peeeeektures
Oh, also? There’s this:
http://www.flickr.com/photos/chickpea981/sets/72157629854624708/
Yup, honeymoon photos. I am so unbelievably glad we waited so long after the wedding to go on that trip. I would not have enjoyed it nearly as much as I did. Even though I came back with double pink eye from murkly lagoon water, a double ear infection, and bronchitis, it was still a phenomenal vacation. I win at life.
lame!
Dear Tumblr,
I really need an OBVIOUS comment/reply option on fellow tumblr accounts. I feel like a tool bag when my only options are “like” or “reblog”. I don’t want to reblog. I want to make a comment. I’m old and cranky. Fix it.
-Tootz
purpose?
I kind of forgot I had a tumblr account. I have always had multiple blogging accounts and multiple blogs, but they all seem to serve a certain purpose at a certain time. I don’t think any of them have survived the test of time because I go through something, I move on, and when it’s time I start a new blog. I’m sure it’s a pain in the ass for people who follow me (if there are any left) but I don’t care. It was and always will be about ME.
I’ve all but abandoned my regular every day blog because it is just flat out boring and I don’t feel the need to chronicle my life like I used to. My pregnancy (or lack thereof) blog is thriving because that’s what my life currently revolves around. My smut blog is there when I feel saucy but it’s hard to write about your sex life when you are currently going through a lull, living with your parents, and have zero privacy because there are no doors.
I still don’t know what the purpose of this tumblr is. I’ve written and deleted a ton a posts. It’s now a shell of randomness. Maybe that’s it purpose - to be totally random.
Or maybe this thing just exists so I can comment on other tumblrs once in a while.
I am so unbelievably happy that fall is around the corner that I would squirt rainbows out of my ears if I could.
Tiny Tea Leaves cardigan on Flickr.
Baby things are my favorite things to knit. It gives all the satisfaction of making a garment without making a big giant adult sweater that would take ten years and get boring pretty quickly. This pattern almost makes me dumb enough to think I’d knit the adult size. ALMOST.
I’m not a great knitter. (Note uneven sleeves and lack of buttons.) But I love it. If I challenged myself, I’m sure it would improve, but I’m lazy.
Also, pretty sure I’m becoming a yarn hoarder. I told my friend on Tuesday I wasn’t buying any more yarn til I used up some of my stash, and 24 hours later I was in a knitting store buying 26 skeins of yarn in their going out of business sale. (75% off, come the fuck on.) One day I’m going to have to share my space with a man (well, hopefully) and he’s going to have to live with all this knitting crap.
One of you needs to hurry up and have a baby so I can knit some more. Otherwise I’m going to have to make sweaters for my cat. And I’m pretty sure Todd would dump me if I did that.
Make it for ME! I’m working on that whole baby thing, but apparently it takes sperm, eggs, and MONEY to make it work for us. You can knit anything you want in any color for my offspring. Anything from Auntie Andria would be amazing. (HINT: If you knit a little Link outfit from Legend of Zelda, I’ll marry you.)
ironic hatred
So I saw this post on Regretsy (which has so many comments that it will lock your screen up) about this “hobo themed wedding” that made front page news for Etsy. And it pissed me right the fuck off. No, not Regretsy, I couldn’t agree more with what April had to say. No, not the wedding itself, although that is pretty atrocious and the fact that it’s a theme wedding pisses me off. But that still wasn’t it.
It was the twitter war and all the links I clicked after getting fired up that lead me to the couple claiming that they did a poor themed wedding “because we ARE poor!” *giggle* sentiment that fueled my hatred. Do you know WHY this angered me? Because that hobo themed wedding “because we’re poor!” cost $15,000.
Let me say that again. A poor themed wedding cost FIFTEEN THOUSAND DOLLARS. If that isn’t the definition of irony, I don’t know what is. Oh but then the anger brewed. Don’t you DARE say you’re poor if you can save up and shuck out fifteen thousand dollars on a fucking party. Don’t you dare tell me that when you wasted your money to look poor for ONE fucking day of your life.
They paid that much money to make themselves look like dirty hillbillies in “vintage” clothing. And what’s up the bandana on dude’s forehead? That’s hobo chic? Then again, he writes shit like this calling it a comic based on a Sumerian tale (of incest?) so am I that surprised? Not even remotely.
I digress.
Becoming poor by trying to look poor. Brilliant. And we wonder why our economy is in the toilet. Perhaps it’s because this mentality exists across the nation. Ya think? MAYBE? Gee, I fucking wonder.
I’m struggling to fund my own wedding and I am looking at a five thousand dollar budget. Guess what? My wedding is going to be at a beautiful location with just the people I feel closest to and it will cost a third of theirs, will not be on credit cards or through loans, and will ultimately be about our marriage, not a party. That five thousand includes the reception we’ll be having a year later with everyone else included and a vow renewal so they can witness it too.
The absolute definition of irony/everything wrong with American spending habits = spending $15,000 on a hobo themed wedding and then claiming you did it because you’re poor. Fuck you and fuck your wedding.
priorities
I’ll be a married woman in 3.5 months.
Do you have any idea how exhausting it is to plan a tiny marriage ceremony with only 25 people?
The only thing getting me through this hell is thinking about the day after when it’s just us and our pets and no one else. And the honeymoon. Forget being Mr. and Mrs., it’s that honeymoon giving me the strength to do this.
