I knew she had a degree but didn’t know she was the most educated First Lady.
this needs to be on everyone’s dash…
Michelle was actually Baracks political advisor that’s how they met, I personally believe she should’ve been president herself
Michelle Obama 2020
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Proud to be on the red carpet with this wonderful man. #poeparty
Whoa.
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Just a lil @shipwreckedcomedy selfie 😊 #poeparty #bufferfestival
Goofballs.
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DANCING GUY!!
by Talbot (4yrs old)I ran some animation workshops with kids at the State Library earlier this month. When I showed the results to my kids, Talbot wanted to have a go.
Am I just an over proud parent or is this THE MOST AMAZING THING YOU’VE EVER SEEN?!!
Okay, I actually do animation workshops with kids for a living…and yes. yes, this is the most amazing thing I have ever seen. <3
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ok, well, but, no, because…..“mendesperry??” says nothing about the fact that they did not create?? this masterful juxtaposition??? like, “fame,” come on, there is no fame, not for the right person (me), not for the hero of this story (me), only for Villainous Mendesperry, a THIEF with 120 times the Twitter followers i have, A COMMON THIEF!!!!!
reddit? oh good, another – another fuckin, liar, making this successful niche joke, with MY screenshot and someone else’s stock photos that I GOOGLED? come on. i, i am, i’m the one who, i found the funny pictures and made them be next to each other, me, an artist!!!!
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Today I went to visit the magic bra ladies.
The magic bra ladies live in a small shop hung with underwear and swimsuits. It is not fancy looking. There are a lot of cardboard boxes. The shop is called Madame Leiberg’s. I sometimes wonder about that. Who was Madame Leiberg? I know my mum got her first bra there, and that it’s where my great-grandmother used to buy her long-line bras and reinforced pantygirdles. It must have been around since at least the 1960s. I can’t imagine the redoubtable figure that was Great-Gran buying her all-important slightly creaky-sounding undergarments anywhere new, so it had probably been there a while before she condescended to grace it with her patronage. 1950s? Earlier? It’s in the middle of the most Jewish suburb of London, and Leiberg sounds German. Maybe the original Madame Leiberg was part of the wave of German Jewish immigrants in the 1930s. Or maybe she never existed at all, who knows.
It’s the most incredible shop.
I walk in. I do not make the mistake of trying to browse. You don’t browse in this place. “What are you looking for?” asks the nearest magic bra lady. She is the junior shop assistant, I think, although I’m pretty sure she’s also the one who fitted me for my first bra a decade and a half ago. She looks like she’s been there since the dawn of time. The senior bra lady looks like she’s been there since before the dawn of time. There is decades of combined underwear experience in this room.
“Er,” I say. This is already going better than the second-last time I was here, when the senior bra lady didn’t even ask the question, just raised an eyebrow and said, “Ah. You’ll want something that fits.”
“Two bras?” I say. “Uh, a dark one and a light one?” Two bras here is an extravagance. I can just about afford it. It’ll pay itself off in cost-per-wear, I tell myself.
I am whisked into a fitting room and ordered to take my top off. I don’t feel remotely shy about it. I never do here. They aren’t interested in what my body looks like. They just want to give me the perfect bra.
That’s why you don’t browse, you see. You know nothing about the perfect bra. They do. They don’t mess around with measurements. I have never seen a tape measure in this shop. They take a look at you and then go and fetch you the exact bra you need from a cardboard box known only to them. It truly is magical.
My magic bra lady examines the bra I’m currently wearing. She checks the label. “That can’t be right,” she says. My bra is a 32C nude t-shirt bra, purchased here two years ago. “Hmm,” says the assistant. She goes and gets me a bra the same size and tries it on me. “Just what I thought,” she says, whisking it off before I have a chance to see what it looks like.
“Take that,” she says, gesturing to the bra I came in with, “and throw it away. Burn it. Never wear it again.”
“Okay,” I say meekly.
“Look, try this.” She puts a 34D bra in the same style on me. I can feel the difference at once. There’s no wire digging into me. The straps fit. “That’s so much bett-” I begin.
“No,” she says. She takes it off me. She puts another one on me. “Here.”
34E. Wow, really? I’m thinking. I knew I’d gained weight but I didn’t realise it was that much. “Perfect,” says my bra lady with satisfaction. “The other one was gapping over the breastbone.”
I look at myself in the mirror. I’ve been unsatisfied with my body lately, if I’m honest. I didn’t expect to stay the same weight forever that I was when I was a teenager, I tell myself. I’m okay being a stone or two heavier; it’s definitely better than the skeletal look I had in the pits of my last major depressive episode when I just stopped eating. Be body positive, right? I look fine. I feel fine. I’m happy. I like how I look naked. I just avoid glancing towards the mirror when I’m getting dressed. Everything seems to sag and roll alarmingly when I try to put clothes on it.
The woman in the mirror looks great. I love the bra. I love her. Nothing is sagging or rolling. If it was it wouldn’t matter, because the boobs are fantastic.
“What else did you want?” asks my bra lady, with a quiet touch of smugness. She knows she’s good.
“Something darker?” I say. “Uh, I have quite a lot of tops with low necklines -”
“Something pretty,” says the bra lady firmly.
