#Maree Rambo

[gracie-bird]

The dress Marée Rambo Pamp wore at the wedding celebrations of Grace Kelly and Prince Rainier of Monaco. it was designed by James Galanos.

Gift of Mrs Rambo to The Philadelphia Museum of Art in 1997.

#grace kelly #princess grace #maree rambo #maree pamp #wedding #1956 #james galanos

[vampyre-gutz]

Here’s a list of Alphabetically sorted ‘Call Signs’ for you if you: can’t figure out what yours would be, you need one for an OC, or for whatever other purpose! :)

!! Some of these came off the internet and are real call signs! Some are from Top Gun/Top Gun: Maverick which is probably why some of them may seem familiar. Good luck aviators. !!

A: Angel, Alphabet, Agony, Arrow, Assassin, Aggy, Ace, Animal, Astro.

B: Black Cat, Bronco, Bruise, Brick, Basher, Bulldog, Breaker, Blaze, Boomerang, B.O.B, Blade, Bullet, Bull, Bullseye, Bucket, Biggie, Birdie, Boots, Bones, Badger, Buzz, Big-sky, Baby Bat, Bubbly, Butterscotch, BumbleBee.

C: Cobra, Cypher, Casper, Charge, Cougar, Cyclone, Crow, Cyclops, Chipper, Coyote, Cargo, Charlie, Chaser, Cryo, Chuck, Creed, CooCoo, Cannonball, Circuit, Crash, Colt, Cruella, Creature, Chicken Little.

D: Dynamite, Dusty, Dash, Demo, Dice, Duck, Domino, Dover, Dozer, Diesel, Darling, Dasher, DoDo, Dipper, Digger., Deuce, Django, Dottie, Deception.

E: Elvis, Enigma, Egghead.

F: Flatline, Fireball, Fighter, Frost, Fancy, Feather, Flame, Frogman, Fifi, Firecracker, Fun-sized, Fruit Bat, Fungus.

G: Ghost, Goose, Giggles, Gucci, Ghostrider, Grizzly, Great White (shark), Gills, Gibbs, Gonzo, Ginger, Gator, Growler, Gretel, Graveyard, Ghoul, GG, G-Lord.

H: Hangman, Hammer, Hijax, Hijinx, Hollywood, Hurricane, Howler, Heater, Hawk, Honey, High-Tech, Hard Shell, Hydra, Horns, Heebee-Jeebee, Heartbreak, Hellcat, Hansel.

I: Iceman, Ivy.

J: Joker, Jinx, Jester, Jaws, Jacket, Judge, Jumper, Jaguar, Jigsaw, Judas.

K: Killer, Knight, Kanga, Krunch, Kindle.

L: Lucky, Legend, Little red, Lick, Lightbeam, Lambchop, Lover-boy, Lovebug, Lunch Money, Lucifer.

M: Maverick, Mouse, Mad Dog, Maniac, Machine, Mutt, Merlin, Mellow, Major, Mugsy, Mistletoe, Micro, Mamba, Mule, Mad, Memo, Magician, Monster, Moony, Midnight, Magic, Mastermind, Mare, Mustache, Moby, Mortician, Mortimer, Massacre, Mad Hatter.

N: Nova, Navigator, Nerd, Nugget.

O: Ox, Omen, Obi, Octave/Octavia, Oopsie Daisy.

P: Puddle, Porky, Poison, Payback, Phoenix, PopTop, Pyro, Pitch, Puggsy, Princess, Puke, Poltergeist, Phantom, Peacock, Puzzle, Peter Pan.

Q: Quiver, Queenie, Q-tip.

R: Razor, Ripper, Rattlesnake, Rooster, Rebound, Rush, Red, Rags, Robin, Rusty, Rebel, Radiator, Rottweiler, Rapid, Rambo, Red Flag, Rockstar.

S: SHOCK, Skipper, Showoff, Sparrow, Slayer, Smiley, Songbird, Shadow, Scooby, Slider, Sundown, Stinger, Sludge, Shredder, Storm, Silence, Stretch, Serpent, Scout, Shark, Stag, Slick, Sassy, Scooter, Soprano, Spring, Strike, Scorpion, Showtopper, Stallion, Sweet ‘n Sour, Scarlet Witch, Surge, Spinach.

T: Tiger, Taz (Tasmanian Devil), Thunder, Twinkle-Toes, Tank, Tweety, T-Bone, Tumble Weed, Trouble, Tombstone, Tug, Toon, Twitch, Turbo, Tart, Teacup.

U: Uber, Unicorn, Ultimate, Unseen.

V: Viper, Vapor, Vampire, VooDoo, Vanilla, Vine, Venom.

W: Wiki, Wolfman, Wizard, Warlock, Wildcard, Wednesday, Wildfire, Wonderland, White Rabbit.

X: Xeno, X-man, Xanadu.

Y: Youngin.

Z: Zeus, Zebra, Zig-Zag, Zimm.

#top gun #call signs #top gun maverick #call sign ideas #military #us navy #us navy fighter pilot #fighter pilot #pilot call signs

[spaziocomesichiama]

30 dicembre 2022

Spazio come si chiama? promuove la mostra collettiva PECORELLE in collaborazione con spazio mirtilloxgalleriaarrivada e si impegna a dare rilevanza alla sua pecorella preferita: “La pecorella smarrita” di Arabrab Acnirt.

