#looking for indian lady

[mescortindividual]

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[anotherfanaccount]

Was too much biased with srk to not mention about the WOMEN of the movie.

They were fantastic, each and every one of them. I'd have actually wanted to see more of them. They all had a character that was not objectified, I mean in my limited South Indian movie journey, women are not given substance most of the time. And that's not what happened here and I loved it.

Also a single mother and a superior officer having a genuine (emotionally I do believe Azad and Narmada matched very well) relationship. That's a man.

God I love men when they love and celebrate women too.

[fictionadventurer]

In my continuing quest to learn more about Laura Ingalls Wilder as a writer beyond the Little House books, one of the most surprising things I've learned is that apparently she wrote a small collection of cutesy poems about nature fairies.

They were originally published in a children's column in the San Francisco Bulletin in 1915, and are apparently about a couple of fairy characters who paint flowers and bring dewdrops and bring about other natural phenomena. This post goes into more detail about the poems, and the interesting blend of practicality and whimsy that goes into her presentation of fairies.

It also provides one of the poems.

And this quote about the importance of giving children fairy tales that's almost Chestertonian.

Wilder explained why she preferred such magical images of natural processes in a column for the Missouri Ruralist called “Look for Fairies Now.” She argued that children needed tales of fairies to help them see beyond the surface and to use their imaginations. In the olden days, she explained, farmers left some of their harvest for the Little People who “worked hard in the ground to help the farmer grow his crops.” Perhaps this idea was just superstition, she continued, “but I leave it to you if it has not been proved true that where the ‘Little People’ of the soil are not fed the crops are poor. We call them different names now, nitrogen and humus and all the rest of it, but I always have preferred to think of them as fairy folk who must be treated right.

On the one hand, this feels like just another example of how it was apparently a requirement for female authors of a certain era to write cute nature fairy poems. But with the context of the quote, it's also surprisingly fitting for who she is as an author.

[cinewhore]

I have picture day at work Thursday and got my eyebrows done today in preparation.

I sent a picture to my mom and aunt.

“Where’s the picture after she did them?”

[silverselfshippingchaos]

LOOK AT HOW CUTE HE IS!!

[thorsenmark]

Of All the Many Happenings, Only the Flower Can Bring Such a Simple Beauty by Mark Stevens Via Flickr: An image captured walking along a path in a grassy meadow with wildflowers like the firewheel in bloom. My thoughts on composing this image was to find an angle using the LCD LiveView screen on my Nikon SLR camera with the flowers and have a balance across the image.

[talesfromthebandgeekmafia]

YouTube please I’m just trying to get more into cooking & have more substantive nutrition in my mornings than a granola bar & my ADHD meds stop trying to give me an eating disorder

[unsat-and-strange]

the pics are just off google but i miss the wildflowers in texas. during the spring and early summer huge patches of flowers would pop up next to the highway, you could be driving home and see stretches of blue interrupting the green. it only lasted a few weeks or so each year but i miss it

What's everyone's favourite flowers that aren't like. The normal ones. Like everyone's a fan of roses and sunflowers what's a more niche one. One you don't get in gift sets. Mine's sweet peas

[kil9]

the british have to stop trying to cook this is hell

[shreeisspecial]

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[mescortindividual]

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[intomybubble]

I might have looked not hard enough (but if it exists, I don’t think it would be hard to find), but I am shocked there isn’t something like a database for the Sims 4 that helps you find and filter items (by type, color, DLC) better than whatever they have in-game.

Like, oh I’m looking for which DLC has the best looking beds, as well as all the swatches they come in without having to find several videos of a Youtuber doing it for me and scrubbing for the exact timestamps. Or which DLC has a nice looking record player, or which have tattoos or piercings, or trying to find a certain hairstyle.

Yesterday I saw a YT short and saw this really cute double bed. I went though so much DLC on the EA website to look at all the default little thumbnails (I had to keep in mind the frame and number of pillows since it was one of the other swatches), only to find it in the High School Years expansion.

