#ive got a new idea: adultery

[y-lisse]

while looking up stuff for this i learned that chuck e cheese was founded by the guy who made atari???

[nowandajenn]

Blue Christmas- Eleven (Healing)

Pairing: Chris Evans/OC Kelly

Summary: After almost three years of marriage, everyone would tell you that Chris and his wife Kelly are the most stable, solid couple they know. But behind closed doors, things are tense as they keep trying for a baby, to no avail. When a secret threatens to shake their solid marriage to it’s core, will they be able to pick up the pieces?

I do not consent to have my content, whether it be this story or anything else of my creation, posted by a third party on any other platform other than right here without my permission. This blog is 18+ and is not intended for minors. Your media consumption is your own responsibility. Heed the warnings. This is a work of FICTION. I do not claim to know Chris Evans, his family, friends, or anyone on his team personally.

Warnings for this chapter: Heavy, heavy angst. Language. Mentions of adultery. Mentions of miscarriage. Pregnancy. Allusions to abortion but nothing is stated outright.

This beast is clocking in at just over 6.7k words. Probably the single longest chapter I've ever written. The tag list for this story was getting out of control, and more than half the people on it had no interaction with the story at all, so I discontinued it. I'm tagging my nearest and dearest though. I may, MAY, create a google form for a new tag list. We'll see.

January 8th (Six days post accident)

The pain meds they give people in the hospital following surgery pack a wallop, especially when given through an IV. They make me have crazy dreams, turn my attention span paper thin, and have the added bonus of turning my brain/mouth filter virtually non-existent.

I’m trying to pay attention to the conversation that Chris is trying to have with me. I really am. To be fair, he knew when he got here an hour ago that I had just gotten another dose. 

“What about this one?”

 Chris turns the iPad towards me so I can see yet another picture and resume’ of a home health nurse. It was an idea that he was originally against, but both Lisa and Andi, my main nurse, had both suggested that maybe having someone come in for a few hours a day a couple times a week would be a good thing. As much as he wants to do everything he possibly can for you, he also knows he’s only one person. After not hearing a response, and thinking maybe I had dozed off into a narcotic induced nap, he looks up to see me using my good hand to fiddle with the end of the braid that the nurse had put my hair into earlier after the shower that I’d finally been allowed to have after days of bed baths. 

Showers used to be glorious things. Water turned up to near scalding levels, music playing loud with me singing loudly (and badly) along, and nice shampoo and shower gel that smells amazing. This was not that. This was an entire process that took nearly an hour, starting with my casted leg and equally casted arm being wrapped in waterproof plastic and ending with me in tears because washing long hair takes two functional hands, and I only had one. There’s zero dignity in having another person give you a shower when you’re a grown woman who’s been showering and bathing by herself for many years now without issue. The nurse had been amazingly sweet and sympathetic and helped me with whatever I couldn’t do on my own (which was a lot), but the whole experience just left me feeling useless and depressed. 

 A soft touch to my hand brings me back to the present. 

“Where’d you go?” he asks softly. 

”My hair smells weird.” 

He leans forward a bit so he can get a whiff of my hair. “It smells okay to me.” 

“It’s not the same. It’s weird, clinical hospital shampoo. It doesn’t smell good like mine.” I lament. “I couldn’t even wash my own hair today. It’s too long, and I couldn’t do it with one hand. I can’t even-”

My voice starts to waver and I look down at my arm that’s laying useless in a sling across my chest. Even my fingers are so swollen and bruised that I couldn’t even put my rings on if I tried. My ring finger, which hasn’t been naked since Chris slipped my engagement ring on it some four and a half years ago, feels very bare and just wrong. Everything about the accident and my injuries keeps hitting me in different ways. 

I look over at Chris and then down at the iPad that he’s still holding. “Hire whoever you want. I honestly don’t care, and it’s not like I have any choice in the matter.”

He sighs softly, knowing that this conversation was never going to go over well. He knows that I know that I’m going to need as much help as I can get when I finally get released to go home, but he also knows that being as stubborn and self sufficient as I am, my worst nightmare is having someone have to help me do something as simple as get out of fucking bed. 

“This is the one thing that’s happened lately that you do get to choose. I want to get someone that you’re going to like and be comfortable with. I can’t imagine what this is like for you right now, and I’m just trying to make life as easy as it can get when you’re home.”

“I don’t know if I’m going to like someone from a goddamn resume’. As long as they can do the job without fucking me up more than I already am, great.” My back is starting to ache because of the position that I’m laying in, and when I go to slide further up the bed, I’m rewarded with a searing pain in my stomach from the movement pulling at my still healing splenectomy incisions. 

“Fuck, honey-”

I fall back on the pillows, irritated as hell and over this damn conversation, and the words fly out of my mouth before I can even think about stopping them. 

“Just pick someone! Maybe you’ll get lucky and you’ll get another girl who’s going to fall for the irresistible Chris Evans charm, who has no moral compass and no compunction about sleeping with married men. Then you can throw a shot into her too.”

I watch as his face falls, his hand pulling back from where it’s been resting on my arm and a lump the size of a golf ball forms in my throat. I didn’t mean to say that. I might as well just be wearing a name tag that says Hi, I’m: Here To Make Things Worse. I cover my mouth with my hand and glance up towards the ceiling, trying to blink the tears away before they can fully form. 

“I’m…..I’m sorry. I didn’t mean….” I start, but the words don’t want to come out. 

“It’s okay.” he tries to assure me. 

“No, it’s not.” I look down at the fluffy blue blanket that Chris brought me from home and I play with the slightly frayed edge, ashamed and unable to look at the broken look on his face. “This is a bad idea.” 

He pops a shoulder. “Could always hire a male nurse.” he says, raising his eyebrow. 

I let out a small snort, knowing he said it to try and lighten the mood, but all I can feel right now is trepidation at the thought of coming home with Chris to recover and him taking the brunt of all of my frustrations and emotional eruptions. 

He turns the iPad off and puts it on the side table and I watch as he stands up and grabs his jacket off the back of the chair, and my eyes widen.

“Don’t leave. Please, I-” I sputter out, trying to push down my panic. 

“I’m not. I’m just going to run down and get a coffee and check in with Shanna and see how Dodger’s doing. Are you getting hungry? You want me to grab you something?” 

I squint, trying to remember the dinner options on the meal sheet they give me every day and which one I might have picked. 

“Uhhhhh….no. I’ll be okay. They should be bringing whatever I picked out soon anyway. I’ll live.” 

“Okay. Text me if you change your mind. I’ll be back. No more than half an hour, I promise.” he says, resting his palm on the top of my head gently. 

---------------------

When Chris gets back twenty or so minutes later, I’m honestly sort of surprised he came back instead of just going home and getting away from my emotional, broken ass for a while. And even more surprised that his mom is with him, since I didn’t know she was planning on coming by today. 

When they walk in, I’m sitting in one of the chairs in the room with my leg propped up, poking at a dish of red jello with a spoon. 

“What are you doing out of bed?” Chris asks, surprised. 

“I had to pee after you left, and being in bed was making my back hurt, so I asked if they could just park me here for a while. There’s not a ton of options when all you can really do is sit, so…I’ll be ready to get back in bed in a while.” 

