time for chores

anonymous asked:

hc: yuuri and victor have little competitions on who can finish their chores first and when one of them finishes first, the other has to make dinner. But with victuuri being victuuri, none of them gets their work done bc theyre too busy fawning over one another and smothering each other with kisses during chore time.

Mbti Types as Grandmas

DISCLAIMER: I’m not even sorry lol, hope it’s a fun read at least  ʕ•ᴥ•ʔ

ISFJ: the ‘cookie baking, scrapbook making, sits on the porch with grandpa staring at the sunset then straight to bed’ grandma

INFJ: the ‘sweater knitting, money giving, ‘oh honey, it’ll all be okay’’ grandma

ISFP: the ‘pottery painting, salsa dancing, retired composer but music never retires so I’m just gonna continue composing anyway’ grandma

ESFJ: the 'Thanksgiving dinner organizing, grandkids’ gossip subscribing, you just know she used to have a pilates butt’ grandma

INFP: the 'outdoors fearing, nagging grandkids to call everyday, I’m still learning how to use Twitter/Facebook/this smartphone which isnt very smart btw’ grandma

INTJ: the 'book reading, random stuff collecting/hoarding, strategic gambler that somehow wins every time’ grandma

ISTJ: the 'diligent chore doing, every Wednesday at 3pm bingo playing, been attending Sunday mass for 70 years now and a hip replacement ain’t gonna stop me sucka’ grandma

ISTP: the 'kitchen fire starting, 4 dogs owning just because the grandkids’ parents won’t let them have dogs, can teach level 2 water aquatics even better than the instructor’ grandma

INTP: the 'has random bruises everywhere from banging their knee on the desk accidentally repeatedly for 60 years, too awkward to converse with grandkids, sleep inducing tenured professor who refuses to retire because RESEARCHHH’ grandma

ENFJ: the 'book club organizing, soup kitchen volunteering because who else will train the new generation how to be compassionate, insightful advice dispenser 27/7 but also guilt trip queen’ grandma

ESFP: the 'colourful outfit wearing, sassy insult giving, all of your problems can be solved with a little bit of alcohol honey’ grandma

ENFP: the 'adventurous recipe trying, canes-slow-me-down claiming, will call you at 9pm before their bedtime once a week just to check up on you’ grandma

ESTJ: the 'Rolls Royce driving, strict budget money spending, 50+ rich AF but refuses to quit working until their limbs break off’ grandma

ENTJ: the 'boat driving, grandkids yelling, 50+ wealthy AF but still doesn’t wanna retire because everyone would be doing her job wrong’ grandma

ESTP: the 'quite young looking for her age maybe it’s maybelline, ex professional athlete now training all the young nubs, giving out weekly sex advice on a very very popular youtube channel’ grandma

ENTP: the 'savage/sassy/song lyric debating, fourth most likely to be still having active sex with sexy grandpas, somehow made a million dollars early in life’ grandma






If you’ve got persistent/chronic illnesses and/or fatigue, you have permission to be tired. You have permission to not get all the things done right now. You have your own time you do things within, and it is perfectly okay to take that time and move at your pace and rest when needed.

Even when things are going well and exciting stuff is happening! Even when you feel that now that things are taking a turn for the better, your energy and spoons should be going up too! You don’t have to recover and be full of energy automatically, you’re not lazy if you have to rest. If your bones and muscles say “nope” then it is okay for you to decide that it’s time to stop, regardless of how nice a day it is, regardless if it seems like the perfect time to do a given chore. Don’t feel obligated to spend your time on work just because you feel like you should be busy.

I am typing this to myself to make it click.

anonymous asked:

Scenario: Voltron Team movie night, everyone is watching some unspecified movie, when Lance's crush (aka Reader) falls asleep and ends up leaning against him.

Hello! It’s mod Enki again. :0 I decided to put this in a domestic AU kind of idea so there would be more content. I hope that’s okay!