Seriously. It really is exhausting and the honeymoon really is my motivation.
Did you know it’s only 25 people?
Did you know those 25 people consist of 2 Maids of Honor (one of them bringing her BF), 1 Best Man (and his wife), 1 minister, 1 photographer, The Bride (yours truly), The Groom (mine truly), and the remaining 16 people being parents and siblings? No, they don’t get to bring guests. This is tiny and intimate.
Did you know that this is JUST our vows and marriage ceremony with dinner afterwards and it’s still going to cost about $2500? That’s going as cheap as possible on everything without sacrificing quality. (Okay so there’s a splurge on the ceremony location, but it’s my favorite place on earth going back to my childhood.)
But this is the compromise to make both of us happy. I get my tiny wedding this year and he gets his big party next year. Getting it over with now makes me happy, having a large celebration later makes him happy.
The ULTIMATE ultimate compromise? Our honeymoon will be in the middle of the two weddings. And I get to plan it!
Marco Island in 7 months? FUCK YES! Priorities, people.
you know what I hate about tumblr?
Seeing all these epic, amazing photos posted every and now one posting a fucking link or tidbit of information as the where the hell it came from! If I want to buy something, I should be able to find it, no?
delusional
The loss of any life is tragic and sad. No family ever wants to go through that. For his friends and family, I’m sorry for your loss.
That being said, Ryan Dunn is NOT a hero. Ryan Dunn is a foolish man who made a series of bad decisions one night that not only killed him, but lead to the death of his friend. Let me say this again: He KILLED two people with those decisions. It was not accidental that he was drunk. It was not accidental that he drove like a demon. Those were decisions he made! No one forced that alcohol into his body and no one forced him to drive home. Amazingly, he only killed himself and his friend and did not kill anyone else.
Had he crashed his Porsche into a car with children, would the masses still call him a hero? What if it he’d hit a bus full of people and caused that bus to go off the road? What if more than just the passengers of that car had died? What is heroic about wrecking your car due to drinking more then DOUBLE the legal limit and driving more than double the speed limit? Did no one else see the strip of sheet metal that remained of his car? An entire vehicle was reduced to shreds of metal!
And to be a hero, don’t you have to do things that are heroic? How was his life prior to this accident even remotely admirable, let alone heroic? Exactly what did he do to earn that title? By shoving a toy car up his ass for a TV show to prove that human beings will do anything for money? There’s a legacy for you. Oh wait, he made people laugh. Big fucking deal!
Ryan Dunn is NOT a hero. He is the poster child for sobriety and not drinking and driving. Stupid decisions that killed two people should serve as nothing more than a warning and a cautionary tale.
STOP WORSHIPING THIS IDIOTIC BEHAVIOR!
Re-post of this: http://www.hanneblank.com/blog/2011/06/23/real-women/
Excuse me while I throw this down, I’m old and cranky and tired of hearing the idiocy repeated by people who ought to know better.
Real women do not have curves. Real women do not look like just one thing.
Real women have curves, and not. They are tall, and not. They are brown-skinned, and olive-skinned, and not. They have small breasts, and big ones, and no breasts whatsoever.Real women start their lives as baby girls. And as baby boys. And as babies of indeterminate biological sex whose bodies terrify their doctors and families into making all kinds of very sudden decisions.
Real women have big hands and small hands and long elegant fingers and short stubby fingers and manicures and broken nails with dirt under them.
Real women have armpit hair and leg hair and pubic hair and facial hair and chest hair and sexy moustaches and full, luxuriant beards. Real women have none of these things, spontaneously or as the result of intentional change. Real women are bald as eggs, by chance and by choice and by chemo. Real women have hair so long they can sit on it. Real women wear wigs and weaves and extensions and kufi and do-rags and hairnets and hijab and headscarves and hats and yarmulkes and textured rubber swim caps with the plastic flowers on the sides.
Real women wear high heels and skirts. Or not.
Real women are feminine and smell good and they are masculine and smell good and they are androgynous and smell good, except when they don’t smell so good, but that can be changed if desired because real women change stuff when they want to.
Real women have ovaries. Unless they don’t, and sometimes they don’t because they were born that way and sometimes they don’t because they had to have their ovaries removed. Real women have uteruses, unless they don’t, see above. Real women have vaginas and clitorises and XX sex chromosomes and high estrogen levels, they ovulate and menstruate and can get pregnant and have babies. Except sometimes not, for a rather spectacular array of reasons both spontaneous and induced.
Real women are fat. And thin. And both, and neither, and otherwise. Doesn’t make them any less real.
There is a phrase I wish I could engrave upon the hearts of every single person, everywhere in the world, and it is this sentence which comes from the genius lips of the grand and eloquent Mr. Glenn Marla:
There is no wrong way to have a body.
I’m going to say it again because it’s important: There is no wrong way to have a body.
And if your moral compass points in any way, shape, or form to equality, you need to get this through your thick skull and stop with the “real women are like such-and-so” crap.
You are not the authority on what “real” human beings are, and who qualifies as “real” and on what basis. All human beings are real.
Yes, I know you’re tired of feeling disenfranchised. It is a tiresome and loathsome thing to be and to feel. But the tit-for-tat disenfranchisement of others is not going to solve that problem. Solidarity has to start somewhere and it might as well be with you and me.