Lisa starts towards me and I push the wheeled table away from me slightly so she can bend down and give me a hug, which I return with a strength that takes her by surprise a little bit. Knowing how hard the last few days (hell, weeks for that matter) have been and the fact that your mom isn’t around, she just had a feeling today that you could probably use a big dose of love that only a mama can provide, which is why she decided to pop by and surprise both you and Chris. 

She tilts my cheek to the side gently as she examines my face. “Your bruises are looking better.” 

“Mmm. Still hurts. Airbags will save your life, but you’re going to feel like you went twelve rounds with Mike Tyson after they go off in your face.”

“So, Chris and I were talking downstairs, and I had an idea.” I swallow my mouthful of jello and look towards Chris, really hoping that he didn’t tell her about what I said. He shakes his head almost imperceptibly and the anxiety in my gut loosens up a bit. 

“What would you think about me coming to stay with you guys for a bit when you got home?” 

“Chris, tell me you didn’t ask your mom to come home with us to be my babysitter.” I groan. Lisa snorts slightly. “He didn’t ask. I’m offering. I know you’re not crazy about someone you don’t know being in your house and….” she searches for the right words “helping you. And it wouldn’t be for too long; just until you guys get yourselves situated at home and get into a routine with things. It’s just to make the transition a little smoother.” she assures me. 

I look over at Chris and he shrugs, gesturing to me. “This is your call.” 

I sigh, looking over at my mother in law, who I adore more than anyone in the world. “I’m not great to be around lately. I’m still not convinced that coming home after this is the right thing to do, and I’m afraid it’s really just going to make things worse. I don’t want you both to have to deal with my psychotic mood swings.”

“Sweetheart, if your mood was completely stable after everything that’s happened, I’d be terrified. You’re hurt, and you can’t do the things that everyone else takes for granted without help, and everyone knows how frustrating that is. I know you’re angry and sad and frustrated. And that’s okay. We’re-” she gestures between herself and her eldest son “made of tough stuff. Well, I’m tougher than him. We all know he’s a big baby who cries at the drop of a Hallmark movie.” I sputter out a laugh while wiping my eyes. 

“We all love you, and we’re all here for you no matter what.”

January 17th (Fifteen days post accident)

“They would release you on the coldest day of the year.” Chris says as he makes a final sweep around the hospital room that I’ve called home for the last two weeks. 

I huff out a small laugh. “Let’s just get the hell out of here before they come back here and tell me that they’ve decided to keep me for another week.”

“They should be back any minute with your discharge papers, and then we’ll go. The doc said he was going to call in your prescriptions to Walgreens, so hopefully they’ll be ready by the time we get there. Or I can get you home and settled in and run back out and grab them.” 

“We can wait for them. It’s too cold to be running back and forth.”

I look down at my “going home” outfit and can’t help but feel completely ridiculous. A pair of pink flannel pajama pants with penguins on them (they’re the only thing besides sweats that I can get up over the cast on my leg), a long sleeved white shirt, and one of Chris’ hoodies that’s zipped up over my sling, leaving just my good arm in the sleeve. They removed the stitches from my arm yesterday, but I haven’t been able to bring myself to look at it. The compression bandage that I’ve been instructed to wear all the time (with the exception of showers) is a lot more comfortable than the layers of wrapping my arm was encased in, but still annoying. And it itches like the devil. My right foot is encased in fluffy socks and a shoe, and my left leg is of course still in a cast, a sock pulled down over my exposed toes so they don’t freeze off when I go outside. 

My eyes go to the small black wheelchair that’s coming home with me and I squeeze my eyes shut. Because I’ve been instructed not to use my damaged arm for ANYTHING more strenuous than moving it gently to maneuver a shirt on and off, I can’t use crutches. 

Chris finishes packing up my backpack, and stops when he sees me staring vacantly at the wheelchair. He frowns, and walks over slowly, sitting on his heels in front of me. 

“Hey.” he murmurs softly, snapping me out of my reverie. 

“Hmm?”

“This isn’t going to be forever. They said the cast is going to come off hopefully in a couple of weeks, and then they’re going to put you in a walking boot. At least then you’ll be able to get up and move around. I know, I know how much you hate this. I do. But it is not forever.”

“I know.” I hate how small my voice is. “I hate how I have to think about every move I make. I can’t reach for anything because I can’t use my arm. I have to be careful when I stretch or it hurts my stomach. I have to cough or sneeze as soft as I can or else my ribs hurt. It’s just….I feel like a prisoner in my own body right now.” 

“But you’re going to get the chance to get stronger and recover.” I look up at him and our eyes meet, and I know we’re both thinking about the fact that the driver of the car that hit me died four days ago from his injuries sustained in the crash, and how that could have been me instead. 

---------------------------

When the nurse comes in with my discharge papers and the litany of aftercare instructions, Chris takes them and heads downstairs with my stuff so he can bring the car around to the front entrance. The nurse helps me put my coat and hat on before helping me maneuver myself into the wheelchair and we head down to the first floor. 

“You excited you’re finally out of here?” she asks me with a smile. 

“And nervous. It was kind of comforting knowing that even though I was stuck in here, if anything went wrong, I was in the right place.”

I see Chris pull up at the curb, and the nurse wheels me outside, and I gasp at the biting cold. It’s the first time I’ve felt fresh air on my skin since the day of the accident, and although it’s beyond freezing, it still feels amazing to breathe it in. It isn’t until I get situated in the passenger seat and we’re ready to drive home that the panic sets in. 

“The last time I was in a car I almost died.”

Chris takes his hands off the steering wheel and reaches over to hold my right hand. 

“I know.”

“You drive like an insane person.” 

Despite the seriousness of the conversation, he snorts, because he knows the amount of speeding tickets he’s accumulated since he started driving is ridiculous. But he also knows that since the accident, he’s been almost hyper aware of his speed and everything going on around him, when he usually just goes on autopilot when he’s driving, like anyone else who drives every day. 

“I promise I won’t drive like an insane person with you in the car.” 

“Don’t drive like an insane person ever. You can’t control the way other idiots drive, but you can control how you do. I need you around.”

Those words make hope bloom in his chest. 

“I promise.”

When we get home, relief washes over me. As promised, Chris drove very carefully and obeyed the speed limit, but I was still a nervous wreck the whole 25 minute drive. Plus, being scrunched in the roomy, but limited space of the passenger seat isn’t very comfortable with my injuries. One the car is parked inside the garage and Chris has my door open, he realizes that he didn’t really think this part through very well. 

The furniture inside has been arranged and re-arranged about a dozen times in different configurations to accommodate the wheelchair in the house. He purchased a shower chair for me to make showers easier, he got cast wraps to keep the cast on my leg dry, he set up a perfect little nest with pillows and blankets on our sectional so I’d be comfortable, with remotes and chargers and books, and even a little cooler within reach. 

I notice the look on his face that he gets when he’s confused about something or trying to find a solution to a problem, and turn to him. 

“You’re trying to figure out how you’re going to get me in the house, aren’t you?”

The sheepish, yet slightly guilty look on his face tells me I’m right. “I have guys coming on Monday to put in a temporary ramp over the stairs in front. But I didn’t think about today.”

There’s two steps to get from the garage into the house, and the wheelchair isn’t going to make it up them. 

