the year. She hung her stockings before Halloween and carved the thanksgiving turkey on a crystal plate with mistletoe engraved in it. She’d won the title of Miss Christmas seven times in a row at the Brentwood Christmas pageant. Christmas was her thing, but it was a thing of merriment and joy. In DC, it was a political thing. So she’d slipped on heels sharp enough to carve a Christmas ham and let her parents know that she wouldn’t be home until Christmas day. Shaking her head gently to dispel a man carrying a tray of bacon wrapped dates, Anabelle Brooke glanced over at the bar and smiled, walking towards it and carefully placing herself nonchalantly beside her target.

“It really is beautiful here.” She exclaimed, turning her attention to them. “Although, it has nothing on Christmas in the South. I haven’t seen y’all break out a single giant inflatable Santa or a live Nativity scene yet! And don’t get me started on y’alls’ Santas... I’ve never seen so many... diverse... Santa Clauses in my life.”

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vaserman:

A grown woman calling her actual father daddy? The connotations made him throw up in his mouth and were crystal clear compared to the conversation he was tuning out of. Upon recognition that it was the Annabelle Brooke Kindler threw him off even more. While his mind got into the pedantic of the supposed limits of the phrase, his face remained expressionless as he continued scrolling the article on his phone. Despite this he couldn’t help but give her legs a once over as her hand went down. After three years of being taken, his discretion was probably rusty. 

“Yeah, it’s a no from me. If I had to discuss politics with my family, not sure if they’d slice mine or their own jugulars first.” A voice bitter enough to express Gabriel’s disgust towards his own kin but friendly enough to constitute a legitimate response. There wasn’t any point in saying it but occasionally, the cracks opened up for his little outlets here and there. 

“It almost takes on a double meaning around here,” Gabriel said with a warmer tone. “Actual policy politicking, politicking about all the politicking, denying the politicking, politicking when you’re not supposed to be but you know you should because, you know, Washington.” He’d vocalised his own tongue twister and didn’t trip up. Cue a smug Gabriel. “Goes around in circles, just like this conversation if you’re insisting on continuing it.” 

Usually, Gabriel followed the insane line of Southern politeness logic. It was unlike him but it was his way to reaching across the political or cultural aisle of his West Coast tendencies. He’d courted Dixiecrats and downright Republicans for his own good in such a way. Annabelle had no viable professional advantage, so it was just easier to dismiss her.  

Anabelle Brooke winced at the man’s repulsive suggestion that mentioning politics within his family would metamorphose into a bloodbath. Politics were the backbone of her family. They discussed presidential elections over dinners with friends and hosted debate nights at the Country Club. Her family believed in an atmosphere of creative differences – that is, any opinion other than their own was creative but different. Insurmountably different.  She’d almost regretted striking up a conversation with the man; as she slipped her glasses onto her eyes and was able to make out the figure in front of her, she smirked.

If she must converse, at least conversation with Gabriel was entertaining. The candid but repulsive line quickly shifted from bothersome to predictable; she stood, nearing Gabriel. “Daddy always said there’s a ‘tick’ in politics for a reason. Bloodsucking little bastards.” While she and Gabriel’s political stances were hardly parallel, she could at least stand to host professional banter with the man. He was of enough prominence in DC to warrant controlled reactions, but not prominent enough to make Anabelle Brooke slip deep into her Southern drawl and pull out every impressive gag she could manage. Certainly not a Julian Berkeley, but certainly not a Nicholas Elliott.

At his dismissive comment, Anabelle Brooke relaxed her stature. “I would rather discuss politics than pretend I care enough to memorize pointless facts about your social life. But since you insist, how are you, Gabriel? Please enlighten me with impressive facts about finances and work habits. I’d even love to hear about your fiancé. How is she? Bless her heart, probably up to here in wedding plans.”

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aaronhaloua:

She did not just say ‘bless your heart’. Aaron had never heard anything so Southern in his life – at least, not until he arrived in D.C., where all the politicians from that area seemed to love the phrase. Mostly, he heard it sarcastically, but he was pretty sure he didn’t say anything to warrant something like that, so he decided to assume the lady was being very nice and genuine. 

“I don’t know about important,” said Aaron with a gracious smile, “just busy. My boss, he’s the big guy. I’m just the one at the desk pushing the papers, make sure everything gets done. You know how it is.

