scrubbing floor

Just a few of the stories my great aunt told me about women in the 60s:

1) A woman she worked with at the hospital who had a baby with one of the ambulance drivers. When work found out they fired her (he kept his job). She tried to self-abort with a knitting needle.

2) The sister of one of her neighbours who wasn’t able to rent a room because she was a ‘fallen woman’.

3) A girl who got sent to a convent house and scrubbed floors until the day she gave birth. Her baby was given up for adoption without her consent.

4) Girls who had babies with priests.

5) Women who were on their fifth, sixth, seventh child, who had been pregnant for the best part of a decade, begging for sterilisation because their husbands wouldn’t wear a condom.

Banning abortion has never ever stopped it from happening. It’s just meant more stigma, more prejudice, more risks and more deaths.

Magickal Uses for Essential Oils ✨

Add to:

  • The bath 
  • The shower
  • Spell jars
  • Sachets 
  • Oil diffusers 
  • The washing machine 
  • Dryer sheets
  • Charged water

Make homemade:

  • Perfumes 
  • Salves
  • Lotions
  • Body soaps
  • Balms
  • Scrubs
  • Floor washes
  • Pest repellants 

Use to:

  • Anoint candles
  • Anoint yourself 
  • Anoint magickal tools 
  • Make elemental, planetary, or celestial oil blends

Aromatherapy, Memory, & Magick

So the Doctor Strange trailer is out.

I’ve been having a lot of conflicted feelings.  It’s definitely one of those situations where, yes, the original Strange was white!  But to think about what they could have done with this character…

So imagine.  An Asian med student. A Chinese guy getting mocked for being one of a thousand Chinese students, for thinking he’s going to be special. A Filipino guy getting laughed at and told to scrub the floors because that’s all he’s good for, doesn’t he know that he’d have to struggle to make nurse?  An Indian guy, keeping his head down and getting the work done while people make Apu accents at him. Imagine the work he puts into forcing his ethnicity behind him.  He stops speaking Mandarin at home. He starts throwing his mama’s pancit in the trash when she makes him take leftovers, instead of saving it for later.  He learns to love hamburgers, ignoring his great-grandma’s ghost in the back of his head and her horror at him consuming beef.

He finishes med school, gets his residencies behind him, and he was right all along– he is astoundingly skilled. A marvel.  Hopeless patients thrive under his hands.  But is he going to be recognized for that? Well, I mean, he’s Asian. He’s not special, they’re just meticulous like that. So the recognition comes, sure, but people make jokes, even his friends, about Surgeon Level: Asian.  And the ego and the anger build up, like nacre on a pearl, layer after layer of contempt as he gets better and better at his skills.  Contempt for the people around him. Contempt for the people who made him. Contempt for the people he saves. Contempt, all of it, for himself, for that nineteen-year-old pitching his mama’s pancit in the garbage before going to bed.

And then the accident happens.  And he’s an out-of-work Asian dude. No more the protection of his title, and everyday shit–people pulling their eyes at him or making small dick jokes, people doing racist accents and calling him any of a thousand slurs–hurt a lot more when he can’t say I’m a doctor. I’m above them. Because all the work he did, he’s never going to escape the color of his skin.

And a relative, his mom, his auntie, seeing the darkness growing deeper and deeper in him, says “Stephen. You need to go home for a while and get away from this. Rest.”  And he thinks about “home.”  He’s second or third generation American, this is his home, but the children of immigrants all know the longing for a place where we fit. Where our eyes aren’t out of place and our skin isn’t remarked upon, where we never have to hear “Where are you from?”  He thinks about being five years old, his hand–broken now, aching–small in his mother’s as she walked him down a bright street.   He smells adobo at random, out of nowhere, another ghost calling to him. He thinks about when things were simpler, and despite his contempt for himself, for his mother’s people and his roots, he books a plane ticket.

And the plane is full of people speaking the language he’s stopped speaking to his mother, the language he was never really steady in anyway.  And something about it is comforting, and that scares him.  Everything he worked so  hard to be, all in threads at the sound of the young mother five rows ahead of him singing softly in Tagalog to her little boy.