It was I regular day much like any other. You farted around doing chores around the house and did other mundane tasks like finally getting around to emailing some guy about a topic you forgot ages ago. That task in itself took more time than all your other chores combined and honestly left you mentally exhausted. You mulled over going out and getting a bite to eat before attempting to do anything else. As you sat completely useless on the couch due to your indecisiveness, your phone buzzed. You pulled it out to glance at the screen assuming it was a wrong number since no one ever texted you. Your eyes widened slightly. It wasn’t a wrong number but you certainly didn’t recognize it. The preview message told you all that you needed to know. 

“Hey (Y/N)! It’s Lance, I just wanted to…”

You unlocked your phone and read the full text expecting some cheesy one-liner but were surprised to find not a single one. He did remind you of the fact that tonight was movie night with the rest of the gang and that everyone was supposed to bring something. Groaning you typed in a short reply and hit send before smelling yourself. You had completely forgotten about the whole thing and you were not in any shape to be around any other human being. You had also spent almost your entire day doing chores so the movie night was going to start in at least an hour. The idea of getting a bite to eat was scrapped and you bounded to your shower as fast as you could to get rid of your hazardous body odor. Everyone was supposed to go over to Pidge’s house because she had managed to rig up a killer surround system. It made you pretty excited knowing how good Pidge was with all her tech so tonight’s movie night was definitely going to be super fun. 

Once you had completed your shower and thrown on some clothes, plus performing other hygienic tasks, you finally decided to get a bite to eat from your kitchen. It had to be quick considering you still had to go out and get something to bring. Chips and a some soda would be good right? You didn’t doubt that everyone else would be bringing popcorn so might as well stay the safe course and bring chips. They’re just as addicting as popcorn is when watching a movie and the paladins will eat anything you put in front of them really. Anything from Earth anyways. After wolfing down a cup of noddles like the healthy person you were, you grabbed your keys and departed from your humble abode. 

You sped to the nearest convenience store and nearly hit a pedestrian on the way there. They quickly became someone who didn’t wave with all their fingers and you contemplated actually hitting them. You decided to be a good citizen and continued on your way. You sprinted to the entrance and through the automatic door like a lunatic before grabbing all your required goods in record time. You practically slammed your things down on the conveyor belt earning a concerned look from the cashier. Apologizing you quickly payed for your things and left as quickly as you’d arrived. If you hurried you’d get there right on time. So you hauled your ass as fast you could legall-ishly could. 

Much to your joy you had managed to get there at the time you predicted you would. With arm fulls of goodies you somehow managed to ring the door bell and the door swung open. Peeking over the bags you saw Lance with a smug grin on his face. You braced yourself for the bomb drop that would be his just as equally smug remark. 

“Oh, (Y/N)! Is this all for me? Why, you shouldn’t have!” He cooed. You rolled your eyes.

“Just let me through you turd, I’ve got a lot of stuff.” You responded pushing your way through. 

As you made your way through the house to the snack table you got a plethora of greetings from everyone else. Setting down your things you eyed the big screen and the amount of speakers located all around. Whistling appreciatively you watched as Pidge came over to greet you. 

“We almost thought you wouldn’t make it. You didn’t forget did you?” She asked coyly. 

“What? O-of course not! I just lost track of time…” You stuttered trying to come up with a cover. 

“Oh yeah? Well, your shirt’s inside out. Just letting you know.” She pointed out. 

As she walked away you mentally kicked yourself for just throwing on the nearest shirt. You opened a bag of chips before pouring them into one of the large bowls set out. Once you had acquired your absurd amount of chips you made your way to the couch to the only open spot on the end by none other than Lance. If the movie didn’t keep you from falling asleep he would. A yawn escaped you as you plopped down beside him. 

“Hey, no yawning!” He said lightly jabbing you in your side. 

“I can’t help it.” You whined rubbing the sleepy tears from your eyes. 

You continued to have idle chat with Lance for the remainder of the time before everyone was settled down enough to start the movie. By that time you were struggling to keep the conversation going with Lance without yawning every 2 seconds. You were half tempted to ask Pidge if she had some instant coffee you could quickly heat up in the microwave but decided against it. Besides, there was no way you’d fall asleep during the movie. No one in the group liked anything super boring and mushy. The movie no doubt was going to be action packed. 