La mostra, inaugurata il 13 dicembre 2022, rimarrà aperta fino al 23 dicembre 2023, per tanti giorni quante sono le pecorelle esposte!

Seguono lə 375 artistə:

Luca Assi

Andrea Barbagallo

Aurora Biancardi

Francesca Bionda

Valentina Bobbo

Antonia Boschetti

Nicolò Camedda

Matteo Capriotti

Giada Carnevale

Pietro Chiarello

Filippo Benedetta Chilelli

Francesca Colombo

Lorenzo D'alba

Emma de Devitiis

Stefano de Paolis

Giovanni Diano

Pietro di Corrado

Luca di Palma

Alessandro di Silvestro

Lorenzo Finotti

Madeleine Fléau

Davide Giuseppe Fracasso

Ludovica Gugliotta

Inmotulus

Tommaso Lencioni

Giorgio Lorefice

Luca Loreti

Chiara Mapelli

Marzia Mazzone

Cecilia Mentasti

Will Merante

Nemo's

Edoardo Paci

Aronne Pleuteri

Cosima Pugliese

Davide Quartucci

Federico Riccobene

Davide Riganti

Camilla Rocchi

Davide Rossi

Valentina Schito

Peng Shuai Paolo

Chiara Sibilla

Matteo Tonell

Twee Whistler

Francesca Vanoli

Filippo Zoli

?

?

?

Arabrab Acnirt

Giulia Loredani

Kamila Bracio

Costanza Merini

Aldo Corboletti

Cures Bito

Edoardo Destro

Matilde Verzanti

Eva Lela

Giulia Serafina

Marco Gottlieb

Beatrice Gorini

Marcella Schifo

Marcello Scafo

Lucrezia Hassan

Goberto Stayn

Michele Giasone

Brittany Spersa

Genniferra Lorensa

Billi Cancelli

Erion Bracio

Oscar Selvaggio

Stefano Falco Re

Rashid Ahmadi

Ben Dover

Rodion Romanovič Raskol'nikov

Brunilde Cospira

Irina Balls

Riano Goslingo

Enrico Calvino

Akane Qurban

Luca Bianchi

Saro Esposito

Biriz Cubiraq

Truo Detectivo

Mark Hawk

Lucrezia Lulashi

Climato Ciangio

Is Reale

Renato Angusto

Ilmana af Klinta

Eos Duemelilad

Giovanna Giorno

Guido Mista

Bruno Bucciarati

Fugo Pannacotta

Denisa Riotta

Giovanni Stella di Gio

Lisa Lisa

Suzie Q

Casca Male

Farnese Farnetica

Giovanna Poi

Luca Abete

Vivianne Giotto

Grace Cosima

Tommaso Nucco

Lucia Libellula

Lucio Lucertola

Luca Lupetto

Elio Femore

Obed Gazzelli

Rambo Sandri

Pierre Buraglio

Noël Dolla

Daniel Dezeuze

Yves-Alain Bois

Greta Pini

Leonardo di Pecora

Anna Rossi

Anna Lee

Roberta Filorosa

Drane Koqeku

Piccolo Amico

Costanza Piatto Rosso

Leze Lezia

Anatolia Carpov

Susanna Decostar

Mimma Pancia

Rosalia Tepelene

Katrina Fantasia

Regina Cane

Johan Van Dyck

Gjelosh Prifti

Loredana Burazzo

Clotilde Purelli

Ross Acco

Alice Triolo

Roberto Ast

Martina Vocado

Gesualdo Mino

Matteo Pecorotti

Lucia Nuro

Loris Tubaio

Pietro Liere

Andrea Computer

Andreea Quilone

Ernesto Viglie

Marco Balto

Lola Vandaia

Maurizioco Modino

Ismaele Very

Ariadna Weber

Griet Orta

Jacques Dubois

Sofia Rognoso

Emma Brahimaj

Emma Scalzone

Carla Dro

Agatha Lettera ai Corinzi

Arnaldo Perugino

Alex Love Car

Osvaldo Scioni

Tomas E. Martinez C.

