table radio



  • Dish soap
  • Laundry detergent
  • All-purpose cleaner
  • Hand soap
  • Broom
  • Mop
  • Wash cloths / rags
  • Vacuum
  • Dustpan
  • Lint roller
  • Sponges


  • Plates
  • Bowls
  • Spoons
  • Forks
  • Knives
  • Glasses
  • Mugs
  • Tongs
  • Spatula
  • Plastic wrap
  • Ziplock baggies
  • Garbage bags
  • Paper towel
  • Tupperware
  • Ice tray
  • Oven mitts
  • Potato peeler
  • Mixing bowls
  • Frying pan
  • Pot
  • Baking sheet
  • Whisk
  • Stirring spoons / ladels
  • Tea infuser ball
  • Measuring cups
  • Strainer
  • Cutting board
  • Coffee maker
  • Kettle
  • Toaster
  • Magnets
  • Dry erase markers
  • Sticky notes
  • Microwave
  • Wire sponge
  • Trash bin
  • Recycling bin
  • Rubber gloves
  • Silverware organizer
  • Measuring spoons
  • Aluminum foil
  • Wax paper
  • Can opener
  • Bottle opener
  • Containers for salt, sugar, flour, etc.


  • Sofa
  • Rocking chair (you know you want one)
  • Loveseat
  • Coasters
  • Blankets
  • Throw pillows
  • Coffee table
  • Book shelves
  • TV
  • TV stand
  • Floor lamp
  • End table
  • Stereo system / radio


  • Mattress
  • Box spring
  • Bedframe
  • Linens
  • Sheets
  • Comforter
  • Hangers
  • Laundry hamper
  • Trash bin
  • Curtains
  • Pillows
  • Pillow cases
  • Night table
  • Alarm clock
  • Lamp
  • Dresser
  • Coat rack
  • Desk / vanity
  • Comfy chairs


  • Dining table
  • Minimum of 2 chairs
  • Coasters
  • Placemat
  • Tablecloth
  • Tea lights /candles and candle holders


  • Face clothes
  • Towel
  • Soap bar
  • Body wash
  • Shampoo
  • Conditioner
  • Tissues
  • Toilet paper
  • Trash bin
  • Plunger
  • Toilet cleaner
  • Cold, flu, pain, and allergy meds
  • Hydrogen peroxide
  • Antibacterial ointment
  • First-Aid kit
  • Tweezers
  • Nail clippers
  • Band-aids
  • Shower rod
  • Shower curtain
  • Toothbrush
  • Toothpaste
  • Floss
  • Period products
  • Bathmat
  • Air freshener
  • Trash bin
  • Towel rod
  • Towels


  • Elastic bands
  • Stapler
  • Stables
  • Paper clips
  • Needles and thread
  • AA / AAA batteries
  • Light bulbs
  • Extension cords
  • Scotch tape
  • Duct tape
  • Shovel
  • Rake (if you have a yard)
  • Stain remover
  • Jar of courters for laundry mat
  • Screw drivers
  • Hammer
  • Nails
  • Sticky tack
  • Screws
  • Box cutter / X-acto
  • Pliers
  • Wrench
  • Pens
  • Paper
  • Pencils
  • Pencil sharpener
  • Eraser
  • Welcome matt
  • Shoe rack
  • Coat rack
  • Flashlight
  • Flashlight batteries
  • Watch batteries
  • Rechargeable batteries and charger
  • Safe place to discard dead batteries
  • Candles
  • Matches
  • Lighter
  • Mini travel fans
  • Real fans
  • Emergency Survival kit
  • Fire extinguisher
  • Landline phone
  • Window air conditioner
  • Carbon monoxide alarm
  • Fire alarm


  • Mustard
  • Ketchup
  • Mayo
  • Salt
  • Pepper
  • Baking soda
  • Flour
  • Eggs
  • Milk
  • Bread
  • Olive oil
  • Tea
  • Jam
  • Peanut-butter
  • Coffee grounds
  • Cereal
  • Rice
  • Pasta
  • Vegetable soup
  • Tomato sauce
  • Frozen vegetables
  • Crackers
  • Chickpeas / lentils
  • Apples
  • Oranges
  • Granola bars
  • Juice
  • Hot chocolate mix
  • Frozen meats

And since people are having a hard time figuring this out for themselves, let me just say: every single item on this list is OPTIONAL, just look for what you need personally and let others do the same.

paperboy: an au

Ian Murray was always on time. He had the same routine every single morning since he was ten:

4:45 AM: Hit snooze.

4:47 AM: Hit snooze again.