“You’re going to have to carry me in the house.”

“I was thinking that, but I don’t want to hurt you. You’re still really sore.” he says, gesturing to his chest and stomach. 

“I’m pretty sure everything I do for a while is going to be somewhat painful, but I think this is our only option. Why don’t you grab the wheelchair and bring it in, put Dodger in the bedroom until we get inside so he doesn’t knock me down when he sees me, and then come back out and grab me?”

He exhales slowly. “Okay. I’ll be right back. Just…..” he trails off, gesturing vaguely at me. 

“Trust me, I’m not going anywhere.” 

When Chris comes back out, he comes around to the passenger side and opens the door for me. I turn in the seat, angling myself as much as I can to make it easier for him to grab me and carry me inside. I’m slightly nervous about how much this is going to hurt, but I’m determined to not let it show. 

“You ready?” 

I take a deep breath and nod. He stoops down and slides his left arm around my back, while his right arm loops under my legs and he lifts me gently, my good arm going around his neck. He’s carried me like this about a million times in the years that we’ve been together, but for some reason, all I can think about is how he carried me (both of us slightly tipsy)  like this up to our hotel room after our wedding reception, and me laughing and telling him not to drop me or else I’d get our marriage annulled. I squeeze my eyes shut at the memory. 

I open them back up when I feel Chris setting me down on the end of the sofa and helping me get comfortable. 

“Are you okay? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” he asks nervously. 

“I’m okay. Can you just grab a couple pillows so I can put my leg up though?” 

He hits the button on the side of the couch for the foot rest to come up and slides a couple throw pillows under my leg. 

“Can I get you anything? Are you hungry? Thirsty?” 

“I”m okay for right now. Can you go get Dodger though? I missed him like crazy.”

He smiles and goes to the bedroom to let the dog out, and a second later, I hear the sound of his nails clicking rapidly on the hardwood. 

“Hi, baby!” I exclaim, holding my arm out. 

“Dodge, be gentle, okay? Careful.” Chris warns. 

Dodger jumps up on the couch next to me and immediately snuggles into my side. Luckily enough, he’s on my good side so I can give him pets and belly rubs. 

“Mom’s going to be over in a few hours. She said she wanted to give us a little bit of time to get settled in and such. I’m gonna go and unpack our stuff and start some laundry. You have the remotes and your phone and charger nearby….if you need anything, just yell. Or tell Dodger to come get me.” 

“I will. I think I’m going to try and take a nap though, honestly. The trip home kind of took it out of me.”

“Okay.” He grabs a blanket from the back of the sofa and drapes it over me, dropping a kiss to my head before he leaves to go get started on unpacking our stuff. As he walks away, he stops to look back at me again, thinking to himself how it seems like it’s been a lifetime since the last time the both of us were in this house together, even though it’s only been about three weeks. As much as he wanted you back home, he never in a million years thought this would be how it happened. 

January 25th (23 days post accident)

“God, that feels nice.” I moan at the feeling of Chris’ fingers in my hair, massaging the shampoo in. 

“Why do you think I always beg you to wash my hair?” he says, smirking. I catch his use of the present tense, and try and think about how long it’s been since the last shower we took together before the accident. I’m damn near positive it was way different than the ones that have happened since I’ve been home, and probably ended in orgasms all around. 

“This is infinitely better than the showers in the hospital. The nurse who always used to do mine had long ass nails. I’m pretty sure one of them is still embedded in my brain somewhere.” 

He laughs as he rinses my hair with the detachable shower head. After working conditioner through my hair and helping me scrub myself down and even shaving my right leg and under my arms for me, he steps out of the shower and wraps a towel around his waist before grabbing another one to dry me off. I’m sitting on the toilet lid in my underwear while Chris smooths lotion on me, letting me do what I can reach with my good arm when I say his name softly. 

“Thank you.” I watch his eyebrow quirk up in confusion. 

“What for?”

“This. The- everything. When we got married, I bet you never imagined you’d have to help me shower and put on clean underwear and take me to go pee.”

He looks down as he continues to rub the lotion into my leg. “No, but I don’t think anyone goes in ever thinking about the worst case scenario where those things would ever come up. But that’s part of the deal, right? For better or worse? That covers everything; not just the good stuff. You don’t have to thank me. It’s my job.” 

“You could have just let my mom have her way and let them take me home.” I point out. 

He scoffs and shakes his head. 

“Absolutely not. For one thing, you and your mom would have ended up killing each other. And for another…..your head is giving you enough grief as it is right now, and being around her would have just made it worse. I couldn’t do that to you.” 

I see Chris reach for my shirt and groan, knowing how much it hurts my arm to put a damn shirt on. 

“How bad does it look?”

“Your arm?” 

I nod slightly and he sighs. “It’s still really raw and red. It’s going to fade, but it’s going to take some time. The doctor recommended some stuff that’s supposed to help with scars. Make them less visible over time.” 

“Can I see it?” I ask. 

“Are you sure?” he asks. I shrug a bit. 

He picks me up off the toilet seat and walks us in front of the bathroom mirror and turns so I can see my arm. I suck in a shuddering breath and close my eyes. It’s ugly. A roughly five inch or so vertical incision straight down my upper arm, red and raw and glaringly obvious. Even when it’s fully healed, it’s going to be ugly. 

“If you want, I can always talk to Josh. We can see if he can draw something up so you can cover it up once it’s fully healed.”

I nod as tears leak out of my eyes. Chris tilts my chin up. “It’s just a scar. It doesn’t define you and it’s not the end of the world. It doesn’t make you any less beautiful.” He pivots so my ass is sat on the bathroom vanity and once I’m settled, he pulls the shirt over my head, being gentle with  my arm, and then helps me into a clean pair of pajama pants. 

“You know, we’re actually getting kind of good at this.” he says as he carries me out of the bathroom and sets me down in our bed. 

“I hate that that’s something to brag about.” I tell him, rolling my eyes. “Although, I guess after doing the same thing day after day for a couple weeks, it’s to be expected. You don’t look quite as terrified now as you did the first time we did this.” 

February 2nd (one month post accident)

“I’m sorry I didn’t call sooner….I was in a pretty serious car accident a month ago and things have been a little hectic since then. I haven’t been cleared by my doctor to fly yet, so there’s no way we can make it out there. Mmmmhmmm. Yeah, the reservation is under Kelly Evans.” 

Chris walks into the kitchen and starts making himself a cup of coffee while I’m on hold with the resort to cancel the Valentines Day reservations I had made back in November. I had a solid plan that I had cooked up with Meghan and his team so he wouldn’t have anything scheduled for the three days I had booked at Post Ranch Inn, but then between finding out about the affair and the accident, my carefully made plan got blown straight to hell, leaving me feeling a little (lot) angry. 

“Okay. Thank you again for all your help. I’m sorry again for the late notice.” 

I end the call and toss my cell phone onto the island, irritation bubbling up inside me. 

“Who was that?” 

“Canceling the reservation I made for us for Valentines Day at Post Ranch Inn. I made it before I found out about you fucking someone else. That kind of took the romance out of it a little bit. Well, that and the fact that my body’s still mostly useless.” 

