so my crush is this girl I’m friends with. our first interaction online was her and I agreeing not to tell anyone about our ~queerness~ bc people are idiots at my school. I realised I was utterly in love with her during a The xx concert where they played the song angels and it was beautiful and it was raining and I was drunk and she’s perfect. Absolutely and utterly imperfectly perfect and the best part is that we’re trying to make it work and god I am so head over heals
That’s so sweet, I’m glad you’re going to give it a try, you sound like a lovely couple, and I hope ignorant people don’t get you down too much
One of my favorite works in the Rijksmuseum must be this one. The stunning 17th century dollhouse that belonged to Petronella Oortman (1656-1716)
Petronella Oortman was a wealthy woman in the Dutch Golden Age married to Johannes Brandt, the couple lived in Amsterdam in the Warmoestraat. The gentlemen of that time often had a cabinet of curiousities (wunderkammer) where they’d keep a collection of objects, often acquired on their travels. You can see such a cabinet in the small reception room on the lower right. Similarly Petronella Oortman, just like many other wealthy women back then, had a dollhouse built for her in the form of such a cabinet. The cabinet, made of tortoiseshell and decorated with pewter inlays, was build by a French cabinetmaker working in Amsterdam at the time. Petronella curated her dollhouse between 1686 and 1710, making sure it was absolutely perfect. It’s estimated that she spent between 20.000 and 30.000 gulden on it, a sum sufficient to buy a canal house with at the time. The proportions of the dollhouse are exactly correct and all the contents have been made of authentic materials; Petronella had the porcelain plates, in the lower left picture, made for her in China. And she had the Dutch Golden Age artist Willem Frederiksz van Royen paint a mural in the game room and Johannes Voorhout decorate the tapestry room. This dollhouse is supposed to show the idealized version of Petronella’s house and represents her dreams and aspirations.
She would often show visitors her dollhouse in sessions that lasted an entire evening. Jacob Appel painted the dollhouse in 1710; the painting shows that the dollhouse was once protected by yellow curtains, which when closed created the impression of a four-poster bed, with plumes on the corners. After Petronella’s death the dollhouse went to her daughter Hendrina and by the 18th century it was widely popular, attracting viewers from foreign countries. The dollhouse has also been the inspiration for the Miniaturist, the novel by Jessie Burton.
I got out of DEH like 2 hours ago and i stg it was the best day of my life and I’ll write about everything tomorrow or the day after (including the most important event which I called The Michael Park Incident)
And I can confirm that Mike’s legs look longer in person
She’s tried on so many sweaters and dresses and pairs of jeans, so many pairs of leggings and scarves and boots. Nothing feels right–not for the occasion. She wants everything to be perfect. The situation demands everything be absolutely perfect, and though she hasn’t gained much weight or really changed at all, not around her stomach, not where she’d start showing, she feels bloated and round, and her well-loved jeans aren’t fitting the way they always do.
She’s standing in front of their mirror in her bra and underwear, a bed’s worth of discarded clothes behind her, when Percy steps into their bedroom.
“Don’t,” Annabeth says. “Just. Don’t.”
“You look great?”
Annabeth huffs a breath of laughter. Yeah, she looks great–near-naked, and nauseous, and nervous, and she can’t pull her eyes away from her reflection. Percy shuffles closer, winds his arms around her waist from behind, presses his chest against her back.
“I’m pregnant,” she says, when he settles his palms low around her belly.
“I know,” he says.
“There’s a baby in there.”
“I know. I put it there.”
“Yeah, you did,” she says. She turns in his arms and tugs his chin down when he doesn’t look away from their reflection in the mirror. His eyes are warm and amused and so, so full, and his palms linger at the small of her back, slide up to her waist. “What are we going to tell your mom?”
“‘Merry Christmas,’” he says, “‘We’re growing you a grandbaby. Hope you like it when it’s done.’”
“I suppose that will have to do,” Annabeth says.
Percy drops a kiss to her lips, lingers, slowly, against her tongue, pulls her close. “She’ll cry,” he says against Annabeth’s lips, bringing a hand to brush her barely-rounded belly, the baby growing just beneath the skin.
“She’ll be happy?”
“Annabeth,” Percy says, pulling away to look at her. And she sees it–his own happiness, bright and unfettered and impossible, in the lines around his eyes and the smile pulling at his mouth. “Yes. Everybody is going to be so happy.”