Daniel Piloni

Marco Giuseppe Ricci

Aaron Ossia

Clara Ovvero

Caterina Carnesecca

Blerta Vernello

Francesca Franceschi

Caterina Tale

Joanna Argolo

Nicholas Harvey

Anne Høngaard

Astrid Schrage

Riccardio Salotto

Omar Iacone

Merino Merini

Alberto Sorrentino

Gennaro Martino

Diana Comasina

Pietra Brenta

Osvaldo Luciani

Pino Obaldi

Emanuele Labirinto

Laura Pimento

Pippi Calzecorte

Carlo Marco

Federico Angolo

Giuseppe Renna

Dennis Freeway

Alina Lorenzin

Giacomo Krispi

Damiano dei Maneskin

Daniele Zuppa

Gurlami Rabaglio

Nicola Lanterna

Mario Vanni

Zaccaria Tuofratello

Marta Cantarelli

Andrea Fragalà

Vittoria Campestre

Simona Duecentoquattro

Marina Sghirripa

Mathias Birri

Eva Allegra

Franco di Ladro

Matilde N. Tista

Agnese Mare Chiaro

Nicola Fossarrelli

Alessandro Medario

Dario Buzzati

Kim Cardascio

Gennaro Candela

Bella Adito

Gigio Costa

Pietro T. Tola

Salvo Salvini Salvuzzi

Vitangelo Moscarda

Anna Rosa

Quantorzo Rovelli

Firbo Malatesta

Marco di Dio

Dida Moscarda

Guido Guidobaldi

Loredana Cuore Dolce

Leonardo Agamben

Giorgio Caffo

Katia Andreani

Evandro Morino

Priscilla Oscilla

Torquato Pirelli

Franca Stella

Romana Tedeschia

Marco Gusati

Anna Vigatore

Rodolfo Caffot Titi

Aronne Cromante

Paola Costa

Ameriga Restucci

Valeria Riva

Severina Salvemini

Francesca Bonami

Giuliana da Empoli

Ilario Tondarini

Bruno Gabbiato

Carlo Accardi

Gion Giorno

Frank Baselitz

Franco Struzione

Shinji Ikari

Frulanzo Arroganzo

Berenice Frac

Piero Birdo

Giacomo Daniele

Daria Godaria

Armando Lomiti

Milo Margelli

Osvaldo Tirimai

Agata Lauretto

Morgana Ercani

Eris Sarrola

Antoine Lubezzi

Gina Strada

Rosalind Merighetti

Margherita Florenzia

Demetria Gagliarda

Albi Liardino

Stefano Universo

Greg De Maio

Rosa Quarzo

Rebecca Zucchero

Marzia Pane

Marzapane

Cristallo Acqua

Marco Zucchero Bergo

Ashley Pi Pi

Sara Frascaro

Gabriele Barbapapa

Asia Triolo

Occhio’s

Dajana Corvetto

Mimmo Nanni

Giuseppe Castagneto

Kate Groovy

Goffredo Bezone

Uinstone Chiesa Tranquilla

Giovanni Lennone

Isacco Nuova Tonnellate

Avladar Avladar

Giovanni Berrimore

Melania Marrone

Vittoria Dietrocarne

Flatnind pierici

Sarto Lesto

Ettore de La Siepe

Dozia Gatto

Susy Za Arep

Anacleto Vis a Vis

Claudia Francesca

Giorgia Panigatti

Una persona

?

?

Carmine Curmini

Mirko Nebbia

Paulo Dybala

Ipona Cosimi

Giovanni Famoso

Alice Febe Lu

Freeda Cavallo

Martina Drip

Giorgio Costanza

Federico di Marco

Francesca Ricotta

Anita Pellizza

Alessia Mackenzie

Benedetta Rolesco

Matilda Curino

Elena Stanza

Alessia Casablanca

Luca Gianotti

Lorenzo Berrati

Enrico Meta

Claudio Cicciacalda

Salvo Servizio

Bruno Funari

Davide Gallo

Camilla Lilla

Martina vergesi

Mattia Vaivia

Rosa Culetto

Viola Respiro

Stefania stanza

Resta in Pace

Drake Kadri

Pasquale Porrari

Fabrizio Fine

Carla Schievane

Elio Nato Vivo

Michael Millais

Tua Madre_

Enne Enrepo

Harris Farts

Enrico Riccobene

Pietro Parco

Arancio Sole Chiaro

Terza in Comodo

Frank il Giardino

Manca Poco

Samantha Sole

Martino Picardi

Mira Sema

Pasquale Pasqualon

Ginestra Tonini

Nicole Vaiani

Karim al-Rahmān

Isotta Mbabazi

Glenda Golubev

Giulia Roncali

Michael Scott

Dwight Schrute

Jim Halpert

Andy Bernard

Kevin Malone

Creed Bratton

Stefano Ruggero

Moses Okello

Antonella Ottaviani

Erika Milelli

Alessia Rizza

Michela Lepore

Giovanni Mucciacca

Pietro Pacciani

Maggiori informazioni sulla piattaforma Instagram: @spazio_come_si_chiama, @spazio.mirtillo, @arrivada e @pecorella_smarritaa.

[thelinesofmylife]

Can someone tell me if they've also seen this behaviour?

So two of the dominant mares have lost their positions in their respective herds of late, and both for very similar reasons.

Both of them are mothers who had their foals on the farm, both have kept their offspring at heel and both have had trauma associated with their offspring.

Now the mother/daughter couple are two of the acolytes of Epona. Now though her daughter was around 7 or 8 years old, mum was still letting her udder feed. Mum had weened her daughter off once before, but severe stress brought the behaviour on again. We just let it happen as it seemed to serve as a means of coping with stress (of which, a fair bit had been happening at the time). Mum was content, daughter was content, we weren't going to interfere because of rule 1 (never get between an active parent and their offspring).

Of late however, the two of them have stopped with udder feeding and they're interacting with others in different sub-herds. However, while Mum had been feeding her youngest she was high up in the herd's pecking order, holding a spot at maybe third or forth position (depends on how you count the rogue element in the herd, the pony mare I have come to call Rambo). But now that she isn't nursing her youngest, she (and her daughter, but you get the feeling that alot of her bravado may have come from "stop it or my mum will beat you up") has gone down a lot in rank and isn't fighting quite as much with the others, choosing instead to opt out of fighting rather than hold her ground.

