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I honestly always find the term ‘spinster’ as referring to an elderly, never-married woman as funny because you know what?

Wool was a huge industry in Europe in the middle ages. It was hugely in demand, particularly broadcloth, and was a valuable trade good. A great deal of wool was owned by monasteries and landed gentry who owned the land. 

And, well, the only way to spin wool into yarn to make broadcloth was by hand. 

This was viewed as a feminine occupation, and below the dignity of the monks and male gentry that largely ran the trade. 

So what did they do?

They hired women to spin it. And, turns out, this was a stable job that paid very well. Well enough that it was one of the few viable economic options considered ‘respectable’ outside of marriage for a woman. A spinster could earn quite a tidy salary for her art, and maintain full control over her own money, no husband required. 

So, naturally, women who had little interest in marriage or men? Grabbed this opportunity with both hands and ran with it. Of course, most people didn’t get this, because All Women Want Is Husbands, Right?

So when people say ‘spinster’ as in ‘spinster aunt’, they are TRYING to conjure up an image of a little old lady who is lonely and bitter. 

But what I HEAR are the smiles and laughter of a million women as they earned their own money in their own homes and controlled their own fortunes and lived life on their own terms, and damn what society expected of them. 

[peapodriot]

I’ve seen a lot of wonderful analyses on how Aziraphale played up the part of Crowley, but I haven’t seen much on Crowley’s portrayal of Aziraphale. This is the angel he’s been in love with for millennia, the angel he’s watched and guarded and adored since before written history began, and finally in the very last episode we get to see what Aziraphale looks like through his eyes. 

Standing before the one thing in the universe that could actually destroy him, Crowley’s Aziraphale is resolute, unflinching, gracious to the very end. He talks about the greater good and how angels are meant to be the champions of that greater good even when it goes against how the Great Plan was written. He stands up and speaks his truth even in the face of total opposition. And when the Archangel Gabriel, the person Aziraphale has always tried to emulate, tried to impress, tells him in no uncertain terms that this is what heaven does to the people who fight for the right thing, Aziraphale straightens his shoulders and lifts his chin and says, “It’s been lovely knowing you all. May we meet on a better occasion.” And then he steps into the flames. 

We’ve seen other sides of Aziraphale. We’ve seen him be selfish, gluttonous, desperate, closed minded, we’ve seen him be just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing, but when Crowley is asked to take the part of Aziraphale this is who he chooses. This is who he really believes Aziraphale is deep down: kind, chivalrous, compassionate, brave, the sort of angel that heaven ought to be peopled with. The sort of angel who smiles even though he’s broken. The sort of angel who doesn’t mind dying as long as he did the right thing. 

[peapodriot]

When news outlets report on Trump’s many promises, they need to give the context. Sam Bee gives a good example.👆

[peapodriot]

You could say we're pissed.

SEPTEMBER 28, 2018

By Katie Anthony

This post is to help the people who aren’t feeling the feelings.

Hey,

The last few days have probably been pretty trippy for you, huh?

Everyone around you looks like they got the flu at a funeral.

The women in your life have been meaningfully silent, glued to their monitors, sequestered with their earbuds. Someone cried. Someone called in sick. She keeps grinding her teeth. Something’s going around.

Maybe it doesn’t make sense to you, why the women are taking this so hard. I mean, you get why we’d be pissed, but this seems excessive.

Allow me to explain.

Yeah, you could say we’re pissed.

Although “pissed” feels a little far over on the “peeved” side of the rage spectrum to be fully accurate. I’d say many of us are enraged? Like, biblically? In a way that feels ancient and eternal, possibly even like a supernatural portal to infinite bubbling righteous fury?

We are incandescent. We are roaring. We feel dangerous. It’s a rush and a panic to recognize that we feel an urge for physical violence and destruction. We wish a motherfucker would. We want to hurt people. Having been hurt ourselves, this feeling scares us even as it comforts us, the way you might feel if you put a loaded gun in the bedside drawer.

I’ll confess, I’ve been luxuriating in wildly satisfying fantasies of violence against these men.

I want Lindsey Graham to do the Game of Thrones Naked Shame Walk for 40 days and 40 nights through densely populated areas, while he recites his unhinged monologue from the hearing on loop. I want him to know how it feels to be the smallest voice in a crowd that fucking hates you and will scream you into silence, or turn their backs on you as if you could not, even in your spectacular shame, make any impact whatsoever on their day.

I want to pepper spray Chuck Grassley right in the asshole. Yeah, I said it. I have a can of bear spray that I want to shove straight up his pooper. I want him to be embarrassed about the nature of his pain.

I want to punch Orrin Hatch in the throat every time he tries to talk. I want him to feel what it’s like to stop yourself before you speak, to weigh if it’s going to be worth the pain.

I want to stuff Brett Kavanaugh into a medium-sized dog crate full of greasy, black Brooklyn train track rats that haven’t eaten in a week. I want him to feel a thousand tiny nibbles on his skin. I want him to panic. I will let him out when he is sorry for being one of those fucking rats.

I would never do any of those things, but it feels good to imagine having power over these men. It feels good to imagine my power until I remember that my power is imaginary.

And please understand (although if you don’t, you won’t be able to. It’s not the kind of thing you can imagine) that it is painful to try to convince someone that you matter. “Please care about me,” is a hard argument to make without shame, because the fact that you’re making it means two things are true: they don’t care about you, and you do care about them. It’s hard not to feel alone when you beg the people who write your laws to care about you, and they close the elevator door.

It’s safer to say, “Fuck you,” than “Please don’t hurt me anymore.”

“Fuck you” means nobody cares.

