Watching Jane Eyre with two boys who are wholly unfamiliar with the story and are completely into it is beyond entertaining.

I’m just not interested in the emotional growth of men in literature. And I’m not sorry about it.
Me, recounting my earlier rant to Harry. (via velocipedestrienne)

Hold up, so how does this work?

tacoorbeerchallenge:

You find yourself a fucking taco, or a fucking beer, or a fucking taco and a beer, then you eat the fucking taco or drink the fucking beer or eat and drink both the fucking taco and the beer, and then you donate some money to an abortion fund. You fucking film yourself doing this shit and then you send us the fucking video and we put it on the fucking internet.

"BUT BUT BUT WAAAAHHHHH I DON’T KNOW ANY ABORTION FUNDS"

Welp you fucking do now.

"BUT BUT BUT WAAAAAAH I DON’T KNOW WHERE TO SEND MY VIDEO"

Welp you fucking do now.

awesomepeoplereading:

This one is more like “awesome places to read.” On the second floor of the White House is a room called “the family kitchen.” It’s a small little suburban looking kitchen, used as a sitting room for guests or when the family in the White House just wants to whip themselves up something without all the big to-do of being the First Family. It’s like a little room where the President can pretend he (or she, sometime soon) is just an average schmo. Here’s Ford eating breakfast and reading the paper in the Family Kitchen.

awesomepeoplereading:

This one is more like “awesome places to read.” On the second floor of the White House is a room called “the family kitchen.” It’s a small little suburban looking kitchen, used as a sitting room for guests or when the family in the White House just wants to whip themselves up something without all the big to-do of being the First Family. It’s like a little room where the President can pretend he (or she, sometime soon) is just an average schmo. Here’s Ford eating breakfast and reading the paper in the Family Kitchen.

smashfizzle:

Come see me co-host with Isaac Fitzgerald! Look at that roster. You can get Janet Mock, Nicole Cliffe, Mallory Ortberg, and Saeed Jones ALL on the same stage! We’re going to have a blaaaaaaassssssssst!

I immediately bought three tickets to this. Can’t wait!!!!

smashfizzle:

Come see me co-host with Isaac Fitzgerald! Look at that roster. You can get Janet Mock, Nicole Cliffe, Mallory Ortberg, and Saeed Jones ALL on the same stage! We’re going to have a blaaaaaaassssssssst!

I immediately bought three tickets to this. Can’t wait!!!!

The unprofessional email address: This is an age where we can all get as many email addresses as we want for free. Using the email address of “chipmunk2589@hotmail.com” is maybe not the right one to use to submit job applications.

Somewhat Qualified Advice: Things to Avoid in a Job Application - Publishing Trendsetter

We just hired a new person at our office, and that meant that I got to read a lot of job applications. I saw some pretty questionable things going on in some of those apps, so I wrote this piece to hopefully help. Some of these things might seem obvious, but these are all inspired by real things that we saw more than once in the applications. I want all of you guys to get great publishing jobs, so don’t use your high school email address, and don’t forget the change the name of the company from the last place you applied to in the cover letter, guys!

(via Chicken Tortilla Soup Recipe - CHOW)

SOUP TIME. I am back in soupy action. Andrew and I made this last night for lunches for the week, and I wanted to share because it is very good and very spicy. (I was going to take a photo of my own lunch, but soups with cream in them never quite look as appetizing as they taste in my opinion.) I have a different chicken tortilla soup recipe that my mom cut out from a Parade Magazine and mailed to me that I really like to use, but Andrew wanted something a little spicier, so we made this, and boy, did it deliver. We added more to the spice factor by marinating the chicken in lime juice, jalapenos, and garlic, then grilling the chicken we ended up using for the soup. Pow. 
I’m dreading the arrival of fall, in a lot of ways, but not when it comes to all of the soup I’ll be eating.