To your joy when the title screen popped up you could tell it was going to be a horror movie. At least you’d stay awake being scared right? Horror movies are the best cure to being sleepy so you had nothing to worry about. Oh how wrong you were. Any jump scare that popped up on screen had about the same effect as someone blowing on your face. In all honesty you felt pretty close to nothing. Lance sat next to you and although he tried to play the whole bravado act you could tell he was scared. Not you though, you sat about as immovable as a sack of potatoes. 

That’s when you started to doze off. Your head kept dropping causing you to yank it back up while fighting the urge to sleep. It went on for a while and you weren’t quite sure when you had passed the hell out but you did. And you somehow managed to pass out on Lance of all people. Not the arm of the couch, the one person you were sitting next to was what you had managed to fall asleep on. No one noticed except for the boy himself since the room was extremely dark save the light from the screen. And now about a million thoughts were running through his head. What should he do? Wake you up? Let you sleep? Did you choose to fall asleep on him? Was this intentional? An accident? 

Lance felt his face getting warmer and he started to fidget with his hands as he nervously tried to think of what to do. He was no longer watching the movie and all his focus was on you so he swallowed hard before attempting to nudge you awake to no avail. You were in a pretty dead sleep and it looked like you weren’t going to be awake until movie night ended. Not that he minded in this case. He’d been trying to chat you up all day and had somehow managed to convince Pidge to give him your number. She was pretty skeptical about the idea but gave it nonetheless. He wanted it for obvious reasons, that being that he totally liked you and now having his crush asleep on his should was a little too much for him.

He glanced around at the others making sure they were watching the movie and not him. Slowly he leaned his head to the side until it snugly rested on your own. He then glanced back as best he could at the others before locking eyes with Pidge who had the smugest look on her face. Lance mouthed out, “don’t you dare,” before giving her a small glare. She rolled her eyes and mouthed back, “You owe me,” and went back to watching the movie. 

Lance closed his own eyes to try and better enjoy this little moment he was sharing with you until he ultimately ended up joining you in a much needed cat nap. 

I know we’re joking a lot about Matt Murdock being pulled from a dumpster but tbh I’m pretty sure most of the Avengers and associates have probably been pulled from a dumpster at least once.

Like, you know preserum Steve was getting dumped in trash cans right and left and Bucky was fishing him out of them. (and Winter Soldier Bucky probably does surveillance from them, here have a sad)

Clint, obviously, dumpster trash.

But also Kate Bishop because I feel like that’s a Hawkeye thing, being thrown off buildings and out windows and into trash cans.

And Sam gets thrown into one helping Steve out once (it’s not really Sam’s fault, ok.)

And Tony found himself in many a dumpster in his youth. (occasionally next to Rhodey. it should be said that it was only once Rhodey’s fault they landed in the trash)

Reed Richards probably gets thrown into dumpsters by other Avengers on purpose. (and Johnny too probably)

If Bruce de-Hulks in a dumpster he considers that a good day.

Sometimes Thor gets knocked out of the air and can’t course-correct. (and Tony once threw Loki into a dumpster, so)

Peter Parker, yeah, he’s been in a few dumpsters, both to evade authorities or enemies and also because sometimes baddies have good aim.

Wade Wilson, jfc, he throws parties in dumpsters, probably. If you’ve been tossed into more than one dumpster, there’s a 90% chance that one of those times you were thrown into a dumpster with Wade in it, or had Wade thrown in on top of you.

Like, the only Avenger that I am 100% certain has never been thrown into a dumpster is Natasha because throwing Natasha into a dumpster would be the last thing you ever did. (also, she’s Natasha. You might aim her at the dumpster, but she’ll parkour off the fire escape and land neatly next to it while Clint goes sailing in. )

Himalayan yak chews? no, suspicious

Bully sticks? no, suspicious

All natural bone? heckin heck yeah, says Mommy Nature’s boy Asher

I'm still alive!