“It’s nice to meet you, too. I think I’ve seen your face around before. Hopefully, we haven’t already met, or I’m about to be very embarrassed.” 

The big guy. Anabelle Brooke’s smile grew from hesitant politeness to warm admiration. “The big guy. Well, you’re out here making me shake like a leaf in Autumn. I should have recognized you as the chief of staff for Mr. Berkeley.” She should have. If her father had been there, he would have chided her for such a careless error. Nonetheless, she’d maintained hold of her diplomacy and kept the conversation politically correct. At least I didn’t try to proposition him. 

“Oh, no worries, sweetheart. I’m decently new in DC. I’m a lobbyist for the Christian Coalition. My name, unfortunately, carries little weight around here. My father is the superintendent down in Brentwood, Tennessee, and my mother runs the Junior Women’s Club there. They also own a Country Club, but the closest we’ve ever come to national recognition was when my brother beat Mississippi State’s records for most consecutive quarters scoring and most touchdowns in a season.”  

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No One Is Kinder Than Kindlers || CBC Challenge

Bentlee Sloane Kindler

Bentlee Kindler was born in the summer, three days after his own father died in a car accident. An only child, Bentlee was coveted by his mother, a new widow with close to no idea of how to handle the family’s finances and her sudden stance as the power figure behind the Kindler fortune. Bentlee’s mother quickly fell to alcoholism, composing herself in public long enough to maintain a façade of perfection. As Bentlee grew older, he became estranged from his mother and began investing his share of the family wealth into businesses and education. He joined the military for 3 years, and upon coming back, he met and married Elizabeth Michelle Jones. Their shotgun wedding was quickly followed by the birth of their first son, Aaron. Bentlee Kindler served as a teacher for 14 years before moving to a position as a vice principal. He remained in this position for 5 years before being offered a job as the superintendent for Brentwood, Tennessee’s Board of Education.

 Elizabeth Michelle Kindler

Elizabeth Michelle Kindler had a proclivity for fortune. So much so that when she married Bentlee Kindler, she erased her previous last name from her title altogether. Elizabeth wanted to procure a place far beyond the childhood that she’d been trapped in. Elizabeth’s own mother worked four jobs, struggling to make ends meet while her husband smuggled money to purchase drugs and left bruises on his wife and kids. Desperate to remove themselves from their situations, the Jones sisters, Sadie and Elizabeth began to grapple for success. When she turned 18, Elizabeth’s sister joined the coast guard, while Elizabeth had other methods of forging a new life. While working for a catering business, Elizabeth was mistaken for an elitist by Bentlee Kindler. Eight years her elder, Bentlee whisked Elizabeth away into the life that she’d always prayed for. Now, Elizabeth runs the Brentwood Junior Women’s Club and establishes charity drives that benefit Brentwood’s foster placement home.

 Aaron Sloane Kindler  

The golden child. As the first born in the Kindler family, Aaron can do no wrong. When he was younger, he was able to weasel his way out of any situation, even if it meant allowing one of his brothers to take the fall. The most mischievous Kindler, Aaron was often the one who kept his parents up at night with midnight phone calls and dramatic acts of rebellion. Aaron’s outlet was football, and he was damn good at it. By the time he turned seventeen, Aaron already had scholarship offerings pouring in. Videos of him playing made it onto national news; he went on to play for Mississippi State. While there, Aaron found a passion for criminal justice and traded in his football jersey for a degree in law. After marrying Maisie Smithston, Aaron settled down in eastern Tennessee and opened his own law practice, mostly succeeding because of the weight his last name carried.

 Maisie Smithston Kindler

Maisie Smithston hated the Kindlers when she was in High School. She knew Anabelle Brooke personally; while their parents were close acquaintances, she saw no point in playing to the manipulative games the siblings could play. She was exasperated to learn that Aaron Kindler would be attending the same college that she would, and she made an effort to stay as far from him as possible. But Aaron tracked her down. Maisie still isn’t sure what he was looking for when he showed up at the door of dorm. Perhaps it was hospitality or the comfort of something that resembled home, but they remained inseparable after that night and married seven years later. Maisie works as Aaron’s assistant; they are expecting their first child, Madison Rae.

