My name is Elizabeth Harper-Baxter 3000HP79erQ. I am a cybernetic organism. Living tissue over a metal endoskeleton. Or at least that's what I'll say to Natasha's great-granddaughter at her college graduation when I return to the past to save mankind from space annihilation in my brand spankin' new Kraang body...aaand the thought of a female Kraang body replacing my female human body just made me shudder a bit. I think I might actually be sick if I focus on it too much longer, so I'm gonna drop this bit before I can't stop myself!
Christ, all I can think of now is that meme with Honey Boo Boo's Mom.
That poor fucking kid.
Besides, this is supposed to be about adulthood, and society has conditioned us to believe that once you become an adult, you have to become bitter and start hating fun with a fiery passion. I say 'pfft' to that! I'll like and talk about stupid shit until I fucking die, and that's that.
And, now that that's out of the way...
As I said last time, I went full-bore into investigative journalism in college, working toward the end goal of making Jack McGee look like a chump. Which, honestly wouldn't be that hard, because he was about as useless as a plugged asshole on the back of your neck. He had, like, 56 episodes and a movie and he still couldn't fucking figure out that—SPOILER ALERT—David Banner was the fucking Hulk THE WHOLE TIME!
I reiterate; Mr. McGee was absolutely useless. I mean, Banner transformed right fucking next to him one t— Sorry. As a real investigative reporter, I get a little salty about Hack McGee. Though Jack Colvin was awesome in the role.
I'll happily concede that.
Anyhyoo (you say that like Donahue), I did all that, but kept working on plotting/writing stories of my own any chance I got. My real passion was, after all, still fiction writing, and it was actually in my last year at Adelphi that I had my first Roger Hartley novel—"The Body of Heather Yorke"—published. Christ, I was putting the finishing touches on the main draft of the second one!
Parts of that book were not-so-loosely based on the case Dad worked that ended up taking Mom.
I was kind of uncharacteristically insecure when I'd talk to people about it, but all of that went out the fucking window, landed in a pool of gasoline, and combusted when I finally let Dad read it. As I said before, he was always a huge proponent of my writing, even on the rare occasion I'd doubt myself.
My Daddy loves me!
When I gave him the completed draft of "...Heather Yorke," he went through the whole thing in one sitting...we're talking 400+ pages here! He loved it, and not just because I'm his kid. My Dad's never been one to sugarcoat anything, even with me.
So, when that man feeds you praise ya' fucking savor it. It means you're on the right track.
Within a couple of months, I sent the manuscript out and already had five generous offers. Of course, I turned them all down and ended up taking one a few months later that gave me the most control over my shit as was humanly possible, because I'm not a desperate fucking moron. As a result, I and I alone own my characters and their universe until I am a worm's version of Golden Corral.
After that, they'll likely be passed on to my daughter Natasha. Speaking of Nat, ya' can't have her without Sean Baxter, my doting husband. That's what I really wanna talk about this time. When I met Sean, I was already pretty successful at the whole 'author' thing. I had three books and a host of short stories under my belt, and I even owned my own fucking house (where we both live as of this writing).
That afternoon, I was on the way to a lunch date with Dad when I hit a stop light in front of a newish, high-end condominium complex. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught sight of a man with a fucking beautiful, Jackman-esque physique shaping the shrubbery surrounding the building.
His work was as beautiful as he was.
It was a warm day too (which is maybe why I was so fucking thirsty), so he was only wearing a tank top and some shorts. He looked like a guy you'd see on the cover of one of those cheesy romance novels. Ya' know the type; Guys who have a forest of constantly sweaty abs and pensive looks on their face. Maybe a thumb through a belt loop.
I liked it. God help me, I fucking wanted it.
So, I pulled into a nearby parking space, hopped out of my car, and moved in for the kill like a fucking cheetah. I'm not ashamed at all that animal instinct kicked in. Not one bit. It was one of the best decisions I ever made.
I approached him carefully, as he had a pair of noise-canceling headphones on and a hedge trimmer I was ultra keen on keeping the fuck out of my carotid artery. I snuck around the side of one of the hedges in his right periphery and waved to get his attention. Of course, I cranked up the adorable juuuust enough to snap off the knob.
He glanced at me briefly, then went right back to work. However, he did an instantaneous double-take and turned off the hedge trimmer.
"Can I help you with something, ma'am?" he asked, hastily removing the headphones.
"Sure!" I exclaimed. "What'd ya' have in mind?"