I’ll be active again here soon guys, I promise. Things in my life are just a bit hectic at the moment. I can’t say for sure when I’ll get back to actively running this blog, but it won’t be too much longer. You all know how life can get. Thanks for sticking with me so far, despite this recent inactivity. You’re all absolutely lovely people. ♥♥

Tying the Knot!


Marriage you have learned was hard.

Once you strip of that weeks of honeymoon and hopping from one country to another, scattered clothes around the hotel room, bedsheets always strewn apart once dawn came in and the outside light illuminating his face as your eyes slowly fluttered close a smile permanent on your lips until the next day. You have come to realise that sex, honeymoon and being in love was easy. The hard part came in when you have to start doing chores and you have to buy groceries and deciding who should do the dishes today because- I did it twice yesterday, oh but I did the whole of last week since you weren’t here, that doesn’t count!

It was much harder when your husband was Jay Park.

He always had excuses when it was his time to do the chores- oh but baby my feet hurt, I worked out too much at the gym last night, I got back late last night please let me sleep.

Keep reading


[21-MAR-2017] 79/100 Days of Productivity

First day of spring break means lots of quiet time at home. Had some chores to do this morning. Did some yoga after my morning coffee, walked in my yard (after checking for eggs), and went through my writing journals. I’ve been trying to get back into this one piece I started in 2015, but ¯\_(ツ)_/¯. Will read (both the Quran and one of my library books) later in the evening.

Ten More Times

1). That one time when Eren guilt-tripped everyone at a capitol party into funding the Survey Corps because he was a poor orphan. Erwin had never been more proud.

2). That one time Levi smiled at Eren while they were on top of Wall Rose and Eren nearly killed himself fainting and falling off the side.

3). That one time Mikasa tried acting like Levi so Eren would like her better, he wound up crying in Levi`s arms and Levi was all too happy she fucked up.

4). That one time Nile tried to insult Levi, only to have his entire squad come up and roast him.

5). That one time when chores were being assigned to every squad and Squad Levi 2.0 cheered when they got cleaning duty, Levi had never been so proud.

6). That one time Jean had a crush on Eren and competed with Levi for his affections, Eren was completely oblivious to the battle royale.

7). That one time they all camped out in the woods and everyone was miserable, while Eren was adored by all the forest animals and became one with nature.

8). That one time Eren turned into a titan just so he could hug all his friends at once. No one could even get mad because they were all included in the hug.

9). That one time Eren told an officer he was “fifty shades of fucked in the head” for suggesting that Eren would sleep with him, then ranted on about how he`d never compare to Levi in bed.

10). That one time they were on a mission and  Levi let Eren wear his cravat for good luck, Eren killed the most titans out of everyone.


Hana “D.Va” Song is a former professional gamer who now uses her skills to pilot a state-of-the-art mech in defense of her homeland. A fierce competitor, Song played to win at any cost, and gained a well-earned reputation for showing no mercy to her opponents.

knz-sweetpea  asked:

I do a LOT of snow shoveling, working at a ski resort. As a result, my right arm and shoulder is HELLA toned and my left is just.... not. I've started shoveling left handed now

Might want to try some stuff at home to even things out a bit. Like buy a hand weight and use it throughout the day for a few reps. You can use a handweight while watching TV or at your computer. I do that all the time. Also try doing some chores with your left hand too. -Abby

"Christmas Tube Socks" by Sufjan Stevens

Christmas was a time of terrible expectation, during which, for one week prior to the fateful day, our family was confined to the claustrophobia of our winterized home, forced to “spend time together”. For a family who mixed like vinegar and baking soda, this was a cosmic blooper. My siblings and I were out of school for two weeks, but, unlike summer vacation, (with the various distractions of summer camp and summer jobs), during Christmas break, we were snowed in on all sides, cooped up in small, poorly insulated rooms, and forced, by our father, into the manual labor of household chores: hauling wood, sweeping the stairs, picking fleas from our dog Sarah. This was his version of Family Time.