 Bradley Jameson Kindler

The fighter. Bradley was the smallest Kindler half of his life, and no one is quite sure how he survived. Bradley was born with a torn aortic valve that should have killed him. Doctors had already prepared the Kindlers to make peace with the loss of their son when his heart started beating normally, without reason. Five operations and ten later, Bradley was a healthy young boy. He was smaller than his classmates, but he fought to make up the difference. Somewhere between middle and high school, Bradley found an intense sense of purpose within himself and began training to join the army. Militant and punctual, he was an exact makeover of his father. Bradley joined the army as soon as he graduated high school, and still serves today. While home for the holidays, Bradley met Callie Wallace, the daughter of an old family friend. Bradley and Callie hit it off immediately, and Callie began travelling with him when she could. They were married in the spring and now live in Germany.

 Callie Wallace Kindler

Callie was born into the perfect upper-class family. At the height of privilege, Callie grew up without ever knowing what it meant to lose. Her spirit became competitive and stubborn because of this; she never learned how to let go of things. When her parents divorced, Callie thwarted their plans to avoid one another and practically forced the couple into the same room. Eventually, she was able to convince her parents to remarry – for the sake of their children and their finances. Shortly after her parents’ second marriage, Callie was invited to a coming home dinner at the Kindler residence by her sorority sister, Anabelle Brooke. Callie was hesitant to go; she obliged Anabelle Brooke’s nagging demands. While there, Callie hit it off with Bradley Kindler, and they were later married.

Bryson “Bryce” Kole Kindler

The last bachelor of the Kindler family and the most grounded. Bryce Kindler was often the outcast of his family. In fact, the people who knew him at face value did not associate him with his family, nor would they have ever placed him as a Kindler. Bryce realized at a young age the corruption that money could lead to. Because his younger brother was constantly undergoing medical procedures, their parents forfeited millions to accommodate him and make him feel special. The razzle dazzle may have worked on Bradley, but Bryce never fell into the trap. Instead, he took up with an older gentleman in the neighborhood who ran a blossoming insurance company. After the man died, he left his company in Bryce’s hands. Now, Bryce is fully committed to his work, but he keeps little money for himself. He has set up a nonprofit for families in need and regularly volunteers at the various homeless shelters in Tennessee.

Anabelle Brooke Michelle Kindler

The pride and joy. Elizabeth and Bentlee had prayed for a girl; after Bentlee’s vasectomy reversed itself, they found themselves pregnant with one. Anabelle Brooke is everything that her parents dreamed her to be. Smart, witty, and enough heart to hold Texas. Though she’s the smallest Kindler at 5’1”, she amounts to more than they could have imagined. When Anabelle Brooke decided to move to DC, her family’s hearts were crushed; they knew that a girl of her magnitude belonged in a place where she could make a difference. Viewing DC as a place of political corruption and Devilish morals, the Kindler family stands behind their daughter 110% as they watch her grow in politics.

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aaronhaloua:

The lady seemed like a nice, homely sort of lady that lived in the middle of a prairie and did promotional videos featuring her in a riding get up and having her run around on a horse to demonstrate her Southern roots and outdoorsy disposition in one neat commercial. 

Aaron smiled around his hot dog and stood up. His mom always said it was impolite to sit in the presence of a woman. He made sure his hand was free of any condiments before he outstretched it for her. 

“Thank you, I appreciate that,” he said after clearing his throat. “you look like you’ve had a day yourself. I’m Aaron.” 

If the fact that Aaron was speaking to a very clean, blonde woman in the middle of the street in fine clothing and a hot dog in one hand bothered him at all, it didn’t show. In fact, he seemed quite at home as he continued in good humor, “A break? In this city? You must be a miracle worker because I never have free time.” 

“A day, indeed.” Anabelle Brooke responded. As she released her grip on Aaron’s hand, she stepped back slightly, clasping her hands together in front of her stomach. “Just trying to get everything in motion before Holiday celebrations begin. Hopefully getting more work done now means I’ll have more time to celebrate later.” She offered Aaron a wink and a demure smile. 

