#i was a plumber's apprentice

[qvietspvce]

do you ever get overwhelmed by how many parts of your life you've already lived so far or am i just needlessly anxious about everything i've ever done in my life

[pianokantzart]

I've been doing a bit of research, and it turns out in New York City you are required to have at least seven years of experience to become certified as a "master plumber." A minimum of two of these years need to be spent as a "journeyman plumber," where you're licensed to repair pipes so long as you're working under the supervision of a master plumber.

Mario and Luigi can't legally run their business if they're both journeyman plumbers, but that would mean (if they are really both 24-25 like Shigeru Miyamoto says) at least one of them began training to be a plumber the instant he got out of high school. But if that's the case, how did they end up working in demolition?

My theory is that, since demolition companies sometimes locate and strip fixtures in commercial and residential properties for reuse or resale, plumbing fittings included, The Wrecking Crew hired the two plumbers-in-training to spot salvageable materials and take them apart. But if Foreman Spike happens to have a bone to pick and/or is on a power trip, I can easily imagine him adding hard labor on top of whatever plumbing-related jobs they were assigned until their schedule was filled with far more wrecking than plumbing.

But eventually, Mario got all his hours logged, passed his master plumber exam, got his commercial activity license, and got him and his brother the heck out of there. Which brings me to an additional theory that Luigi is still a journeyman plumber and not yet a master plumber.

There's a few bits of Nintendo lore that describe Luigi as something of an "understudy," or otherwise not quite as experienced as his brother in the realm of plumbing.

Which makes sense given the way Luigi seems to take on the apprentice role, closely watching the way Mario works and carrying around all the tools.

I think Luigi didn't immediately know what he wanted to do the moment he graduated high school the way Mario did. Maybe he dabbled in mechanics for a little bit before he ultimately decided to join his bro in his plumbing venture, but as a result he's a few years behind.

[pfhwrittes]

have a chunk of tradie!141 for your reading pleasure.

it's fuckin' pourin' down, has been for the last 3 days and the forecast ain't getting any better. thick, claggy muck sucks at the soles of simon's boots, threatening to pull 'em straight off his feet as he crosses the quagmire to slip into the portakabin-cum-office where he knows his skipper'll be.

price is fumin' under his hard hat, his ancient brick of a phone glued to his ear as he barks out demands to whichever poor sod is gettin' an earful off the boss today (probably nik, who straight up refused to drive onto site, stating bold as brass that the wagon would get bogged down, fuck the delay, captain. i'm not hurting my girl for your timetable).

with a disgusted snort price throws the offending phone onto the cluttered desk sending a sheaf of papers careening onto the floor.

"fucks sake, riley. what d'ya want?" price growls out in his direction and simon just lifts a battered eyebrow at the tone. no point gettin' his knickers in a twist over weather but price has always thought himself better than acts of nature and god himself.

"told the lads to put the tools down and go 'ome."

if looks could kill, simon would be buried in a shallow grave under the portaloo. price's face is as stormy as the sky rumbling ominously outside.

"well tell 'em to pick them back up, for fucks sake! we've got a fucking job to do here, simon." price snaps, his patience well and truly gone and it isn't even dinner time by simon's watch.

simon's hi-vis jacket creaks forebodingly as he straightens up.

"no."

there's a beat as simon squares off against his skipper, the unstoppable force of john price smashing against simon's immovable iron will. simon's known john a long fuckin' time and he'll play dirty to keep the crew safe if he has to. john's seen him walk off jobs for less.

price sighs noisily, ruffling the ends of his moustache.

"right then. who're we losing?"

"gaz can't work with the humidity, ale and rudy can't paint if gaz ain't finished the plaster, don't trust soap not to fry 'isself, and flash is sat in the van dryin' out." simon counts off on his fingers.

price's eyebrows hike up to his hairline at the mention of the plumber's apprentice.

"'s matter with flash?"

simon chuckles at the memory of flash covered head to toe in mud after an unfortunate tumble.

"debuted 'is mud-wrestlin' career f'r us."

price snorts out an amused sound and shakes his head. poor sod'll be miserable for the rest of the day without any spare kit to change into.

"right, go on then. tell 'em they can fuck off for the day." price reaches for his abandoned phone, probably to tell the client, some jumped up property developer-slash-social media wanker, that the job's been delayed by the shit weather. (simon doesn't envy him in the slightest, last time he met her she looked him up and down like he was scum and he was tempted to "accidentally" score the side of her flash car with the end of a length of 22mm copper pipe.)

simon offers price a nod and turns towards the door of the 'kabin, hooking the flimsy hood of his jacket over his head.

"oi, riley. you better not have stuck flash in my van."

"nah, stuck 'im in with soap and gaz. i ain't gettin' that shit on our seats."

price's barking laugh follows simon out the door into the pissing rain.

[kickthecan-revolution]

I spoke to my colleague at work via FaceTime for about an hour today. Corporate America as a system is rotting - the Retail industry is a mess and AI is going to make it even messier. The corporate side of everything, particularly technology in these huge conglomerations - it's all falling apart. It BARELY works as a system.

I think the real health could potentially be found in small businesses and for sure the trades - if I had kids, I'd be giving the opposite push my parents gave me. Go to a four year college I guess if you want the experience, it's good for some stuff - but the mandatory experience I'd require as a parent is learning a trade. Be an electrician, a dry waller, a plumber, learn how to build a house. become a great sewer or an expert in landscape gardening for your hardy zone. Fix engines. Know how to operate heavy machinery. The CONFIDENCE people have as they master a trade is evident. Apprentice in a few but pick the one that you want to get so good at, you'll do it for a few years. That's where the steady money is, the respect for work, the freedom of schedule. The unions which are fantastic (most of the time.) Maybe photography but everyone's a photographer these days. They are such confidence builders and the demand is outrageous. It's honorable work though defining which work is honorable or not feels a little gross. It’s just work.