Hey, sometimes, you actually do have to run before ya' can walk!
"Um. I— I don't follow," he stammered.
His face was totally flush with embarrassment. It was adorable.
"I'm Elizabeth Harper," I said, slyly slipping my hand into his and shaking it. "What's your name?"
"Uh, Sean," he answered, trying his best to get past my assertiveness. "Sean Baxter."
"Well Sean, I saw ya' working from the road and wanted to talk about it," I cheered.
I don't like to mince words in situations like that one. That's in the blood, too.
"What about?" Sean asked, finally giving me his full attention.
I do have to say that it took him waaaay too fucking long to do so. I mean, I looked really fucking awesome that day! I was rocking a nice, low-cut, sheer blouse, a frilly, polka-dotted skirt, and matching pumps. Oh! And huge, dangly, silver triangle earrings!
Like I said; Fucking awesome. As Mom would say, "Shame on him!"
"Well, I've recently acquired a home of my own with these giant bushes out front, and I've been thinking of having them shaped into something other than 'bush'," I said, illustrating the size with my hands.
"What kind of bushes?" Sean asked, his interest most certainly piqued.
"Uhhhhh...not trees?" I drawled, more than a little unsure and suddenly panicking internally that I may have made a huge mistake. I could almost hear the fucking sad piano music from the Peanuts playing to score my impending, head-hanging walk of shame. "They were there before I moved in."
Sean was now grinning ear to ear and fighting laughter.
In my mind, either he thought I was a complete idiot with a chicken brain, or he thought I was a liar, or some other mystery third thing, but he was at least being fucking cool about it. My hope was that I hadn't completely borked my chances before I ever even had an opening to crank the rest of my charms.
By the way, it must be said; Chickens may be idiots, but at least they're delicious idiots.
They have a use. Unlike Hack McGee.
Anyhow, it dawned on me that I'd taken some pictures of the house on my phone, and that the bushes were absolutely included in them. So, with lightning speed, I whipped it out and started flicking through like a damn maniac until I found them.
"THESE!" I exclaimed, jamming the damn phone into his hands like a spazzy cheerleader.
He looked over the pictures, seemingly deep in thought.
"I can work with those," he finally said, shrugging a bit as he handed my phone back. "What're you wanting done to them, exactly?"
"I was thinking chess pieces," I confirmed.
I wasn't bullshitting, by the way. I really was in the market for someone with his skill set.
"I could probably do that," he said, kinda biting his bottom lip as he tapped on his hedge trimmer (not a euphemism). It seemed as though he was already envisioning it.
"Fucking awesome!" I exclaimed. "What're your rates?"
He gave me a quick, up and down glance.
"For you? Dinner," he replied like James fucking Bond. "Twice."
Be still my heart. And here I was starting to worry that bushes (of the plant variety) were the only thing that turned him on!
"Oh, that can be arranged," I scoffed, nodded like a jackass. "I'm an excellent cook. Modest too, believe it or not."
"I believe it," Sean replied in a slight, adorable chuckle. "So...what do you do, Elizabeth? That's a really nice house."
"Hooker," I replied.
It just came out...
"What?" Sean said through a hard, fast laugh.
He knew what I said, he just couldn't believe I said it.
"Err...Booker? Books. I write books," I proudly proclaimed. "Violent, gritty, murder and rape-filled crime novels to be exact."
He looked like he was more than a little taken aback. Most people are when they find out what I write. I guess I just don't 'look the part' to them. But, I mean, there is that old adage about not judging books by their covers...seems apt is all I'm fucking saying.
"My Mom reads a lot of those kinds of books," Sean replied. "Think she'd know your work?"
"Maybe!" I cheered. "Has she read 'The Body of Heather Yorke'?"
Sean cut a suspicious glance my way, kind of cocking his head to the side a bit.
"Yeeaaah," he drawled. "I've even read that."
"Then the answer is 'yes'," I happily confirmed, grinning like an absolute idiot. "If it says 'Roger Hartley' on the cover and it isn't some fucking Chinese bootleg, it's mine and mine alone."
He raised his eyebrows as though he were impressed.
"You're kinda fucked up, aren't you? Like, really dark," he half-sincerely ribbed.
"Pretty much!" I cheered.
Hey, I own my darkness, damn it. It's all I got.
"Well, I'm grateful that you came along and darkened my day, but I gotta get back to work here, Edgar..." Sean joked, trailing off and waving his hedge trimmer at me.
I now realize that too sounds like a euphemism, but I swear it's not!
