you know things are bad when you can go to someone who’s been kept pretty well abreast of your family’s Situation lately and say ‘ah, and my mom broke her toe last night’ and their response is along the lines of ‘WHAT THE FUCK. NO. FUCKING HELL’
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@microsuedemouse
you know things are bad when you can go to someone who’s been kept pretty well abreast of your family’s Situation lately and say ‘ah, and my mom broke her toe last night’ and their response is along the lines of ‘WHAT THE FUCK. NO. FUCKING HELL’

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Two eridians and their wet dog
I was meeting a client at a famous museum’s lounge for lunch (fancy, I know) and had an hour to kill afterwards so I joined the first random docent tour I could find. The woman who took us around was a great-grandmother from the Bronx “back when that was nothing to brag about” and she was doing a talk on alternative mediums within art.
What I thought that meant: telling us about unique sculpture materials and paint mixtures.
What that actually meant: an 84yo woman gingerly holding a beautifully beaded and embroidered dress (apparently from Ukraine and at least 200 years old) and, with tears in her eyes, showing how each individual thread was spun by hand and weaved into place on a cottage floor loom, with bright blue silk embroidery thread and hand-blown beads intricately piercing the work of other labor for days upon days, as the labor of a dozen talented people came together to make something so beautiful for a village girl’s wedding day.
What it also meant: in 1948, a young girl lived in a cramped tenement-like third floor apartment in Manhattan, with a father who had just joined them after not having been allowed to escape through Poland with his pregnant wife nine years earlier. She sits in her father’s lap and watches with wide, quiet eyes as her mother’s deft hands fly across fabric with bright blue silk thread (echoing hands from over a century years earlier). Thread that her mother had salvaged from white embroidery scraps at the tailor’s shop where she worked and spent the last few days carefully dying in the kitchen sink and drying on the roof.
The dress is in the traditional Hungarian fashion and is folded across her mother’s lap: her mother doesn’t had a pattern, but she doesn’t need one to make her daughter’s dress for the fifth grade dance. The dress would end up differing significantly from the pure white, petticoated first communion dresses worn by her daughter’s majority-Catholic classmates, but the young girl would love it all the more for its uniqueness and bright blue thread.
And now, that same young girl (and maybe also the villager from 19th century Ukraine) stands in front of us, trying not to clutch the old fabric too hard as her voice shakes with the emotion of all the love and humanity that is poured into the labor of art. The village girl and the girl in the Bronx were very different people: different centuries, different religions, different ages, and different continents. But the love in the stitches and beads on their dresses was the same. And she tells us that when we look at the labor of art, we don’t just see the work to create that piece - we see the labor of our own creations and the creations of others for us, and the value in something so seemingly frivolous.
But, maybe more importantly, she says that we only admire this piece in a museum because it happened to survive the love of the wearer and those who owned it afterwards, but there have been quite literally billions of small, quiet works of art in billions of small, quiet homes all over the world, for millennia. That your grandmother’s quilt is used as a picnic blanket just as Van Gogh’s works hung in his poor friends’ hallways. That your father’s hand-painted model plane sets are displayed in your parents’ livingroom as Grecian vases are displayed in museums. That your older sister’s engineering drawings in a steady, fine-lined hand are akin to Da Vinci’s scribbles of flying machines.
I don’t think there’s any dramatic conclusions to be drawn from these thoughts - they’ve been echoed by thousands of other people across the centuries. However, if you ever feel bad for spending all of your time sewing, knitting, drawing, building lego sets, or whatever else - especially if you feel like you have to somehow monetize or show off your work online to justify your labor - please know that there’s an 84yo museum docent in the Bronx who would cry simply at the thought of you spending so much effort to quietly create something that’s beautiful to you.
summer sufferers poll: would you rather have…
the ability to repel all bugs so they can’t touch/bite/sting you
the ability to always be at a comfortable temperature while outside
no chafing ever again