I should give this advice to myself.

I spent the rest of the day working on my taxes. I have to fill out these tax forms for long-term disability so sent some stuff to my tax person to see if she could help - she's retiring in November so I was nervous if she would be up for it, I didn't know how complicated it would be. Turns out it's complicated, I pretty much need to get all of the stuff ready for my tax return now. The upside is that I'll essentially know what my taxes will be next year which will be good for me mentally, that's always a super stressful time for me for some reason. She gave me a lot of homework to do which took several hours with my foggy brain, I pretty much did it laying in my bed with food positioned on my chest occasionally like George Castanza eating a block of cheese on the sofa. Food is still a little gross but the nausea from not eating is grosser.

Next week, I don't have a lot of appointments. Bud has her vet appointment for her heart and then she has a dentist appointment the week after that on the same day I get my first post chemo infusion, I have to drop her off in the morning, poor thing. My friend A will be here in the event I'm not back from the appointment, it's just two hours but it's at noon so she can go fetch her if needed, the vet is literally across the water channel, a 5 minute walk. So fortunate. Then we'll know what's going on with her. I hope she's OK.

[adrianasunderworld]

My knife

Isabelle struggles with the chance of truly being magicless.

@mangacupcake @fair-night-starry-tears @the-weirdos-mind @writing-heiress

It had to have been wrong.

“Your soul is colorless, shapeless, utterly blank” That couldn't have been true. It couldn't be. Magicless, thats what they said.

I'm not magicless. That mirror read it wrong. Isabelle had thought to herself a thousand times as she stared blankly into the darkness. The only sound being the snores of Grim and the sound of the old house creaking as it settled. I've mixed potions and studied and- she held up her hand in front of her face. The shape of it barely seen in the dark even inches from her eyes. When was the last time she practiced spells? It was only a couple days ago, but it left like ages.

Her cousin has hammered it into her head over and over that magic wasn't a toy. It was not a commodity to be played with.

“Magic is a knife” Juliet had explained when Isabelle had first come to her expressing interest in being her apprentice. “Do you know what that means?”

Isabelle, then only thirteen, shook her head. “No.”

“A knife is a tool,” Juliet explained as she chopped herbs for her spell work. None of which Isabelle knew the names of yet. “You use knives of all kinds to cook, to carve, to do many things.”

Isabelle nodded, starting to see where she was going with this.

“But a knife is also used to hurt. You can cut yourself on accident. Or decide to cut others. And you can do a lot of damage that way. Now imagine that with magic. Magic is like a knife. A dangerous tool if you aren't careful. I'll teach you when you're a bit more mature and I can trust you with that tool.”

Isabelle had not let her cousin's words dissuade her. Had asked what she had to do to prove herself and dove headfirst into the books of basics she was given. But still had not been taught how to put it to use. She had started to the basics of it before she had come here, and now some magic mirror told her she had nothing in her soul.

Careful not to wake Grim, Isabelle creeped over to the small table by the armchair where she had left the candles Crowley had given her or use for the time being. Her eyes had adjusted to the dark as she she stared at it, remembering all she knew.

Isabelle nodded as she wrung her hands in anticipation. The table of candles before them. “So I just have to picture it while I say it?”

“I want you to focus,” Juliet instructed her. “Magic is more than just saying it. You have to put intent behind what you say. You have to visualize what you want.”

Juliet nodded. “Yep. Give it try “

Isabelle focused on the green candle in front of her. She pictured it lit. Saw its wick burning brightly. “Spirit of Fire!” She said confidently while pointing. Nothing. “Spirit of fire!” Still nothing. “Come on, fire!”

“Enough,” Juliet said calmly. “That's what I mean when I say it's about intention. You can't just shout ‘Fire!” In frustration. You're gonna burn the place down.”

“But it's not working.”

“Time and patience are your friend.” Her cousin replied. “Your magic won't come by forcing it. It will come when it's needed. For now, we practice.”

“I summon the Spirit of Fire.” she whispered in the dark, staring intensely at the candle. She envisioned a spark coming alive and lighting up the space. But it remained cold.

She left the candle unlit on the table. The mirror had to be wrong.

—

The faucet wasn't working for the third time that week. She had complained to the Headmage, who said a plumber would not be there until Monday. She wondered what Ophelia may have done in a time like this.

“Spirit of water, rain down!” She exclaimed as a drizzle of water came crashing down in the yard on the otherwise hot day. The hose and sprinkler simply were not enough on a day like today, and this had been her cousin's solution.

Isabelle had been jumping around in the downpour, relishing the feeling and kicking water at Will at the quickly forming puddles.

“You try,” Ophelia said as the rain she had created slowly began to fade. “It'll be good practice.”

Isabelle nodded with a grin. She raised her hands to the bright sky, clearly pictureing the shower of cold water coming down, the yard full of puddles, even rainbows forming from the shower. She swore she could feel it as she repeated the spell. “Spirit of water, rain down!”

Nothing.

She repeated it over and over but still nothing. Will looked between Isabelle and his older sister. The black curls that had clung to his face from being wet were already beginning to dry from waiting in the summer heat.

Isabelle dropped her arms back to her sides.

She focused on the faucet of the tub, squinting at it irritation. Ophelia would have summoned water to fill the tub. Isabelle could do that too if she tried. Right?

“Spirit of water,come forward.” She swore she felt a stirring in her, thought she could hear the sound of water in the old pipes.

That hopeful, stubborn, part of her was sure it was the stirrings of magic. The part of her that was currently irritated thought it was wishful thinking. What she wanted most was a bath and bed. If this was not a need, what was?

“Spirit of water, I command you to come out!” She repeated more forcefully. She swore she heard the sound of the pipes this time. She waited with baited breath. Only for a light drizzle of water to come out before stopping.

Isabelle groaned and hung her head. She'd get up early for shower at the gym then.