My father survived the holidays through work, taking on multiple jobs, double shifts, or implementing odd, complicated, time-consuming chores around the house, such as shoveling two-lane walkways in the snow in the yard, and an escape route to the creek out back, in case of an emergency. He joined civic clubs, became a volunteer fireman, attended multiple self-help groups, anything to keep his mind away from the notion that his family was, in fact, a messy, fussy, dysfunctional menagerie of misfits. As for his children, confined inside, breathing recycled air – we fought all day. My sisters, having more prep time in the bathroom in the mornings, hissed and yelled over hair gels and curing irons. “Did you eat my lipstick?” “Did you break my nail file?” My older brother and I would find ourselves writhing, biting, and wrestling under the Christmas tree, overturning bookcases, TV stands and sofa chairs. My father would jump in, separate us, give us a slap on the face and ask: “What are you fighting about?” We could never remember.

Each year, our mother carried the impossible burden of making Christmas “spectacular”, and this often threw her into a psychological state of mind one could describe, in medical terms, as temporary insanity. She spent money she didn’t have, lots of money, imaginary money, money based on speculation, future jobs, hopes and dreams, the kind of money promised by lottery tickets and Amway. Her motives, perhaps, were good: who could blame a mother’s desire to make Christmas perfect for an otherwise imperfect family. But the results, over time, were incriminating. Credit cards engorged and then ignored, bounced checks, money borrowed from distant relatives, great grandfathers, next-door neighbors, train sets and suit coats and wool vests from J. C. Penney put on lay-away, sometimes for years. She brought home elaborate Christmas wreaths, scented candle sets, music boxes, decorative Christmas plates with Elvis, Gene Kelly, and Winona Ryder, designer snow suits, a family toboggan, a Saint Bernard, a Jeep Cherokee. Each item brought home, whether big or small, ignited, between our parents, complicated, colossal disputes as epic as the battles of the Odyssey or the Iliad, Often resulting in egg salad smeared all over the bay window or pots and pans thrown about the kitchen with the pageantry of a Texas high school marching band. In the most heated of arguments, our mother would run to the tree, grab an inconsequential gift (breath mints, a paper kite, a gift certificate), and throw it in the wood stove – an impulsive, spiteful, and (most likely) cathartic gesture. She would stand over the flames like a high priest making a sacrifice, counting down backwards, from ten to one, breathing deeply between each number, ruminating on the incineration of an unopened present. It must have been metaphor for something deeper. But what?

And this is where I began to really hate Christmas. One year, when it snowed 72 inches in two days, and my sister started her period, and my mother brought home sixteen pounds of discount jumbo shrimp from Wal-Mart, and my father reminded her that he was allergic to shellfish and his face would swell up, and our dog chewed up the Encyclopedia Britannica, and our cousin called and said that Aunt Josie had died in her sleep and my mother started to cry and declared Christmas was cancelled. Then she stomped over to the tree, grabbed the first gift she could find and threw it in the wood stove with a quick flick of her wrist, like swatting a fly.

“There, it’s done,” she said. “I feel much better.” But the gift she chose happened to be a six-pack of ordinary tube socks, wrapped in plastic. Which I had bought as a peace offering for my brother. (The week before, I’d cut the toes to all of his socks – using my mother’s good sewing scissors – after he’d told all my friends at school that I still sucked my thumb and slept with a Care Bear.)

“I paid good money for those!” I told her.

“Oh dear,” my mother said, stepping back from the stove. But it was too late. They were cheap, acrylic, dollar-store tube socks, manufactured in China, spun out of pliable man-made materials, synthetic fibers, which, when burned, began to melt, ooze, liquefy, and bubble over, triggered, perhaps, by some extraordinary and complicated chemical reaction. The smell was harrowing – a dense, bold, toxic aroma, the Smell of Death (as we later called it) which, when metabolized in the gloomy atmosphere of our home, spread from room to room in a noxious smoky haze, lilting under doorways and air vents with the speed and agility of hot lava. We were being suffocated in our own house. My mother ran out the front door; I found the nearest window.

“What is that smell?” My sister screamed from her bedroom. “The Smell of Death!”

