FIC: The only dream I know (1/?) HIMYM AU
Title: The only dream I know
Summary: Everyone I know is doing genderswap stories right now, so this is my version: What if HIMYM had been written by women, with a woman protagonist? The story would have been very different.
Rating/Warnings: PG-15, genderswap AU
Word Count: 1,649
Fandom/Pairing: HIMYM: Female Ted (Terri) / various
Spoilers: AU Season 1
Part 1: The secret diary of Theodora Mosby, age 27½
September 19th 2005.
So, uh, hi, I guess.
Wow, if that isn't the lame-est diary entry of all time. Seriously, diary - can I call you D? - no, that just sounds even worse. Hmm… starting again…
Seriously diary, I'm usually a lot more eloquent than this. I have a college education, I come from a good (if emotionally stunted) home and I'm independent financially. Yet the first words I write in this diary make me sound like a bimbo.
Maybe this is why I'm single?
Okay, so I never wanted to start writing this stupid diary in the first place. My therapist tells me that I should use it to work through my "emerging issues", and to record my life for my future progeny. Kids, that is. Yeah, really. I can just see it, me in my fifties telling my kids all about my escapades during my rapidly diminishing twenties. My life is not that family friendly.
It just sounds so… Psych 101… you know? People are way more complicated than that. I'm way more complicated than that. But I suppose that since I'm being forced to write this idiotic journal, I might as well tell you something about myself.
My name is Terri. That's short for Theodora and yes, I know what a horrible old-maid name that is. My parents are both literary freaks, which is why they called my younger brother Heathcliff, but at least he can get away with the shortened version and gets a splashback of cool from that actor Heath Ledger.
I live in Manhattan, New York…
(Do I need to go into this kind of detail? I mean, I'm never going to move away from NYC, let alone back to Ohio, but… okay anyway…)
I live in a gorgeous brownstone in the upper west side with my best friend from college, Marsha Eriksen. Marsha's of those girls who on first impression is tall, gangly, with a kind of rounded, innocent face and long wavy chestnut hair. But you'd never guess what she's really been through. When she was about sixteen years old she was "discovered" by some modelling scout in her hometown in Minnesota and spent the next two years jetting back from New York to London to Paris to Milan as a feakin' catwalk model. I'm not even kidding. Trouble was, her parents pulled her out of it just before she turned eighteen because of all the drugs and the anorexia, I guess. She never seemed to resent them for it, though. She just says that everyone in the fashion world is a vacuous douche and I guess she knows what she's talking about. You see, Marsha's kind of scary intelligent, and is the kind of lady who when she says she wants to "save the earth", really means it. And it's not like she's stunningly attractive unless she's made an effort. I guess all models are like that - more of a blank canvas. Anyway, I guess she's plain enough that I don't turn into a jealous bitch around her.
Wow, not making myself sound so sympathic am I? Okay, this is me, warts and all. I'm about 5' 6", with jet black hair which just won't do anything cool or sexy no matter how many hours I spend on it. I'm too skinny and I really wish I was a little taller and had more womanly curves, you know? Like, in the chest area. Most of my friends would describe my fashion sense as "kooky" I guess. And if I get one more guy come up to me and tell me I look like a "young Sandra Bullock", he's gonna lose his bullocks. I'm not playing around here.
My life is okay. And now I sound like I'm one of those ungrateful, constantly unsatisfied New Yorkers, when actually I've got everything going for me. My apartment is pretty, clean and rent-controlled. We live above a bar, so me and Marsha don't have to risk walking the violent streets at night just to get a glass of wine (which reassures our Moms way more than it would if they realized quite how much we drink as a result!). I just qualified as an architect, and so have my whole professional life ahead of me. Yeah, it's a male-dominated profession, but then isn't everything? And I'd rather be doing this and get some kind of respect than be stuck in some gender-friendly niche such as "interior designer" or "decorator".
Yet lately, I've kind of got this itch. This feeling under my skin, in my bones, like I can hear the faint "tick, tick" of my biological clock. And this really annoys me, because I've never been that kind of girl. I've always been a career woman, happy to be free and single and date when I want to. In fact, I've been the one to turn the guys away because I didn't want commitment. And now… I can't even admit these feelings to my best friends.