—

“Clearly, you were born to parents with no great magical capability. And as a result….You lack even the basic education necessary to attend a school such as this. It's quite sad.”

Riddles words had hit their mark. He didn't know a damn thing about her, and yet he managed to needle his way in under her skin with that smug grin on his face.

“You don't know anything, about me.” Was all she managed to say.

It's true. My dad has no magic. My mom couldn't be bothered to teach me. I failed Juliet and Ophelia. I have nothing to show for anything.

“I know enough,” Riddle said, that smirk still plastered on his face. “I thought the Dark Mirror didn't make mistakes, but I suppose even magic falls through now and then.”

Isabelle wanted very badly to hit him if Ace hadn't beaten her to it.

Everything that followed happened all too fast a shift in the air changed. The entire garden clouded over and Rose bushes ripped out of the ground as Riddle changed into something monstrous.

“Overblot” was what Crowley had called it.

“So we're going to snap him out of it,” Isabelle said as she saw her friends throw out spells at Riddle. “How do we do that!?”

“No idea,” Cater admitted.

“The phantom,” Trey said as he tried to recollect what he knew.

“The what?” Isabelle saw no phantoms or spirits here.

Trey gestured to the patched up puppet with an ink jar for a head that stood behind Riddle and mirrored his every movement. “That! They're connected- somehow. I can't remember the rest right now. But we have to separate them!” That was all he said before running off to help the others.

Cater did not look as enthusiastic before glancing back at her. “Go with the Headmage and evacuate with the others.” Before running off to join the fight.

Isabelle knew she should heed Caters suggestion. Could hear the yellings of the Headmage to everyone to get to the mirror and get out. She could have sworn he heard Crowley call after her to get away. But it all felt so far away.

I need to run. I need to get out of the way.

“Miss Rosa! Come here!”

I'm not going to be of any help.

“How you deal with those brothers is beyond me,”Juliet said.

Ophelia shook her head at her older sister. “I know you don't have the patience for it.”

“You're right, I don't.”

“Why do you, them?” Isabelle asked from where she sat at the table.

“I love them,” Ophelia said. “They're my idiots. And ever since I met them I've been able to do things I never thought I could. It's only fair that I return the favor.”

“Ace,look out!”

Isabelle saw Ace fall to the ground as Riddle swiped a vine of thorns towards him. Ace managed to duck, but lost his balance and fell.

Isabelle ran towards them.

Riddle looked over at the tea pot that got chucked at his head. Isabelle kept throwing whatever was in reach at him to get his attention away from Ace. Cups, plates, rock, sticks. It was all fair game.

“Over here!”

Deuce looked horrified. “What is she doing?!”

Cater looked equally bewildered. “Is she crazy?”

Isabelle kept throwing. This is dumb. She thought as she kept doing it. This dumb and I'm going to die like an idiot. She threw a dented cake stand at Riddle, his attention now aimed solely on her as Trey got Ace back on his feet.

“Insolent!” The housewarden raged. “You are going to pay for this!”

“You have to catch me first!” Before sprinting into the hedge maze.

She could hear the roar of rage Riddle let out before going after her. The screams of her friends following that soon faded.

“What are you doing!?”

I don't know!

The plan was that there was no plan. She was acting solely on impulse at this point. Stupid, stupid, impulse.

Running left in the fork in the hedge she kept panicking.

Isabelle veered right in the maze, Riddles rampaging steps not far behind. There had to be an exit somewhere, right? Maybe if I find an exit I can slip out and- and what? That doesn't help Riddle.

Ophelia or Juliet would have a spell for this- But she wasn't either of her cousins. She didn't have a fraction of their talent or their experience. She couldn't even light a candle or fix a faucet. I should have evacuated when I could.

Another right and Isabelle passed under an iron gate. For a moment she was relieved to have found an exit, only to be greeted by a wall of hedge covered in thorny roses. A dead end.

The sound of Riddles angry yelling was far too close, there was no time to backtrack as he tore through the bushes towards her.

“THERE YOU ARE!” He screeched, clearly angry at the chase.

Her mind went a mile a minute. Looking for places to go, but there were none. As the Overblot Drew closer to the gate, a thought occurred to her. That was only if it even worked. Which was slim, but better than nothing.

Juliet had hammered into her that magic was a dangerous tool. That it would come when she was ready. Magic was a knife. You use it to hurt or create.

My knife is for protecting. It won't hurt me or my friends. I won't let him.

Riddle was in front of her now, vines being ripped from the ground, ready to strike her. The phantom behind him swatting and tearing away everything in their way. Including grabbing onto the very conductive gate.

“I summon you, spirit of lighting, to strike the monster before me! In the name of the witch, Isabelle, make it so!”

Riddle paused at the crackle of electricity in the air, the darkness that had overtaken the Heartslabul garden darkening even more. Before he could react, a bolt of golden lightning came crashing down with a loud and thunderous CRACK!

It struck the phantom blot that still had the metal gate in its hands. It all but disintegrated as Riddle wailed from the force of it being ripped away from him.

Isabelle's ears were ringing, every sound was muffled. She could barely stay on her feet from the sudden drain of energy as she watched Riddle turn back to normal. The boy fell to his knees and crumpled to the ground.

Stumbling forward she fell to her knees beside him. “Riddle?” She started shaking him. “RIDDLE!?”

She didn't kill him.

The boys and Crowley had found Isabelle and Riddle in the ruined hedge maze. She was on the verge of sobbing, convinced she had done something irredeemable. Only for the housewarden to open his eyes a few moments later, alive and well. Her aim wasn't off after all.

After the whole ordeal, everyone had heard her account of what happened. Ace and Deuce were especially shocked that their magicless friend was not as magicless as she appeared.

Crowley wasn't sure how to proceed beyond continuing to allow her to attend Night Raven College as planned. Stating he would keep an eye out if her powers went amiss. She doubted that.

That night, Grim snored away, curled up to her side under the blanket.