A pang of envy struck Anabelle Brooke at his mention of his own lack of free time. As pressing as lobbying could be, she longed for a position with enough importance to sneak up on her. As it was, Anabelle Brooke still found herself with enough free time to do a few crossword puzzles while waiting for her boss to email her back. “Bless your heart. You must be a rather important man, then. I’m pleasured to make your acquaintance on such a rare free moment.” 

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aaronhaloua:

When Aaron walked out of the office, he considered going to an actual restaurant, sitting down, going through a menu, giving his order, waiting for the food, eating the food with a knife and fork because no one knew who was watching, paying the bill, leaving the restaurant, and make the rest of the trip home. Even thinking about it wore him out more than it should’ve. It had been another long day, but it had been productive, too. He decided he would treat himself. 

His favorite hot dog cart was on the way back to his place. He nodded and said, “Hey, Doug,” and ordered the usual before sitting himself on the nearby bench and eating his hot dog. 

Presently, a woman walked up, talking away on her phone. Aaron didn’t think much of it until she leaned against the same bench he was on and began fiddling with her heel. Her conversation turned political, which wasn’t terribly surprising, except Aaron was pretty sure she was talking to her dad (at least, that’s who he hoped she was calling “daddy” in public). 

“Hey,” Aaron said, raising his hands, one of which still had his half-eaten hot dog. “No judgements here. You’re right: everything has to do with politics around here.” 

Anabelle Brooke hadn’t planned on exchanging pleasantries with a stranger. She had a pot roast in her crock pot at home and an empty pitcher waiting to be filled with freshly squeezed lemonade. It was the simple things like making casseroles in her tiny apartment kitchen that reminded her of home. Still, she was curious. She wanted to know where the people in DC stood, or rather, who they stood behind. So Anabelle Brooke slipped her foot back into the redbottomed shoe on the ground before her and stood tall – as tall as a woman who was only 5’1” could.

She could tell, based on stature alone, that he was a man of power. The half-eaten hot dog he held in his hand was off-putting; while he seemed of good enough position to afford a meal cooked for him at home or a meal at one of the high class Washington restaurants, he held a hot dog. Perhaps he was frazzled? Which could only imply that he had a pressing job – perhaps one of importance. She couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d seen his face before, but she couldn’t place his face with his title in politics.

Anabelle Brooke decided to err on the side of sophistication with the man, brushing her hair behind her shoulder and approaching him with an outstretched arm. “Hi. I’m Anabelle Brooke Kindler. I was actually just heading home for a break from the politics.” A crisp laugh. A slight tilt of the head. “You look as though you’ve had a busy, and hopefully successful, day.”

[anabellebrooke-blog1]

Anabelle Brooke’s father called every other day at 5pm. He was a military man, poised and timely; even if she was not in a place to take a phone call, he would leave her a voicemail to call him back later, followed by the expected I love you, 10-4. It was tradition, signing off after an I love you. Bentlee Kindler was nothing, if not traditional.

So, as Anabelle Brooke logged off her office computer and snapped the faux leather purse on her desk shut, she grabbed her phone so that she would hear her father’s ringtone as she headed out of the building. She held it tightly in her hand. It was a twenty minute walk from the building to her apartment; on the days when her father didn’t call, she took the bus. When he called; however, she walked, slacking her pace to match the drawl in his words.

When her phone rang, she answered quickly, pressing it against her ear. Hello, sweetheart! I saw on the news…. And so it went. Bentlee Kindler trying to find a piece of political news that Anabelle Brooke didn’t already know about, begging her to come home at the end of the month, and updating her on the whereabouts and newfound ambitions of her brothers.

Anabelle Brooke came to a stop at a crosswalk as she spoke with her father, leaning against a nearby bench and pulling at the heel of her Louis Vuitton’s, trying to keep her stockings from snagging. “Oh, I completely agree with you, daddy. There’s an ass-backwards mentality when it comes to immigration. I mean, everyone wants to pull the ‘almost everyone in America’s ancestors were immigrants,’ but they then turn around and call those same immigrants out for the horrible and guiltless crimes that they committed. If you complain about settlers and the way they treated Native Americans and settled onto land that was not theirs, you cannot openly support loose immigration laws unless you see the flaws and hypocrisy in your own logic.” It was then that Anabelle Brooke looked up, noticing the eyes that had rested on her during her conversation. She frowned. “Listen, Daddy. I have to run. It was nice talking to you.” And then, after a pause. “I love you, too. 10-4.”

