Org Failure

So my theory, such as it was, with setting the training class for 1200-1500 (rather than 1500-1800) was that I would grab lunch before hand. BUT I didn’t count on me actually hauling my ass into the outside to do exercise*, but which mean that because I didn’t get back until 9:30, and I spent 10 minutes faffing around warming down and drinking water… and then I spent another chunk of time trying to work out whether I was going to start baking bread before breakfast or after**, so I didn’t get breakfast until after 10.

Now, were I still back in Brizzle I’d go and grab a yummy but not too big lunch food from Hart’s***. But because I’m not, and I don’t yet know where to get a yummy but not to big lunch food (around here. I could in town, I think).

The only place I know near me that does a decent lunch is Bagel Brothers. They do a yummy bagel, but it’s not really small lunch before CPR training sized.

So today’s lunch shall be a banana, a plum, 3 crackers, a small piece of Welsh cheese, and a Lara bar.

Which is one way for me to lose the few kilos of weight I’d like to lose. But not really ideal.

I perhaps should have thought through the timing of my run a bit more.

* which I did, go me.
** neither, I cleaned the breadmaker and then discovered that we’re too low on yeast. But there were several vacillating moments of “I’m hungry” and “but the bread won’t be ready in time” and “I’m hungry” and then “it won’t be ready in time whatever I do” and “oh, shit, there’s no yeast”.
*** Mmmm. Pastie.

seananmcguire:

unicornempire:

valteuil:

eldritch-monstergirl:

yall have no idea how much i want my job title to be “federally paid lesbian farmer”

i want nothing more than for federally paid lesbian farmers to invade my town

Well if this is what my tax dollars are going to, I approve. 

This sounds like the beginning of a series of rom-coms, and I am down for it.

Do they need more tax money for this? I need this project to be fully funded…

batmanisagatewaydrug:

you know what’s really genuinely unsettling? the degree to which men fucking do not want to sympathize with/be interested in women.

male audiences will happily watch a dozen superhero shows, but then something like Agent Carter or Supergirl turn up and they’re panned from the first trailer and have to struggle for ratings. male audiences will watch countless installments of a franchise as long as it’s about men doing man things but the second a character like Rey or Furiosa or god forbid four entire female Ghostbusters steps up and takes a position of prominence it’s “pandering sjw bullshit”.

it’s not pandering. men just aggressively don’t want to have to be invested in a woman’s narrative and it’s really gross.

the-movemnt:

We need to talk about what’s happening on the @ireland twitter account

Each week a different person who lives in Ireland takes over the account. This week it’s Michelle Marie, a blogger and black plus-size model.

Within hours of taking over the account, Marie was beset by trolls mocking her weight and race.

First she brilliantly addressed the fat shaming:

Then she responded (as graciously as she could) to the racism:

Thankfully, many have spoken out in support of Michelle.

But the hate just kept coming and clearly it had taken its toll. Michelle wrote a heartbreaking yet powerful statement to all the haters.

follow @the-movemnt

inkskinned:

it’s not about that i know how to do laundry. it’s that when i was four i knew how to fold clothes; small hands working alongside my mother, while my older brother sat and played with his toys. it’s that i know what kind of detergent works but my father guesses. it’s that in my freshman year of college i had a line of boys who needed me to show them how to use the machine. it’s that the first door they knocked on belonged to me. it’s that they expected me to know.

it’s not that i know how to cook. it’s that the biggest christmas present i got was a little plastic kitchenette i never used except to climb on. it’s that my brother used it more, his hands ghosting over pink buttons and yellow dials. it’s that when my work needs cake for a birthday, they turn to me. i get it from costco. i don’t even like cooking. a boy burns popcorn in the dorm microwave and laughs. a week later, i do the same thing, and he snorts at me, “just crossed you off my wife list.” it’s that i had heard something like this so many times before that i laughed, too.

it’s not that i don’t love being feminine. it’s that i came home with bruises from trying to be a trick rider on my bike and heard the word “tomboy,” felt my little mouth say, “but i’m not a boy, i’m a girl”. it’s that they laughed. it’s that until i was sitting in my pretty dress and smiling with a big pretty smile and blinking my big pretty eyes, i wasn’t given back the title “girl”. it’s that until i wore makeup and styled my hair i was bullied; it’s that when i don’t wear makeup i’m a slob, that my mental health diagnosis hangs on the hook of being dressed up. it’s that my therapist sees me returning to bright red lipstick and tells me i am looking happier and i have to explain that i am more sad than i have ever been. it’s that i dress myself in as many layers as i can every time i ride a train because it’s better to be laughed at than harassed. 

it’s not that i know how to clean, it’s that my brother’s chores were outside where i wanted to be, and mine were inside. it’s that i would have weeded the garden better than he did if they had just let me. it’s that i am put in charge of fixing other’s messes, expected to comply without complaint.

it’s not that i can’t open the jar. it’s that you ask my brother first every time. it’s that i am pushed into docile positions, trained to believe that my body when it’s strong and healthy is ugly, trained into being less, weaker. it’s that the jar is also science, is also engineering, is also every job, every opportunity. it’s that you laugh faster when he tells a joke, that you take him seriously but wave off me, that when he raises his voice he’s assertive but when i do i’m hysterical. the jar is getting into a car with a stranger as a driver and wondering if this is our last ride. the jar is knowing that if something happens to us, it’s our fault. 

it’s that i’m weak and i don’t know if it’s because i just am or i was trained to be. it’s that we need to sit pretty with our pretty smiles and our pretty words trapped pretty and silent in our throats, our hands restless but pretty when idle, our bodies vessels for nothing but a future white dress. it’s that we are taught someone else needs to open the jar for us.

here’s the secret: run metal lids under hot water, they’ll expand faster than the glass they’re around. here’s the secret: when you keep us under hot water, we do more than boil. we expand over our edges. and we learn how to open our mouths, our claws, our screams hanging in kites over cities. just give me a chance. give me a chance when i am four when i am seven when i am twenty-three. i promise i can be amazing. give me the jar. i’ll show you something.