Holding up her hand in the dark like she did that first night, Isabelle whispered to herself, barley audible in the dark. “Spirit of lightning.” She felt the small tingle of electricity on her hand. A small spark dancing across her palm. It was little more than a static shock. But it was there. The mirror was wrong about her. And that was all the comfort she needed.

[yanderepuck]

As MUCH AS I LOVE Salaì and Leonardo being lovers the idea of them just having a father son relationship is HILARIOUS.

Leonardo: were going to walmart

Salaì: can I get snacks?

Leonardo: fine. Yes. You have a $50 limit on snacks

Salaì: YAY *only gets goldfish*

Always has a pocket full of golfing or else he's just carrying the carton around eating it.

@lulu-the-smol-floof had the great idea that all his apprentices are his kids (tho Salaì and Melzi are the only ones who matter)

And Leonardo is just a tradesman who literally fixes EVERYTHING. Man is a plumber, electrician, everything. And he's going to fix it right the first time so that you don't have to worry about it again.

Plot twist? All 5 of his kids are coming along and you're probably going to have to feed them lunch.

Hell fix whatever you broke and his kids broke. No extra charge. They put a hole in your wall? He'll be back tomorrow to fix it. He needs to get the supplies.

There's no. "I'll be there somewhere between 11am and 4pm" he calls you and he's like "I'll be there at 1:37"

And there's a knock at your door at 1:37.

Salaì is asking for snacks constantly though.

Anyway. Leonardo got 5 fucking kids.

Leonardo: what did you learn today?

Salaì: how to use a staple gun!

Leonardo: ....

Leonardo: MELZI *runs off*

Melzi: *has his hand stapled to the wall*

Salaìs $50 worth of goldfish only lasts a week btw

Leonardo hates being a single teen mom (he's in his 30s and adopted all of these kids willingly)

[haggishlyhagging]

It would take Diane Joyce nearly ten years of battles to become the first female skilled crafts worker ever in Santa Clara County history. It would take another seven years of court litigation, pursued all the way to the U.S. Supreme Court, before she could actually start work. And then, the real fight would begin.

For blue-collar women, there was no honeymoon period on the job; the backlash began the first day they reported to work—and only intensified as the Reagan economy put more than a million blue-collar men out of work, reduced wages, and spread mounting fear. While the white-collar world seemed capable of absorbing countless lawyers and bankers in the 80s, the trades and crafts had no room for expansion. "Women are far more economically threatening in blue-collar work, because there are a finite number of jobs from which to choose," Mary Ellen Boyd, executive director of Non-Traditional Employment for Women, observes. "An MBA can do anything. But a plumber is only a plumber." While women never represented more than a few percentage points of the blue-collar work force, in this powder-keg situation it only took a few female faces to trigger a violent explosion.

Diane Joyce arrived in California in 1970, a thirty-three-year-old widow with four children, born and raised in Chicago. Her father was a tool-and-die maker, her mother a returned-goods clerk at a Walgreen's warehouse. At eighteen, she married Donald Joyce, a tool-and-die maker's apprentice at her father's plant. Fifteen years later, after working knee-deep in PCBs for years, he died suddenly of a rare form of liver cancer.

After her husband's death, Joyce taught herself to drive, packed her children in a 1966 Chrysler station wagon and headed west to San Jose, California, where a lone relative lived. Joyce was an experienced bookkeeper and she soon found work as a clerk in the county Office of Education, at $506 a month. A year later, she heard that the county's transportation department had a senior account clerk job vacant that paid $50 more a month. She applied in March 1972.

"You know, we wanted a man," the interviewer told her as soon as she walked through the door. But the account clerk jobs had all taken a pay cut recently, and sixteen women and no men had applied for the job. So he sent her on to the second interview. "This guy was a little politer," Joyce recalls. "First, he said, 'Nice day, isn't it?' before he tells me, 'You know, we wanted a man.' I wanted to say, 'Yeah, and where's my man? I am the man in my house.' But I'm sitting there with four kids to feed and all I can see is dollar signs, so I kept my mouth shut."

She got the job. Three months later, Joyce saw a posting for a "road maintenance man." An eighth-grade education and one year's work experience was all that was required, and the pay was $723 a month. Her current job required a high-school education, bookkeeping skills, and four years' experience— and paid $150 less a month. "I saw that flier and I said, ‘Oh wow, I can do that.’ Everyone in the office laughed. They thought it was a riot. . . . I let it drop."

But later that same year, every county worker got a 2 to 5 percent raise except for the 70 female account clerks. "Oh now, what do you girls need a raise for?" the director of personnel told Joyce and some other women who went before the board of supervisors to object. "All you'd do is spend the money on trips to Europe." Joyce was shocked. "Every account clerk I knew was supporting a family through death or divorce. I'd never seen Mexico, let alone Europe." Joyce decided to apply for the next better-paying "male" job that opened. In the meantime, she became active in the union; a skillful writer and one of the best-educated representatives there, Joyce wound up composing the safety language in the master contract and negotiating what became the most powerful county agreement protecting seniority rights.

In 1974, a road dispatcher retired, and both Joyce and a man named Paul Johnson, a former oil-fields roustabout, applied for the post. The supervisors told Joyce she needed to work on the road crew first and handed back her application. Johnson didn't have any road crew experience either, but his application was accepted. In the end, the job went to another man.

Joyce set out to get road crew experience. As she was filling out her application for the next road crew job that opened, in 1975, her supervisor walked in, asked what she was doing, and turned red. "You're taking a man's job away!" he shouted. Joyce sat silently for a minute, thinking. Then she said, "No, I'm not. Because a man can sit right here where I'm sitting."

In the evenings, she took courses in road maintenance and truck and light equipment operation. She came in third out of 87 applicants on the job test; there were ten openings on the road crew, and she got one of them.