(via Chicken Tortilla Soup Recipe - CHOW)

SOUP TIME. I am back in soupy action. Andrew and I made this last night for lunches for the week, and I wanted to share because it is very good and very spicy. (I was going to take a photo of my own lunch, but soups with cream in them never quite look as appetizing as they taste in my opinion.) I have a different chicken tortilla soup recipe that my mom cut out from a Parade Magazine and mailed to me that I really like to use, but Andrew wanted something a little spicier, so we made this, and boy, did it deliver. We added more to the spice factor by marinating the chicken in lime juice, jalapenos, and garlic, then grilling the chicken we ended up using for the soup. Pow.
I’m dreading the arrival of fall, in a lot of ways, but not when it comes to all of the soup I’ll be eating.

I’d been thinking about Robin Williams a bit recently. His manager Larry Bresner told me that when Robin was asked by a German journalist on a press junket why the Germans had a reputation for humourlessness that Williams replied, “Because you killed all the funny people.” Robin Williams was exciting to me because he seemed to be sat upon a geyser of comedy. Like he didn’t manufacture it laboriously within but had only to open a valve and it would come bursting through in effervescent jets. He was plugged into the mains of comedy. I was aware too that this burbling and manic man-child that I watched on the box on my Nan’s front room floor with a Mork action figure (I wish I still had that, he came in a plastic egg) struggled with mental illness and addiction. The chaotic clarity that lashed like an electric cable, that razzed and sparked with amoral, puckish wonder was in fact harvested madness. A refinement of an energy that could turn as easily to destruction as creativity. He spoke candidly about his mental illness and addiction, how he felt often on a precipice of self-destruction, whether through substance misuse or some act of more certain finality. I thought that this articulate acknowledgement amounted to a kind of vaccine against the return of such diseased thinking, which has proven to be hopelessly naive. When someone gets to 63 I imagined, hoped, I suppose, that maturity would grant an immunity to adolescent notions of suicide but today I read that suicide isn’t exclusively a young man’s game. Robin Williams at 63 still hadn’t come to terms with being Robin Williams.
Russell Brand: Robin Williams’ divine madness will no longer disrupt the sadness of the world | Comment is free | The Guardian (via newsweek)

I don’t like the way celeb deaths are handled in general on the Internet. Yet, I read this and it made me think a lot about the weight of being just a human being. Then I imagined that pitted against whatever the weight of being simply extraordinary would be like. So here, I am sharing this, and I do hope you read it if you’re interested.

(via newsweek)

The rant of a chubby girl on public transit

I think every girl has an outfit or two that they put on and think, “Hmmm, this kind of makes me look pregnant.” I think that the thought usually following that one is “Screw it. It’s comfortable.” At least for me it is.

I have that thought a lot in the morning when I’m getting ready, but mainly because I carry my weight in my belly, so it’s pretty easy for that to happen. Carrying around my weight in my belly is how I’m made, and I generally like the way that I look. So I don’t mind my belly all that much. I’m trying to be healthier, sure, but that’s not what this post is about. 

This is about men offering up their seats to me on the train. Before you say, but he could have just been offering to be nice, or that he was chivalrous, please know that this happens to me fairly often, when there are several other women much closer to this person than me. Of course there is no way for me to know exactly why someone would offer me their seat, but I think I can infer a lot here. 

Anyway, it’s not that I’m upset about some man offering me his seat if he thinks that I’m actually pregnant. That is very nice and, I think, the right thing for anyone to do. What is not the right thing to do is go on and on, insisting that I take the seat after I have said thank you, and that I’m fine standing. 

"No really, I’m fine. Thank you."

"Are you sure? But please, sit! Take my seat. Really."

"I. am. fine. No."

That’s when it gets truly embarrassing for me, turns a into what feels like body shaming to me. I don’t want to give in and just take the seat, because frankly, I don’t need it at all. And stranger, you’re not listening to me. I said I’m fine. I don’t want your fucking seat. I’m just chubby. Leave me alone. I should not have to repeat myself after politely turning down a seat. I have never had a woman offer me her seat at all (perhaps because they understand what a pregnant body actually looks like, or perhaps it’s just a coincidence), and I certainly can’t imagine a woman insisting over and over that I take her seat. 

This isn’t me fishing for compliments or reassurance. I don’t need that. What I also don’t need is a stranger inferring things about my body and what’s best for me because of what they’ve decided about me by looking at my body.

Curiosities of a reader, feminist, lady of publishing, coverspy agent, writer and editor for Publishing Trendsetter, and lover of the Midwest.

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