He’s been so angry and so sick  in himself for the months since the accident that relaxing feels wrong. But the air here smells right–the second he steps off the plane it’s like he fills up a pair of lungs that have been gasping for a decade. How stressful it is, to feel better and hate yourself for feeling better.  

He walks the roads his mama took him on thirty years ago, and they’re busier than they were, the cars are louder, but the sameness of it all is dizzying. He checks the paper his mother gave him, the names and the addresses, and loathing himself he goes to an acupuncturist, to a reiki master, to practitioner after practitioner, and he hates them. I’m a doctor,  I’m a doctor, these people are all quacks and fucking idiots. he thinks, but his heart is in rags and his hands are twisted on each other like the nightmares of an arthritic, and so he goes.

Imagine, when he finally finds the Ancient One. Imagine that the Ancient One has his great-grandmother’s eyes, that the language the Ancient One speaks is the one Strange learned at his mama’s knee and threw away.  Imagine that the Ancient One–female or male–is dark of skin, wears their traditional clothing as casually as Strange wears a T-shirt, offers Strange a bowl of adobo and the steam rising off of it it smells just like it always did…

Imagine Strange coming full circle, back to his roots, back to the place in himself that he’s ignored and beaten down for all these years. Imagine him looking at the history that belongs to him and claiming it. Imagine him being still, yes, American. But honest to himself. No longer fighting to be white, no longer fighting to play by the rules of white people, recognizing that there’s power where he came from and it belongs to him. Imagine what it it feels like, to have that sudden knowledge opening inside your chest, to have the shame over your dark skin and your narrow wrists and your almond eyes washed away by certainty and confidence and a clean pride that bears no resemblance to the ego of the master surgeon.

But no.  We’re getting fucking Cumberbatch.

And don’t even get me started on Tilda Swinton…

Imagine a Gryffindor and a Slytherin who both embody every stereotype of their house. They end up getting paired together in potions class, and they abhor one another. They fight over everything and end up getting into a fight one lesson, and after the Slytherin hexes the Gryffindor, the latter dunks the former’s head into the cauldron. Snape gives them both detention for a week, and on the second night he has to leave early, but he threatens them if they misbehave. Both students are slightly scared of the professor, so they continue scrubbing the classroom floors.

They end up talking to each other, and they find out that they both hate Snape and they both think Dumbledore is a little mad. Miraculously, they start to bond, and by the end of the week’s detentions, they’re friends. But of course, if anyone knew they didn’t hate each other, they would be ruined. So they stage little fights that get them detention together throughout the year. And at the end of the year they realize they’re in love.

The two visit each other over the summer, and over the next couple years they date in secret until their seventh year when the Gryffindor surprises everyone and bends down on one knee in the Great Hall.

Years later, the couple’s pair of twins start their first year at Hogwarts. They’re sure that their children will either be in Slytherin or Gryffindor, and they don’t care which.

But to their surprise, the girl is sorted into Ravenclaw. She says the hat told her she was in Ravenclaw because she had been raised to be open minded, accepting, unique, and just a little eccentric. She also didn’t have a bad mind.

And the boy is sorted into Hufflepuff because the hat told him he had been raised to be kind, fair, hard-working, and to treat everyone the same, no matter their label.

And so the Gryffindor and Slytherin who started out embodying their houses’ stereotypes became the family who broke all stereotypes.

Making An Effort

Because I woke up today and felt like writing James/Lily fluff.  Also on Ao3!

“I cannot believe you got us both detention,” Lily hissed.  She was on her hands and knees down the hall, scrubbing— without magic— at the ink stains on the floor.

“You were there too,” James drawled, although his brain was considerably more preoccupied than he sounded.  He hadn’t intended for Filch to catch him seeing if Sirius could catch a half a dozen inkwells thrown the length of a hall, and he certainly hadn’t intended for Evans to get mixed up in it.  It was all Sirius’ fault for falling through the tapestry into the next corridor just as Evans came around the corner.  And he definitely had never imagined that Evans would not only snatch one out of thin air like a Seeker but also throw it back, something that startled him so badly he missed— and he never, ever missed.  Even worse, Slughorn’s party was tonight and if he didn’t finish scrubbing the floor soon, he wouldn’t have time to get ready.