The game is 10 years old how was this not made. Especially for people who don’t want to get too deep into CC content and have to be picky about buying DLC.

Like, even Neopets has an unofficial database (jellyneo.net) that also tracks items (clothing, food, and other miscellaneous) worth on the marketplace and its still updating despite the site being a husk of itself since flash shut down and whatever was going on with the original Neopets owners years ago.

[thorsenmark]

Charlie Brown Posing for an Image in a Field of Wildflowers by Mark Stevens

[luveline]

Shy!reader and post prison Spence - the first time he calls her a pet name? I love that your Spencers always use “honey” or “dove” or “love” and we know she’d be a mess.

P.S. completely agree with how much I love the gentleness of your characters. The way you write Spencer in love is literally my favorite

ty for requesting <3 fem

“Are you sure it’s okay?” 

Spencer holds a hanging strap. You hold your own, core tense with the movement of the train. “I think I would’ve mentioned it before you got on the train if it weren’t.” 

You nod, glancing around the traincar at the other passengers. There's a stout lady wearing a large fluffy sweater, turquoise with two white kittens at her chest nuzzling one another in knit. A man with three bags of groceries sits just beside her. Further down, a teenage girl listens to music through leaking headphones, her phone reflecting blue light on her cheeks. 

“But are you sure I won’t be an imposition?” 

“You aren’t usually. I guess we won’t know until we get there.” 

“Maybe I should just find a hotel for the night.” 

“Y/N, I’m kidding. You’re not an imposition, it won’t be a problem. There’s enough room at my apartment for you to stay however long you want. Between all the books, that is.” 

It’s just not something you pictured asking him for. Your kitchen flooded in your apartment and the landlord had to put you up in a hotel until he could get someone in to make sure the stove wasn’t about to explode or catch light. But the idea of a hotel is rough torture —somewhere unfamiliar, living out of a suitcase, surrounded by people you don’t know without a door that locks properly. Spencer caught you sweating over it at your desk, pulling the story from you in reluctant drags with a hand on your shoulder. 

It’ll be okay, he said, you can just stay with me. 

Which is relieving and somehow a new can of worms to deal with. At least at a hotel there was no chance of seeing Spencer in a towel. Spencer seeing you in a towel, in your pyjamas, without your formal office protections. 

The worst part is the excitement. 

Terrified he’ll see it on your face, you stare at your shoes next to his. Spencer… Everyone told you he was a dork. When you joined the team in his absence, not once did you get the impression that the man who’d be coming back was like this. You feel like he’d been infantilised. Which isn’t to say he isn’t a dork, he is, he tells you the strangest things, facts or statistics to accompany each topic of the day, and he has all the manners and chivalry of someone who knows what it’s like to be as painfully shy as you are. But he isn’t shy. 

Autistic, he’d confided once. Probably. I’m better at dealing with it now. 

“You okay?” he asks. 

“Nervous.” 

“I know.” He grasps your arm as the train screeches on tracks, turning a tight bend. You’re grateful, but immediately flushed with heat. 

“I don’t want to embarrass myself.” 

“You couldn’t. I think I know you too well already.”

“You’ve known me for less time than the rest of the team, but you were the first person to offer me a place to stay.” You clench the rickety handle of your suitcase. “Thank you.” 

“That’s okay, angel.” He says it simply and softly, like you really are an angel. Something breathless to wait with. 

Angel, you think, heart skipping a beat, pulse slow and then suddenly ramped. 

His arm slips behind your back. “I don’t want you to stay in a hotel if it’s going to scare you. Besides, it’ll be fun. Like a sleepover.” He laughs. And you, despite your flush, heat sinking across your chest like a bruise, manage to laugh back. “I’ve never had one before.” 

“What?” 

“Never had a sleepover. I didn’t have any friends in school, and I haven’t had a girlfriend stay the night before.”

You look up at him with wide eyes, expecting a retraction. Not that you’re my girlfriend, not that you’re anything like that at all. 

