tired-pinetree

[tired-pinetree]

[tired-pinetree]

tbh that's not even that bad of a price for wood furniture (if it's good furniture)

But also the funniest shit is the normal ass objects being sold for hundreds or thousands of dollars

the planet hollywood auction has some WILD stuff I can't even pick my fav objects because there's so much cool and weird shit there's literally over 1000 things

#Home alone #Planet hollywood

[tired-pinetree]

I can't pick my favorite batman robot penguin

the planet hollywood auction has some WILD stuff I can't even pick my fav objects because there's so much cool and weird shit there's literally over 1000 things

#Batman #Dc penguin #Planet hollywood

[tired-pinetree]

Also Featuring:

Expensive and Famous Broken Wood

Acupuncture

Actual nightmare fuel

they also have the pink, black, and yellow power rangers, but not the red one (even tho I don't think the 1995 movie red power ranger is the one who murdered someone)

Literal (prop) Rocks

the OG gay vampire fit

LIFE SIZE BUFFALO

the planet hollywood auction has some WILD stuff I can't even pick my fav objects because there's so much cool and weird shit there's literally over 1000 things

[tired-pinetree]

FEATURING

Gay Zorro

Post apocalyptic (and/or kinky) "Luigi Mario"

uh oh (but legitimately cool prop)

cool bike

A reminder that all live action remakes of cartoon movies have always been shit (but at least they used to also be unhinged)

UH OH

the planet hollywood auction has some WILD stuff I can't even pick my fav objects because there's so much cool and weird shit there's literally over 1000 things

#Movie props #Planet hollywood #I'm not gonna tag all those movies lol

[tired-pinetree]

the planet hollywood auction has some WILD stuff I can't even pick my fav objects because there's so much cool and weird shit there's literally over 1000 things

#Planet hollywood #Movie props

[tired-pinetree]

someone walking on left side of the road opposite to traffic: 👍good! staying safe ✅ easy to see and avoid while driving 🚸✔

cyclist following traffic and biking on the right side of the road: ok! ✅ staying safe 🤝 and predictable 🚲 👍 following the rules of the road 😊✔

cyclist biking INTO ONCOMING TRAFFIC on the left side of the road, opposite of the flow of traffic: BAD 🙅‍♀️🙅‍♂️🚫 NO STOP 🚫⚠️🚳 Why Would You Do This you are going to get yourself KILLED ☠❌😨‼

#based on my real reaction #It's just not safe for anyone involved #ESPECIALLY since I was driving around a blind curve at the time like wtf #I dodged them but it forced me into the oncoming lane (in a blind curve) which could have ended badly if someone was coming #Could have been a car wreck that killed all 3 of us (2 cars and a biker) #If you dont understand why this is so dangerous I can explain why it's safe for walkers but not for bikers to do this #It's been on my mind for a few weeks now tbh

[tired-pinetree]

funnily enough as a (autistic) kid I was terrified of "we will rock you", like the "stomp stomp clap" part would show up in my nightmares lol

i love queen now but i think its very funny that my autistic ass at age 4 was afraid of the song 'another one bites the dust' like run out of the room terrified

#it didnt help that kids at my elementary school LOVED to do the stomp stomp clap thing all the time #I just wanted to get thru lunch or survive gym #and here is this overwhelming “threatening” sound #I didnt even realize that the song was the origin of it lol I thought it was just a stand alone scary sound #that song slaps tho #as does queen in general

[tired-pinetree]

When we had our first exchange student she was taken aback when we served potatoes with skin (specifically mashed potatoes). Turns out that potato peels (and some other root vegetables) are considered pig food in the rural part of Norway she's from. What plants we consider as "for humans" or "for livestock" can be heavily based on cultural norms

you know how which animals we think are for food is mostly cultural? Well, which plants we think are for food is mostly cultural too. But we don't talk about that one as much

#it's funny bc potatoes are such a big part of norwegian cuisine #I wonder how the whole “it's rabbit food!” sentiment plays into some of this thinking #it's one thing to not like a food for its taste or texture #but it's really interesting to see what's considered food (for humans) at all #I wonder how pickles fit into this #specifically watermelon pickles #bc to most people watermelon rinds are inedible and tossed aside but they are/can be food

[tired-pinetree]

taylor swift truly is the smarties candy of music to me: saccharine, artificial, everywhere, claims to have "different flavors" that all taste the same, inexplicably popular (a la smarties bracelets), ok in very very small quantities but bleh overall

#Also her voice sounds powdery to me idk #Taylor swift #My bro and sis like her and I'm like :/ whatever

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Every doctor and specialist I've seen for the last 3-4 years: Yeah man idk, there's nothing wrong with your bloodwork, so I guess it's just a mystery lol

Doctor I saw today: bro your tests and physical condition are so obviously this condition, why did it take so long for you to get referred to me?????