My newly (as of two days ago) uncasted leg starts itching to high hell under the walking boot and compression sock I have on, and I start the process of unstrapping the boot one handed so I can enjoy scratching my leg to my heart’s content. I wish I could have gotten a picture of Chris and the doctor’s faces when my cast was finally cut off and a fork, two pens, and a plastic ruler came tumbling out of it, all lost in my attempt to wedge something down there to scratch the itch. 

He sighs lightly and turns so his back is to the counter, giving me what I’ve coined his “kicked puppy look.” Most of the time, I feel guilty for whatever I said to make that look appear, but today I’m just too agitated to care. 

“Don’t give me that look. You do it every single time I mention the fact that you had sex with someone else. You know what you did. You don’t get to make that face and look like I just told you that Disneyland is closing down forever.”

He walks over to where I’m sitting with a sigh, and reaches to help me with the straps on my boot. “Can we not fight? Please? I know that there’s an ocean of stuff we have to work through, and I know none of this is easy…I just don’t want to fight with you.” 

“Just stop. I can do it myself." I tell him, brushing his hand away softly. "You know, just because I still need you to help with most of my basic human functions doesn’t mean that I necessarily like being around you all the time. You’re my husband and for some God forsaken reason, even though you did what you did, I still love you, despite me calling you a cheating shitbag in my head at least once a day. So, just leave me alone for a little while, okay? I was really excited about having this trip happen, and it all got blown to hell in a really magnificent fashion, so let me just sit here and be pissed off and sad about it.” 

He holds his hands up and backs away. “Okay. I can do that. Just, we have your doctor’s appointment at 2, so let me know when you need me to come help you get ready.” I look up at him and nod, spinning my phone on the table. He starts to walk away, but then turns back towards me. 

“You know, when the accident happened and you were out of surgery, I kind of went into crisis mode. I called my team and canceled everything, because I knew that you were going to need someone to be there for you and help take care of you until you were stronger. And I know that you have a million people that are in our lives that would drop everything and do that for you, because you’re amazing and everyone loves you so much. The parade of people that have come and gone through here since you’ve been home is proof of that. I kind of just took charge, because I didn’t know what else to do….and I don’t think I took the time to stop and ask myself if you even wanted it to be me, given everything that happened.”

“Chris….I did. I wouldn’t have felt comfortable having anyone else do it.” 

He nods. “I know that it’s hard for you to be around me sometimes. I know that you’re still angry, and hurt and upset and you have every right to be. I know we’re a mess, but once things settle down a little bit, we’ll get in to go see that therapist that Carly told me about, and we’ll start working through it. That is, if you still want to.”

“I do.”

-------------------------

A few hours later, we’re sitting in the waiting room of my gynecologist’s office, and Chris is just staring around the room at the posters on the wall, and occasionally glancing at the couple of pregnant women that are in the waiting room with us. 

“Why did you need to see her?” he asks softly. 

“I’m overdue for my annual exam, and since all I do lately is go to the doctor, I figured I should probably just get it out of the way.” It’s a half truth. Well, ⅓ truth. If the doctor was right about my hcG levels when I was in the hospital, I’m about six weeks pregnant, and it’s probably time to get official confirmation in black and white. And if I am, Chris deserves to be there to hear it. But first, he needs to get something done himself. 

The nurse comes by and hands us both a clipboard with paperwork on it, and Chris’ eyebrows raise. “Why do I get paperwork?”

The nurse clears her throat nervously and taps a section on the paperwork. STD test, with the works. She walks away to let us fill out the papers, and his eyes shoot to mine. 

“I used a condom. I told you that. I'm not an idiot.” he says softly.

“I don’t care. I need to see it for myself, for my own peace of mind.”

He’s called back first, and with a nervous swallow and a look back at me, he follows the nurse. I’m called back shortly after, and after blood work, urine test, and the internal exam, Chris is allowed back into the exam room to wait with me while the results come back. 

“You want to grab something to eat after this? You didn’t have much for breakfast earlier.” he asks. 

“Uh, yeah, I-” I’m interrupted by a knock on the door followed by Dr. Hartman coming back in. By the look on her face, I just know. 

“Congratulations, you guys are pregnant.”

Chris is lucky that there’s a chair right behind him, or he would have been in a world of pain when he landed. When I see him basically collapse into the chair, I get worried. 

“Mr. Evans, are you okay?” Dr. Hartman asks, reaching for his wrist to check his pulse. His face is a look of pure shock, like he can’t begin to comprehend what he just heard. 

“Chris?” I ask, my own emotions threatening to spill out despite knowing this was coming. I instantly feel bad for not giving him a heads up that this was a very real chance. His eyes find mine and we just stare at each other. 

“I’m okay. I just- it’s- are you sure?” he asks, his voice unsteady. The doctor steps away, seemingly convinced that a movie star isn’t going to drop dead of shock in one of her exam rooms. “The tests are extremely accurate, but I’m going to go ahead and do a transvaginal ultrasound so we can take a look. If you’re far enough along, we should be able to hear the heartbeat.” 

Since I’m still in the gown and haven’t gotten dressed yet, I lay back on the table and assume the position again as she pulls the ultrasound machine towards her. Chris gets up on unsteady legs and stands next to me, still looking shell shocked. 

“Okay, this is going to be a little uncomfortable. Just take a nice deep breath.” she warns. I do as she says, but I still make a face when the probe is inserted. Chris is torn between watching my face and wanting to see what’s happening on the screen. Me, I’m too afraid to look anywhere but his face. For as much trepidation as I’m feeling over this pregnancy, I’m overcome with the sudden fear that she’s going to find the baby and there’s not going to be a heartbeat, just like last time, and I honestly don’t know if I can go through that twice.

“There it is.” I hear from next to me. I watch as his eyes move from mine to the screen, seeing the tiny blob in the middle of my uterus with the little flicker in the middle. A heartbeat. I still can’t bring myself to look though. Dr. Hartman, who was the one who told me that I had miscarried and performed my D&C, senses my fear, and quietly hits a button on the machine. The sound is almost overwhelming as it fills the room. I have a crazy thought that it almost sounds like clothes in the washer as it’s agitating. Whoosh, whoosh, whoosh. It's loud and fast and sounds strong. My eyes snap to the screen, and I immediately bring my hand to my mouth and burst into tears. 

“From the size, it looks like you’re about six or seven weeks. Which is going to put the due date at about….” she stops to put some numbers into the computer. September 23rd, give or take.”

After printing off some pictures and leaving the room to let me get cleaned up and get dressed, we leave the office feeling a million different emotions. We’re both quiet on the drive home, both lost in thought. How many times have we wished for this? How many negative pregnancy tests have we seen and tossed angrily into the trash, tears threatening to spill. How many times did we say “It’s okay. It’ll happen. I know it.” only for it to happen during the worst period in our marriage? 

-------------------------------

When we get home, I slowly waddle into the house, still enjoying the feeling of being able to (somewhat) walk instead of being chained to that damn wheelchair. I make my way to the back door to let Dodger out, passing Lisa, who’s watching both Chris and I with a curious, careful gaze. 

I feel him behind me as I turn on the tap, filling a glass with water and downing it almost all in one gulp. 

“How are you feeling?” he asks softly. He can see my hand trembling slightly as I hold the glass, and he knows he has to tread lightly. 