And it was very, very important that he look his best at the Christmas party.  Mostly for reasons that were three meters away and furious with him.

“Not my fault you missed,” she sneered.  “How was I supposed to know that James Potter would turn out to be a butterfingers?”

“I am not a butterfingers,” he replied hotly, instantly regretting it.   Way to play it cool, mate, a voice in his head that sounded like Sirius laughed.   That was definitely a top ten comeback.  They’ll be writing books about that one for years.

Lily rolled her eyes and tossed her brush into the bucket.  “My half is done,” she announced, and James looked at the stains still scattered around him.

“No fair, you grew up with Muggles— you know how to do this,” he whined, and again he could hear Sirius chuckling in his head.

“That does not sound even remotely like my problem,” Lily said with a toss of her hair.  “Now, if you’ll excuse me, there’s other things I’d rather be doing than spending time with you.”

Her last retort ringing in his ears, James watched Lily waltz away and then returned to his task.

Keep reading

I hear men
swear with their mother’s mouth,
that they will never demean themselves
by engaging in woman’s work.
I watch women blisters and all scrubbing floors, washing toilets, cooking, mending, folding,
and breaking for the men they love.
He says in one argument or another
“ do you know that the prophet said, if he could order any human to fall into sadjda for anyone but Allah, it would be wives to their husbands.”
He says this with his mother’s mouth,
her perfect teeth sit behind his full lips,
her eyes sit deep on his perfect brown face.
I see her cringe behind his eyes.
I wonder how a man who looks so much like his mother, could resent her so fully.
—  Key Ballah, silent misogyny
As Granny Weatherwax once said, if you wanted to walk around with your head in the air, then you needed to have both feet on the ground.  Scrubbing floors, cutting wood, washing clothes, making cheese–these things grounded you, taught you what was real.  You could set a small part of your mind to them, giving your thoughts time to line up and settle down.
—  Terry Pratchett, “Wintersmith”

Headcanon that Bucky cleans in order to vent anxiety

He’s been neat and fastidious his entire life – it’s always been a part of his personality. Clutter has always made him kind of anxious/frustrated.

But after breaking his Hydra programming he sometimes gets so anxious that he has compulsions to scour his entire living space.

It often comes to a head when he’s had a long depressive episode and let his regular upkeep slip and everything is just loose and vaguely covered in dust and grime from every day life. (Not necessary dirty – just not clean.) Often there’s just too much going on inside Bucky’s skull and he can’t make it quiet or neat or logical so maybe he can make it marginally better by quieting and ordering and sterilizing his surroundings.

Sometimes Steve will come home and entire place will be so saturated with bleach that his eyes burn. There are absolutely no knick knacks or personal items out anywhere – all the surfaces are totally bare. Buck has either stowed everything away somewhere or, on a few particularly rough occasions, thrown away/destroyed all ephemera with extreme prejudice.

BloodLust - II

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7

Genre: Drama/Supernatural

Word Count: 2606

Warnings: Mentions of blood

A day had passed since your chilling encounter with Mr Byun, and the fear he had fabricated still remained clear as day within your being. So, you weren’t exactly comfortable when you were instructed to clean his office as he watched intently from behind his desk. He had allowed you to draw back the curtains so you could work. Sunlight streamed into the room, the direct rays illuminating a rectangular patch on the stone floor, parallel to the desk. Mr Byun remained seated in the shadows, watching and waiting.

His attire was less formal than usual, black slacks paired with a dark button up which was half unbuttoned, revealing his milky chest. He clutched a glass within his slim fingers, periodically sipping the dark red liquid that filled it. His lips were stained from the wine - as they usually were - and his face was sunken, but still handsome as ever.

You were bent over on all fours, scrubbing the stone floor in silence with your head angled down, avoiding his harrowing stare. You moved along at a slow but gradual pace, tackling each section of the dusty ground one by one. Eventually, you crossed the rectangle of light that shone onto the floor, and moved into the darkness of the room.