For the next four years, Joyce carried tar pots on her shoulder, pulled trash from the median strip, and maneuvered trucks up the mountains to clear mud slides. "Working outdoors was great," she says. "You know, women pay fifty dollars a month to join a health club, and here I was getting paid to get in shape." The road men didn't exactly welcome her arrival. When they trained her to drive the bobtail trucks, she says, they kept changing instructions; one gave her driving tips that nearly blew up the engine. Her supervisor wouldn't issue her a pair of coveralls; she had to file a formal grievance to get them. In the yard, the men kept the ladies' room locked, and on the road they wouldn't stop to let her use the bathroom. "You wanted a man's job, you learn to pee like a man," her supervisor told her.

Obscene graffiti about Joyce appeared on the sides of trucks. Men threw darts at union notices she posted on the bulletin board. One day, the stockroom storekeeper, Tony Laramie, who says later he liked to call her "the piglet," called a general meeting in the depot's Ready Room. "I hate the day you came here," Laramie started screaming at Joyce as the other men looked on, many nodding. "We don't want you here. You don't belong here. Why don't you go the hell away?"

Joyce's experience was typical of the forthright and often violent backlash within the blue-collar work force, an assault undisguised by decorous homages to women's "difference." At a construction site in New York, for example, where only a few female hard-hats had found work, the men took a woman's work boots and hacked them into bits. Another woman was injured by a male co-worker; he hit her on the head with a two-by-four. In Santa Clara County, where Joyce worked, the county's equal opportunity office files were stuffed with reports of ostracism, hazing, sexual harassment, threats, verbal and physical abuse. "It's pervasive in some of the shops," says John Longabaugh, the county's equal employment officer at the time. "They mess up their tools, leave pornography on their desks. Safety equipment is made difficult to get, or unavailable." A maintenance worker greeted the first woman in his department with these words: "I know someone who would break your arm or leg for a price." Another new woman was ordered to clean a transit bus by her supervisor—only to find when she climbed aboard that the men had left a little gift for her: feces smeared across the seats.

In 1980, another dispatcher job opened up. Joyce and Johnson both applied. They both got similarly high scores on the written exam. Joyce now had four years' experience on the road crew; Paul Johnson only had a year and a half. The three interviewers, one of whom later referred to Joyce in court as "rabble-rousing" and "not a lady," gave the job to Johnson. Joyce decided to complain to the county athrmative action office.

The decision fell to James Graebner, the new director of the transportation department, an engineer who believed that it was about time the county hired its first woman for its 238 skilled-crafts jobs. Graebner confronted the roads director, Ron Shields. "What's wrong with the woman?" Graebner asked. “I hate her," Shields said, according to other people in the room. "I just said I thought Johnson was more qualified," is how Shields remembers it. "She didn't have the proficiency with heavy equipment." Neither, of course, did Johnson. Not that it was relevant anyway: dispatch is an office job that doesn't require lifting anything heavier than a microphone.

Graebner told Shields he was being overruled; Joyce had the job. Later that day, Joyce recalls, her supervisor called her into the conference room. "Well, you got the job," he told her. "But you're not qualified." Johnson, meanwhile, sat by the phone, dialing up the chain of command. "I felt like tearing something up," he recalls later. He demanded a meeting with the affirmative action office. "The affirmative action man walks in," Johnson says, "and he's this big black guy. He can't tell me anything. He brings in this minority who can barely speak English . . . I told them, 'You haven't heard the last of me.'" Within days, he had hired a lawyer and set his reverse discrimination suit in motion, contending that the county had given the job to a "less qualified" woman.

In 1987, the Supreme Court ruled against Johnson. The decision was hailed by women's and civil rights groups. But victory in Washington was not the same as triumph in the transportation yard. For Joyce and the road men, the backlash was just warming up. "Something like this is going to hurt me one day," Gerald Pourroy, a foreman in Joyce's office, says of the court's ruling, his voice low and bitter. He stares at the concrete wall above his desk. "I look down the tracks and I see the train coming toward me."

The day after the Supreme Court decision, a woman in the county office sent Joyce a congratulatory bouquet, two dozen carnations. Joyce arranged the flowers in a vase on her desk. The next day they were gone. She found them finally, crushed in a garbage bin. A road foreman told her, "I drop-kicked them across the yard."

-Susan Faludi, Backlash: the Undeclared War Against American Women

[bettsfic]

I really don’t understand the concept “if you write you’re a writer” because “if you sing that doesn’t make you a singer”, “if you paint doesn’t necessarily mean your an artist” I feel like the first phrase is used so often to be inspirational but it also doesn’t make much sense. I’m not coming for anyone who uses that phrase I just want to understand the mindset behind it

i mean, that's a really good question.

first, i would argue you could also call yourself an artist and singer using the same logic as "if you write, you're a writer," so let's try a different comparison. if you fix a leaky faucet or a broken toilet, are you a plumber? exactly how many things do you have to fix to consider yourself a plumber? is it when you begin accepting money in exchange for fixing things? or is it when you receive licensure? or is it when it becomes your primary source of income?

it may seem easy. you become a plumber when you get a job as a plumber. to get a job you have to get a license. to get a license you have to apprentice someone and receive training. to receive training you have to find someone to formally mentor you. there's a process, a series of barriers to entry, and for each barrier there's an identity. you're an apprentice, then you're a plumber.

let's try with becoming a doctor. you're pre-med. you're a med school student. you're a resident. you're a doctor.

inevitably someone is going to send me an anon and correct my knowledge of plumbing but i'm not about to start googling information about plumbing just to answer an ask. please take it as an analogy.

plumbing is a lucrative profession. it's specialized knowledge of something that we all require in order to have running water.

being a doctor is a lucrative profession. it's specialized knowledge of the human body and life itself.

writing...is not a lucrative profession. there's no licensure. the only tool you need is a word processor and therefore a computer. the only education you need is basic literacy. no one gives you a full-time job to write creatively. copywriting, sure. ghostwriting, sort of. but to sit down and write what you're passionate about? there's no 401k there.