“In general? Or about the fact that we found out I’m pregnant in the middle of our personal shit storm?” 

“Both.” I drop my head. Truth be told, I’m exhausted. My arm is killing me, the nerve pain making burning pins and needles radiate over my whole arm. My leg is aching from being on it for an extended amount of time. 

I’ve been trying to roll it over and around in my head for weeks. What to do if I really did have the shittiest luck in the world, and I did end up actually pregnant in this situation. I keep coming back to the bad joke that my brother made the night I found out about Chris about me not having to deal with all of this while I was pregnant. 

“I don’t know if I can do this.” My voice is soft, but he hears it like I’m screaming it. “I don’t know if I can have this baby. I don’t know if my body can handle it, and I don’t know if I can handle it emotionally.” 

The words punch through him like a hit from a prize fighter. He knows exactly when it happened; the night that you had come over to get a dress from your closet and we had ended up defling quite a few surfaces in the house. There’s a good chance that our baby was conceived on the dining room table. 

“Are you talking about-” he can’t even bring himself to say the words. He KNOWS this the worst timing for this to happen. He KNOWS that no matter what, it’s your choice. But the thought of not having this baby with you almost brings him to his knees. 

My breath hitches. “Chris, look at us. Take a good look at me, at my body. I’m broken. I’m still recovering. I’d have to be monitored more closely to make sure that everything is okay. Because we don’t know if it will be.” The thought of finally getting everything I wanted with my husband and then not having it makes my chest hurt. 

“I’ve wanted kids with you since the moment you told me you loved me for the first time, and that I was it for you. I knew that you were going to be the father of my kids one day. But now, with everything, I don’t know if that’s the case anymore.” 

The tears are burning my eyes, and I can feel the sobs starting to build in my throat, and I know if I don’t get out of this room right now, I’m going to lose it. I’m pretty sure that Lisa heard at least part of our conversation, and I can’t talk about it anymore without losing my mind. I set my glass in the sink and silently make my way upstairs, thinking that two of the worst conversations I’ve had in my life have come within months of each other and have both taken place in the kitchen that I loved. Now I can barely stand to be in it. 

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

Presumably, Renly was planning on telling Robert about the incest. So...why didn't he? What was he waiting for? I know Marg wasn't in King's Landing yet, but given her family's wealth and power and her alleged beauty, I'm sure Robert would agree to marry her sight unseen.

You’re sure? Even considering the last beautiful woman with a powerful wealthy family that Robert agreed to marry sight unseen was Cersei?

What I think Renly was planning was to bring Margaery to King’s Landing (or alternatively get Robert to Highgarden), get her in bed with Robert, and have Robert fall in love with her. With her beauty and charm, she would become his official mistress, undercutting Cersei’s connection to and influence on Robert. More Tyrells and their people would come to the capital, to have a significant power base against the Lannisters there (all the redcloaks and other appointees, etc). Renly also needed to be in position to seize Joffrey and Myrcella and Tommen (as he told Ned to do), when the moment came for him to make his accusation of adultery against Cersei, so that they couldn’t escape Robert’s vengeance justice. And with Robert’s love for Margaery and debt to Renly for introducing them, plus the Tyrell army, the Lannisters would be gone, just like that. And then Robert would marry Margaery, sunshine and rainbows for everyone forever.

Basically, you can’t bring a Tyrell army to King’s Landing without Margaery to convince Robert he needs them, and you can’t bring Margaery to King’s Landing without an army (of family and actual armed men) to support and defend her from Cersei, and you can’t be sure Robert will believe Renly’s accusations against Cersei unless he’s already in love with Margaery. It’s complex, and convincing the Tyrells to go along with this with their only daughter would be very tempting, but also dangerous enough that it’s not surprising Margaery didn’t go to the capital right away. (Possibly Loras was attending the Hand’s Tourney partially to check the lay of the land.) But Renly was getting all his pieces together, planning to entice Robert with the idea that Margaery looked like Lyanna, etc; however, Cersei struck first, and so “the boar got Robert and [Renly] got Margaery” instead.

@eidetictelekinetic​ reblogged your post “Presumably, Renly was planning on telling Robert about the incest. So…why didn’t he? What was he waiting for?”

You think Robert would go the official mistress route? He’s always seemed more Edward IV than Francois I or even Henry VIII (or Aegon IV, tbh) in terms of his infidelity; he certainly doesn’t hide it but mostly his lovers are of the lower classes, and short-term. In fact he seems to prefer brothels over seducing common women (a thing that was at least attributed to Edward), which is definitely not indicative of anything long-term. In fact, Delena appears to be his only highborn fling. A long-term, noble mistress is very much out of his usual MO, so if that was Renly’s plan, it’s shaky. And also a serious risk on the Tyrell side. Robert is fickle; if he tires of Margaery before they can finish their Anne Boleyn Plot*, she’s ruined. In fact, Renly is probably better off if they go full Boleyn, where Margaery seduces Robert but holds off on the final conclusion, as it were. Which is not to say the actual mistress thing isn’t Renly’s plan; it just might not be the best plan.

*While the chain of events would be similar, of course, Renly’s plot begins with the aim of a new queen, whereas Anne was likely making the best deal out of what today we’d call sexual harassment in the workplace.

Note I never said Renly’s plan was a good plan, nor that it would necessarily succeed. (My “sunshine and rainbows forever” line is generally a very sarcastic keyphrase.) The risk for the Tyrells there, as I said, is the reason why the plan was moving so slowly, why Margaery didn’t make it into Robert’s bed before Cersei had him killed. As for Henry VIII, GRRM himself compares him.

Nevertheless, how I know it was a mistress plan rather than a full Boleyn “no huggee no kissee until I get a wedding ring” plot:

“The Knight of Flowers writes Highgarden, urging his lord father to send his sister to court. The girl is a maid of fourteen, sweet and beautiful and tractable, and Lord Renly and Ser Loras intend that Robert should bed her, wed her, and make a new queen.” –Varys, AGOT, Arya III

Note the order there – bed then wed. Also note this is Varys talking to Illyrio in (assumed) privacy, so there’s no possible layer of pretense (as if he were talking to Ned), this is what he really knows and really feels. And if anyone has knowledge of what Renly was really planning, it’s Varys…

[ecotone99]

[RO] Old School Royal Ex-partner

Note: None of these people actually exist with the exception of Princess Diana (mentioned in story)

On September 15, 1962, Siobhan Miriam McGregor and her twin sister Martha Ruth McGregor were born in Jackson Mississippi. Their mother Ruth Weissman was 20 years old and had graduated from University of Mississippi the year before. Their father Kevin McGregor was from Ireland and was a race car driver. He was 21 years old.

Many of those who lived in Mississippi were Evangelical Christians. Ruth was Jewish and Kevin was Catholic. Back in those days, one usually didn't marry outside your religion. Both Ruth and Kevin knew that no priest or rabbi would marry them. A judge at the courthouse refused to marry them saying that they came from different ethnic and religious backgrounds. He predicted the marriage wouldn't last.

Common law marriage at the time was legal in Mississippi and they thought about doing it but Ruth knew what her parents would think of that. So they got married in Las Vegas when the twins were 6 months old.