We are pissed and we are afraid. The spectacle of anger we saw in Brett Kavanaugh scares us on an animal level. Most of us have spent our lives monitoring our faces, softening our voices, and contorting ourselves into pleasing shapes in order to avoid ever being in a room with that man, yelling from his red, twisted face. I wanted to run from him and hide. I wanted to run to him and soothe him.

You could call it pissed, the primordial lava flow of rage that flowed through me when I felt the untrustworthy impulse to comfort an angry man who will write laws about my body. It made me angrier that you felt sure we would be fine with his belligerence, that you were surprised anyone believed the woman. It made me furious when you expressed annoyance at our insistence that she be heard. Who do we think we are, asking questions? Who in the hell do we think we are, wanting answers? And after you already let us ask the questions? Cheese and crackers, how greedy can we be?

We are pissed and we are grieving. We revisit the moments that divided our lives into before and after. We remember there was a before. We loved the girls we were. It hurts to know they were hurt. We look at our friends. We look at our children. We look at our grandparents. We love the girls they were, too.

It hurts every time someone we love remarks on the admirable accomplishments of a man who hates women. We grieve when you do that. We grieve for the death of our trust in you.

Our untrustworthy impulses will remind us to confide in you so we don’t make you mad. We are furious. We grieve.

Some of us have stomach cramps, diarrhea, and vomiting.

Some of us have migraine headaches, light sensitivity.

Some of us ache in our bones and muscles.

Some of us feel shooting pain in our limbs. Some of us have chills.

Some of us are on the ground with back spasms.

Some of us are eating soup for dinner because our jaws ache from clenching and grinding.

We are pissed and we are not sleeping well.

If we can fall asleep we have nightmares. Some of us wake up with our eyelashes crusted from crying, unconsciously.

We are pissed and crying at the gym while we realize that a thing we used to do for fun has become a thing we are doing to survive.

We are pissed and taking another shower.

All of these symptoms add up to something that you may never understand. If you don’t understand, you won’t be able to imagine it. It’s not that kind of feeling.

The women you know are walking around like they got the flu at a funeral because we are ill and grieving and questioning the meaning

of anything at all.

The women you know have just been reminded how many of them live as unmet hands that have been reaching out into space since the moment that divided before and after.

They’ve waited for someone to reach back and say, “I care about what happened to you. I will be with you.”

And what just happened was we had a hearing where everyone talked about the Christine Ford’s hand.

There were motions about what to call that unmet hand.

There was an orderly debate about how nice her hand is, how confused her hand must be, to be reaching out to these men.

And after the whole spectacle in which a woman stood in the middle of the entire fucking world with her hand open, asking for someone to say, “I care,” they voted to leave the hand unmet. They voted to walk away from her.

We know exactly how that feels.

So yeah. We’re taking it hard.

It’s fucking humiliating.

We are grieving. We are discovering how many people we love won’t stand next to us.

We are afraid, ashamed, in pain all over our bodies.

And it’s not even fucking over. Not even this round.

So yeah.

You could say we’re pissed.

[peapodriot]

10:16 Yule Gift - Aaron

[peapodriot]

9:16 Yule Gift - Amy

[peapodriot]

Idea for my next project.

cover of The Sensational She-Hulk 043 by John Byrne

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[peapodriot]

Using stumpwork makes me feel so refreshed about my work!🌊 I’m a fan already and can’t wait to work some more #wip https://www.instagram.com/p/Bn3wfDJnF70/?utm_source=ig_tumblr_share&igshid=q3wueo1jjgk8

[peapodriot]

Nike, back when they were a sports horror company.

[peapodriot]

I made this sort of ‘guide’ for self care as an artist a few months ago for my patreon. But I feel like information like this needs to be shared! 

(NOTE: I’m not a doctor, if you have medical questions contact a professional)

[peapodriot]

Kadstitch - etsy shop | Instagram: @kadstitch

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Vegan Breakfast Apple “Sausages”

Keep reading

[peapodriot]

My take away right now from all the garbage being heaped on Dr. Christine Blasey Ford is that this is just one more moment in a long line of bullshit moments she's had to endure.

It DOES NOT MATTER if some college professor website shows her as a poorly rated educator, in reality that website and it's ratings are just one more toxic, hyper-masculine line of bull-shit that she's had to put up with.

How many of us, not just as women, but as teachers too, have heard how we are too loud, too shrill, too agressive, too confident, talk too much, expect too much, demand too much? Especially when in reality our behavior, our manner of speech, our writing demonstrates that we are no different than our male counterparts in regards to student expectations.

We all know this line of bull-shit well, we live it every day. Maybe she is a little too agressive and maybe her expectations of her students can seem too scary for a coddled 18-year-old boy.

You know what else was too agressive and too scary? Judge Brett M. Kavanaugh laying fully on top of her much smaller body, placing his hand over her mouth to muffle her screams, while his hot, alcoholic breath heaved in her face, as he struggled to pull her bathing suit off with two other men-sized boys standing ready to rape her as well.

[peapodriot]

For everyone going through it today, look at this proud mum.

[peapodriot]

Science + Textile Art = the awesome scientifically accurate moths knitted by London-based artist Max Alexander, who enjoys the challenge of recreating the intricate colors and markings of different moth species as knitting patterns.

“I started researching moths and discovered how many different and amazing varieties there are. It quickly became addictive!”

“It’s pretty funny to knit moths from a material that they’re known to eat though. Although none of the species that I’ve knitted are wool eaters,” Alexander tells Creators.

Visit Max Alexander’s website or follow her on Instagram to check out more of her marvelous Shetland wool knitted moths.

Alexander also has a web shop where she sells framed originals and other knitted creations. She takes commission requests as well.

[via Creators]

[peapodriot]

Textile artist Britta Marakatt-Labba’s embroidered pictures with motifs from North European Sami culture