so without those barriers to entry, without that series of identities at various points in your path, at what point can you call yourself a writer? is it when you accept payment for your work? you can be a formally published, award-winning author and never have received a penny for it. is it when your primary income comes from your work? there are writers on the NYT bestseller list who have day jobs. in fact i don't know a single writer whose primary income is their writing. is it when an editor accepts your work for publication among a pool of other entries? editing is like writing; anyone can start a press or launch a lit mag. moreover, self-publishing is a thing, as well as vanity presses. is it when someone reads your work for their own enrichment without being asked? that's kind of a bizarre gate to have to walk through.

there is no single barrier for entry into writerhood. there is no calling. there is no natural-born talent. and no one is going to tell you you can't do it. well, they may try, but no one has the actual authority to stop you, even if it feels like it.

all creative pursuits are a choice you have to make for yourself when you're ready to, when you've decided your own barrier for entry into that identity. because there is no formal structure, no one else gets to define that identity for you. and so when people say, "if you write you're a writer," what they're really saying is that the only true measurable difference between someone who is a writer and someone who isn't is the act of writing itself.

[miralure]

Hello everyone! My boyfriend is doing a survey about university and trade schools, and it would be lovely if you guys could take a moment of your time (it shouldn't take longer than a few minutes) to share your thoughts.

If there's any terminology that is hard to understand, I can define them. Trade means going to trade school and working as an apprentice (ie. electricians, plumbers, brick layers etc.)

Thank you so much! Reblogs are greatly appreciated.

Society and Culture Quiz (google.com)

[dlrconlicense]

MY CULTURAL FIRSTS

Louise Brealey: My first kiss with Sherlock’s Benedict Cumberbatch

The actor and writer on taking acid at her first gig, meeting Michael Caine – and the moment she knew the BBC detective drama was going to be huge

Louise Brealey

LEO STAAR

Jake Helm

Sunday November 12 2023, 12.13am GMT, The Sunday Times

First concert I went to

I would like to say an unknown band called Blur in a tiny tent at Reading in 1994, but I accidentally took my first and very much last acid tab off an apprentice plumber called Tony from Swansea and watched the The on the big stage instead. It was all fine until the music started to creep up from the grass right up my legs and I was surrounded by terrifying gargoyles.

First pop-inspired fashion trends I adopted

I’m afraid I was a relentlessly unfashionable child. I was a square and listened to 10cc I’m Not in Love and The Eagles’ Desperado on repeat. I did love Robert Smith [from the Cure] but I didn’t wear enormous jumpers until my twenties.

First time I realised the BBC drama Sherlock was going to be a huge hit

The read-through was electric, which is not normal. Usually, it’s nerve-jangling because everyone is terrified they’re going to be sacked. A few weeks later I was watching the scene where Benedict first stuck his head round the lab door and said to Martin Freeman: “The name is Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221b Baker Street.” And I thought, yes it is. But really, I realised it was going to be huge when I was on early Twitter and the show went off. When Sherlock kissed [my character] Molly I got 60,000 followers in an hour.

Louise Brealey as Molly Hooper, right, and the cast of Sherlock

TODD ANTONY/BBC

First TV show I enjoyed

Like everyone at school I was obsessed by Jim’ll Fix It. I put two letters into one envelope to double my chances. One was to ask to meet John Travolta because I’d seen him star in The Boy in the Plastic Bubble, a film in which he plays this kid that can’t step outside a little plastic tent or he’ll die. The other was asking to meet the pop star Paul Young — I figured I had a better chance with him because he was from Luton. At least I didn’t do what my brother did and write to Jimmy Savile to ask to meet Rolf Harris.

First film I saw at the cinema

The first film I saw on my own at the pictures was Stand by Me at The Point in Milton Keynes. I had seen River Phoenix in the video for Ben E King’s single on Top of the Pops and was utterly love-struck. That was it. River was the only one for me. I still think River was the great acting talent of his generation.

First time I cried at the cinema

Watership Down. That was actually the first film I saw at the cinema. At the Palace in Wellingborough, when I was five or six. It was the first time I had any clue that creatures die. I was very affected by it — I called my next rabbit Bright Eyes.

First actor I admired

Joan Greenwood in Kind Hearts and Coronets. She was the single most beautiful woman I’d ever seen — and I was fascinated by her voice. I also loved Richard Burton’s voice, mainly because he narrated The War of the Worlds, my dad’s favourite album. I wanted to marry Richard Burton so I could listen to him all day long.

First thing I did to embody my new character Deb in Such Brave Girls

I started with her voice. I wanted to use the Northamptonshire accent. It’s the land of my birth and how my whole family talks except for me because I was a scholarship kid at a posh school, and I’ve never worked in it before. And then the clothes — Deb is obsessed with being feminine, so with her costumes it’s often about the cleavage. I think of her as a wily street rat in dangly earrings.

First famous person I met

I didn’t meet anyone famous until my first proper job, which was as a film journalist. The most exciting thing to happen was to go to a film set and sit in Michael Caine’s trailer. He asked: “Would you like to marry me?” I blushed and started stammering at him. And then he politely pushed a little dish of Murray Mints in my direction and I realised that he’d actually said: “Would you like a Murray Mint?”

[intosnarkness]

So every year we bring in a group of apprentices who have been identified as potential instructors by their locals and give them a head start class at plumber summer camp. We use NFC tags to scan them in every morning for attendance, and so I meet all of them to do that every morning. This year I presented early on day 2 and got a lot of good feedback (note: I meant “welding is easy to do in real life and does not need to be in VR” I said “welding is easy.” I was correctly booed.) and on the last day as I was scanning them in one of them said “you know, we talk about you every day.”