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GUYS READ ALL OF THIS PLEASE PLEASE PL–
some IMPORTANT UPDATES
stay tuned for the resolution
THIS IS WHAT I WAS TELLING EARLIER
A.FUCKI G.REAL LIFE LWJ. A fkn modern wangxian au this is crazy
PLEASE GO ON REDDIT AND CHECK THE UPDATES!!!!
THERE’S MOOOORE
This is a hell of a ride but this is the Queer romance of arranged Marraige actually turning romance and ahhh i love it so much
GOOD FOR THEM!
this is adorable but i’m still just stuck on ‘he keeps crawling into my lap and cuddling and nuzzling me, but i can’t tell if he LIKES ME-likes me, please help’
dude
happy birthday, gilbert baker. (june 2, 1951 — march 31, 2017)
okay A) Cronenberg’s was. technically already a remake?
B) Cronenberg’s The Fly is already perfect, also
C) idk enough about Adam Driver to know if he can pull off what Goldblum did
D) all my friends hate JT Mollner………
book 11 of the greek anthology is truly the gift that keeps on giving

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wedding on saturday followed by queer softball on sunday… I had so so much fun and I’m so glad I got to spend so much time with my friends. but I’ve slept like 14 hours since I got home last night, and could probably sleep more if I let myself. I booked sunday off as my recovery day but lowkey I should’ve booked today as well. I love love love spending whole days with friends but my battery isn’t used to it anymore
No IDs, but these tags got me in a huff:
So ok look. The point is not the flared leg by itself. These cannot be yoga pants. These are, and you have to understand this if you are too young to have worn them, BLUE JEANS. And this was the last years before all jeans were 70% spandex.
They were denim, and they weren't bell bottoms. They hung loose from the knee in a way that would make a wizard envious. We all walked around like we were wearing hakama. And they dragged on the ground. That was important. Ragged cuffs. If your jeans weren't so long that they had ratty cuffs, they were embarrassingly short.
And the thing about denim is that it's a twill weave and it's cotton. So not only does it hold a lot of water, it wicks. Walking around in these suckers on a wet day could get you wet to the knees even if you never stepped in a puddle.
Then you'd go inside and take off your shoes and try to avoid letting your freezing, wet, filthy pant legs touch your skin.
Yoga pants. Hmf.
people in cold climates would have a tide line of white marks around their knees (if they were normal height) in the winter.
From wicking up road salt.
The visceral memory of that time is something that never leaves you. Everyone's jeans were many inches higher in the back than the front because you kept stepping on the hem and ripping it off. Your lower legs were so very cold. Every new pair of jeans literally enveloped your entire foot, they were so so long re: leg-to-waist ratio. Walking on a rainy day was a legitimate workout. You have no idea.
One thing most people don't realize about Gazebos is how bloodthirsty they used to be until the 1930s or so. It used to be that in order to appease your average small town gazebo you had to feed it 4-5 marching bands a year, or roughly 2 dozen barbershop groups. Noawadays? Throw it a steely dan cover act every 6 months, maybe a bridal party every few years if you're actively trying to court its favor, and you're pretty much in the clear. And the crazy thing is nobody knows why they calmed down, or that their appetite for flesh won't return to its 19th century heights one day. It's actually an increasingly popular theory among modern Gazebo researchers that we're at the tail end of a period of dormancy and it's only a matter of time until they start howling for blood again. And if/when that does happen there's the question of whether our modern zeeb-keepers are really ready for the task of booking enough sacrificial acts to meet that increased demand. Guild policy has gotten lax in the century since the heyday of Dark Pavillionism and a lot of local keepers refuse to even look at newer research that threatens to upset their status quo. Kind of scary to think about
I don't read as much fic as I used to but one "tell" for non Canadians writing us, besides the etransfer, is the units you use to describe us measuring something. I hate to tell you this but The Chart is real and it's completely subconscious. Please abide
ETA the chart (or at least a version of it):
ETA2: we do use inches/miles in poetic ways ("he was lost in thought/miles away" or "his lips were a bare inch away").
Also, the length of a dick is in inches for SURE.
I feel like each successive adaptation of The Addams Family is edging closer and closer to making jokes about how Gomez hates his wife.
I have this overwhelming sense that there's only one family dynamic these writers understand, and at this point only sheer inertia is stopping them from diving straight to the logical endpoint of making Gomez a Shlubby Sitcom Dad Who Hates His Wife. It's coming.

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my friends are getting MARRIED today I’m gonna CRY
I cried :’)
my friends are getting MARRIED today I’m gonna CRY