Wonder Woman wearing an evening gown over her suit of armor while arriving uninvited to a fancy dinner party with an entire sword strapped to her back ready to kill a man is by far the Biggest Mood of 2017
Before we shout “no more man movies!” after seeing Wonder Woman, don’t forget men of color don’t have a lot of representation either. So supporting Aquaman, Black Pather, Cyborg, and Miles Morales movies does not make you less feminist.
White feminism always forget about men of color and even women of color.
We should shout “BETTER MAN MOVIES” instead. Men with feelings, men who are sensitive, men who are gay, of color, multinational, multilingual. More movies about complex men and complex women.
And Man Movies with better women in them, especially WoC. I am going to go see Black Panther about 973 times in the first week because Lupita Nyong'o, Danai Gurira, Angela Basset, Florence Kasumba, Letitia Wright and like a dozen other glorious black actresses are getting all my feminist dollars.
You see and hear this quite a bit. I overheard a kid (probably late HS-early college) arguing with his parents about how Trump is being treated unfairly. And that because he is new we should cut him some slack. Fuck no. FUCK NO. That’s not how that works. This isn’t some entry level position, this is the fucking presidency. You don’t get slack. You are stepping into the highest position in the country.
He’s my president? Sure as fuck he is which is why I am extra critical of him. I was critical of Obama, and Bush, and not so much Clinton because I was a kid. The fact that he is our president means he should be under extra scrutiny. And not the “he saluted a marine while holding a cup of coffee, literally wants to murder the armed forces” type of critical. Not the nudge Melania gave Trump to put his hand over his heart critical, that was funny and kind of endearing. Not the covfefe critical but his constant lying and hypocrisy critical. His constant attacks on the environment, education, and anyone that isn’t rich critical.
I can be critical of the president of Mongolia if I want, but it doesn’t serve any purpose. He/she isn’t my president. Trump is and his actions affect me. His incompetence affects me.
Iran says its ballistic missile strike targeting the Islamic State group in Syria was not only a response to deadly attacks in Tehran, but a powerful message to archrival Saudi Arabia and the United States, one that could add to already soaring regional tensions...
It also raises questions about how U.S. President Donald Trump's administration, which had previously put Iran "on notice" for its ballistic missile tests, will respond.
Understandably, the Iranians were upset with Trump. His statement infers that Iran supports the group that attacked Tehran (ISIS). It's just a continuation of his claims that Iran supports the terrorists that are attacking Western nations. None of that is true.
Iran does offer support to a couple of groups defined as terrorists -- the Houthi in Yemen and Hezbollah in Lebanon (and Palestine). Those are shiite muslim groups, and Iran is a shiite muslim state. But those are not the groups that attacked Iran, and they are not the groups responsible for attacks in Europe and the United States.
The groups mainly responsible for attacking Europe and the United States are sunni muslim groups -- ISIS and al-Queda. They get no support from Iran. Their support comes mainly from a country that Trump calls a "friend" -- Saudi Arabia...
Trump seems to want to lump all islamic fundamentalists into a single group of terrorists that hate the West. That is far too simple. It shows he is either lying and misleading Americans, or he doesn't understand the truth -- that the trouble in the Middle East is basically a religious civil war being fought between shiite and sunni muslims. He seems to have sided with the sunnis without understanding that they are where ISIS and al-Queda have originated. He also seems not to understand that ISIS was created when an American president (Bush) overthrew the secular government in Iraq and installed a shiite muslim government in its place (which caused sunnis to rebel against that government and the shiite government in Syria by creating ISIS).
Blaming Iran for terrorism in the West is ignoring the reality of what is happening. It would make more sense to blame Saudi Arabia. But Trump doesn't want to do that, because they have too much oil that we want and have plenty of money to spend on U.S. weapons. In effect, Trump has taken the side of the sunnis in the religious civil war -- the same side that is attacking the Western nations.
I'm going to close comments for this post; I just don't have time to moderate/curate them. Move on.