The second mare in our case study is the mother of our current patient, who is recovering from colic surgery.

Now the patient was a bit of a surprise foal. Mum was skin and bones when she was rescued from the abattoir yard and for most of the winter she was rugged and watched over by a third party who wasn't paying a lot of attention to the horses in their care. So it was a surprise to find out that mum was pregnant with the little troublemaker to be. Later on down the line, mother and son were sold off together, but were rather forcefully separated and this wasn't good for them. They were returned to the care of the farm and since that day, mother and son had been inseparable; if you saw one without the other, something was wrong.

So several years later, he's recovered from an infected pedal bone, she's recovered from an torn ligament and cutting part of her eyelid open (and I learnt that sewing buttons can be used as flesh washers) and they're still hanging out together in a very small herd with his adoptive aunt (whose backstory involves losing her foal at the abattoir). The three of them pretty much go everywhere together. Mum and Aunt basically fight over who is in charge, with the poor boy caught in the middle.

Then comes the severe impaction colic. We have to take him to a hospital a couple of hours away for major surgery and our first concern is, of course, Mum. However, during the 5 days he was away, she wasn't overly stressed. (Aunt seemed to take it worse and was the happiest to see him upon his return.) Mum has lost her desire to be top mare, even letting the two newcomers to their small herd push her around. Aunt is now firmly in charge. He is currently on a restricted diet in a stall that she and the others have access to for visits, but during an incident when he got out, it was him who kicked everyone but mum off so they could graze on the round together.

She does seem happy to see her son, but doesn't seem as protective as she once did.

I know mares get protective of their young and we have a few other mother/child pairings in the mega-herd, but none are this driven to be at the top.

Has anyone else noticed such domineering behaviour in mares who are looking after foals at hoof, only for them to return to their docile selves when their child grows up?

#horses #herd behaviour

[humanistic-horsemanship]

Rambunctious Rainbows

I found Kiara as an untouched two year old in 2018, from an ad on the internet. She was out of an Amish bred haflinger mare and by a gypsy grandson of The Lion King (hence her name, Kiara), and when I drove out to meet her she was so afraid of people that she would turn and try to kick you in the head if you got within 8 feet of her. I'd been looking for my partner for months...and finding it next to impossible to find a project over the age of 18 months who wasn't already in saddle training (stop riding your effing two-year-olds). And I don't know, I saw something in this gangly little tangle-mane. She had something special...a spark. So I arranged transport and brought her home a few weeks later, at the end of August. I called her the Rainbow Pony. My little unicorn.

I spent the first two months of our time together just trying to get her to come up to me. I approached her almost as a do-over of Rain: using my hindsight to come at the gentling process in a new way. I sat with a pan of grain in my lap and just talked to her until she came over to me, and used the grain to associate me with good things. Within a few weeks I was able to inch close enough while standing to rub on her shoulder and spray some Vetericyn on the scratches she had developed from the record-levels of summer mud. The next week we spent our whole session -- and an entire bottle of concentrated detangler -- getting the dreadlocks out of her mane and removing some of the dry, cakey mud. The next week I opened the stall door, the following day I was able to clip a lead to the halter she came in and we stood in the open doorway. The next day we took a few steps out, and the next we were able to go for a little walk around the boarding stable, mostly bribing her with treats to follow me as she'd never learned how to lead. She did great! The next week we began some round pen work, and within a couple more I felt comfortable enough taking her halter on/off, having her hook on, etc. to finally be able to turn her out with the herd. She did a few laps of the pasture at a full gallop (which was adorable), and then came back to me. YES!!!!

The next year was spent on groundwork. So much groundwork...We focused on relaxation and eventually did full "lessons" in-hand, going around and through the different obstacles set up in the arena, and working on round penning cues & responsiveness before we began teaching to work on a lunge line. Lunging wasn't awesome at first...took some trial and error to not go skiing, but then one day it just clicked, and she went around light and quiet. This was maybe sometime around March/April of 2019. Our first stable had trail access, so I took her out on trail in-hand once a week or so and we jogged together through the woods (I miss that!). Sometime around June I introduced Rambo's english saddle to our lunging sessions, and that July I backed her for the first time. We did a few short rides at the walk, working pretty much only on steering and stop, throughout the summer and in November we moved to a new stable for Kiara's health. Our new place had a track, and we spent the winter doing long walks in-hand and conditioning on the line, and I didn't ride her again until March of 2020.

Quarantine was very good to us. I was home (fortunately my partner at the time had an essential job) and lucky enough that our new barn was in Wisconsin, so I was there every. single. day. Kiara was now 4 and I re-started her under saddle, and rode pretty extensively during that spring and summer. We did a lot of transitions, cue work, and work on the track. By the end of the season, whether or not we wore a saddle was up for debate each day. Again, come fall, we took the winter mostly off from riding, and I restarted her AGAIN in March or April of 2021, thinking now she was turning 5 and ready for proper work.