4:50 AM: Turn the alarm off, due to yells of frustration from his mother in the other room.

5:00 AM: Shower, quickly.

5:15 AM: Change, brush teeth, and hope to God that he didn’t put his shirt on inside out.

5:20 AM: Head down the stairs, helmet in hand. Grabs a banana from the basket of fruit on the table.

5:25 AM: Run into his Uncle Jamie in the study, of whom informs his nephew that his shirt is, indeed, inside out. Again.

5:26 AM: Turning his shirt the right way, he thanks his uncle and heads for his bike.

Everything after this is subject to change.

Between 5:30 AM and 5:45 AM: Ian Murray turns the corner from his home to the shop where the newspapers are printed. Geordie, the printer, hands him the bag of twine-tied papers.

“Don’t do nothin’ stupid, mind,” He tells the young lad, every single day. “These papers here be expensive.”

“Of course, Mr. Geordie, sir,” Came young Ian’s reply.

Between 6:00 AM and 6:45 AM: You can find him riding his bright orange bike around the neighborhoods and subdivisions of Boone, N.C., delivering papers to those on the street. He passes a few dog-walkers here-and-there, a couple of kids getting into their cars for school. Some old men watering their plants or wives kissing their husbands as they headed for work. On the rare occasion he’d find a smiling face, he would smile back. Sometimes he’d even be offered a to-go cup of coffee or a muffin or a bottle of water. He always loved those people–the ones who didn’t see him as invisible.

7:00 AM: He heads for the subdivision called Simon’s Landing–the nicer of most of the subdivisions he has the pleasure of riding through–and delivers his papers to all of the houses.

7:30 AM: Ian, sure all his papers had been delivered, heads back for home, a 45-minute ride from his current location.

It’s here that our story changes, on the dawn of the twentieth of December 1982

Keep reading


On April 21, 1957, Mrs. Marshall of Lewisham Park in London, found a note beside her backyard fence. The contents of the note were spine chilling. It was from a young lady being held hostage in a dug out prison underneath her neighbors shed. The police were called and they searched the house of John Raymond Bridal. Sure enough, just as the note said, there was 28 year old Marjorie Jordan, locked in a reinforced cellar under the shed. It was made up like a small apartment, bed, chairs, table, and even a radio. Bridal was immediately arrested and Marjorie was taken to the hospital.

She was seized from her room in a boarding house on January 7th by Bridal. He broke into her room, tied her up and kidnapped her on the back of his motorcycle. He took her back to his house where he told her he needed help with his inventions. He wasn’t exactly lying, he was an inventor, at least he wanted to be, but her main job would be digging. Digging his under shed dungeon so there would be more room for his inventions, and, oddly, for his laundry. He didn’t sexually assault her, but he did force her to obey his instructions. When she didn’t listen he made her undress in front of him or beat her. So she dug, for 105 days she was trapped in Bridal’s twisted world. Finally, as she was being led to the washroom one night, she managed to sneak the note over the fence which was her only view for the past few months.

Bridal went to trial at the Old Baily. Though he professed she was only helping him and was there consensually, he ended up pleading guilty to unlawful imprisonment and assault. The court only gave him a sentence of a measly three years. Of the whole incident Marjorie had this to say:

“I shovelled out earth and put it into buckets which he pulled up. Sometimes we loaded as many as sixty buckets a day…He would come into the room each night and let me come up to his house…He would stand guard outside the bathroom door while I washed. Then he would lead me back to the room…He got an electric stove and fixed up the current in the hole and everyday he would lower down food which he bought from shopping lists I made out for him…About three weeks ago he decided I was resigned to my fate and he let down a wireless set…I had my handbag compact, luckily, so I was able to do my face each day and keep my self respect a bit…But, golly, how I longed to go to the hairdresser or else have a darned good bath.”

That british 1950s stiff upper lip really showing.

Pictured above: gifs from archival footage, first is Marjorie Jordan, then John Bridal (in glasses), Mrs. Marshall demonstrating where she found the note and a few shots of his underground lair.

"This is who I love"

Description: Darry and you are at home, while the boys are at The Dingo. And you start singing and it amazes Darry.

Warnings: none

The whole gang had just left to the Dingo, leaving me and Darry Alone in the house. I had insisted that Darry should go - since he never really left the house anymore.

Darry was sitting in the armchair reading the newspaper like every other day. He really loved it for some damn reason.

I on the other hand, was sitting at the table, the radio on low while music poured out of the thing.

All of a sudden, Blue Moon by Elvis came on (one of my favorite songs) and I started to sing my heart out to it.

