arodefer said: Where did you get those wonderful pants?
My work pants were a birthday gift, but I know they were purchased at a local greenhouse, here in Denmark.
The clothing line is called “Garden Girl,” by Swedish designer Petra Maison. When doing heavy work, I used to just wear regular blue or orange tradesperson’s pants, which are specialised to tasks like painting, etc., and have pockets and reenforced areas based on those professions. These garden-specialised ones are very heavy duty, wick moisture, and have loops and pockets for common garden tools. Plus, they have a feminine fit that doesn’t pinch in the wrong places, like a lot of menswear-modelled tradesperson’s clothing does (they always seem to press right on the uterus). They aren’t more expensive than regular working pants, either.
I think poor-fitting performance clothing—clothing that is designed for men and basically retrofitted to women—is one of the ways in which women are subtly discriminated against in the trades, so I like that these are covered in flowers and solely designed for women, in addition to being well-made and practical: it’s sort of says, “fuck you, I’m going to drive this Bobcat and look girly as hell while I do it.”Creating Women’s Garden Gear That’s Tough-as-Nails & Cute-as-a-Button
“I was in the garden and thought ‘what am I wearing?’ I don’t usually dress in my husband’s old clothes!” says the 40 year-old designer based in Stockholm.
“That’s when it hit me: skiers wear ski clothes, sailors wear sailing gear. Why shouldn’t women gardeners wear gardening gear?” she said. “When you have the right gear, everything’s more fun because movement is easier. Gardening is so physical, it makes sense to wear gardening clothes that give you the right fit and feel.”
In creating her wish list for must-have garden garb features, Ms. Maison added pretty to comfort, fit, functionality and durability. Garden Girl garments are distinguished by their roomy fit cut to the female shape and clever stretch panels that provide “give” in all the right places for women who routinely bend, lug, haul, squat, kneel, crawl and pull their way through typical days in the garden.
“My designs blend the romantic with the practical. My inspiration comes from both my English and Swedish backgrounds. I still remember my English grandmother gardening in skirts and Wellies. She had a very feminine fashion sense. In Sweden, there have traditionally been outdoor work clothes for men, so I thought, why not for women? Why wouldn’t women want this too – but pretty!”
The fabric is so heavy that it’d be hard to get a thorn through them. I appreciate them for safety durability, an convenience alone. They used to be fashionable too, but mine are dirty as all hell because I never bother to wash them. So it goes.
my heart is beating quicker than it’s supposed to
and I don’t think I can stay in the same room as
you without falling from my skin
and I’m falling falling
and my heart just hit the ground and the rest of me
is spilling out
and this was supposed to be a poem about love
and the way you make me feel like I’m wrapped in
outer space, warm under a blanket of stars, like
but I’m burning alive and stars aren’t as pretty
when they’re hot in your throat
and you loved me you loved me last night but that
was 16 hours ago and 16 hours doesn’t seem like
enough time to fall out of love
but it is
and 16 hours doesn’t seem like enough time to
because it’s not
so I think I’ll stay here in the dark for awhile
because the sky is pitch-black without the stars
and we fell asleep in love
and I’m the only one who woke up
and I’ve been shaking you
and you won’t hold my hand like I need you to
and I miss you
I miss you
and I bet that when she kisses you
she can’t taste the little cracks in your
chest or the reasons you won’t call your
like I do
I fucking do
and I see the entire world in you
and all you see in me is a black hole
and you used to like the way I laughed
and the way I tuck my hair behind my
ear when I’m nervous
but that was 16 hours ago
and apparently 16 hours is enough time
to fall out of love
People normally cut reality into compartments, and so are unable to see the interdependence of all phenomena. To see one in all and all in one is to break through the great barrier which narrows one’s perception of reality.
I want you to call me at 4 in the morning
when you’ve drank too much liquor
and smoked too many cigarettes
and you think the world is exploding
when it’s really just a bad headache.
I want to listen to you cry and
I want you to use my shirt to wipe away your tears.
I wouldn’t even care if you got snot on my favorite scarf.
I want to stay up all night talking to you
about Plath and Bukowski
and I want to wake up in the morning
with my hands tangled around you and
my mouth close enough to clumsily bump into yours.
I’ll sing You Are My Sunshine over and over again until you
plant your mouth on mine just to get me to shut up.
I’ll even give you massages after a long day
until my hands are raw and tired.
I want to hear you scream,
I want to see your lips tremble
and your fingers cramp
and your torso sweat.
I want to see it.
I want to see all the parts of you that you’ve never showed anyone.
I’ll let you bleed when you need to bleed
and I won’t hesitate to stitch up your broken parts.
I want so much of you
and it’s okay that you don’t want much of me.
I am nothing but a body filled with black tea
and heavy lids that droop after midnight.
Because whether it is today or tomorrow or 10 years from now in a small coffee shop, I will admit this all to you.
But for now, it feels safe on paper.
Most consumers seem to want superfoods like ‘Açaí from the Amazon,’ ‘Inca Berries from Peru,’ ‘Goji Berries from China’ and ‘Cloudberries from Finland’ because they want some sort of miracle silver bullet, harvested from deep in the jungle, or gathered from the top of the purest mountain. It’s fetishistic, in the anthropological sense of the word: you’re the Don Quixote of the health food store, searching for the right combination of exotic antioxidants, that will let you live forever.
Nobody seems to want to hear that red cabbage will accomplish almost all the same things these ‘magical’ berries will, for a fraction of the sugar, and 1/20th of the price. For some people, when superfoods are staring at them in the grocery store for $1.99, it seems too easy.
The power of marketing, as it applies to produce:
biodiverseed)"Quinoa may deliver a complete protein—all of the amino acids you require—in a compact package, but rice and beans together actually do better. And like goji berries, blueberries and strawberries are packed with phytochemicals. The only problem is that lacking an exotic back story, food marketers can’t wring as exorbitant a markup from these staples: The domestic blueberry, for example, is periodically (and justifiably) marketed as a superfood, and in 2012, products featuring blueberries as a primary ingredient saw their sales nearly quadruple. But they only raked in $3.5 million—less than 2 percent of açaí-based product sales.”
-Tom Philpott, "Are Quinoa, Chia Seeds, and other ‘Superfoods’ a Scam?" (from Mother Jones)
it was autumn, and we held the taste of burnt tongues inside of our mouth: a sour kind of pain that pressed against our brains until everything we ate was ashes and sawdust.
we said, “i’m never going to fall in love again,” and we meant it. we were going to sell ourselves to the highest bidder. we would have given everything for four minutes of sleep. we would have given anything not to have to worry.
we said, “i’m gonna be okay,” and we meant it in the mornings, but by the time the sun set, we’d forgotten our promises.
you called me saying you were ready to jump off the side of this world or maybe just step into the ocean and dissolve into the tide, i told you that staying was the bravest thing us weak kids do, i begged you to put the razor down and grab the lifeline nearest you, you said, “yeah, i guess,” you calmed down, i hung up, i picked up my blades and texted someone else saying “god but i can’t stand myself.”
we said “i’m gonna be okay,” and meant we’d never tell anyone about this and instead we would cover our mouths and swallow down the blackjacket wasps that covered our throats and stung us until we had to let them slip,
we said, “we’re never going to fall in love again,” we meant we were certain that this world had turned to dust for us and we had become empty deserts and nothing could make us happy for more than a moment - we never were going to love again, were we, because we couldn’t even love the soft light of a sunrise, much less the fury of the darkwater tempest we felt inside.
god, but we were so good at hiding. god, but we were all summer winds, and god - we were dying.