We hit training in the fall of 2021 hard because I was invited to go on a big group trail ride and wanted Kiara to be ready. Long story short, she was ready in time, but we were unable to go because of issues with the other horses. But I suppose that's neither here nor there. In October of 2021 my relationship fell apart, and I'll admit that after a few months of pretty severe depression, it was hard to get back to things. I spend the next while going out to see Kiara once a week, then every other week, then once a month. And her attitude began to show that inconsistency...she had lost her trust in her training, and in me. She was getting dangerously herd sour, reactive, and spooky, something she had never been before. In March of 2022 she bolted on the track when her herd -- her pasture lined the track -- began to follow us and started a stampede. I was not in control, had flashbacks to Rambo, and was afraid. Again. We finished our ride but this only made my own anxieties worse, which in turn caused me to go to the barn less and less. I did not get on her back again until September, and never rode on the track again.

Fast forward to winter of 2022. I was in a happy relationship, my job was stable, and I missed my horse. In January of 2023 I moved her to a new barn, a small, quiet place to home, and spent the next few months trying to find any kind of consistent schedule...I'll admit that her attitude towards her training after the years of relative sitting was giving me serious ethical issues about whether I should be riding or working her, or any horse, at all. She was family and I'd have her until she died, but maybe just as a pasture pet (or as my partner calls her, a big dog).

Then one day, just a few weeks ago, something in my mind flipped. It was like a woke up 7 years old again, and all I could think about was horses. I spent my days at work daydreaming about seeing Kiara in the evening and what we were going to do. We've spent the past month doing a groundwork refresher and some conditioning, and this week I started riding again. We're still dealing with the sourness and reactivity/spookiness from her time off, but it's getting better each day and my training is very much focusing on building back up her confidence (and my own). We have been truly embraced by the people at our new barn, and I can honestly say we have never been happier.

I'm currently trailer shopping to be able to take Kiara on adventures --first in hand, and then under saddle-- plan to register Kiara as a gypsy sport horse this summer, under the name Rambunctious Rainbows to honor my Rambo-boy, and I am considering starting some training for eventing, since she is a gifted little jumper and I could pay a month's board if I had a dollar for everyone who tells me she moves like a dressage horse.

#horse #horsemanship #natural #natural horsemanship #humanistic psychology #gypsy #my little pony

[onlinediarykindathing]

7 marzo 2023

Devo imparare a prendermi la responsabilità per le scelte che faccio. O meglio a non essere disappointed se le persone non matchano ciò che faccio. Se ho scelto io di mandare la mail alla copisteria allora vado io a ritirare il tomo e se abbiamo deciso un giorno che andasse bene sia per il ritiro sia per consegnarlo al prof e io mi sono tenuta libera per questo di mia spontanea volontà allora non mi posso sentire presa in giro se Daniele dice che non riesce a venire in tempo perché sta a fare sempre festa con gente non meglio identificata (mi disse che tornava oggi, quindi domani può venire ma non gli va). Io domani vado, recupero i soldi da ile, (spero che Rambo li mandi sulla carta), posso anticipare quelli di Daniele se non recepisce il messaggio, e vado a pagare questo dannato tomo e lo vado pure a consegnare. Se uno si organizza in modo e poi mi dai buca io mi regolo da sola di conseguenza, e se non ti piacciono le scelte che faccio ti attacchi.

Ho solo questa settimana libera prima che inizio allo studio e vorrei potermi organizzare in pace. Ma ile prima mi dice ‘meno male che mi hai scritto perché io sono ancora in alto mare, martedì ci vediamo’ poi mi scrive ‘dobbiamo rimandare perché sto imputtanata’ e poi se ne va a fare partite serali a non so che sport e ad andare al coro e ad andare ad allenarsi ai cerchi (tutto quanto non riguarda scelte che ha preso lei con me). Adesso mi dice che riesce a portarmi i soldi domani ma non sa a che ora perché deve aspettare un pacco a casa. Lei è la prima che dice studiamo insieme e poi diverge. Daniele pure mi dice che vorrebbe studiare insieme e ormai dovrei saperlo che quello che dice e diverso da quello che fa.

Cate che ha litigato con Benedetto sta un po’ giù sto periodo, lo percepisco a distanza, e venerdì ha l’esonero di scienza, quindi ora le ho detto che vado con lei, mi metto a studiare mentre lo fa e poi ce ne torniamo insieme. Poi appena capiamo quando torna Bobba ci vediamo con lei.

Mi devo solo dedicare a me stessa e alle persone che so che ci sono per me. Basta daydreaming e basta illudermi. Se ci vuoi essere e lo dimostri mi trovi qui, se no lascio stare. Ho deciso di riempire la mia vita così adesso e mi concentro su questo.