All I could do was stare at him for a moment and say “well, that’s horrifying, thank you.” And then I moved on to the next one. But now I am having disaster!bisexual panic over it. Was this guy hitting on me? Is this another case of “she gave you her number dummy”? I have rules about dating members (and absolutely not sleeping with them this week) but my brain will NOT shut up.

Also he’s 10 years younger than me. I checked.

[bansheeboyy]

I always teach my apprentice plumbers to take their shoes and socks off as soon as they go on a home visit for a busted pipe. It might seem unconventional, I say, but there's nothing worse than getting your shoes and socks wet because of a stray squirt with a whole day of work ahead of you. So they obey, because of course they do, and strip barefoot after the clients take them to the suspected source of the leak.

If a newbie balks at the idea, I jest What? You're not ticklish are you? I only tickle 'em if you mess up really badly. That usually gets a nervous laugh out of them and then they acquiesce, unlacing their boots and pulling their socks off as I try to stifle my smirk. Works every time. And every one of them has that nervous glint in his eye that tells me just how ticklish they really are.

Do I really ask them to strip so I can stare at their feet, imagine tickling them ruthlessly for under-tightening a wing-nut, and occasionally snap a few pictures for a rainy day? Of course I do.

This picture is one where I nearly got caught. The lad turned around to ask a question mid-snap, and I had to think of an excuse sharpish.

Subsequently I spent all evening imagining putting the little swot's soles through ticklish hell in some stocks for not knowing the answer himself.

You knew the answer to that question, Cameron, didn't you?

I'm sohohohryyyy I dihihhdddn'tt I swehehearhahahahahr ahahahahahh!

Well you should have. Maybe this will jog your memory for next time.

No NO! PLEASE! AhahahaHHAAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAPLEASHASHAHAAHAHAAHAHMERCYAHAHAAAHAHAHAHA!

[pianokantzart]

Hi Piano! I love your posts and your comics! I loved the idea of ​​making a Luigi's mansion film, I even posted some ideas, do you have ideas for a Luigi mansion film?

Thank you! I have touched upon the idea a bit, with @keakruiser adding some thoughts of their own. But I do have more...

Mario and Luigi start off the movie having money issues despite the booming business. Maybe they accidentally caused some sort of serious damage that they need to pay for? Maybe there's a family emergency? Or maybe they've been too generous with free plumbing repairs to the point that the bills are catching up with them. Either way, I want all the gold and cash that Luigi vacuums up to have some sort of serious significance.

Luigi tries to talk to his father and uncles about the plumbing business at Sunday dinner, but they all speak over him in favor of talking to Mario. Mario tries to nudge the conversation in Luigi's direction, but Luigi eventually gives up and goes to the kitchen to help his mother with dishes. There he has a little heart to heart with his mom, similar to this scrapped scene from the SMB Movie concept art, but with Luigi instead of Mario:

Please please please make The Dark Moon an element! Establish that it isn't just Mario's life on the line, but an entire world at risk of being swarmed by angry ghosts under King Boo's control.

And of course we need to have Polterpup! Let's say that "animals are the among the few spirits who don't need to be soothed by the dark moon," but unfortunately that matters very little to Luigi, who has an established fear of dogs. So we go into why! Maybe he got attacked by a dog as a young child and needed Mario to save him? This would feed into both Luigi's sense of helplessness, and guilt about being so frightened while his brother is so brave and selfless.

As Luigi gets more victories under his belt, and as Polterpup follows him around and helps out, they start to form a bond. Eventually we get a Puss In Boots 2 esque scene where Luigi has an anxiety attack after loosing radio contact with E. Gadd, before Polterpup floats over and helps calm him down enough to keep moving.

Have Luigi's semi-canon mechanical prowess come into play! At some point, midway through a particularly grueling fight, the poltergust gets damaged. Between running for his life, hiding in various locations, and knocking things over to buy himself time, Luigi steadily fixes the damage enough to pull through the fight.

Luigi and Elvin Gadd bond over being two (vaguely autistic-coded) weirdos. Luigi is surprised that Elvin Gadd doesn't mind trusting him with his equipment, that he doesn't get annoyed with his fear, and doesn't mind walking him through every tiny step. Meanwhile Elvin Gadd is like "Patient with you??? I love walking you through things step by step! You're one of the few people who'll actually listen to my ramblings! And yeah, you're clearly scared, but you've stayed! That's way more than most."

I imagine the people trapped in paintings are able to speak and move around, but King Boo can set their painting to a sort of "stagnant mode" if the captive gets too rowdy or mouthy. Mario's picture is mostly kept in stagnant mode for obvious reasons.

King Boo's confidence visibly wavers the further along Luigi gets. King Boo goes from "Why should I be worried? E. Gadd's a decrepit fool and his new 'apprentice' is a sniveling coward!" to "Okay so Luigi can use the poltergust... he's no match for my forces!" to "What is wrong with all of you!? Why can't you catch a simple plumber!?" to "I'm going to tear this man's soul apart with my teeth!"

Bowser was heavy metal, so I want King Boo to be operatic with a Gothic/Baroque ballroom aesthetic. Of course we've got to have orchestral version of the Luigi's Mansion theme, but I also want a cinematic revamp of the SMBW "Night At Boo's Opera" song.

You know how Luigi broke down laughing and sobbing when he finally saved Mario in the original Luigi's Mansion? That. I want that, with an extra dose of Mario hugging Luigi and reassuring him that he's alright.

[roselaughs]

I had these guys for a long while, because surprise I have Ben 10 and Secret Saturdays OCs. I love Ben 10 and Secret Saturdays and one day I was like "hey why won't I make a sequel to both shows lol". So meet Secret Galaxy, the rag tag team of freelance superheroes consisting of Ben Tennyson's grandson, Zak Saturday's granddaughter, Vilgax's son, and Charmcaster's protege. Feel free to ask questions about them!