Her phone was replaced in her bag after she hung it up, and she diverted her attention back to the person in front of her. “Sorry, family discussions can get pretty political. But then, we’re in DC, so I guess everything can get pretty political here.” The apology wasn’t sincere; merely enough to stifle the voice in Anabelle Brooke’s head warning her not to make enemies with the people you pass on the street. 

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nelliott:

[ SMS : ANABELLE BROOKE (R - LOBBYIST) ] : My uncle :’( [ SMS : ANABELLE BROOKE (R - LOBBYIST) ] : Had to, as to cope with the loss.

[ SMS : Nick Elliott ] : Oh bless your heart, sweetheart!  [ SMS : Nick Elliott ] : You’re in my prayers. Can I get you anything... besides a drink. I guess you have that covered. 

[anabellebrooke-blog1]

[ SMS : Nick Elliott ] : Who?  [ SMS : Nick Elliott ] : Have you been drinking? 

[ SMS : ? ] : Did you hear the news about Malcolm Young? [ SMS : ? ] : I’m fucking torn up inside. 

[anabellebrooke-blog1]

senator-ross:

It sounded as if should have worked as a pharmacist lobbyist rather than in education. She was certainly well read. He was almost happy that he didn’t have to deal with her about the bill, but the education side; her actual real job, he could only imagine what arguments she had there. Well that’s going to be fun. Alan let her have the last word on that one, after all, on that issue, she wasn’t his opponent, and he was going to be knees deep in conversations about it soon enough. He did wonder if the large pharmaceutical company backing the bill had slipped every other Republican leaning lobbyist a check too. He imagined he was going to hear similar or the same argument on the floor, which if the other Democratic senators were worth their salt, then it was going to a very, very lively debate.

Now that they’d agreed to disagree on that issue, he wanted to know what exactly she was pitching. Alan liked to see what lobbyists’ positions were; of course, they were whatever the large companies told them to be, but it was good to know if ever the organization showed up backing a certain bill. In addition, the more time he spent with her, the less time she was spending chatting up the opposition. Given what she knew about the bill, he could only imagine that she was quite good at the job that focused on the sector that she knew about.

With his sandwich re-wrapped, he pushed it over to the side of the table and took a sip from his coffee as well. He could easily eat that in his office; this was much more interesting than staring at a slowly disappearing turkey sandwich. “I see. Well, there are a few Representatives and Senators who do need the reminding, who are, I assume, are on your list of people to talk to. And what are the more specific areas that you’re concerned about. Yes - no to standardized testing? Too much or too little technology?” 

She’d almost hoped that the senator would question her intelligence. Anabelle Brooke fed off of men underestimating her. It was a slight disappointment when he didn’t question her farther; she let the subject drop gracefully, a slight nod of her head at the change in topic. Anabelle Brooke had spent most of her life being underestimated. She was the blonde, southern girl – the blonde, southern, beauty queen, sorority type, at that. Her fathers’ friends had made passes at her – passes which she, admittedly, had not always turned down. And while her beauty was a weapon she appreciated holding in her arsenal, she mostly enjoyed the bemused expressions of others as she prattled off facts. Not opinions. Facts. Anabelle was far from the picture of the bigoted republican. Shed structured her image in such a way that she was the exact opposite.

When the senator had concluded his questions, Anabelle Brooke spent no time pondering over a response before she launched into an explanation. “After I competed in the Miss Tennessee Pageant, I spent a lot of time traveling and volunteering in schools. It’s what made me realize that I wanted to work in education. I focused a large portion of my time on interviewing kids about standardized testing. Now, standardized testing itself has a place in the classroom, but there’s too many assumptions that are made about children when it comes to testing. Assumption such as they all learn at the same rate. Or that they each possess the necessary amount of confidence to take a test without anxiety interfering with their results. It’s a great marker, but it’s being abused. In some schools, they’re beginning to implement standardized tests in grades as low as first grade. First Graders haven’t even fully developed their motor skills yet – let alone begun to access the mental skills necessary to take a timed, weighted test.”