[cancionesfedez]

VECCHIO

Salto come Fiona May Anche senza la pastiglia Dai, non la passare a lei Che conosco la famiglia

Ah, sister, non importa quello che dicono Fluido, fra', non importa l'articolo Fai le stories, imiti i Migos Poco dopo t'allacci alla Digos Sbaglio, sbaglio, sto ancora imparando E sto svapando il sapore di mango Primo maggio, sono andato sul palco Il mio avvocato è Cristiano Ronaldo

Otto di mattina, arriva la municipale Qualche goccia che si stacca da una nuvola

Non sono ancora così vecchio Ho visto i rave, ho visto i black block Io vado al mare, prendere o lasciare Stanno passando il nostro pezzo Non sono ancora così vecchio

Ho perso gli amici miei Perché lei voleva un figlio, sì Sto ancora pensando a lei Ma vedrai che mi ripiglio, ye

Gli amici miei persi nei tunnel di bambaland Entrano in banca ma con la maschera Fughe in macchina, c'hai la faccia pallida Mi dice: "Tutto a posto" e invece sanguina E io scanno, scanno, ma mica ho una Lambo Mi dice: "Ti ricordi che giocavamo a Rambo?" Che squallido, penso che mi stai ricattando Gli unici istanti di felicità sono quando

Non ricordo più le mie responsabilità Qualche goccia che si stacca da una nuvola

Non sono ancora così vecchio Ho visto i rave, ho visto i black block Io vado al mare, prendere o lasciare Stanno passando il nostro pezzo Non sono ancora così vecchio

Salto come Fiona May Anche senza la pastiglia Dai, non la passare a lei Che conosco la famiglia

Ho perso gli amici miei Perché lei voleva un figlio, sì Sto ancora pensando a lei Ma vedrai che mi ripiglio

[enricaleone91]

Guida Tv Venerdì 7 ottobre

Guida Tv Venerdì 7 ottobre

Attenzione! Eventuali cambi di programmazione dell’ultimo minuto, dati da eventi eccezionali, non sempre possono essere riportati!Programmazione delle principali emittenti televisive per la sera: Rai Uno: Tale e quale show Rai Due: Le tre vite di Donato Bilancia Rai Tre: Flesh and Blood Rete 4: Quarto grado Canale 5: Viola come il mare Italia 1: Rambo 2 La7: Propaganda live Tv8:…

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[princessgracekelly1956]

Original Caption Reads: Joining a toast during a reception to Princess Grace’s wedding gown are (from left) Adolph Cavallo, Philadelphia Museum of Art costume curator, Robert Montgomery Scott, president of the Art Museum; Princess Grace’s sister Peggy Conlan of Philadelphia; and Maree (Mrs Joseph S.) Rambo of Wyndmoor, bridesmaid at the wedding of Grace and Rainier in April 1956. The reception, which took place in the Great Hall of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, was held to celebrate the 25th anniversary of the wedding. The gown, which was given to the Museum by Princess Grace, is a much prized possession of the museum’s Costumes and Textiles Department. (April 1981)

#Peggy #Maree Rambo #Philadelphia Museum of Art #wedding dress #1981 #25th wedding anniversary

[one-boring-person]

Okay but fr

Im Rambos’ overprotective, questionable, violent(not towards him) and haunted s/o who makes him candles and teaches him to quilt.

And he can come pet my cows to relax, and if anyone says shit to him all they see is a big metal agender bastard coming to fuck them up…

Idk…just feel he needs a tired, metal, badass s/o who’s only soft spot is for him and they show him the good things in life again

Bruh i want to be this for him too!😭😭❤

Gladly.

John Rambo (Last Blood) x reader

Warnings: mention of war, mention of PTSD, probably inaccurate farm related shit, bad language

Masterlist

"Hey, John? You got a minute?" (Y/n)'s voice startles the veteran as they poke their head around the door, an expression of barely contained excitement on their face.

Looking up in surprise, John stops his movements before he accidentally sticks himself with the needle in his hands, putting the bundle of fabric down in his lap. 

"Yeah. What do you need?" He rumbles, frowning a little, curiosity piqued by their jittery behaviour.

"Wanna help me with the foals? It's their first time outside." They grin, speaking quickly.

John considers the offer, remembering back to his time on his father's ranch, back when he was a kid: the foaling season, or more accurately, the time after had always been his favourite, seeing the young animals exploring the world for the first time. When he was a teen, his father had once let him pick a foal to raise himself, a small buckskin mare with a fiery demeanour that made for some interesting riding. He'd trained her up and had ridden her in many a race, though he's certain now his father had sold her as soon as he had left for the army. Eager to see the sights of his childhood again, John nods in agreement, climbing to his feet with some vigour.

"Yeah, I'll help. Let me just get some boots on." He tells (Y/n), placing his sewing aside and moving to follow them out into the hall.

"Ok, I'll wait for you outside." They reply, turning and leaving through the front door, allowing it to swing slightly behind them.

Swiftly, John pulls on his thick-soled boots, lacing them up tightly before pulling his trousers leg down over the top of them. Years ago, he would've tucked them in, but (Y/n) had once told him that the action would always remind him too much of his old occupation and habits, and that it might be healthier for his head if he tried to breach these second-nature quirks. Shaking his head, he almost smiles at the reminder of the words they'd used to describe it, straightening as he goes to leave through the door, grabbing his battered old Stetson on the way out. 

As usual for this part of Arizona, the sun is beaming down onto the ranch, heating every available surface mercilessly. The air is hot and dry, too, but John's used to it by now - the contrast with the thick, humid jungles of Vietnam always helps to calm him, too. He sometimes misses the sweltering heat of Thailand, but he knows now he only ever liked it because it was familiar, and kept him in a mindset he knew he could function under. Now, he's changed.