She disappears into the midst of the cardboard boxes. When she reappears she is holding three black bras. One has a deep blue-green peacock design, subtle; one is lace; one has an adorable cherry bow. They’re all gorgeous. You can’t buy all of them, I tell myself firmly. I already know I’m going to go for at least two.
She puts them on me one after the other. Square neckline. Scoop. Deep v. The peacock one is possibly the most gorgeous thing I have ever put on my body. The cherry bow is adorable. The black lace only loses out by comparison. My magic bra lady looks satisfied. She’s no fool: she’s brought out two really expensive ones and the black lace one for a cheap option. I resign myself to the inevitable. I am going to spend a lot of money here. Cost-per-wear, I tell myself. Also apparently I have to throw out and possibly burn all my current bras, because it’s very clear from these that I’ve been wearing completely the wrong size.
Oh well. In for a penny, in for a pound. “Are there knickers with these?” I ask.
“We’d have to order in from Germany for that one,” she says, gesturing to the peacock bra.
I walk away with three new bras: nude t-shirt bra, cherry bow v-neck, and the peacock one. I also have a matching pair of knickers for the cherry bow one and the peacock knickers on order. I wince at the bill. Two hundred quid, wow, that is a substantial chunk of my budget for the next few months. It’s worth it. I go two years at a time between bra shops so that I can afford to come here when I need new underwear.
My magic bra lady won’t let me wear my old bra home. “You can throw it in the bin here if you like,” she offers. I protest. It has served me well. It deserves a honourable burial in my own personal bin.
I walk home wearing a new bra. It’s comfortable. It fits perfectly. It makes me feel happy about how I look. And I have never been so supported.
Anyway, they are so old-fashioned they barely have a website, but if you are ever in north London and find yourself in need of slightly-pricey-but-genuinely-perfect underwear placed on you by experts in an atmosphere of total soothing competence, you should definitely visit.
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So finally, I had an idea for the transmedia prompt: Confession. I hope you feel the Wellenore-vibe in this one… pencil on paper.
After H.G.’s death I couldn’t help but feel sad for Lenore who had once again lost someone she liked (loved?)… And for H.G., I didn’t really know how to phrase this confession best. However, I then remembered this line from Hamilton when Angelica realizes that Alexander changed his form of address in the letter to her from “My dearest Angelica” to “My dearest, Angelica” and found it too fitting in context with H.G.’s “My dear Lenore”. So yeah, here you go… Confessions.P.S.: I just love this show and recommend it to pretty much anyone I talk to, at the moment. So, if you don’t know what this is about… check it out. And sorry for the spoilers.
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Watch: This awesome restaurant in Staten Island had the idea to employ grandmothers from all over the world to make its food
There’s nothing better than your grandma’s cooking…except maybe a bunch of grandmas’ cooking all in one restaurant. That’s exactly what Enoteca Maria in Staten Island, New York is offering.
Gifs: Gothamist
Holy Shit! Different dishes cooked by Nana’s from around the World? I would eat here every, damn, DAY.
My grandmother went to dinner here, and they offered her a job.
This makes me so happy to know it exists that I’m seriously tearing up.
Nana power!
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“I’m very angry. I’m angry that Bobby Newport would hold this town hostage and threaten to leave if you don’t give him what he wants. It’s despicable. Corporations are not allowed to dictate what a city needs. That power belongs to the people. Bobby Newport and his daddy would like you to think it belongs to them. I love this town. And when you love something, you don’t threaten it, you don’t punish it. You fight for it. You take care of it. You put it first. As your City Councilor, I will make sure that no one takes advantage of Pawnee. If I seem too passionate, it’s because I care. And if I come on too strong, it’s because I feel strongly. And if I push too hard, it’s because things aren’t moving fast enough. This is my home, you are my family, and I promise you, I’m not going anywhere.”
–
Leslie Knope
(via poehlaris)
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Here is a photoset of the Ornate Hawk Eagle (Spizaetus ornatus), the light of the world and an inspiration to us all.
Does this bird even know how magnificent it is? The third photo tells me he does…
Slay
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Annabelle watched in horror as the constables fell to the floor. A wineglass shattered. Her lip quivered as her self control dwindled. She was not, as she knew many of the famous authors in her company believed her to be, a frail little woman. She had remained strong, brave, even level-headed throughout the murders of not only her suitor but also several other people that evening. Never mind that Hemingway and Edgar had been quibbling over her all night. She had put her hope in Ms. Christie, then in Krishanti, and finally in the constables (as bumbling as they were). And all of those hopes were shattered before her. Desperate, she buried her face in Edgar’s sleeve as she sobbed. He hesitated, then touched her bare shoulder to comfort her. His hands were a little clammy, but his touch was gentle.
She barely heard Hemingway declare that yet another set of bodies had to be moved. As Edgar stopped stroking her arm and moved to help Ernest, she heard Ms. Brontë call her a cupcake. Annabelle choked back her sobs and glared; Brontë had lost nothing that evening, except a little of her dignity when the constables first arrived. Who did she think she was? All evening she had been nothing but stuck-up and accusatory. But Annabelle was too upset and not always good with words like these authors, so she refrained from expressing her indignation. Besides, she didn’t want to be left alone either. She feared for Edgar, and she did not entirely trust Brontë either. And even though she wanted to believe Lenore was benevolent (she was friends with Edgar, after all), being in the company of a spirit still made her feel a bit uneasy.
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