It forced everyone else in the house to immediately abandon his or her particular private tasks (for my sister, it was nail polish remover, for my brother, a home-made fire bomb he’d been building under his bed) and seek immediate egress outdoors. We met in the winter maze of the driveway, feet stamping, shoulders shuddering, tsk tsking each other, inhaling the icy air of a blizzard, watching our father leap around inside, leveraging windows, propping doors, fanning the smoke and fumes with a folded newspaper.

“Good going!” my sister rolled her eyes.

“Next time, buy cotton,” my mother suggested.

“Why is this my fault?” I wondered.

“Because you’re a cheap-o,” my brother said, jabbing my collarbone. I kicked snow in his face and he punched my ear and my sister screamed because she lost an earring and my mother started counting backwards from ten to one, mumbling prayers under her breath.

It took forty-five minutes for the air to clear, and even then, after we’d returned to the chilly reaches of our rooms, there was the faint smell of burnt tube socks lurking between the walls, behind doors, nestled in the window curtains and in the bath towels and in the hair on our heads. It stuck around for weeks, months, years; perhaps it never left us. Even today, whether I’m at home in Brooklyn or in some distant East Asian country, Christmas still leaves a plastic taste in my mouth, a toxic residue that reminds me of tube socks.

Is it any wonder then, that after years of enduring the Stevens Family Christmas Crisis, I grew to despise the Holidays with the kind of deep antipathy one usually reserves for things like racism and terrorism and corporate fraud? The sight of Santa Claus at shopping malls, the scent of candy canes, the insipid singing of carols – these things roused in me a silent, sardonic, patronizing judgment against all of Western Civilization. At some point, perhaps my second year in college, Philosophy 101, I decided that Christmas was a social construct, along with dating, fast food, and the Super Bowl. I made a point of not coming home for the Holidays. I would have Christmas on my own, entrenched in my reading: Rumi poems, Descartes, the Tibetan Book of the Dead, Ayn Rand. My first Christmas alone was in a dorm room. My second Christmas alone was at a Holiday Inn. My third Christmas alone was spent in a dirty little apartment in Bloomfield, New Jersey, a turkey pot pie in the microwave, Jeopardy re-runs on TV, Simon and Garfunkel on the stereo. I am a Rock. I am an Island.

My sister called to say, “Why aren’t you coming home anymore?”

Because, I told her, our mother is a Christmas Pirate and our father puts duct tape on his slippers, and the Siamese cat throwing up pine needles all over Grandma’s gingerbread house is not my idea of a family tradition. Because if I have to carry another load of wood up those stairs I will file a child labor lawsuit. Because Christmas is for sentimental psychopaths and if we continue celebrating it we will all spend our golden years in a mental hospital eating canned peas with a spork.

My sister told me I was irrational and deluded, but very imaginative and perhaps I should write a novel. That was a good idea, I told her. So I tried. And failed. And tried and failed. “Revenge of the Christmas Pirate,” by Sufjan Stevens. “That Was the Worst Christmas Ever,” by Sufjan Stevens. I read some of it out loud to my sister, over the phone.
“I like the part about the dead squirrel wrapped in tissue paper that Dad gave as a stocking stuffer,” she said. “But you know that never actually happened.”
“Yes it did,” I insisted. “Everything’s one-hundred percent accurate.”
“You need therapy,” my sister said. “Or a girlfriend.”

But what I really needed was time – the slow, immeasurable convalescence that comes with getting older, wiser, more mature, and to withstand the intellectual conditioning of college and graduate, the automation of office jobs, numerous cubicles, desk-top publishing, the morning commute, failed romantic relationships, a nervous breakdown, a death in the family, a root canal, unemployment, a recurring cold sore, weekends slouched over the classifieds, wondering how I would pay off my credit card debt. Over time, in the midst of everyday life, I completely forgot all about Christmas and how I hated it.