John makes his way over to (Y/n), who's stood before the smaller barn they've set aside for the foals in their youth, tipping his hat down over his eyes to shield them from the blazing sun. Already, he can hear the muffled whinnys of the young horses, the excited creatures keen to get out and explore properly for the first time. He feels his expression soften a little at the familiar sound, a smile trying to pull at the corner of his lips as he moves in beside (Y/n).

"Come on." They grin, pushing open the door.

Stepping inside, the two are immediately faced with a barrage of happy snorts and neighs, five gangly foals pushing at the gate holding them back. John has seen them before, but hasn't been in such close proximity, leaving (Y/n) to work with them for the most part, given his speciality in the older horses, so he finds himself marvelling at their oddly amusing antics. They're all about the same size, nudging and pushing at each other in their haste to get out.

"How do you wanna do this?" John asks, looking at (Y/n) expectantly, before eyeing the far door, which leads to a small field behind the stable.

"Get a lead on 'em and get them out one by one. It'll be safer than if they all rush forward." 

"Ok." 

The two move to take up a few leading ropes each, swiftly fashioning slipknot into them to easily but safely close around the foals' necks. As they climb into the pen, the young horses move to nose at their clothes and hands, snorting softly at them. One, a small black-and-white palomino, thrusts his head into John's coat, whinnying gently to him. Unable to help the small smile the plays on his lips, he carefully lifts the foal's head and slips the lead over his neck, tugging it to tighten ever so slightly. Standing, lightly ties the line to a nearby fence post, before repeating the action with two of the others, waiting for (Y/n) to finish up. Once they have, he takes a foal's leash and heads to the far door, which he pushes open and steps through, taking the cheerful horse with him. 

As they step outside, the two foals picked first pull at their lines, excited as they try to leave and explore. John is quick to walk on into the field itself, getting halfway before he leans down and gently slips the rope off of the foal's neck. Instantly, she bounds off, gangly legs moving quickly as she rushes to check the area out. It's not long before she's joined by her brother, who also hurries about wildly. Chuckling, John turns his back and moves to repeat his action, the two ranchers soon managing to get all the foals into the field. 

Standing back, they watch as the youngsters explore, neighing in curiosity and surprise when they find plants they haven't encountered before, a couple calling out to the stallions in the field over. Laughing amongst themselves, and pointing out a few in particular, John and (Y/n) follow the small palomino from before, who consistently trots up to John to judge against him. 

"You know, I think he likes you." (Y/n) laughs, ruffling the foal's mane as he shuffles past. 

"I guess so." The veteran smiles and watches as the young horses bounds back over to his friends, turning his gaze on (Y/n) instead. 

He can't help the flush of affection he feels for them, eyes roaming over the familiar torn jeans, fading Guns 'n Roses shirt that hangs loosely over their muscular build and the bright grin in place on their face. Suddenly, he feels the urge to say something, so he reaches across and takes their hand in his. Surprised, they look at him, head cocked in that way he loves.

"John?" They ask, turning to him.

Taking a breath, he smiles at them.

"Thank you. For this, for showing me that there is still good in my life." He murmurs, knowing they'll hear him.

It takes them aback, he can tell, but the glowing smile he's rewarded with makes his heart ache for them, itching to take them in his arms and hold them close.

"You didn't need me to find it, I just helped a little. And I'll do it again. Gladly." They reply softly, squeezing his hand before stepping forward and wrapping their arms around him.

Returning the gesture, John melts into the embrace, holding them tightly against him.

-

Tag List - @the-mind-of-moss @80s4life @snowgoldwaylon @slystallone @feirceangel

#sylvester stallone #rambo #break writes #john rambo #rambo x reader #John Rambo x reader #John Rambo imagine #Rambo imagine

[autolesionistra]

Metallo Pesante S01E03

La ferramenta del paesino di mare

Le ferramenta marittime seguono alcuni rigidi dettami.

Almeno un terzo della merce è esposta fuori dal negozio, in una zona dai confini più disputati di quelli sino-indiani che si dirama dal marciapiede di fronte al negozio in ogni direzione, saltuariamente raggiungendo e occupando la carreggiata stradale e il balcone di Ravaioli del piano di sopra che tanto viene solo ad agosto. La merce esposta ha costantemente una patina di sabbia misto salsedine e soprattutto sui lati esterni non è chiaro cosa faccia parte dell’assortimento e cosa risalga ai primi insediamenti costieri etruschi della zona.

È a gestione familiare, con famiglia allargata: a presidio dell’area esterna viene tipicamente messo uno zio o un nonno particolarmente scorbutico che ha come compiti principali redarguire i cinni che toccazzano la merce (o che ci sbattono contro perché l’intero marciapiede è impegnato) e rampognare i clienti ciclisti marittimi che parcheggiano la loro bici marittima di fronte alla ferramenta sostenendo che “dopo sembra un biciclettaio” e indicando con stizza un luogo più idoneo dove legarla. All’interno si alternano il capofamiglia (che è l’unico che conosce l’esatto assortimento dell’esercizio), la moglie del capofamiglia con un cinno di tre anni in braccio (che non ti ascolta e risponde “eh qui ci vuole mio marito, torni fra un’ora” anche se chiedi delle pile stilo) e saltuariamente il primogenito undicenne del capofamiglia (ha già i baffi ma lo chiamano “Titino”) che guarda tutti malissimo e genera qualche imbarazzo perché la gente non sa se è lì come commesso o come antifurto.