She took a breath. A pause. Anabelle Brooke had to be careful to keep her emotions away from the topic. Reveal small pieces. She was careful not to get angry. Or heated. She stuck with the facts, injecting morsels of her opinion throughout. It was a tactic that she’d learned from her father. “As for technology, there is, again, a lot of assuming. There’s roughly 32% of children that have fallen into a homework gap because of the lack of internet connection at home. And that’s nation wide, that’s not individually targeting the schools that are surrounded by low-income families who cannot afford internet. Let alone a device that connects to the internet. When teachers supplement teaching with an electronic device – such as a tablet or computer – they lose that 32%. There is no study that justifies technology having enough of a beneficial effect on classrooms that it should replace the efforts of teachers to plan interactive, communicative lesson plans. Now, can it be used within classrooms? Yes. Monitored, school-restricted technology that is used only within classrooms to do things such as simulate dissections or stimulate ILT – sorry. Independent Learning Time – has its place.”

[anabellebrooke-blog1]

leonsolis:

In the real world outside Congress, Leon went up against people who had loud, belligerent opinions about where the blue victory could shove itself. Some people even walked right up to him, shook his hand, and gushed about how grateful they were that it wasn’t President Solis of the United States. Maybe he was the one who was out of touch, but Anabelle Brooke’s most diplomatic walking-on-eggshells choice of words caught him off-guard.

Blue steel glint in her eye notwithstanding, it was nice to know who he was talking to. You couldn’t shake a tree in these parts without a card-carrying angry white feminist member of the Wright Brigade falling out.

“Ah,” was all he could say, still taken aback by the soft, smiley Melanie Hamilton impression. “Well, it ain’t about scoring points, it’s about democracy.” And because he was almost afraid she’d take him at his word and wonder if she’d voted for a guy who put America before the interests of the individual voting Republican, he lowered his sunglasses a fraction and offered her the tiniest of winks. “God bless this country.”

His presence was almost overwhelming. She remembered hammering a sign for Leon’s campaign in her own front yard, remembered her neighbors who immediately followed suit. Brentwood was nothing if not predictably republican. The architecturally astounding houses and the pool-boy-affair scandals that were the closest thing to tragedies the town witnessed were a breeding ground for entitlement. Anabelle Brooke knew that she had been born in the middle of a privileged lifestyle. She had two play rooms for God’s sake and her family had been featured in Southern Living. The Perfect Family. No one is kinder than Kindlers. But she stood firmly on the belief that without Senator Solis and Trevisan, men like her father would never have the outlets to succeed and able to accomplish every fragment that pieced together their entitled lives. So it was with utmost respect that Anabelle responded “God has surely blessed this country with men as reliable as you, sir.”

A light breeze picked up the scent of French toast, and Anabelle Brooke looked over her shoulder, glancing at the breakfast place at the corner of the block. It was something that resembled home. Though nothing like the bed and breakfasts or apple barns, the smell pressed upon her need for the familiar. Her eyes shifted back to the senator before her, and she pointed back over her shoulder, “I know it may be a bit of a reach, senator, but I would love to sit down and enjoy your company over breakfast.” 

[anabellebrooke-blog1]

dianahartley:

Diana chuckled.  It definitely was interesting to see the Democrats try and rationalize the issues and spin things so they were the ones doing the right thing for their constituents.  While Diana may have disagreed with Ian on a lot of things, she couldn’t deny that this was a good legislation.  There was no getting around that.  It would help people get actual working medication and boost the pharmaceuticals industry domestically.  That seemed like a win all around.

“The Democrats have always been the party of hopeless and idealistic dreamers,” Diana scoffed.  She didn’t know how they could be so blind to reality.  “The people need working medication and imports are just taking jobs from American workers.  Surely they have to realize that.”

“They’re on the idea of free handouts like white on rice, so it doesn’t surprise me that they haven’t taken a moment to consider the legislation that would actually promote the furtherance of our economic endeavors.” She turned to the blonde woman beside her and smiled. It didn’t take much for Anabelle Brooke to recognize the inherent southern charm in the woman, and she immediately blossomed. “Daddy always said you can recognize the mark of a Southern woman by the grace of her intelligence and the lilt in her voice. I am so pleased to have run into you today!” Anabelle Brooke exclaimed. She extended her hand and smiled, “I’m Anabelle Brooke Kindler, of the Kindlers from Brentwood, Tennessee.”