And this is how I came to love Christmas. Through the regular household task of making pancakes. It was a time in my life in which all extraordinary privileges had been rigorously swept away, leaving behind nothing more than the naked underlay of loneliness. I was unemployed, unshaven, living in a closet in a friend’s apartment in Brooklyn, delinquent on my student loans, eating day-old potato bread, Ramen noodles, and on this particularly apathetic morning in dearly December, I was ruminating on the dietary constituents of Aunt Jemima pancakes – the cheapest of morning breakfasts (you just add water!). I had accidentally left a spatula on the stove with the burner on high, and, within seconds, the whole thing went up in flames with a dripping, oozing, pungent, chemical eruption like a bad high school science project. I hustled to the rescue, dousing the flames with a nearby glass of milk, suffocating what was left of the spatula with a dirty dishrag (oh the trials of bachelorhood). But the residual smell (a plastic, toxic, peppery aftertaste) was irrefutable and all too familiar – the smell of burnt tube socks. And, for some odd reason, this singular smell sent me into a tragic-comic-sentimental shock that was simultaneously mundane and supernatural. I was having an epiphany.

I did not jump up in with ecstatic salutations, shout “Eureka!” or levitate like a phantom ghost. But I was overcome with what I can only describe as That Creepy Christmas Feeling. This pertains to that prolonged, numbing, out-of-body experience you often encounter after weeks consuming egg nog, mild chocolate candies, fruit salad, cranberry sauce, entertaining family and friends, attending Christmas mass, trailblazing superstores for discount appliances, regurgitating small talk to second cousins, deconstructing the rhyme schemes on holiday greeting cards, cutting out coupons, watching animated Christmas cartoons on TV, having an allergic reaction to pine cones, breaking out in hives, and spending New Years Day in the emergency room with everyone too hung over to visit you. The muddy plastic malodor from a melted spatula (prompting that consequential memory of tube socks) induced all of this at once – like a drug overdose. They say that smells persuade memory more vividly than pictures or sound, that our olfactory system carries with it a catalog of sensory data that can, when stimulated, call to mind entire memories, histories, events, all kinds of valuable information once thought forgotten. What came over me was not just the inconsequential stench of footwear thrown in the fire, but a complete recollection of important events in my life, the good and the bad, the blessings and misfortunes, and inventory of calamities and a register of lucky breaks, fist fights, bear hugs, overturned Advent candles, digital wrist watches, chimney fires, ruby earrings, blue jeans, tennis shoes, mistletoe, my first kiss. And with all these things I came to comprehend the formation of genealogies, family histories, a genetic superstructure that could be used describe – in microcosmic terms – the order of the universe.

And at the very center of the universe I saw the Christ Child, an infant baby, helplessly crying, wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in the manger, trembling and suckling and cooing and burping and crying and laughing and giggling and spitting up breast milk all over the place. This was the mysterious incarnation of God, who came to Planet Earth not as a Divine Warrior or a Supernatural Sorcerer or an Army of Alien Androids, but as a helpless newborn baby, probably not much bigger than a six pack of acrylic tube socks. Or maybe a twelve pack.

It’s funny how the townsfolk are so dismissive of “crazy old Maurice” when, not only does his invention work, but it’s a very practical invention that would make everyone’s lives a little easier. Like, you guys could spend way less time on your chores if you took him seriously and bought his invention, but no. Talk about being afraid of progress.

mayormimii  asked:

Moomin character's schedules? (What they do everyday...) If it helps, I know that moomin likes to swim in the morning, while little my swings on the clock pendulum. (Also, is it true they wake up late?)

Yes, Moomin’s always wake up late! In the comic Moomin Begins A New Life, Moominmamma wonders why the family should start getting up early just to be proper and productive, when you could as well go to bed late and wake up late.

As elderly people, Moominmamma and Moominpappa have most routines. Moominmamma spends most of her time doing chores, which she find enjoyable. Only she seems to know when everything is done… Moominpappa starts the day with a walk and checks the clocks. He always has his afternoon tea at the same time and takes a nap.

Moomin family makes a habit of avoiding strict routines. In the books we rarely follow their usual everyday life as there is always some adventure going on, but those adventures are part of life for them! In the comics we see them go to spontaneous picnics, delay dinner or eat early and invent other ways to make life more variable.