Keep reading


John Shelby x Reader

(Not my photo, credit goes to its owner/s)

It’s funny how when you’re a child you never think you’ll be doing exactly what your mother did day in and day out, you couldn’t help but reflect on this as you were scrubbing the landing floor of your new home with the a hint of a smile on your face. Getting up, you wiped your brow as you began stretching your legs which were beginning to ache after crouching down for so long. However you underestimated how close you were to the metal bucket as you clipped it slightly with your foot sending it crashing down the stairs following the path of its soapy contents.

“SHIT SHIT SHIT!” You cried out in frustration as you stood staring in disbelief at the newly formed mess.

“(Y/N) Are you ok? What happened? Where are you? John - your new husband - shouted in concern as he came racing towards the bottom of the stairs.

"I’m ok John, I only went and bloody kicked the bucket didn’t I!” You huffed in return, showing how annoyed at yourself you were.

“ I hope not love, I only just married you.” He chuckled at the idiom that you clearly hadn’t caught on to.

“Oh very funny Johnnykins, now make yourself useful and help me clear this up will you.” You mocked a laugh whilst chucking him a cloth.

“ I don’t know why you bother doing this when I can hire a cleaner, we can afford it now with all this money coming in from Tommy’s new dealings.” John offered walking up as he soaked up the water from one step to the next.

“I’m pretty sure the cleaner doesn’t really want to be cleaning up my sick.” You laughed. “I think that’s the fourth morning I’ve puked on or around that spot, I reckon I’m going to have to see the doctor if it continues.”

John suddenly stopped still just two steps below you. “You never told me this, I assumed you were just eager about cleaning the floors. You don’t think you could be………” He paused, hoping you’d catch on to what he was trying to say.

“Pregnant?” You finished off, cupping his hopeful face in your hands as you used the extra height to your advantage.
“I suspect so, I wanted to wait until I had official confirmation before I told you.”

“Darlin’ I love you so goddamn much!” John said joyfully as he brought you down to give you a searing kiss, making you melt instantly at the touch of his lips. You were convinced he had tears welling in his eyes as he pulled away. “God I’ve gotta go tell Tommy and the lads, you wait till they hear this.” He said excitably as he ran down the stairs only to run straight back up to give you one last peck on the lips.

Society has romanticized the barista. Making good coffee is an art, but it’s also hard work. We use machines, mop floors, scrub dishes, think fast, and move fast. We are underpaid and work long hours.  Next time you see a photo of a pretty latte, know that the art isn’t the only part of our job.
—  Confession #71

House Stark Meme ★ [1/5] Starks - Robb Stark
My father once told me that being a Lord is like being a father, except you have thousands of children and you worry about all of them. The farmers plowing the fields are yours to protect. The charwomen scrubbing the floors, yours to protect. The soldiers you order into battle. He told me he woke with fear in the morning and went to bed with fear in the night. I didn’t believe him. I asked him, “How can a man be brave if he’s afraid?” “That is the only time a man can be brave,” he told me.

Buster preparing for Nana's visit (Parody)

Buster: We’re going to clean the theater NOW! Now Now people!

Buster: *scrubbing floor* I want this please looking like Disney on Ice in one minute

Buster: Ash if you haven’t found your dress yet actually throw it away it’s too late to put it on now!

Buster: Company is coming!!

Buster: Help me, help me get rid of the couch we can’t let Nana know we SIT!

Buster: The theater chairs need to be pushed into its place. There cannot be any sign of living in this theater!

Buster: *puts water hose into huge stage glass tank* I don’t care if we have to throw everything out, I want this place looking like a new Mediterranean fusion resturant by noon!

Buster: *Turns on hose* aaaAAAAAA-

Buster: Ms. Crawley I want the piano looking like one of those chairs from the Men in Black headquarters.

Buster: Curtains, we need the curtains, not red towels! What are we, Barbarians?!

Buster: We have to go to the witness protection program folks!

Buster: *Turns off hose* Okay, cancel Meena to come we’re good! *looks around to see 2 people missing* Where are the rest of thE CONSTESTANTS?!-

Buster: *sighs* Okay how does it feel?…I want to walk around the store-

Buster: *carrying plants* Gunter get these plants out of here.

Buster: *points at shoes* put these in the cUBBIES!-

(Parody of ‘Company is Coming!’)

(I do not own anything (except this post :p) )