As you can imagine, their relationship was the talk of the town. During that time period, it was uncommon for someone of Jewish ancestry to marry outside their faith. In Mississippi, the Jewish community had dances and other community events for young people to attend. Ruth had attended these events in her youth. She had a couple of boyfriends but nothing serious.

The couple divorced in 1967. The judge who handled the divorce case was the same one who had predicted that the marriage wouldn't last. He made sure to remind Ruth of this fact.

Siobhan looked like the splitting image of her father with the dark hair and blue eyes. She was tall and thin. Her sister Martha looked like Ruth, light brown hair and green eyes. She was also tall and thin.

Their maternal grandparents Miriam and David Weissman made sure that they were immersed into the Jewish Community and Culture. Siobhan and Martha took different routes in their modeling life. Modeling took over Siobhan's life at age 16 when she she was crowned Miss Mississippi Teen, then Miss Mississippi USA. She was in the semi-finals of the Miss Universe Pageant. She also did modeling for NASCAR as her father was a NASCAR racer.

Martha at age 18 went to Israel and served in the army for three years. After military service she won the Miss Israel pageant and competed in the Miss Universe Pageant a year after her sister did. She came in third at the Miss Universe Pageant. She stayed in Israel and became a model.

When Siobhan was 21 years old, she went to Ireland to do some modeling as they needed models in Ireland. She had visited her father's relatives in Ireland and she had also visited the Synagogue in Dublin. She loved history so it was interesting reading about this.

While she was in Ireland, she met Prince Liam McDonald who was heir to the Irish throne. He was 27 years old. He was at one of the photo shoots having see her on the cover of Irish Woman, a magazine that his younger sister liked to read. The pair started dating and they fell madly in love with each other but getting married to each other, well that was a different story.

According to the Irish Constitution of Royals, the heir to the throne must marry someone who is Catholic or someone who would become Catholic. The woman also had to be a virgin and someone of aristocratic blood. Very similar to the British at the time.

Usually the press was respectful of the privacy of the Irish royal family and people they dated, but someone in the family, Siobhan suspected it was Queen Joan who gave information to the press about Siobhan's personal life. She never liked Siobhan nor did his younger sister Megan. Soon everyone in Ireland had an opinion about their relationship. Most people were opposed to them marrying due to religious differences. Then politics was introduced into it. I will stop there. You get the general picture. They had dated a total of 18 months.

Siobhan went back to Mississippi to visit her grandparents and her mother. While she was there, someone called her home and told her to turn on the TV as there was news about Prince Liam. When Siobhan saw the news conference, she knew. The McDonald family had found a suitable bride for the Prince, Duchess Fiona of Cork. They were to be married within 4 months.

The Duchess was the person who had helped Siobhan pack. She had no idea that this person was a Duchess.

Now she knew why his family had encouraged her to go to Mississippi to visit her family. She also knew why the modeling agency wanted her to go to New York to do some modeling. She never was called back for a modeling shoot in Ireland. But everything had worked out for the best. She wanted to model in New York and she did. She had heard that when a commoner broke up with a royal, they were often given a parting gift or gifts, so that they wouldn't talk. She guessed that this was the gift, modeling for Vogue,Harper's Bazaar, being in the fashion shows in New York, London Paris. That was her gift. It lasted about 4 years.

She decided that she wanted to spend more time with her father, so she went to NASCAR races. Married Joshua Jones who was a up and coming NASCAR driver. A year later they had triplets, two boys and a girl.

Princess Fiona watched the NASCAR awards show. Joshua Jones had won his first Winston Cup. He had won 3 Bush Series Cup. Siobhan looked happy and content with her life. Princess Fiona had a daughter 9 months and 15 days after marriage. Then she had a series of miscarriages and finally last year she had a son. They had gone thru IV fertility treatments but this was no guarantee that she would have a son. They lucked out as both families had a lot of female children. The Princess was jealous of Siobhan, although she would never admit it. Siobhan seemed to be free while she wasn't.

The marriage wasn't a happy one. They pretended that they were happy. She didn't like her in-laws and she couldn't stand his younger sister.

Over the years, Duchess Fiona and Princess Diana had become good friends. Duchess Fiona often went to London and they would have lunch together. They had first met at a Swiss boarding school but weren't in the same social circles.

1991 - Everyone was surprised when it was announced that Prince Liam and Princess Fiona had legally separated. A year later they divorced. The divorce had been very difficult to obtain, but they had ways of getting around church law.

Princess Diana and the Duchess Fiona made a bet to see who would be interviewed by Andrew Mars first. Diana went first and then a week later Fiona was interviewed. Her tell out book about her marriage to Prince Liam had become a best seller. William Mars was surprised when Fiona told them she helped Siobhan pack when she left for Mississippi.

"I really felt bad for Siobhan. I really did. She had no idea that I was engaged to be married to Liam. She loved Liam that I know as she told me so. This was done very quickly because they were afraid that Siobhan and Liam would elope in Las Vegas. He threatened to do that but never told Siobhan about it. Queen Joan and Princess Meagan are very snobby and they tend to dislike people who aren't of the same noble social standing as themselves. Liam isn't like that nor is his father, King Sean. "

William Mars paused for a moment and said, "This is a recording of what has already appeared in a Irish tabloid magazine. This is Siobhan McGregor and Liam's sister Meagan talking. Queen Joan later come into the conversation. This took place at the Castle. You sat in on this conversation.

Fiona nodded yes.

"I know a lot about you Siobhan McGregor and some of what I know about you isn't very good. You are certainly not marriage material for my brother."

"I don't know why this concerns you."

"Well, it does. It concerns my entire family. You're not Catholic, you're not of noble blood or ancestry and you weren't a victim when you met Liam. I've got your medical records to prove it."

"You know Meagan, I feel sorry for you?"

Meagan laughed, "Really, now why would you feel sorry for me?"

"That you have so much hatred in your heart for me."

"I don't hate you, although I will admit that I have a strong dislike for you."

"Is it because I'm half-Jewish?"

"No, it's not because of that. Being Jewish has nothing to do with this. You are a common person and a common person doesn't belong on the throne or married to a Prince. Royals should marry royals."

A door is heard opening and closing.

"Oh, Meagan, I see you are having a talk with Siobhan."

"Yes mother and I'm telling her that she will not be marrying Prince Liam."

"Well, Siobhan, you aren't marriage material but you certainly are mistress material. If Prince Liam so desires, you could be his mistress. Since you aren't a baptized person, no sin has been committed."

"I don't want to be his mistress. If he gets married to someone else, that's it. Our relationship is over. I don't fool around with married men. I wasn't raised that way."

"You seemed shocked by this." said Queen Joan.

"Well, in a way yes. Doesn't matter if I was baptized or not, adultery is a sin."

"Okay, then you will get a parting gift for your services to Liam. Modeling in New York, London, Paris for a year. Not a bad deal."

Siobhan said goodbye and left. The door could be heard closing softly.

"You know Meagan, Queen Joan, I feel sorry for Siobhan. I really do."

"Why in the world would you feel sorry for her. She's getting a good deal out of it. Modeling in Paris, can't get better than that."

"That sounds terrible."

"Well, she gets what she wants and she knows to keep her mouth shut. I didn't say that of course but she knows. Sort of like a gentlemen's agreement (Known but not spoken of).

