bee quilt

an assortment of lines from the movie “hoodwinked” in no particular order
  • “You AGAIN?! What do I have to do, get a restraining order?!”
  • “You sayin’ this guy’s a cop?!” “Worse. He’s a reporter.”
  • “I’m getting schnitzel’d left and right. I cannot even sell the bunion cream!”
  • “I wanna do an expose. Maybe a coffeebook – I don’t drink coffee, maybe a chai tea latte book.”
  • “The only crime I’ve ever committed is making my goodies unlawfully delicious!”
  • “I noticed you have three G’s tattooed onto the back of your neck. That’s appropriate, since there are three strikes against you.”
  • “I just wanna go home and hibernate.”
  • “It’s true. I never did like the quilting bees and the bingo parlors. I’d rather live life to the extreme.”
  • “Grandma, what’s this?” “Oh! I-It says ‘World’s Greatest Grandma’!” “Grandma, I can read. It says, 'Battle of the Iron Cage Gladiators’.”
  • “Sweet tea and biscuits! We gotta do something!” “I know. The song was catchy, but the choreography was terrible.”

anonymous asked:

i called mo rielly daddy accidentally in front of my dad and he like did that thing where he looked at me really slowly and he was like "who do you think you're calling daddy? morgan rielly doesn't pay your bills. morgan rielly didn't dance with you at homecoming because your date threw up and had to go home. morgan RiElLy did not teach you how to drive" and he's been bitter about it for months and it's the funniest thing that ever happened to me i'm still yelling bc he doesn't understand

tell your dad that mo rielly was your miner husband from another lifetime

“Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. These two Church Amish women are engaged in quilting. Quilting bees are popular in this area. Notice the illuminated family record on the wall.“ 3/20/1941

Rusinow, Irving, Photographer . Series: Photographic Prints Documenting Programs and Activities of the Bureau of Agricultural Economics and Predecessor Agencies, ca. 1922 - ca. 1947. Record Group 83: Records of the Bureau of Agricultural Economics, 1876 - 1959 

Find more photos from Pennsylvania’s Lancaster County by photographer Irving Rusinow in the National Archives Catalog »

ShAmy : The “Best OTP ever” Progression

Sheldon: All right, fine. Let’s just play.

Leonard: We should go easy on him. Amy’s out with Stuart tonight.

Howard: Wait a minute. Are you telling me that Sheldon’s patented blend of condescension and no sex isn’t enough to hold on to a woman?

Sheldon: Cluck, cluck, cluck. What are we, ladies at a quilting bee? Or are we men playing a fantasy card game set in a magical frontier town?

Howard: Sorry. Creepy Tepee.

Raj: Annie Ogly.

Leonard: Hocus Pocus Pocahontas.

Sheldon: And may I point out it is the three of you who are obsessed with Stuart and Amy, not me. I think you need to ask yourselves who’s really being ridiculous here. (Walks away with spurs jangling)

Leonard: It’s you.

Howard: You are.

Raj: Totally you.

05 x 10 – The Flaming Spittoon Acquisition

perplexistan replied to your post: ok Real Talk: the work of GA’s I really want to…

Whaaat? I didn’t even know this was a thing.

I have a feeling not many people do! It wasn’t promoted much when it came out (2011) and it’s never been available on US Amazon or Netflix streaming. You’d think it would have made its way on there. 

William Hurt plays Ahab. Ethan Hawke is Starbuck. She’s in the first half only. The second part is all hunting whales and man vs nature. Suit yourself, I would rather have watched Gillian Anderson go to a quilting bee on Nantucket…

Gillian as Elizabeth: 

This quote isn’t from a child and, it’s not really a quote at all. instead, it’s a song sung from a dad to his four children before bed. I have had the pleasure of doing several pieces of art for Monica Cooley of Dallas, TX and this is one of the sweetest. Here is what she says about the song:
“This is a song my dad would sing to Brahms Lullaby: Go to sweep, Wittle peep, Go to sweep in the forest, Where the birds are, And the bumblebees, And the grizzly bears are, too. My dad is a tough man, but has a soft side that would come out at bedtime when he would sing his made-up songs about Montana (where we grew up) and the mountains.”
She goes on to say that her father is a cross between the Marlboro Man and Clint Eastwood. He played college football (for Nebraska! Go Huskers!), was in the Air Force and built their mountain home with his own hands. So to imagine this song being sung by a man like that is even sweeter than it sounds.
Thanks so much, Monica!