Marsha, well, I can't tell her because she's all about commitment. She's been with her boyfriend Lee since the three of us were at Wesleyan college together. Lee's great, but he's such a guy, and sometimes I just want time with my gal-pal, you know? Plus, Marsha's obsessing about getting married right now. She thinks Lee's going to propose and keeps getting me to play-act with her so she can rehearse her reaction. Yeah, really.
And I definitely can't tell my other close friend. But more about her, and why, tomorrow. I'm kinda beat, and Marsha wants me to go down to the bar.
Later. This is me, Terri Mosby, signing off.
(Yep. Still lame. Stupid waste of time.)
September 20th 2005.
So, Lee proposed to Marsha last night. Wow. It finally happened.
Great. I'm happy for them. Really, my teeth aren't gritted while I'm typing this. (Okay, maybe a little). These are my "emerging issues" I expect. The ones my therapist told me this diary would help with.
But I am happy for Marsha and Lee, I really am. The two of them are amazing together. But, you see, what they have, that's what I want. It's what I really, really want.
Is that a song? Yeah. Heh.
What I don't want is to be stuck here alone in the apartment waiting for Barbie. Yeah, I really have a friend called Barbie. Not that it's her real name of course. Barbara Stinson hates being called Barbie. So naturally we all call her that all the time. It's not even ironic because she does look kind of like a Barbie doll - long, thick strawberry blonde hair, big blue eyes with unnaturally dark eyelashes, those kind of pneumatic breasts that only look normal on porn stars. It would be very easy to dismiss her as a bimbo. It's a mistake that guys often make. It's a mistake I made the first time I met her.
But really, the girl has a mind like a steel trap.
So what am I doing tonight instead of finding the man of my dreams on a dating site like regular people? I'm calling Barbie so she can set me up with some gorgeous but empty-headed lunk. One of a string of gorgeous but empty-headed lunks.
"Honey, are you ready to score some swag?" She chirps at me over the phone.
Swag was the term she uses for all the little gifts that men buy her so they can get into her pants. I sigh. "Barb, seriously. Have you dumped Roger already?"
I can almost hear her grin ratchet up a couple of notches, almost hear her flutter her eyelashes. "He wanted me to meet his parents. His parents!" She snorts. "Give me a break! Still, got this darling necklace. I'd show you but I'm keeping two guys warm for us here. If you're not down at the bar in five, I'm going home with both of them."
I roll my eyes and tell her I'll be right down. I knew that the idea of getting serious with a guy makes Barbie break out in hives and marriage is a dirty word to her. If you even mention kids she justs laughs, points at her tiny waist and snorts "Please, you think I'm gonna ruin this popping out a brat?"
Oh damn, it's been ten minutes already. Barbie's probably eaten those poor guys alive. Better go.
Later.
September 21st 2005.
I've met him. Oh my god I've met him. The man of my dreams.
This is what I know so far: His name is Robert Scherbatsky, he's Candian and he's a news anchor on a local TV station. He's quick-witted and blue-eyed and sexy as hell. And he asked for my number!
He asked for my number!
So let's take a poll on my friend's reactions.
Marsha thinks he's cute, and has already picked out my wardrobe for our date.
Lee keeps making fun of the fact that Rob can speak French. Yeah, he speaks French. I think Lee's missing the point. Or he's totally jealous because Rob's kind of built (he used to play hockey, he says), and Lee's not exactly big. Well, I mean, Marsha's said some things but… that's off topic. Lee's also got red hair, which means he gets called "Weasley", so he's got his own issues. But he's not bad looking, I guess. Just not my type.
Barbie… Barbie dismissed Rob with a wave of her scarlet-polished fingernails and said that he looks like a swag-buster. In other words, not rich enough or well connected enough for her to bother to date. I told her to stop being such a hooker and to look beyond the material. All she could say to that was "he looks good in a suit."
A suit? What kind of criteria is that on which to base the future father of my children?
Thing is, this should be scary, but it really isn't at all. Kids, if you ever read this (despite all the security measures I will have put in place), I have this to say to you right now:
Thus begins the story of how I met your father.