Would've been pretty fucking ballsy though...I'd've given him ten points.
"Of course!" I gasped, realizing I was absolutely in the way. "Where can I reach ya'?"
Sean merely pointed to the large, white work truck behind him. On it were the words 'Baxter Fine Landscaping' as well as a phone number, a website, a fax number, and some other shit I didn't care about.
"Fine indeed," I muttered as I took a picture of the truck with my phone.
"Thanks. I try my best," Sean fired back.
"And you're doing a swell job, Mr. Baxter," I replied, shooting him a wink like a desperate fucking cougar and saluting him before slowly, awkwardly backing toward my car. "Keep shakin' what God gave ya', sailor!"
He laughed out loud that time.
"You too," he chuckled, gifting me an equally cheesy wink. "Don't be a stranger."
And I absolutely was not.
After that brief but eventful meeting, I headed to the 5-Point Cafe (a favorite haunt among us Harpers) for lunch with my Dad, who immediately knew what was up.
He's a bigger fucking freak than I am with that shit.
"Who's the guy?" Dad asked, not even bothering to look at me over his menu.
I decided to have some fun with him and told him it was Dr. fucking Loomis from the "Halloween" movies, but he shut me down and told me to try again. After a couple of minutes of playing coy, I gave up and told him that I had just met and claimed Sean Baxter as my own. Believe me—when I said that, I meant it.
And I only meant it more when we had our first payment dinner, which I set up that very evening.
Sean arrived at my place at 6:15 pm the following Friday. I had a little mood music playing—"100% Fun" if ya' must know—as I shucked a few corn cobs. Again, not a euphemism. When the doorbell rang, I tossed the corn into the pot, set the timer, removed my gloves, and bolted to the door, quickly feigning composure as I answered it.
Gotta look cool, ya' know?
There stood Sean, looking mighty fucking dapper and holding an equally-dapper bottle of wine.
"Good evening, sir!" I cheered in a horrible, mock-British accent. I don't know why I did that. It was probably stupid. I'm probably stupid. "Come in!"
"Thanks," he replied, flashing a light smirk.
I ushered the beautiful piece of humanity into my lair and locked him in.
"If ya' want, you can go ahead and make yourself at home in the living room. There's video games and stuff," I said, gesturing to it. "Dinner's not quite ready yet."
"I can help if y—"
"No. Never. Nobody helps me in the kitchen," I forcefully—though slightly playfully—said. "Ever."
Of course, not all that later on in life, that rule went out the fucking window when I popped out my own little kitchen goblin, Natasha.
"Well...can I watch?" Sean almost sheepishly asked. "I'm a terrible cook."
"Suave, Mr. Baxter," I conceded, gesturing instead to the kitchen. "Right this way!"
The first thing most people notice when they walk into my kitchen is the obvious chess motif, and Sean was no exception. When I was getting the place renovated, I happened to notice that the kitchen was almost perfectly squared, so I hired a dude to tile the floor and ceiling like a chess board.
What can I say? It's another way for me to feel close to Mom.
"You play a lot of chess?" Sean asked.
"I used to..." I trailed off, slapping my gloves back on. "My parents played it all the fucking time when I was little, and I just kind of picked it up watching them."
"Do they still play?" Sean continued.
"Nope," I sighed. "My Mom's been dead for a long time, and my Dad and I kind of moved on to video games."
"I'm sorry," Sean replied, his voice shrinking up as he spoke. "I— I didn't know."
"It's alright! You didn't fucking kill her," I dismissed. "Ya'd find out sooner or later, anyway. Sooner's always better."
By the way, "Sooner's always better" is probably on the Harper family crest.
Or something about a fucking monkey's paw.
Sean looked around the room, desperate to find another conversation piece.
His eyes finally landed on a large, framed photo hanging up next to my curio cabinet.
"Who's the guy with you there?" Sean asked, pointing to it in all its black and white glory.
I laughed when I realized what picture he was referring to.
It was the very same picture Giovanna Bianchi gave me for graduation.
"HA! That's actually a picture of my parents!" I informed him.
"Oh...wow," he half gasped. "You look just like her."
"That I do," I wistfully sighed. "Other than my eyes, my potty mouth, and her tits, we're practically fucking twins."
"I noticed the different colors, but I didn't wanna say anything in case you were self-conscious," he admitted.
"Let me let ya' in on a little secret, Mr. Baxter," I prefaced, draining the corn into the sink. "I'm not self-conscious about shit."