So PETA has recently posted an article about helping turtles across the road. While this sounds great, the article is loaded with nasty images of turtles who have been crushed by cars. The images are close-up, gory, and overall terrible to look at. So, for those of you out there who don’t want to see that, I’m making a post with happy pictures instead:
So turtles are amazing. I mean, look at that face
And often times during the warm months you will see turtles on the roadway just trying to get where they’re going. Unlike this little guy who’s already found the perfect spot
If you see a turtle in the road. The best thing to do is put on your hazard lights and safely pull over. watch for other cars as you examine the situation. Most turtles you come across aren’t super aggressive, so if you go to pick them up, the only thing they’ll do is this
if the turtle isn’t a snapping turtle or other aggressive turtle, simply pick it up like a hamburger to reduce the risk of injuring it, and take it to the side of the road that it’s trying to get to.
If it is a snapping turtle like this guy
or another kind of more agressive turtle, keep your distance. try to find a stick or something else you can goad it into focusing on. If you’re lucky, it will keep trying to attack the stick and you can “kite” it across the road. If not, call animal control and wait until they arrive. They’re trained to handle the situation.
In either case DO NOT take and wild turtles or tortoises home. I realize that they are incredible adorable
but you can seriously disrupt their environment and the overall population by keeping wild animals as pets. If you are looking for a pet reptile, it’s best to adopt from a shelter, or if you can’t find one, find a breeder that raises their reptiles ethically.
In addition, do not take them to a different area either, even if it’s a nearby lake in town. You could be taking it too far away from it’s home, lessening it’s chance of survival. Only take it to where it was already going.
Thank you all for reading, please share to help spread the word. Images I posted are not mine, with the exception of the sulcata tortoise hiding in the grass (That’s my shy boy).
IMPORTANT PSA (also adorable shell photos hee please give your boy some head skritches from us)
A reminder: never ever ever pick up a turtle by its tail. When it comes to snapping turtles, it’s a tempting option, but you risk permanently damaging their spines (which are attached to their tails directly). And always remember to help the turtle across the road in the direction it was headed.
My favorite method is using the back of its shell as “handles,” which you’ll see in the video, and I’m doing here:
Granted, this is difficult if the turtle is extremely muddy! You’ll see plenty of options in the video for helping these guys across the road!
Also remember that even non-snappers have sharp claws they will use to try to “dig” away from you, so be prepared before you pick them up so you don’t get startled and drop them!
Finally, it’s not only bad for the environment to take a turtle home, but in most places (like Ohio), it is Very illegal to collect eastern box turtles! They’re in the wild for a reason; the ecosystem needs them! SO leave them alone to do their jobs.
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.
I once tried to explain depression to someone as like if one day you gradually started to lose both your sense of taste and your ability to feel full. And you don’t know why, but now everything you eat tastes like mashed potatoes and nothing you eat is satisfying. You keep eating because you must eat to live, but the effort that it takes to prepare food is taxing and there is no pay off. You just know it will taste like mashed potatoes. You just know you will still be hungry. So you stop bothering with seasonings. Then you stop bothering to use ingredients you used to like. Then you start to wonder what the point of eating is because there is no payoff. You still feel hungry and you’re sick of the taste and you don’t know if you will ever enjoy food again and you don’t know why this is happening.
If someone comes up to you in this scenario and says, “Well have you tried spicing your food? Using different ingredients? Eating foods you used to love?” It isn’t necessarily helpful because the reason you stopped doing all that in the first place is that everything…tasted…like mashed…potatoes.
Derrick Zuk and his friends were hiking through a canyon in Lake Powell between Utah and Arizona when they saw something unusual: a young owl swimming in the water. The feathers of these birds are not water-proof at all, and owls are not known for swimming, but this little fellow was simply fighting for its life…
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If owls get to swim, it’s not because of choice – actually, these birds have no means of defence once they’re in the water. Also, they cannot ascend from the water and need to find a piece of land to dry their feathers first. Therefore, if they don’t manage to find somewhere to land quickly, a swim in the water can be fatal.
