Live at The Bowl, June 5, 1982.
I’m gonna show you what a girl typically working out would look like versus what you want me to look likeperfect person award
YES IT’S BACK
She also put on lip stick, eyeliner, let her hair down, and put on hoop earrings.
^ that’s the point of the video, though. This asshat was bitching about how “unfeminine” female Olympians are, when that shouldn’t even be a focus for people. There’s plenty of time for makeup, eyeliner, bikinis, whatever (if that’s their thing!) outside the Olympics.
It’s degrading to female athletes to have their accomplishments pushed to the side, things they’ve worked their whole lives for, and instead be judged on appearance at the one place they shouldn’t be.
PSA: If your blog is stuck in explicit mode
You can edit the settings page to change it.
This is my naughty blog right now. Notice how the icon is that snazzy default thing?
That’s because it’s set to explicit, a setting that was locked after the great purge:
BUT
If you right-click on that toggle and click “inspect element”, you can change that.
Notice how the input tag has a disabled attribute? Just remove that whole thing:
The toggle is now active
And toggleable
And now, after a quick refresh, my old (crap, but real) icon and header image are back, and the blog is no longer treated as hidden or explicit.
The goggle also disappears after the refresh, but it’s worth noting that you can also edit the toggle back into the settings panel and change your blog back to explicit if you so desire.
This is a perfect example of the laziness of tumblr’s devs. They haven’t removed the functionality, they’ve just kinda-sorta hidden it a bit; the end-point that the explicit toggle hits is still there.
Please reblog this and post this is discords where people are having trouble with their blogs
THIS IS HOW YOU CAN SAVE YOUR BLOG
Heres the thing you gotta understand about statistics.
“Increases your chances by 80%” does not mean “there is now an 80% chance”.
If your chances were previously 10%, your chances are now 18%, not 90%.
if your chances were roughly 1%, they’re now just slightly less than 2%.
thats how that works.
Wow I don’t understand math at all
‘if you have a baby after 35, the chance of deformities goes up by 100%’ is a line I hear alot.
It goes up from .5% to 1%
To simplify: It’s the percent amount of the current factor.
In the starting example: 10% is the factor. 80% of 10 is 8, and then add together (increase by that): 10 + 8 = 18. Thus an 80% increase of 10% is 18%.
Similarly: 1% is the factor, it’s really the same as 10, just the decimal stepped over (10.0%, 1.00% // I know that isn’t really how numbers work, I’m just doing this for the visual). And thus, 80% of 1% then adding it on would be basically 1.8%
And finally, .5%. 100% of .5 is just that, ‘point 5′, or a half a percent. Two halves make a whole, and thus a single percent or ‘1%’.
Pretty easy to be honest… Though, it’s easy to get caught up in the statement and forget that, sometimes even when you know better.
Practical, every day use of maths: Not being dooped by dipshit marketing teams
The Shortest Day Of The Year
Hey look it’s more Family Lore! content warnings: discussions of mental illness, nongraphic and nonmoving video.
Depression doesn’t run in my family so much as stampede, and this is the worst time of year for us. I pretty much live under my 10,000 lux lamp this time of year, and my sister gets into Christmas with an unusual degree of intensity for an Agnostic, to the point where nearly every available surface in the house is covered in garland, and she tried to put wreaths on the dogs last week. Charlie was his usual confused but accommodating self, and Arwen ate hers.
Out of us, my Mom has it the worst. She pretty much turns into a shadow of her usual self starting in about November. The sun lamps and holiday celebrations help, but she’s exhausted and glum, and at her absolute worst on the solstice.
December of 1995 was particularly bad for her- her parents health had taken a dive, work was being a pain, and our regular sitter had cancelled for the entire first week of winter break so I had to come into work with my parents. (My sister’s preschool hadn’t cancelled, at least. This was at Hewlett-Packard before everything went to shit, and we could be relied upon to sit in a cubicle and draw all day, so her manager allowed it). She was extremely stressed, to the point of coming home and crying.
Dad decided to do something about this.
They both worked at HP, at the same building, on different floors. Dad was an engineer, and Mom wrote internal instruction manuals (everything from business plans to repair guides), and would visit each other if they happened to be on the same floor, so it was generally known they were married.
On December 21st of 1995, I went in with him a bit early, and on the way to work, dad turned to me at a red light and said:
“If you can keep a secret from Mom, we’ll get donuts.”
I am easily bribed.
I don’t actually see what the paper-wrapped cone shape he puts in the trunk is, or make a note of the buildings we stopped at that he came out of with envelopes. I was six and had a chocolate donut. I had noted that he’d been listening to the same song from an old broadway musical for like, a week now, but I listened to enya on loop at the time, so I wasn’t going to judge.
We arrive at work late, and the envelopes and the paper cone come in with us. I amuse myself by taking every single one of my dad’s O’Riley Media books off his desk and drawing the animals on the covers.
At lunch, Dad finally unwraps the cone and I discover he’s gotten a bouquet of a dozen white roses. We go upstairs towards Mom’s cubicle and as we do so, begin to gather a crowd.
Every year since they’ve been together, Dad has gotten my mother flowers and sung a love song to her on their birthday, and it had become something of an event in the office to see Dad perform for her. But their birthday is in April, so clearly something special is going on.
We find Mom eating lunch at her desk. Dad stands strategically behind the cubicle wall to hide the roses.
“May I bother you for a few minutes?” hes asks.
“Sure.” Says mom as I climb into her lap. The gathering crowd shuffles closer. Someone brought a video camera.
“You have an audience.” She observes as he steps out from behind the wall with the roses. She gasps, delighted and completely surprised.
He then sings the song he’s been listening to and rehearsing for a good week now, “The Shortest Day Of The Year” from Rogers & Hart’s “Boys From Syracuse” Since I was six and didn’t have my own video camera, you’ll just have to listen to the Broadway recording, but my Dad does have a very nice tenor:
There isn’t a dry eye on the floor, mostly because everyone came over to see what the fuss was. The women are crying because it’s romantic, the Men are crying because they aren’t nearly as cool and romantic as my dad is, Gay Charles who arranged my parent’s relationship in the first place is crying because 7 years on this is happening. I’m crying because it seems the thing to be doing.
Mom hands the roses to me, gets up and grabs Dad to pull him into a dip for a kiss, which is really impressive because she’s a good 9 inches shorter than him.
“I love you.” Says Mom.
“I also arranged for my parents to watch the kids next week and booked us into that B&B you love for three days after the project is finished so you can have a vacation.” Says Dad, awkwardly hanging off her shoulders.
“I really love you.” says mom, kissing him again.
*
It’s December 20th 2018 today and it’s another Bad Year for seasonal depression for Mom. It’s been cloudier and darker than usual, she’s on new photoractive meds right now so she can’t use the sunlamp and current events are what they are.
Dad called me earlier today to ask me order a dozen white roses because Mom gets email alerts on her credit card and he wants it to be a surprise.
He’ll pay me back at christmas, but I’d do it anyway because I’m ridiculously lucky to have these romantic dorks for parents.
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