William turned the recording off. Fiona started to speak.

"I had been told untrue things about Siobhan but when I heard her speak, I knew that they were lies that Princess Meagan told me (they are not on the tape and I will not repeat them because I don't believe they were true). I really felt sorry for her but it put me in a very strange position. I knew that Prince Liam didn't love me, never loved me (we got into a nasty argument about six months after we were married and he told me this). He carried a torch for Siobhan for a long time. I knew that my husband well ex-husband would take a mistress which he did. If you look at the picture, the woman is a model, looks like Siobhan and has the same name Siobhan (I'll call her Siobhan II). This was one of his mistresses. My husband had thru the course of our marriage at least 3 mistresses all of whom looked like Siobhan. One actually had her name (Siobhan II). "

"What is interesting about this whole thing is that Siobhan McGregor Jones has never talked about Prince Liam. She wrote a book about being a NASCAR wife but she never mentioned her relationship with him in the book or to anyone. Refused to talk about it."

"For this reason, I have respect for her. I imagine she could have done so but chose not to. She's the old school ex-royal partner. Doesn't say a word. Even if she were broke (she's not of course), she never would say a word. I know that she never would write a tell-all-book. She not a vindictive person like some people I know."

"I find it hard to believe Princess Fiona that you were jealous of Sibohan McGregor Jones."

"I was because she had freedom. I was in prison while being married to Liam. I felt like I was, at least. Prison that I finally got out of. I saw her at a NASCAR awards ceremony and she looked so happy with her husband and kids."

Princess Fiona smiled knowing that her ex-husband would be furious and her ex-mother in law would be throwing a shoe at the TV set, going up to the TV set and yelling at her. She had told all the dirty laundry of the family including her infertility problems and an exception that the church made for her to have IV fertility treatments.

"There was a clause stating that if your daughter had a son, then the throne would stay in the McDonald family. If she failed to have sons, then the 12 clans of Ireland would decide who would be the next King. The McDonald family wanted to make sure that didn't happen?"

"Oh yes, you are right. It's possible I would have had another daughter as daughters in both families are dominant."

Siobhan watched the interview and had mixed feelings about it. For a long time, she disliked Princess Fiona, but now she felt sorry for her. She would have had a miserable life if she had married Liam. The interview of the ex-wife just confirmed this.

submitted by /u/baronesslucy [link] [comments] via Blogger https://ift.tt/2NPaPFT

[viralhottopics]

Dear White, Christian Trump Supporters: We Need To Talk

Plenty of pundits keep telling us progressives that we didnt listen to them in the heartland to you of the white working class, to you of conservative Christianity.

Actually, I grew up as one of you. Ive listened to you my whole life, but I dont think I know how to understand you at all.

I suppose now youd consider me part of the so-called liberal elite. Im a west coast university professor with a Ph.D. and almost 30 years of teaching experience. But Im the daughter of a Southern Baptist, working-class pipe fitter at a paper mill in a small, conservative town in northwest Georgia.

My parents did not go to college (my father finally earned a degree after hed retired from the paper mill). Only one of my four grandparents finished high school. I studied hard, got a scholarship, kept studying, kept working, and I moved into the white collar middle class.

My white conservative Christian upbringing had told me that was the American Dream to work hard and succeed. I did, and I feel youre holding it against me now that I no longer share your views. I think you must imagine the liberal elite as East Coast, Ivy League-educated, trust fund babies completely out of touch with how most people live.

Sure, some faculty members grew up with money. Some went to Ivy League schools. But a lot of us professors were you working class kids who did whatever it took to get a college education. Along the way, a lot of us developed progressive ideas, not out of our privilege, but out of our own experiences of discrimination, struggle, and oppression.

We read and argued and wrote and rewrote. We got peer-reviewed, over and over and over. Our ideas are held to incredibly high, rigorous standards, and so, when we speak we do so carefully, thoughtfully, with nuance, and with openness because sometimes we are also wrong. But because weve studied hard and held ourselves up to professional standards, we really do know a lot about what were talking about, and we have something to offer in a real conversation across our differences (including the East Coast Ivy Leaguers who arent as out of touch as you may think). But I dont think you want to hear us or me.

You tell me I need to get over Trumps election and stop being a sore loser. But politics is not a sport. We dont choose teams and simply cheer ours on to victory. My beloved Atlanta Falcons lost the Super Bowl, and, painful though that was, I will get over it. It hurts, but I wont protest, march, write letters, or otherwise resist the outcome, even if we discover New Englands balls were deflated. Its a game, but its not life or death.

This election, however, is exactly that. Perhaps you can tell me to get over it because you do not have to worry that Trump will appoint a Supreme Court justice that could play a role in invalidating your marriage. If Congress passes and Trump signs the First Amendment Defense Act, you probably wont have to worry that a bakery, restaurant, or hotel might legally deny you service. You dont have to worry about being stranded at an airport and refused admission to the U.S. because of the country youre from or the religion you practice. You dont have to worry about having your family divided across the world with a simple signature on an executive order.

You say you are aggrieved because you have not achieved what you think you deserve or you think some less deserving other has taken it. Despite having moved into the middle class, I have spent my career teaching about and advocating for labor unions, a living wage, affordable childcare, social security, affordable healthcare, accessible higher education. Progressives are actually the ones who support the economic programs and policies that could make a difference for the working class.

You have a right to be aggrieved, but I fear you are targeting the wrong people. Low paying jobs, job insecurity, companies moving work overseas, low benefits, little vacation these are the results of decades of policies that benefit the truly wealthy those whose wealth depends not on the labor of their hands but on their ability to exploit the production of poorly paid laborers. The problem is not that immigrants have taken your jobs or drained money from the safety net. The problem is that the system of wealth sets workers against one another so they do not target the real economic power that limits their work and financial security.

You say you want progressives to listen to you. Then prioritize truth. This election was filled with fake news, shared widely on Facebook, and this administration already has begun to create a language of alternative facts to misinform and mislead. If you want to talk, offer evidence, real evidence based on verifiable data and reliable sources, not wishful imaginings or fabricated Breitbart stories. An internet meme is not an informed and legitimate point of argument that facilitates dialogue. Weve reached a point where youd rather believe an overt lie if it supports a belief you already hold than pursue the truth if it might challenge your currently held belief.

The Bible tells us God is a God of truth and the truth will set us free. Yet you chose someone who lies with impunity. I want to understand how you choose to ignore the evidence that is right in front of your eyes photos of the crowds at two different inaugurations, for example. How do you accept what is proven to be a lie? How do you support someone who, rather than correct the record, doubles down on his lies?

Especially, how do you do this in the name of the God of truth? Before the election I saw one of you whod written as an evangelical Christian in support of Trump that God can use anyone. So help me understand why you thought God could use a man whod said hed never asked God for forgiveness, who serially committed adultery, who said he could grab women by the genitals, who cheated contractors and workers, but you didnt think God could use a woman who is a Christian, a lifelong Methodist and who, from the heart, quotes the Bible and John Wesley (when Trump didnt even know how to say Second Corinthians, which he called Two Corinthians, and when asked for his favorite Bible verse struggled to name one until he landed on an eye for an eye. And you know what Jesus said about that one).