He smiles at you. “Should we get takeout?”

“What were you thinking?” 

“There’s an Indian restaurant between the station and my apartment? We can stop in. Or we can order something to come. Or I can cook, if you want home cooked.” 

“No, it’s fine, you don’t have to cook–”

His lips turn to a quizzical pout. “I don’t mind.”

You want him to call you angel again. You want him to take you home, make you dinner, and you want to sleepover. Like a girlfriend, you want to wake up in his bed. 

“Sorry,” you breathe, “I think I’m just tired.” 

“Are you sure?” You nod. “Alright. I was worried you didn’t like the pet name, but your pupils dilated when I said it–”

You can’t escape him. One hand in the hanging strap above, the over on your suitcase handle, you have no choice but to stand there with his arm around you to keep you from falling, face so hot with it that you’re sure you’d be feverish to the touch. “It’s fine,” you say, too afraid to look at his face that you end up staring at the nice shape of his throat, his black and purple tie. “Call me what you want. Um, I think we should get Indian.” 

“Good choice, angel.” 

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[foldingfittedsheets]

No one made any distinction to me when I was growing up when a word wasn’t English. Andale was just another way to be told “hurry up,” and I was certain other parents told their kids, “Watch your cabesa,” when getting into the car. I laughed myself sick the first time I saw Dragon Ball Z because a ladies name was Chi Chi and I only knew that meant boobs.

All my moms family was brown and I desperately wished I was too. I wanted beautiful black hair like my mom and dark skin that didn’t burn. I didn’t like when people asked my mother if she was my nanny when they saw us together. I didn’t like that people told me I looked like my dad. They just meant I was pale.

I’d proudly announce to people that I was Mexican and become furious when they gaped or disbelieved me. My dads side has no cultural roots. When questioned my dad shrugs and says, “English maybe? I dunno.” I just wanted to be Mexican growing up. Alas, I’m only a quarter descendant of an immigrant family who vehemently didn’t want to be Mexican.

My great grandmother announced that we were American now, not Mexican. She embraced American culture as much as possible, while never learning English. My nana was put into school and punished anytime she spoke Spanish. She got caught halfway between both languages. Forced to spend her childhood raising her younger siblings she never learned to cook tamales with her mother and her friends.

When she had her own children she didn’t teach them Spanish. She used it to gossip with her own friends about them on the phone and resisted teaching them more than to come running when she shouted “Araña!” to kill a spider for her.

Thus came my mom, with her brown skin and dark hair, adrift from her culture but treated as lesser by her adopted one. My great grandmother would rejoice to see me as her descendant, white, ignorant of Spanish, the perfect American she wanted her family to be.

When I was born my nana shouted, “What’s that red on her?” only to realize it was my hair. She delighted in her palest grandchild, telling me often I was her favorite.

I’m used to the disbelief now when I tell people I’m Mexican. I can laugh and show pictures of my mom. My friend from work joked to me that I’m always coming out of the closet, over and over, because both my minority statuses aren’t as visible as her black skin.

I was recently lamenting this to a white southern friend the same one I cast psychic damage on during a DnD day. “I wish I could feel more connected to my culture, but I’d be such a fraud pretending my life is the same as other Hispanic people.”

“Skin color doesn’t matter,” he announced blithely to the choked outrage of our Indian friend in the kitchen, “You’re just as Mexican!”

I regarded him in astonishment and said, “I think skin color matters a lot. I am Mexican, but I don’t have the same cultural roots or experiences of people who are perceived as Mexican. My family didn’t pass the cultural heritage down. I think a lot of immigrant kids feel this way but it’s different for me.”

He rambled about how I’m just as valid and I quietly disregarded his advice. I could try to reconnect with my roots, but I know I’d just be another white girl pushing into a POC space.

Instead I make tamales by myself, sweating over the steaming corn husks, and I snap at people who make racist jokes about my family to me, feeling safe because my skin is the same color as theirs.