All The Nonsense of Suffering

Bethany Peters will tell you about the time her daughter crawled into the sewer pipe at the creek in the backyard and came out the other end at the waste treatment plant speaking in tongues. Her daughter was three years old at the time, and Bethany says she has dyslexia. Bethany Peters will tell you about how Christ came into her own life at a time when she considered prostitution. No one asks how she would have made such a living in Pickerel Lake, Michigan population 2,572 where downtown is an abandoned strip mall hosting weekend flea markets where you can get last year’s calendars at half-price (people collect them for the pictures).
      Bethany Peters will tell you about her first encounter with the Devil, at Morris Street near the P.O., where the stoplight was a stop sign in 1985. She had her groceries in a paper bag, and a carrot stick in her mouth, when the Devil (disguised as a house painter in overalls, with a dirty clergy collar) jaywalked from across the street and said, “Ma'am, can I borrow your spirit for a minute?” Bethany Peters was as big a woman then as she is now. She put her weight forward and said, “No sir, I believe I am redeemed by the blood of the Lamb,” and she dropped her groceries and slugged him in the gut. No one witnessed the event, but Mr. Terry (who’d driven in from the farm for a quick shave at Sam’s) later found Bethany flat on her back on the crabgrass by the P.O. Her groceries were all over the street: a can of evaporated milk, six packs of Nilla Wafers, and a jar of sweet pickled ginger for her daughter, who was six at the time. Bethany gave her testimony the next Sunday, and pastor Bob made her a church deaconess.
      She will tell you she always gets what she prays for. She will tell you she is part of the royal priesthood of God. She will tell you about the time she came home from church and found a wolverine in her kitchen, eating the bread biscuits she’d made for the Christian woman’s quilting bee. She’ll tell you how she got him out: by shaking her ceramic chimes from the patio, singing the hymn, “Christ is made the sure foundation,” which scared him out the front door, since Bethany Peters is tone deaf.
      She will tell you, without flinching, how her husband died; she isn’t squeamish. She doesn’t mind blood, other people’s or her own. She will tell you he was found crushed by a snow plow, having passed out in a drift near the Dutch Oven Bakery. His body was found in three equal parts. He was a contractor and a gambler and an alcoholic and sometimes he hit her in the face with his Sunday slippers. Bethany told everyone this in open confession at church many years later. “It really didn’t hurt at all,” she wept over the microphone. “But my spirit has never recovered.” The other members crept around her, laying on their hands, praying for emotional healing, reconciliation, and for Christ’s quick return, which will destroy all the nonsense of suffering, once and for all. Bethany cried and cried. She will tell you she never cried so much as then.
     She will tell you she is dieting, even though she eats what she likes. She is a big woman. Her body is as wide as a water heater, and her breasts hang like long water balloons to her middle, concealed in a variety of calico dresses made at Joanne’s Fabrics. She will tell you she has a younger brother named Guy, a small man with a handsome space between his two front teeth who is not a believer. He has been married three times, and now he runs a liquor store in the U.P. Bethany will tell you that we are all held accountable for what we know, and that God is merciful. She will not say much more about it, though.
      What she will tell you is this: her daughter got accepted to a state university after three years of community college. She is studying criminal law, although Bethany was hoping for something less serious: Home Economics, Physical Therapy, or religious studies. She will tell you that her daughter is the apple of her eye, as Elijah was the Apple of God’s eye. She will tell you she is glad she didn’t have boys, because boys grow up hating their mothers until they are adults, and then they overcompensate for the rest of their lives, calling long distance on weekends, or sending gift packets and coupons for hair conditioners in the mail. Bethany Peters will tell you she would not trade motherhood for all the hair conditioners of the world.
      Bethany will tell you about Joshua and the battle of Jericho; she will tell you Jesus drove seven demons out of Mary Magdalene; she will tell you the genealogy of Saul the Benjamite, from memory; she will tell you that Moses never said to Pharaoh, “Let my People go,” because Aaron did. She will tell you that Jesus’ last words were not “It is finished,” but “I finally did it!” She will tell you he died of dehydration, the most natural consequence. “Drink eight glasses a day,” she will tell anyone she meets at the supermarket. She will tell you about the abundance of mercy or the peace that passeth understanding. She will tell you about justification through grace and the atonement of sins. She will tell you she is happy to see you, and God bless.
     What Bethany Peters won’t tell you is that her mother was Jewish and her father was a soda salesman, with a head as bald as a baseball who spent his afternoons at the off-track betting depot in Muskegon. She won’t tell you about the time when she was four and her Uncle Joe took off his clothes in front of her when getting ready for the bath. She won’t tell you about the time in seventh grade when she broke Melissa Bricker’s nose with her physics notebook. She won’t tell you she didn’t start her period until she was sixteen. She never told anyone about that. She never told anyone about the time she stole money from her husband to buy a wrist watch with a compass, because she’d always wanted to know where she was going. She won’t tell you she hates black people, at least not in so many words. She won’t tell you she prefers women in dresses and men in hats, or that she threw a fit the day they let the girls wear slacks in church. She won’t tell you she is diabetic, and that she takes medication before bed. She won’t tell you she has a gun under the floorboards in the pantry. She won’t tell you about her miscarriage when she was twenty-seven or that she gave it a name: Lily Rose Peters. She will never tell you about the time she caught her daughter heavy petting on the back porch with Jeremy Keyswater. She will never tell you about the time she hit a doe with her husband’s Jeep, and backed up over it to put it out of it’s misery. She will never tell you that she hasn’t shaved her legs in sixteen years. She will never tell you how she lost her front teeth when her husband jabbed her with his elbow. She will never tell you she is sorry but she doesn’t have time to talk right now. And she will never tell you about the two German Shepherds she keeps in the cellar, tied to the furnace with rope, their mouths shut with duct tape, or how she feeds them Oleson’s day old steaks and tomato juice, hitting them with kindling or snapping their sides with a hot wet rag, nourishing their tempers, and in the end times, when the world is one big riot, she will loose them on the antichrist, once and for all.