Denny Tennyson - Dennis Lee Tennyson is the grandson of the famous Benjamin Kirby Tennyson. Unlike his grandfather when he was his age Denny is a quiet and reserved young boy, prefering to spend time only with himself and a select group of friends due to not trusting people's interest in him. Despite this he's sympathetic and will try to reach out to someone if he sees that they're in trouble or in need of help. Denny is also very creative and artistic, which extends to how he battles as well as him prefering to use his alien forms's powers to their fullest extent rather than just bruteforcing his way through everything. Originally during the summer he graduated elementary school Denny got his very own Omnitrix, which he was initially hesitant about but grew to appreciate and like his Omnitrix.

Sam Saturday - Samantha Saturday is the granddaughter of Zak Saturday. She is a spitting image of her grandfather even having the same cryptid controlling powers he did. Sam's a mischevious and tomboyish young girl that seeks adventure at any moment and likes to mess with people around her. However she does have a more caring side, as she deeply cares for and stands up for her family and friends. This more caring side also extends to her being willing to defend those she sees as in trouble, no matter how dangerous her opponent is. While she has inherited The Claw from her grandfather, on the same summer Denny got his Omnitrix she also found a mystrious Omnitrix-like device that she dubbed the Cryptrix, which allows her to turn into 10 cryptid like forms (and also allows her to channel her cryptid powers easier). Sam and Denny are best friends since childhood and are usually seen hanging out together, though a lot of people including their families say that they two kids sometimes feel like siblings.

Sytrax - Sytrax is the son of the feared conquerer Vilgax. He's a serious, honor bound chimera sui generis (ex) bounty hunter. He acts somewhat self centered and dislikes being underestimated or being looked down upon. However he does have a softer side that he does not like showing, and desires to have a group of people he can trust and feel safe around one day. On top of that his sense of honor makes him more fair in combat towards those he sees as weaker than him. Originally he was trying to find his own footing to carry on Vilgax's legacy, being raised to see his father as a noble but powerful ruler. But after encountering Denny and eventually learning the truth of his father's nature Sytrax started rejecting his father's legacy and went on to try to forge his own identity seperate from Vilgax, such as trying to become a plumber. Despite Ben's and Vilgax's rivalry, Denny and Sytrax end up becoming very close friends and even having a somewhat brotherly dynamic.

Curseslinger - Curseslinger is the (adopted) daughter and apprentice of Charmcaster, the Queen of the Legerdomain. She was chosen by Charmcaster for her reat magical abilities and cunning street smarts. However, Curseslinger feels that she's actually not good enough to be the student of the Queen of the Legerdomain, which results in her frequently performing on the streets and in talent shows to show off her magic powers to people and hopefully win over their approval as a substitute for her own internal approval. Although Curseslinger's very quirky and can come off as creepy to some people, she's friendlier than she appears, and is very loyal to her friends and those she likes even though she may not appear to at first glance. Curseslinger takes an interest in Sam and the Saturdays due to their connection to more mystical elements of the galaxy such as cryptids. Sam does in fact admire Curseslinger and her magical prowess, which gives the witch some confidence in her powers and have even more of a fondness towards Zak's successor. Curseslinger and Sytrax also end up as a couple, and tend to be very affectionate with one another.

[maxknightley]

Do you have any marketable skills? Have you had one kind of job for long enough you could bow work in management of that job? Do you have any computer certs? Trade school? Some jobs will literally pay you to go to cc or trade school and become an apprentice welder/plumber/hvac/ electrician etc and you can be in a union! and make like 50k after a year or so of training...

anon I appreciate that you're trying to help but there's a couple issues here

yes, I do have marketable skills. nobody seems to care. even when I am absolutely without question qualified for a job they will typically ghost me.

computer certs generally cost money (which I cannot afford to spend, because I can't find a job that pays enough for me to live comfortably) and require a lot of studying (which I don't want to fucking do, because I want to use my free time as free time and not unpaid self-directed training)

I've actually considered going into the trades but like. that would basically mean 1. throwing the education I already have in the garbage and going "whoops! wasted four years of my life!", 2. I would almost certainly have to start Driving again, which is something I specifically moved to an urban area with one of the best transit systems in the country to avoid, and 3. it's just not really something I want to do with my life and I'm fairly sure that most trade jobs would drive me insane for the same reason that working in food service drove me insane

what I would actually like is to find a job that fairly compensates me for the skills I've already developed and gives me opportunities to develop them further, not upend my entire life for something that might suck just as bad, union or not

[deeisace]

This afternoon's let's-distract-myself is Jekyll and Hyde

There are not many Henry Jekyll's, none of them spell their last name as Jekyll and none of them are doctors, but here anyway

in 1911, we have Henry Jeckell, a retired iron and brass founder from Norfolk who lives in Bexhill with his wife Annette

They have quite a large house, ten rooms, and a live-in cook and maid (something that is becoming less usual at the time)

Then, another Jeckell - this one is less well-off, because he has a billion siblings, and his dad's a carpenter

In 1881, they live in Hammersmith, tho Henry's parents are from Durham.

Henry is 15 and a plumber's apprentice, and it seems like he goes to Ontario Canada, tho I don't know when or where or what to do, cs I'm not paying for a worldwide access membership right now, so he'll have to stay a mystery

Ah wait, I forgot I can check

S/Sgt, is that staff sergeant? senior sergeant? Army stuff, whatever

Alright next one

Then now, 1871, we have Henry Jekyle, a dairyman living in Marylebone with his wife Harriet

His marriage record, where he is Jekyll! Tho I can't for the life of me read his occupation

Now then here let's have a look at some Edward Hydes!

It's a lot more common name, so there's a lot more to look through, so I've just picked 1891 to look at

Here's an interesting one tho

A "traveller, musical water"! That sounds like he's playing singing glasses, but I'm not sure

Here, a policeman's son -

In Marylebone, there's a - does that say scafiola? marble maker

If we go up to Manchester, there's a callender man - I wasn't sure what that is, but someone else has helpfully added "dyer" next in, so that'll be what that is!