I am so going to tell my therapist to suck it.
Later.
Summary: Everyone I know is doing genderswap stories right now, so this is my version: What if HIMYM had been written by women, with a woman protagonist? The story would have been very different.
Rating/Warnings: PG-15, genderswap AU
Word Count: 1,649
Fandom/Pairing: HIMYM: Female Ted (Terri) / various
Spoilers: AU Season 1
Part 1: The secret diary of Theodora Mosby, age 27½
September 19th 2005.
So, uh, hi, I guess.
Wow, if that isn't the lame-est diary entry of all time. Seriously, diary - can I call you D? - no, that just sounds even worse. Hmm… starting again…
Seriously diary, I'm usually a lot more eloquent than this. I have a college education, I come from a good (if emotionally stunted) home and I'm independent financially. Yet the first words I write in this diary make me sound like a bimbo.
Maybe this is why I'm single?
Okay, so I never wanted to start writing this stupid diary in the first place. My therapist tells me that I should use it to work through my "emerging issues", and to record my life for my future progeny. Kids, that is. Yeah, really. I can just see it, me in my fifties telling my kids all about my escapades during my rapidly diminishing twenties. My life is not that family friendly.
It just sounds so… Psych 101… you know? People are way more complicated than that. I'm way more complicated than that. But I suppose that since I'm being forced to write this idiotic journal, I might as well tell you something about myself.
My name is Terri. That's short for Theodora and yes, I know what a horrible old-maid name that is. My parents are both literary freaks, which is why they called my younger brother Heathcliff, but at least he can get away with the shortened version and gets a splashback of cool from that actor Heath Ledger.
I live in Manhattan, New York…
(Do I need to go into this kind of detail? I mean, I'm never going to move away from NYC, let alone back to Ohio, but… okay anyway…)
I live in a gorgeous brownstone in the upper west side with my best friend from college, Marsha Eriksen. Marsha's of those girls who on first impression is tall, gangly, with a kind of rounded, innocent face and long wavy chestnut hair. But you'd never guess what she's really been through. When she was about sixteen years old she was "discovered" by some modelling scout in her hometown in Minnesota and spent the next two years jetting back from New York to London to Paris to Milan as a feakin' catwalk model. I'm not even kidding. Trouble was, her parents pulled her out of it just before she turned eighteen because of all the drugs and the anorexia, I guess. She never seemed to resent them for it, though. She just says that everyone in the fashion world is a vacuous douche and I guess she knows what she's talking about. You see, Marsha's kind of scary intelligent, and is the kind of lady who when she says she wants to "save the earth", really means it. And it's not like she's stunningly attractive unless she's made an effort. I guess all models are like that - more of a blank canvas. Anyway, I guess she's plain enough that I don't turn into a jealous bitch around her.
Wow, not making myself sound so sympathic am I? Okay, this is me, warts and all. I'm about 5' 6", with jet black hair which just won't do anything cool or sexy no matter how many hours I spend on it. I'm too skinny and I really wish I was a little taller and had more womanly curves, you know? Like, in the chest area. Most of my friends would describe my fashion sense as "kooky" I guess. And if I get one more guy come up to me and tell me I look like a "young Sandra Bullock", he's gonna lose his bullocks. I'm not playing around here.
My life is okay. And now I sound like I'm one of those ungrateful, constantly unsatisfied New Yorkers, when actually I've got everything going for me. My apartment is pretty, clean and rent-controlled. We live above a bar, so me and Marsha don't have to risk walking the violent streets at night just to get a glass of wine (which reassures our Moms way more than it would if they realized quite how much we drink as a result!). I just qualified as an architect, and so have my whole professional life ahead of me. Yeah, it's a male-dominated profession, but then isn't everything? And I'd rather be doing this and get some kind of respect than be stuck in some gender-friendly niche such as "interior designer" or "decorator".
Yet lately, I've kind of got this itch. This feeling under my skin, in my bones, like I can hear the faint "tick, tick" of my biological clock. And this really annoys me, because I've never been that kind of girl. I've always been a career woman, happy to be free and single and date when I want to. In fact, I've been the one to turn the guys away because I didn't want commitment. And now… I can't even admit these feelings to my best friends.