I know youve been offended that progressives have called you racist for voting for Trump. I understand that. You dont see yourself as racist. But you did knowingly vote for someone who insulted Latinos, Blacks, Muslims, and Jews. And women. And LGBTQ people. And people with disabilities. Help me understand how that squares with the notion of Gods love for all people.

Can you really imagine Jesus using the words Trump did about these groups of people? How would you characterize voting for someone who is overtly racist? Help me understand how you align your Christian perspective with his racism, misogyny, homophobia, Islamophobia, and antisemitism.

Im afraid that what you want is a nation that conforms to your interpretation of the Bible. Thats where we really run into trouble because that would require you to force your particular conservative Christian beliefs on everyone else. I dont understand how people who want to claim religious liberty for themselves are so unwilling to give it to everyone, which is actually the premise of true religious liberty.

You say you want a Christian nation, but our founders were clear that was never their goal. In fact, the Constitution goes to great lengths to protect the government from religion and religion from government. I also get the sense that you think people are not Christians if they arent Christian in the same way as you. But cant we find some common ground? Cant we agree that all people should be free to practice their religion or practice no religion and should be safe from coercion based on religion? Cant we agree that we share values of love, kindness, respect, and community and then try to live those with each other? Do you really think a Christian, especially a biblical literalist, can want a wall built?

The Bible is clear about how we are to treat foreigners among us no matter how they got here. What if the Egyptians had built a wall before Mary and Joseph fled from King Herod? Our Christian story starts with a refugee family. Can we not practice our shared Christian values with immigrants and refugees coming to our country?

Cant we find common ground on issues like, say, abortion? I think we could have a common goal of lowering abortion rates. After all, you will never end abortions. Maybe you can end the safe, legal ones, but, one way or another, women will still have abortions. They will just be more likely to die from them.

And heres where I think dealing with facts is crucial to find common ground. We know that abortion rates are lower worldwide when there is no global gag order. We also know that what is most successful in lowering abortion rates is access to contraception, accurate sex education, and personal and economic empowerment for women.

To cling to overturning Roe v. Wade as the only way to end abortions is a fantasy based on ideology rather than medical science and social science, and it flies in the face of the evidence for what is successful. So the real question is are you more interested in actual effectiveness in lowering abortion rates or ideological purity? We can lower abortion rates together but not by denying women choices over their own bodies. We can be effective together by listening to the data and working together to ensure all women have access to contraception, education, and social and economic resources. Are you willing to have that conversation?

Ive heard some of you say that well just have to agree to disagree, but thats a problem. You see, were not talking about ideas here. Were talking about actual human lives. If we were talking about predestination or modes of baptism or premillennialism, Id say, sure, lets agree to disagree. The stakes are pretty low. But if were talking about the rights of people to access housing, clean water and air, and healthy food or the possibility of a nuclear arms race or discrimination written into law or women losing basic life-saving health screenings, or young black men being incarcerated disproportionately, or Native peoples having their sacred sites desecrated and their water poisoned, or Muslim people being targeted for their faith, then the stakes are much higher, and I cannot simply agree to disagree.

Thats why Im writing you now. We need to talk, and I dont know how to talk to you anymore. I need to know, is it more important to you to win than to do good? Or can we build coalitions? Listen to science? Rely on real evidence? Be effective? Put the needs and rights of all others above ideologies? Can we live the love of God we claim? You want me to hear and understand you. I get that. I also want you to hear and understand the rest of the world that is not you or your kind. Because they too are Gods people and therefore are in the circle of those whom we must love. You taught me that when I was a child. If we can agree on that now, we have a place to start.

.

Read more: http://huff.to/2lF3xqK

from Dear White, Christian Trump Supporters: We Need To Talk

[nobodysuspectsthebutterfly]

As I read you description of Renly's scheming to get Margaery to be Robert's mistress, how much of that do you think was his idea and how much was the Tyrells'? I tednt to read Renly as a (witting and willing) puppet of the Tyrells in their bid to get more power.

I think it was mostly (perhaps almost entirely) Renly’s idea. The Tyrells want power, yes, but they’re cautious about it. Well, partially cautious. For example:

Her grandmother snorted. “Gallant, yes, and charming, and very clean. [Renly] knew how to dress and he knew how to smile and he knew how to bathe, and somehow he got the notion that this made him fit to be king. The Baratheons have always had some queer notions, to be sure. It comes from their Targaryen blood, I should think.” She sniffed. “They tried to marry me to a Targaryen once, but I soon put an end to that.”“Renly was brave and gentle, Grandmother,” said Margaery. “Father liked him as well, and so did Loras.”“Loras is young,” Lady Olenna said crisply, “and very good at knocking men off horses with a stick. That does not make him wise. As to your father, would that I’d been born a peasant woman with a big wooden spoon, I might have been able to beat some sense into his fat head. […] It’s treason, I warned them, Robert has two sons, and Renly has an older brother, how can he possibly have any claim to that ugly iron chair? Tut-tut, says my son, don’t you want your sweetling to be queen? […] The thought that one day he may see his grandson with his arse on the Iron Throne makes Mace puff up like […a puff fish…] We should have stayed well out of all this bloody foolishness if you ask me, but once the cow’s been milked there’s no squirting the cream back up her udder. After Lord Puff Fish put that crown on Renly’s head, we were into the pudding up to our knees, so here we are to see things through.”

–ASOS, Sansa I

This discussion is of course about the Tyrells supporting Renly’s bid for king, but I think it also applies to Renly’s Margaery/Robert plot. While Mace might find the plan attractive, Olenna would consider the idea of throwing her sweet granddaughter into a den of lions in hopes she might succeed in turning Robert’s head and gaining a crown for hers absolutely appalling. (There’s the danger of Cersei knocking Margaery off, there’s the chance that the adultery/incest might not be provable, there’s a chance that Robert might make Margaery his mistress but not his new queen, or maybe he’d just love her and leave her like he does with most women, etc.) So I very much doubt it was a plan that the Tyrells came up with on their own and proposed to Renly.

Rather, I think Renly was visiting Highgarden, saw Margaery and heard something about how people were comparing her beauty and appearance to the proven royal-seducing Lyanna (which of course is B.S. but also Margaery doesn’t look a thing like Lyanna so, y’know, the romance of the Reach yadda yadda), and realized aha, here was the key he could use to influence Robert and get rid of Cersei. Maybe Loras played a small part too – like, “you’re unhappy with Cersei and Joffrey, why don’t you do something about it” – but he also was definitely Renly’s instrument in convincing his family to go along with the plan. Varys says Loras was writing to Mace, not the other way around. And also, Mace may be an ambitious pompous blowhard, but he doesn’t strike me as someone who’d come up with the idea to pimp out his daughter that way (unlike those who facilitated Aegon IV’s mistresses, like Lord Bracken with his daughters Barba and Bethany, or Lucas “the Pander” Lothson with his wife and daughter).

Note Renly also tells Stannis that he was planning to make Margaery Robert’s queen, he doesn’t blame it on the Tyrells or anything – and though that could just be his own “look how clever I am” taking credit for it, IMO it’s said too casually, as an admission of “yep, guilty, I had those plans all right”. Basically, I think it’s an extreme misread to think Renly was being manipulated by the Tyrells to give them power, or by anyone else. Everything he did was his own choices, alas.