Sufjan Stevens (New School Literary Journal)

A Michigan native currently living in New York City, Sufjan Stevens is a graphic designer, an amateur seamster, a crocheter of ski caps, and a writer of short fiction. He has an M.F.A. in Creative Writing from The New School. Having once studied oboe technique and reed making at Interlochen Academy of Music, Sufjan has since given up the double reed for the electric guitar.

Woah, thanks everyone! That’s way more notes than I’ve seen before, glad people like it!

A wave to my new followers, thanks for following me, I’m feeling the pressure now to on my future posts. I’ve got one more bee thing to show when it’s done, just a little book made from the research on bees that I did for this project. It’s my last evening class next week so that might be it for a while… although I’ve got another project on the go looming….

And having said that, I’ve still got a few bees leftover and I think the prints would make really sweet cushions…

Vuvalini culture on Capable’s shoulders

I have some feels about Capable’s shawl/cloak/blanket here.

On first glance it is a great costuming choice that complements her hair and gives her character a bit of Vuvalini flavor (as all the sisters acquire).

But if we apply some meta to the situation… This blanket (I think I’ll go with this term) looks like it has been hand embroidered, probably a post-apocalypse creation. Was it stitched by one member of the tribe or multiple people? I would like to think multiple Vuvalini had a hand in its creation, quilting bee style.

How did they create this art? Perhaps they had a stash of thread. Perhaps they unraveled old pieces of clothing. Maybe they were growing, spinning, and dyeing flax or cotton in the Green Place. The base material may have been a remnant of blanket or even tablecloth from the before times (or they found an underground mall with the Aussie equivalent of Jo-Ann’s).

They also chose to incorporate flowers and vining organic motifs… which makes sense given the strong gardening/growing culture they embody. However, perhaps it can be read as a journal or portrait of the flora from their old home.

That’s where the feels come in. I imagine a group of women sitting in their encampment, worn from the work of the day but using the last hours of sunlight to work on their beautiful flowers and vines in colorful thread. They swap stories, jokes, remember old friends and relatives who taught them this craft. It is a reminder of better days and a hope that the future will bring something brighter, a world that can appreciate the gentle and lovely parts of life. They finish the piece and pack it carefully in a saddlebag, to be carefully preserved. It survives as the Green Place becomes a faded memory and is passed from woman to woman as the group grows smaller. It is nearly left behind as more space is given to pure survival and weaponry, but remains, almost forgotten in the bottom of a bag.

Then one day, a war rig drives up, carrying a strange family including a sister with brilliant red hair. One of the Vuvalini remembers the colorful blanket and knows exactly where it belongs. Capable is the chosen bearer of all the hopes and dreams that the blanket embodies. Cue feels.

* Image edit from @dailyfuryroad