#Doctors #I FINALLY GOT DIAGNOSED #maybe my days of constant pain 24/7 are behind me

[tired-pinetree]

this is why the Salish people of the Pacific northwest literally created a dog breed for WOOL instead of trying to domesticate any goats/sheep

one of my favorite facts to show ppl is how fuckoff huge bison are compared to cattle

If you've ever wondered why the Americas don't have as many domesticated animals, this is why. Aurochs and wild boar were scary, but this thing is even scarier.

#Salish wool dog #fuckin love those funky fellows #American megafauna

[tired-pinetree]

Here’s a story about changelings: 

Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. 

She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage.

Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. 

“Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. 

Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin.

“I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.”

“I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.”

“Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.”

Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine.

“We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…”

“Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.”

Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has.

“Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.”

Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project.

She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still.

“Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once.

Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.”

Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.  

They all live happily ever after.

*

Here’s another story: 

Keep reading

#changeling #fae #fairytale #autism #as a fellow autistic who loves fairy tales and folklore I love this so much

[tired-pinetree]

for clarity

Milk Is An Oil (and until 2011 was regulated like petroleum for spill prevention/response)

milk is an oil

#i have spent the last 3 days at work downloading everything about oil spill laws into my brain #i know too much #this is all for a mozzarella factory too #The Milk Is Kinda A Big Deal

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milk is an oil

[tired-pinetree]

Caption:

[You heard of Sappho of Lesbos, now get ready for what one historian called the Sappho of Spain. Umayyad princess and poetry battle champion, Wallada bint al-Mustakfi. A woman who lived her life by absolutely no one's rules other than her own. Born around the turn of the second millennium CE in the Caliphate of Córdoba, her adolescence was full mostly of war and strife which resulted in her eventually inheriting large amounts of money and political influence.

She used this to establish a huge palace and literary salon where she regularly invited women of all classes, from noble to enslaved to be taught poetry and let's just say the romantic arts. She became the prototype for courtly refinement, or al-zard, in Andalusian women. And that included winning poetry competitions usually reserved just for men but she would walk right on the floor, often with her hair uncovered, and wipe the floor with them.

She famously had two of her own verses embroidered in gold along the lapel of one of her coats. The first one read "by God I am fit for greatness and will stride along with great pride". And the other read "I allow my lover to reach my cheek and allow a kiss to him who craves it". She was notorious not just for leaving her hair uncovered but for dressing very evocatively, more in the style of Baghdad compared to the more conservative Córdoban fashion at the time.

She had a lot of detractors for this but one of her big defenders was Imam Ibn Hazam al-Andalusi. Which means if you don't like her lifestyle you have to go through him first. Wallada had three primary lovers, one woman and two men. She is most notoriously remembered for her tempestuous love affair with one of the great poets of this era, Ibn Zaydun. When Ibn Zaydun saw Wallada owning her opponents with sick metered rhymes, he fell instantly in love.

The two soon started exchanging love poetry but unfortunately their affair was never meant to be, for they were from rival clans. Their falling out is the stuff of many a romanticization. Suffice to say, it was a combination of political machination and the fact that she was jealous of that he kept on sleeping with other men.

Wallada never married but she eventually moved in with Ibn Zaydun's greatest rival, Ibn Abdús, who then proceeded to confiscate all of Ibn Zaydun's wealth and properties and exile him. Leaving the poet to rite nothing but homesick, lovesick poetry for the rest of his days. And Wallada even outlived Ibn Abdús, who stayed by her side for the rest of his days, despite them never being married. She died March 26, 1091 the same day the Almoravids invaded Córdoba.

Epilogue, a surreal thing happened while I was making this post. A lot of the research came from Professor Sahar Amer, who I was planning on shouting out and then I saw her last name. And the cover of one of her books and it looked familiar. It turns out I was planning on highlighting the literal sister of Ghada Amer, the Arab artist I highlighted at the end of the previous post in this series. What did they feed these women growing up, super wheaties? Follow for more women in SWANA heritage month.]

#Hell yeah

[tired-pinetree]

harry potter fans talk a lot of shit about "death of the author" considering nobody's even TRIED to kill jk rowling

#harry potter #jk rowling #anti jk rowling #anti harry potter #look: do i know that murder is (usually) not the answer and can backfire and cause martyrs? yes #do i wish suffering and death upon bigoted leaders of hate groups? also yes