Hi! My name is Katie.

Fandom + Feminism + Puppies + Random = My Blog

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astairical:

Although much has been said about the famous “feathers” incident on the set of Top Hat, the dress incident between Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in “Let’s Face the Music and Dance” deserves equal mention. In his autobiography, Astaire stated: 

In this number, Ginger came up with a beaded gown which was surely designed for anything but dancing. I saw it before shooting of the number started, and I tried a few steps with Ginger. It was a good-looking dress but very heavy, I thought—one solid mass of beads. Ginger said it would work fine, and I, in an absent-minded moment, agreed it would be all right. The dress had heavy beaded sleeves that hung down from the wrists, which I hadn’t bargained for. When Ginger did a quick turn, the sleeves, which must have weighed a few pounds each, would fly—necessitating a quick dodge by me. 
If I didn’t duck I’d get the sleeve in the face. 
After a few rehearsals with this creation, I thought I had mastered the menance. When shooting of the number started, things went smoothly in the first take for about fifteen seconds. Then Ginger gave out with some special kind of a twist and I got the flying sleeve smack on the jaw and partly in the eye. I kept on dancing, although somewhat maimed. 
We designed the number as a four-minute dance to be shot in one piece with no cuts, and we came to the end of it with me still in a daze. As usual, at the end of the take the director and everybody asked, “How was it for you?” 
Ginger answered, “It was all right for me—Fred, how about you?” 
I replied that I didn’t remember anything about the take— that I had been knocked groggy in the first round.

astairical:

Although much has been said about the famous “feathers” incident on the set of Top Hat, the dress incident between Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers in “Let’s Face the Music and Dance” deserves equal mention. In his autobiography, Astaire stated: 

In this number, Ginger came up with a beaded gown which was surely designed for anything but dancing. I saw it before shooting of the number started, and I tried a few steps with Ginger. It was a good-looking dress but very heavy, I thought—one solid mass of beads. Ginger said it would work fine, and I, in an absent-minded moment, agreed it would be all right. The dress had heavy beaded sleeves that hung down from the wrists, which I hadn’t bargained for. When Ginger did a quick turn, the sleeves, which must have weighed a few pounds each, would fly—necessitating a quick dodge by me.

If I didn’t duck I’d get the sleeve in the face.

After a few rehearsals with this creation, I thought I had mastered the menance. When shooting of the number started, things went smoothly in the first take for about fifteen seconds. Then Ginger gave out with some special kind of a twist and I got the flying sleeve smack on the jaw and partly in the eye. I kept on dancing, although somewhat maimed.

We designed the number as a four-minute dance to be shot in one piece with no cuts, and we came to the end of it with me still in a daze. As usual, at the end of the take the director and everybody asked, “How was it for you?”

Ginger answered, “It was all right for me—Fred, how about you?”

I replied that I didn’t remember anything about the take— that I had been knocked groggy in the first round.

jadrastic:

stupidfuckingquestions:

Here’s the story (x)

So, this is a story from an American perspective. I used to work at a museum and women would constantly come up to me (a woman, and one of the few non-teenagers on the floor) and ask me, shyly, if we had a “place” they were “allowed” to breastfeed.

I took great delight in informing them that we did have a “private room” in the toddler area for such use if they required privacy — but that they were more than welcome to breastfeed their children wherever they liked on the museum grounds, and that if anyone — another guest/a misinformed employee — gave them grief or told them otherwise, to inform them to come see me. I lost count of the number of women (many a good deal older than I at the time) who, when told they were “allowed” to breastfeed wherever they liked without fear of being shoo’d away by an employee, stared at me in awe and said “Really? We’re allowed to do that in public?”

Now, keep in mind, the museum I worked at was aimed towards families with children. You’d think such a place would allow breastfeeding — only apparently, not everyone thought the same (kudos to my workplace for that, btw). So I did some researching, and was happy to see that no states have laws in place strictly forbidding breastfeeding in public. But…

If a state does not have a law protecting breastfeeding mothers, a privately owned store or restaurant can lawfully ask a nursing mother to leave the premises. If the mother refuses to leave, the owner can call the police and have her arrested for trespassing. Without a law protecting a nursing mother, a woman that is breastfeeding in a public park or state owned property risks being asked to leave by the police and in some instances has been charged with some form of indecent exposure. (x)

This ties in quite well with the double-standard on indecent exposure when women choose to go topless on a hot day and can be (at the very least) verbally (or worse) harassed or arrested, yet men are free to run around without shirts all they like without anyone blinking an eye or looking twice (well, okay, if you think he’s attractive, you might look twice. But I doubt you’d yell a sexual invitation across the street or call the police.). Hell, even with clothes on I don’t have to explain to anyone how women get harassed (re: Everyday Sexism Project) on a daily basis.