Marsha, well, I can't tell her because she's all about commitment. She's been with her boyfriend Lee since the three of us were at Wesleyan college together. Lee's great, but he's such a guy, and sometimes I just want time with my gal-pal, you know? Plus, Marsha's obsessing about getting married right now. She thinks Lee's going to propose and keeps getting me to play-act with her so she can rehearse her reaction. Yeah, really.
And I definitely can't tell my other close friend. But more about her, and why, tomorrow. I'm kinda beat, and Marsha wants me to go down to the bar.
Later. This is me, Terri Mosby, signing off.
(Yep. Still lame. Stupid waste of time.)
September 20th 2005.
So, Lee proposed to Marsha last night. Wow. It finally happened.
Great. I'm happy for them. Really, my teeth aren't gritted while I'm typing this. (Okay, maybe a little). These are my "emerging issues" I expect. The ones my therapist told me this diary would help with.
But I am happy for Marsha and Lee, I really am. The two of them are amazing together. But, you see, what they have, that's what I want. It's what I really, really want.
Is that a song? Yeah. Heh.
What I don't want is to be stuck here alone in the apartment waiting for Barbie. Yeah, I really have a friend called Barbie. Not that it's her real name of course. Barbara Stinson hates being called Barbie. So naturally we all call her that all the time. It's not even ironic because she does look kind of like a Barbie doll - long, thick strawberry blonde hair, big blue eyes with unnaturally dark eyelashes, those kind of pneumatic breasts that only look normal on porn stars. It would be very easy to dismiss her as a bimbo. It's a mistake that guys often make. It's a mistake I made the first time I met her.
But really, the girl has a mind like a steel trap.
So what am I doing tonight instead of finding the man of my dreams on a dating site like regular people? I'm calling Barbie so she can set me up with some gorgeous but empty-headed lunk. One of a string of gorgeous but empty-headed lunks.
"Honey, are you ready to score some swag?" She chirps at me over the phone.
Swag was the term she uses for all the little gifts that men buy her so they can get into her pants. I sigh. "Barb, seriously. Have you dumped Roger already?"
I can almost hear her grin ratchet up a couple of notches, almost hear her flutter her eyelashes. "He wanted me to meet his parents. His parents!" She snorts. "Give me a break! Still, got this darling necklace. I'd show you but I'm keeping two guys warm for us here. If you're not down at the bar in five, I'm going home with both of them."
I roll my eyes and tell her I'll be right down. I knew that the idea of getting serious with a guy makes Barbie break out in hives and marriage is a dirty word to her. If you even mention kids she justs laughs, points at her tiny waist and snorts "Please, you think I'm gonna ruin this popping out a brat?"
Oh damn, it's been ten minutes already. Barbie's probably eaten those poor guys alive. Better go.
Later.
September 21st 2005.
I've met him. Oh my god I've met him. The man of my dreams.
This is what I know so far: His name is Robert Scherbatsky, he's Candian and he's a news anchor on a local TV station. He's quick-witted and blue-eyed and sexy as hell. And he asked for my number!
He asked for my number!
So let's take a poll on my friend's reactions.
Marsha thinks he's cute, and has already picked out my wardrobe for our date.
Lee keeps making fun of the fact that Rob can speak French. Yeah, he speaks French. I think Lee's missing the point. Or he's totally jealous because Rob's kind of built (he used to play hockey, he says), and Lee's not exactly big. Well, I mean, Marsha's said some things but… that's off topic. Lee's also got red hair, which means he gets called "Weasley", so he's got his own issues. But he's not bad looking, I guess. Just not my type.
Barbie… Barbie dismissed Rob with a wave of her scarlet-polished fingernails and said that he looks like a swag-buster. In other words, not rich enough or well connected enough for her to bother to date. I told her to stop being such a hooker and to look beyond the material. All she could say to that was "he looks good in a suit."
A suit? What kind of criteria is that on which to base the future father of my children?
Thing is, this should be scary, but it really isn't at all. Kids, if you ever read this (despite all the security measures I will have put in place), I have this to say to you right now:
Thus begins the story of how I met your father.
I am so going to tell my therapist to suck it.
Later.