And that's true.
I may be super fucking anxious over a lot, but I don't have time for that other, way more cancerous garbage. I like being me, and I like the way I look. Not in a vain way though. Just that I accept any perceived imperfections as uniqueness rather than negative points.
"Yeah, I'm starting to realize that," Sean replied, a tinge of something I couldn't quite recognize in his voice.
I took a wild stab.
"Already regretting your decision to come here, huh?" I asked, picking up the largest knife I had on hand and brandishing it like a fucking anime villain.
"Not at all," he insisted. "I just didn't really know what to expect is all!"
"I like to keep people on their toes," I confided. "I find it actually puts them at ease."
"So you're easy?" Sean jokingly sneered.
"Like a fuckin' Sunday morning!" I chirped. "Until ya' piss me off, anyway."
He laughed, somewhat nervously I admit.
"I'll keep that in mind," he guffawed as the timer on the oven finally went off.
"DINNER!" I squealed.
Shut up. I was hungry. And excited.
I— I like to eat.
I'd already set the table before even starting to cook, so all we really needed to do was move the fucking food. In case you were wondering, I made a whole, herb roasted chicken, potatoes, corn on the cob, some fresh mixed veggies...standard stuff really, but always tasty.
"You think you made enough food?" Sean asked as he took his seat.
"Well, any time I make a real meal, I make sure to have enough to take to my Dad if he's not here to eat it fresh," I replied, carving into the chicken.
"What's he like?" Sean asked, looking over the pictures I have all over my dining room. "He looks mean."
I let out a sharp, knowing laugh.
"That's not just for fucking show either!" I assured him. "He's a gruff old bastard, but it's good for business."
"I can't imagine where being mean would be good for business," he started. "What's he do?"
"He was a—THE—homicide detective where we lived in New York City," I said, popping a piece of chicken into my mouth. "But he's been a private investigator here for the better part of the last couple decades."
"Oh...Suddenly the crime writing makes a lot of sense," he replied. "He does look familiar..."
"It's in my blood," I warned. "Sometimes I even help him with his cases."
"Why would you do that?" Sean asked, his face adorably contorting in puzzlement.
"I do believe I just fucking said it was in my blood," I scoffed, half playful and half serious. "Pay attention, Baxter. There's gonna be a quiz later, ya' know!"
"No, I mean, like...isn't it dangerous?" Sean clarified.
"Everything's dangerous," I solemnly promised him, swallowing my food hard. "That's just the way life is."
Sean was silent for a moment in the wake of his first, official, Harper Truth Bomb™. His first of a great many, I might add. Clearly some part of him liked it!
Though, I have to say, he would've totes shit himself if I told him about my own cases.
One of which I'd recently won an award for (and if you're good little boys and girls, ).
"Too big a downer?" I finally chimed in.
"No. Not at all," he said, shaking his head. "I'm just not used to dating girls tha—"
"Pfft. Put out the fire there, Kurt Hustle. This isn't a date," I scoffed, cutting him off. "This is a down payment for services yet to be rendered. If we have a third dinner? That's a fucking date."
"Then don't open the wine tonight," he ordered. "Save it for that third dinner."
Mother. Fucker. He James Bonded me again!
See, Sean's kind of a dark horse in conversation. He keeps everything super even-keeled and level, almost coming off as dull or boring. Then, when he sees his moment, he strikes like a damn viper.
I love it!
The rest of the evening was fairly chill, both of us mostly sticking to feeling one another out. Learning about each other and what not. I, of course, knew full well that we'd be having that third dinner.
The following Monday, Sean came by to trim my hedges. Yet again, not a euphemism. It took him about a week to get them done to where he was happy with the results, and he's kept them up ever since! We had our third dinner, then we had a whole fucking bunch more. We were super into each other super fast, and absolutely certain we had something monumental. We only dated for about six months before he asked me to marry him, and it wasn't very long after we married that I squirted out that kitchen goblin I mentioned.
Yes, I'm saying I was already pregnant beforehand. I was pregnant when I walked down the fucking aisle. I just wasn't really showing yet. We didn't say so for a bit, but my Dad somehow knew...'Par for the course,' as he would say. Usually through a dejected sigh.
I think that'll do for now. But I believe I'll tell you about that pregnancy next time.
Parting wisdom for now? I dunno...don't eat your chickens before you've counted their eggs or something like that. I'm fucking tired.
'Til next time, I'll catch ya' on the flip, suckas!
-E