I never really sang in front of anyone, In fear of being judged at. But since it was Darry I didn’t really mind him hearing.

I was so into singing that I didn’t even notice Darry had put down his newspaper (for once) and was staring at me.

The song finally came to and end and I noticed it was too quite. Even if the radio was still playing.

I looked up and finally met Darry’s wide eyes. He was shocked to say the least.

“I know I sound bad, don’t rub it in” I looked away, my cheeks going red like a darn firetruck.

“No doll, that was amazing!” Darry stood up and walked towards me. “Really?” I said, suprised he actially liked it.

“Yes!” I looked up and smiled at him. “Thanks babe” I stood up and gave him a kiss.

“Sing me another song.” He sat down and got ready to hear me sing again.

“Okay” I hesitated for a moment, but soon started singing another song for my boyfriend.

All through this Darry had one thought going through his mind. “This is who I love.”

anonymous asked:

got7 (mark/jb/yugyeom) reaction to you not wanting to cuddle with them


Mark: Period cramps, what could possibly be worse? Oh, the actual period. Laying on your side in a partial fetal, partial corpse position you try to fall asleep in hopes that when you wake up, your period won’t suck SO much. “Babe?” You hear Mark softly call out to you before the bedroom door opens, you’re too much in pain to answer him so you ignore him as you hear soft foot-steps then him crawling onto bed. You already know what’s going to happen, Mark being the big shy teddy-bear he is, wants to cuddle. “Don’t touch me.” You warn quietly as soon as his hands touch your arm. He freezes, clearly not expecting the rejection or your tone of voice, before turning around, just laying with his back towards you. You can practically hear the gears in his head turning, wondering why you wouldn’t want to cuddle. But you just weren’t feeling it…were you? It was just for a moment that his hand was on you and already you want his arms around you again. Dammit, period brain, make up your mind. You bite your lip and quickly turn around before you change your mind again, snaking your arms around his waist and pressing your cheek against his back. Closing your eyes, you hear him chuckle lightly at your indecisiveness before placing his hand on top of yours. 

JB: Your apartment was an oven. Because of the broken air-con you were currently laying on couch contemplating how to bury yourself in ice cubes without getting the sofa wet (though it’s already dripping with your sweat). When your boyfriend comes through the front door after practice, you assume he’s going to start complaining about the heat as well but other things are on his mind; such as missing dance steps, his aching throat, etc. And before you know it, he plops down, trying to wedge between you and the sofa, wanting to be the big spoon to your sweaty-ass little spoon. “NOPE!” You state without hesitation, rolling him off the sofa and onto the floor in one swift motion. “It is TOO hot for that.” JB looks up at you from the floor with slight disbelief that you would do that to him, then he gets up and walks away. For a moment you feel a little guilty, he was having a bad day…That’s when you feel yourself being lifted. “What are you doing––?!” With arms around you and both of you still fully clothed, JB plops the both of you into the bathtub full of cold water. “Does this solve your problem?” He questions with a cocked brow, smirking down at you as you snuggle against his chest with a small smile. 

Yugyeom: You guys started out cuddling, Yugyeom was monitoring some of his GOT7 activities on his laptop but you two soon both fell into a sweet light slumber. With a GOT7 interview playing in the background you open your eyes and turn so that your back was against his chest. On the computer screen were the 7 boys seated at a table with the radio host asking about their ideal types. As the boys list off their ideal types, you yawn slightly, nudging at Yugyeom to finish monitoring his activities when the subject of Yugyeom’s ideal type comes up. You hear him shyly say how he’s been noticing a recently debuted idol group, especially their main vocalist and you narrow your eyes. “YAH YUGYEOM!” You practically shout causing the maknae to jolt upwards. “What’s wrong?” He questions, looking around and then focusing his eyes on you. “What’s wrong? Apparently your ideal type isn’t your girlfriend! That’s what’s wrong!” You huff, pushing him to the other side of the couch with his laptop. Yugyeom blinks in confusion before glancing at the computer screen and connecting the dots. “Noona, it’s just an interview.” He says, putting the laptop on the table. You continue to ignore him. “Noooona~” He whines a little, bringing his hands up to his pink embarrassed cheeks. He’s always embarrassed to do aegyo, but you loved it. “Noona?” “It’s just an interview?” You question, even though you both know that you’ve already quickly forgiven him. “Nothing to it.” He assures you before opening his arms for you. 