Geoff LeBaron from the National Audubon Society told National Geographic that the birdie we see in the video is most likely a young great horned owl that just began to explore the world beyond its nest . “I suspect it actually fell out of the nest,” said LeBaron. “Great horned [owls] do nest on ledges on cliffs…”
“This bird is young enough that the parents were probably still caring for it, so hopefully once the folks go by, the bird dried off and its parents found it,” LeBaron offered. We hope all turned out well for this adorable creature.
Like men are able to get away with never expressing of requesting help with their feelings because women are trained from a very young age to observe men, watch for signs of emotional need and environmental stressors and deal with them without being asked. It’s why women worry constantly about emasculating the men in their lives but men never worry about “efeminating” the women in their lives.
Men are “stoic” only because they don’t have to communicate in order to get their emotional needs met.
i….
…….have never read something that explains my family dynamic so well
say it with me: Carrie Fisher is a hero to so many in part because of her strength and grace throughout her lifelong struggle with mental illness and addiction, not despite it.
Stay off the damn sidewalk unless you want my cane in your spokes.
Out on the street where you live, it’s finally summer. Maybe this means that the world outside your door is as hot as the surface of the sun or the trees have conspired to drown you in allergens, but regardless, winter has finally gone and died and guess what; it’s time to ride your bicycle.
Just wanted to share this coming out story from a guy I saw on First Dates. He came out to his dad when he was 20, and then his mum when he was 21, after trying very hard to hide that part of himself and never really discussing anything like that in their household. Hearing his mother’s response after he explained all that was really gratifying. To all Muslim LGBT+ people, As-Salaam-Alaikum <3
I’ve been thinking a lot about compassion in Judaism, and being kind. In that light, I would like everyone to know that my current favorite Jewish supernatural headcanon is that, instead of driving vampires away with crosses or stakes through the heart, we say the Mourner’s Kaddish for them. I mean, that’s just so adorable. You see this threatening undead creature, and instead of yelling murder, you feel bad for them, and you mourn for them. Imagine being a vampire at the receiving end of that, having been chased away for years and years and told you’re a monster when you come across someone who sees you and your existence and accepts that you’re in a pretty bad place and offers help in the best way they can. I’m actually tearing up about this a little. If someone adds to this post I’ll love them forever.
It doesn’t work for zombies.
This is one of the hardest things she learns, in the business. Saying the Mourner’s Kaddish will slow a vampire, to stare at you with wide shocked eyes (and once, memorably, to weep blood-tinged tears), unable or unwilling to lift a hand against you. It will calm a dybbuk, enough to make it stop whatever destruction it’s begun, and almost always enough to start a conversation about why it clings so desperately to the world of the living, what it’s left undone, how it can be freed to move on. You have died, the Kaddish says, and we mourn you as we would mourn our own dead, because someone must.
But there is no soul and no mind left in a zombie, no vestige of the self it once was, nothing left for the Kaddish to speak to.
She says it anyway, with every head-shot, with every flung grenade.
Not because she still hopes one might hear her, but because they are dead, and the dead should be mourned.
…this is gorgeous.
I would buy the hell out of this book.
It almost works on ghosts. The freezing, electric wind of their presence slows to a soft chill like the last breath of winter. The ectoplasmic glow flickers, dims, and steadies. They seem to be listening.
But they do not leave. Jewish or not, and whether or not they knew Aramaic, they seem to sense the Kaddish’s meaning: Blessed is He beyond blessing and song, beyond praise and consolation that is uttered in the world.
In their half-world, half forever lost and half still ours, the ghostly voices lift. No longer do they moan and scream. They sing: May there be peace. Their words linger when the living song has ended, when the mortal must stop for breath. The dead hold their notes. The song rings on.
Perhaps they will sing until there is peace upon us in truth.
I'm not even gonna lie. I'd be one of the first with the torches and pitchforks back in ye olde timey days if some fool started walking about trying to tell me "blue" and "purple" were two diffent things. I'm not actually color blind, my brain is just super bad at fine distinctions. (sensory-processing/autism thing)
