#1990.

Madonna and Tony Ward backstage at a Jean Paul Gaultier fashion show in Paris on October 19, 1990.

❝   axl?   ❞  she  mutters,  utterly  confused  as  she  looks  up  and  just  stares  at  the  redhead  over  the  breakfast  bar  for  a  moment,  trying  to  figure  out  what’s  going  on.   ❝   what  is  that?  what  are  you  watching? ❞ “   just  listening  to  the  moans  and  disgusting  language  coming  from  the  couple  on  the  tv  has  her  feeling  nauseous,  but  as  her  innocent  eyes  continue  to  involuntarily  linger  on  the  screen  and  she  figures  why  the  blonde  looks  so  familiar,  who  she  reminds  her  of,  that’s  when  erin  begins  to  think  she’s  died  and  went  straight  to  hell.   ❝   did  they  put  madonna’s  face  on  her?!   ❞  she  squeaks,  beyond  mortified,  her  voice  even  more  high-pitched  than  usual.  she  doesn’t  understand  why  anyone  would  watch  a  movie  like  this  or  why  there’s  people  out  there  willing  to  do  such  things  on  camera.   ❝   jesus  christ,  i  think  i’m  gonna  throw  up.  what’s  wrong  with  you,  axl?  i  was  gone  for  less  than  an  hour  and  you  just  had  to  put  this  —  this  —  this  shit  on?  and  what  is  madonna’s  lookalike  doing  there?  you  disgusting  pig.  you  get  jealous  when  i  listen  to  bon  jovi,  but  this  is  okay?!  how?!  in  what  world  is  this  okay?!   ❞   there’s  just  no  way  this  is  the  real  madonna.  it  can’t  be.  not  thinking  much,  she  grabs  one  of  the  chocolate  donuts  and  slings  it  at  the  redhead,  aiming  for  his  head.   ❝   you  know  what?   ❞   forgetting  about  the  groceries,  she  circles  around  the  corner  and  walks  up  to  the  other.  her  blood  boiling.  every  time  she  begins  to  think  this  marriage  can  work,  they  can  be  happy  together,  he  just  has  to  ruin  it.   ❝   you  should  have  married  a  pornstar,  one  that  wouldn’t  get  off  your  dick  ‘cause  clearly,  no  matter  what  i  do,  i’m  never  enough  for  you.  and  a  madonna  lookalike?  you’re  so  sick  in  the  head,  i  can’t  even  look  at  you.   ❞   and  with  that,  she  turns  on  her  heel  and  unceremoniously  marches  to  their  bedroom,  wishing  she  could  be  covering  her  ears  from  the  horrible  sounds  and  packing  her  things  up  at  the  same  time.  she  has  no  idea  where  she’ll  go,  but  she’ll  figure  something  out.  as  long  as  she  doesn’t  have  to  stay  under  the  same  roof  with  this  disgusting  man,  she’ll  be  okay.

St. Bartholomäus, Königssee, Bayern, 1990.

from /r/vexillology Top comment: This depicts Lithuania being the first to leave the USSR in 1990. All states left in 1991 following the dissolution. Note the Gorbachev-era flags which some are now their current independent flags.

“He’s so — beautiful,” the curly-haired brunette breathes, marveling at the baby who’s lying on the soft blanket beside her. Sebastian Shiloh Rose. They brought him home less than a week ago, and Erin still hasn’t gotten used to the surreal feeling of having him around. Each time her pale blue eyes land on him, on his tiny features and fragile body, she tears up a little. He’s so helpless and vulnerable, so small that neither the newborn clothes piling up in his closet nor the size N diapers that they’ve stocked up on fit him. “Do you think he’ll have your eyes?” Thinking out loud, it’s still too early to take any serious guesses as all babies are born with blue eyes, and Sebastian’s still remain closed most of the time anyway, but she’s most certainly allowed to daydream. “Hi, baby boy. Hi. Are you waking up?” She coos, picking up one of her dark ringlets and using the very tip of it to tickle her son’s nose. He’s still getting used to this brand new world that surrounds him, to all the bright lights and noises and smells, and yet… He’s already so perfect. “Do you have any idea how long we’ve waited for you?” She murmurs, letting her hair tumble over her shoulder before leaning forward once more and using a single fingertip to gently caress the boy’s downy cheek. His skinny legs kicking faintly, fists flying up in the air, and although she knows better than to believe he understands exactly what she’s telling him, she still convinces herself that he’s actually listening to her voice, responding to it in the only way he can — by moving his skinny legs and arms even if just the slightest bit. Unable to imagine a more perfect moment as her pale blue eyes flicker up to meet her husband’s emerald greens, Erin quietly inquires, “Do you think we should give him a bath? A real bath?” They’ve been holding off, clueless about all the when’s and how’s, terrified of accidentally hurting him, restoring to using baby wipes and damp washcloths. And although he naturally smells amazing, just like all babies do, Erin’s beginning to think that a bath could be both calming and comforting for him.