Dreaming Radio
  • Tablo: Today, did you style your hair with wax or spray?
  • Gray: It's foam and spray together. Collaboration~!
  • Tablo: That collab's turning out real nice.
  • Gray: (proudly) I went to a saloon just for this radio show.
  • Tablo: For a "RADIO" broadcast?
  • Gray: ...still...we'll take pictures here, right?!

anonymous asked:

So Jungkook and Taehyung were playing goddamn footsie under the table during the fm radio show. First of all, are they 12? How grossly cute. Second, how is this not all over Tumblr. They're such boyfriends it hurts.

WERE THEY REALLY THAT IS SO,,,,,,, !!!! boyfriends tbh

Castiel Color Challenge | osirisjones

↳ prompt: Pixie Powder

In which Castiel discovers nail polish. 4.3K. Part I of II.

Castiel can’t find his phone.

Ever since he fell, this happens more often than he’d like. He used to be able to track dozens of thoughts at once. Now he finds himself walking into rooms and forgetting what he went there for. He sets his keys down and can’t find them when he goes to pick them up again, five minutes later. It’s not that his memory is bad—his mind retains facts and lists and memories in vivid clarity. It’s just that sometimes he blanks, and then comes to and doesn’t remember what he just said or what he opened the refrigerator for. Or where he put his phone, for instance.

Dean says this is a part of being human. Of everything, it may be Castiel’s least favorite aspect of humanity. It unsettles him, leaves him off-kilter and frustrated.

Cas doesn’t know why his phone would possibly be in the drawers of the rickety motel dresser, but he checks each one anyway. The third one down has a suspicious stain in the back left corner. Cas wrinkles his nose at it and slams the drawer shut.

He had been planning on calling Dean as soon as he settled into the motel room for the night. He’s spent the last week combing through the archives of the New York Public Library, trying in vain to find any new lore that might help them figure out how to close the gates of Hell without sacrificing Sam, and now he’s on his way back home. Dean and Sam had stayed at the Bunker because Sam was laid up with a fever and Dean was worried that it was a lingering after-effect of the trials, despite that they had occurred several months ago at this point. This is the first time Castiel has been out on his own for an extended period of time since he fell, and he’s surprised by how raw he feels, how much he misses Dean. He misses Sam, too, but not in the way that aches in his chest late at night.

Cas shuts the last drawer of the dresser and rakes a hand through his hair, frowning at the television as though it knows where his phone is and refuses to tell him. He already checked his car, a lime green ’56 Ford Thunderbird convertible that he took from the Bunker’s garage only after Dean spent a week fussing over it, making sure it was fit for the road. He checked the bathroom. He checked the bed, stripping off the blankets in the off chance that somehow the phone tucked itself in. He took the cushion off the chair and felt for his phone in the nooks and crannies there.

Cas presses his palms to his closed eyes, heaves in a trembling breath. It’s not a big deal. Humans lose their phones all the time. But he had pictures on there: a picture of the back of Sam and Dean’s heads as Dean drove; pictures of clouds he’d liked the appearance of, flowers he’d found particularly beautiful; pictures of the massive honeybee he’d seen collecting pollen one day, its weight causing each flower it landed on to droop toward the ground; a picture of Kevin slumped over the library table, fast asleep, Dean and Sam pulling faces behind him; pictures of Sam’s delighted face when Dean had driven them to an animal shelter and four puppies had decided to make Sam’s lap their home; a picture of Dean, leaning against the Impala, head tilted back and eyes closed, smiling in the glow of the setting sun.

His eyes feel hot. He hates this.

He takes a shuddering breath and goes to check the closet. Nothing. He backtracks, tries the bedside table to the left of the bed. Nothing. He circumvents the bed and tries the other, pulling the top drawer back with more force than necessary.

Something clunks heavily against the thin wood of the drawers.

“What?” Cas mutters, because he’s a human, and humans talk to themselves, apparently. He reaches in, pulls the ever-present Bible forward, feels around in the shadows behind it. His fingers close around a cool glass cylinder. He pulls it out and opens his fingers and looks down at his palm.

It’s so utterly mundane that Castiel almost huffs a laugh. It’s a half-finished bottle of nail polish, dark purplish-blue. He knows what nail polish is—he’d been fascinated by it for a short while during the time he’d, ah, gone a little off the deep end, as Dean would say. In tiny cursive, the bottle is labeled Pixie Powder. Castiel sighs and casts his eyes heavenward. Pixie powder is not even close to this shade of purple. It’s either faint greenish-gold or pinkish silver. Humans, he thinks, with only a little bit of derision.

His phone rings. Castiel almost jumps.

Keep reading


Kitchen Table- Jake Bugg

Radio 1 session 03/12