It saddens me greatly that this is still an issue (breastfeeding, among other things). Women who breastfeed are exercising a biological function. Breasts were not created for men to leer at, grab, fuck, or otherwise manipulate. Sure, some men (and women) like to do those things, and some (most?) women like to do it too (or at least are happy to allow it) with their partners. But female breasts evolved with the specific purpose of feeding our young. It’s the healthiest way to feed a child, and I applaud women (who are able) to do so for the health of their children. 

Do you really think an infant gives a damn if its mother is in the middle of a museum tour with her family or at the supermarket buying food or at work meeting? No. When baby is hungry, baby is hungry. It should not be a fucking spectacle whenever a woman has to feed her child, no matter where the fuck she is.

Delete her number.

Stop ringing her. Stop messaging her. Stop making excuses to see her, to drop by her place.

Erase her name from memory. Remove yourself from her life, more completely than you would like but as completely as she deserves. Move on, so that you can allow her to also move on. When you close your eyes, you don’t get to see her face. Not anymore. You don’t get to think about her lips, the warm glow of her skin when she rests next to you, or how she squeezes your hand in her sleep. You are not allowed to remember the smell of her perfume, that she only drinks mint tea (with two dollops of honey), or that she loves you.

She loves you.

She has been in love with you for too long.

So, forget how she says your name. Forget how she calls your name. Forget how she screams your name. Forget that time you got sick and she stayed up with you all night, letting you lay your head in her lap and holding a cold compress to your forehead. Forget how her hair feels in your fingers. Forget how she looks in your sweatshirts.

Forget her.

Know only that she existed at one point in your life, but relinquish all hope that she could exist at another point — sometime in the future that you are unwilling to specify because you don’t know what you want. Yet. It is not fair for you to swoop in and out of her life as you choose. It is not fair for you to say that you are satisfied with “things as they are” and you will have time to “figure it out” later. Let her stop investing emotionally in you. Let her pour that love and care into the people who deserve her.

Don’t tell her that you think about her all the time. Don’t tell her that it bothers you to hear about her with other people, but that you’re willing to understand as long as she likes you more than them. Don’t tell her that this isn’t the right moment but that there will be a right moment. There is not going to be a right moment. She shouldn’t have to wait for the right moment.

Don’t tell her that you can’t handle ultimatums, that you don’t like the idea of finally adding finality to your relationship — whatever still remains of it.

What you are telling her is that you want to keep her on as an option, that you are taking her for granted, that you want to know she will be there, that you can depend on her at the end of the day. When you find that no one else has stuck around or that those who have are less interesting, less thoughtful, or less doggedly loyal to you.

Doggedly loyal to you.

That is what she has been to you, for you almost as long as you have known her: a constant emotional crutch, the guarantee of stability, a safety net while you reach out to grasp objects that sparkle and shine far greater than she does. All that glitters is not gold, haven’t you heard?

She is fire. You are ice, and you are afraid that her slow burn will smolder your cool, hard demeanor. That’s what has driven your decisions, your actions all along: fear. You are a coward. You are a hypocrite. You are terrified to let her go, but you are afraid she is too good for you, that she could drive you wild, that you would choke on her flames. That she is too much for you to handle right now.

Right now.

But if you choose not to love her now, you can’t choose to love her later.

for you (via sourientmesbeaux)

(Source: laurenhooper)

People of all sexes have the right to explore femininity, masculinity—and the infinite variations between—without criticism or ridicule.

Leslie Feinberg (via ellielamothe)

(Source: petty-thief)

fat-sweatpants-and-chocolate:

adventuresonpaper:

booktown:

adventuresonpaper:

booktown:

HOW DO PEOPLE READ WITH THE SLEEVE ON THE HARD COVER BOOK?! i JUST CAN’T

IDK I JUST FEEL WEIRD WHEN ITS NOT ON

I JUST FEEL SO MUCH MORE RELAXED WHEN THE BOOK’S NOT WEARING CLOTHES TO IMPRESS ME. JUST THE HARD BOOK IN MY HANDS

THIS JUST GOT SEXUAL REALLY QUICKLY 

image

cynique:

popculturebrain:

Leading Men Age, Leading Women Don’t | Vulture

There are more charts if you click through.

I’m so glad this info graphic is going around, because so many people don’t realize how ageism and misogyny play hand in hand and how the sexualization of young girls play into this.

aneternalscoutandabrownie:

jamesmdavisson:

So far, I have been enjoying the Adventures of Business Cat a great deal, possibly more than is appropriate for an adult human. (All of these are from the webcomic Happy Jar)

UPDATE: Now with more Business.

YES ALL THE BUSINESS CAT STRIPS IN ONE PLACE