La ferramenta marittima, come tutte le ferramenta che si rispettino, sogna di vendere attrezzature costose e pistolezze peculiari. Questo sogno si infrange  ad ogni stagione contro l’orda di villeggianti e turisti che entra a chiedere minchiate. Ne consegue che il trait d’union di tutti i lavoranti nella ferramenta marittima è l’avversione verso i forestieri, che vengono soppesati con lo sguardo all’ingresso stile sceriffo di Hope con Rambo; in particolare entrare in costume è visto alla stregua di entrare avvolti nella bandiera spagnola in un’osteria di Arrasate.

Il desiderio più o meno inconscio di liberarsi dei turisti spinge a tarare l’inventario in maniera passivo-aggressiva in modo che tutti gli anni si resti inspiegabilmente sprovvisti di materiale comune, accompagnando tipicamente l’informazione con la frase “eh, quest’anno volete tutti i [ciappetti / catenacci per bici / pile / nastro biadesivo]”. Il turista spiazzato si guarda in giro indeciso se prendere altro ma incrocia lo sguardo bieco di Titino in un angolo e scappa via.

#metallo pesante

[gracie-bird]

Princess Grace of Monaco attends accompanied by her friends, Maree Rambo from Philadelphia and fashion designer Vera Maxwell, Florence, and Gerald van der Kemp Reception (founders of The Versailles Foundation) at Versailles on June 11, 1980.

#grace kelly #princess grace #maree rambo #vera maxwell #van der kemp #versailles foundation #1980 #versailles #blue

[giovaneanziano]

Giorno 2 - Nuove Alleanze, nuovi dissapori

Il sole sorge a Panzianum, ed ecco che i nostri tributi cominciano a svegliarsi, tranne...

L’ADMIN DEI GRUPPI WHATSAPP DI BUONGIORNISSIMO KAFFE che la notte appena passata aveva freddo, ma freddo, ma così freddo che si è svegliato freddo. Di un freddo morto. Attio Piccolo Ancielo, insegna agli ancieli a non essere una perzona falza

@the-empty-walls vede in lontananza @cielidipinti @burroesalvia e @cretina-te che arrivano in lontananza. Lui pensa che tre piccioni con la fava e TAC altre 3 seccate e la vittoria si avvicina, proprio come aveva progettato durante la notte a cantare! Allora prepara sto mega trappolozzo tutto ingegnato, tutto perfetto, ma si è dimenticato del tempo che passava e intanto le 3 ragazze sono arrivate e lo stanno guardando. Fino a che Vale gli fa “we gandula, ma ti pare?” lui non riesce nemmeno a rispondere perchè basito sopratutto quando Creti da un calcio a un ingranaggio e Wall rimane infilzato. Purtroppo Adamo 2.0 se n’è andato e sto gioco sta diventando la sagra della patata e basta

@kuramaaa e @mafaldinablabla si sono svegliate preso stamattina. Si incontrano in riva al lago mentre di danno una lavata veloce e decidono di andare a caccia per cucinare qualcosa. Una è brava con l’arco, l’altra coi coltelli, cosi Kura cattura un cervo a frecciate e mafaldina lo scuoia facendo un bello zaino di pelle che riutilizzerà per ricordo da questa esperienza. Le due si sono divise ad un certo punto per appianare meglio le loro abilità belliche, ma chissà, magari si reincontreranno

@orestiade non ne può più. Ha sete di sangue, vuole uccidere e non trova nessuno mannaggia MA DOVE SONO TUTTI. Così si mette li con l’arco e fa allenamenti, solo che ogni tanto si distrae dalle piccole cose che si muovono e le abbatte. Ai suoi piedi ormai c’è un cimitero di animali vari che valuta di cucinare. Madonna abbiamo Rambo watch out

Un gruppone si è formato: @mantenetevifolli @wemademadhatterworld @geometriche e @bruttipresentimenti hanno deciso che basta, si sono rotte le balle, ora andranno insieme e ammazzeranno tutti perchè sto gioco e sta timeline piena ha rotto le balle. Quindi viaggiano a testuggine con archi e spade nella ricerca di altri tributi “Wow sembriamo il Milan di Ancelotti con il 4321″ dice Mantenetevifolli, e li Geo è sbottata “NON CI PROVARE EH, MADONNA NO” e se ne va incazzata come una iena. Va bene tutto, ma il Milan no. Madhatter cerca di seguirla per capire, per riportarla in gruppo, ma si perde da sola, mentre bruttipresentimenti pensa che il suo nome è anche una premonizione

@tehwolfeh sta esplorando l’area. il suo intento è ricreare una mappa per poi poterla usa a suo vantaggio. Senza ricordare però che in geografia aveva 4 e mezzo, quindi quello che disegna è una cotoletta alla milanese

@acciarino ha scoperto la mia prima trappola: ha trovato la nebbia di gas! Mannaggia però scappa urlando “RAGA E’ COME NEL FILM RAGA OU SCAPPATE” peccato che è sola e dall’altra parte dell’isola. La sua corsa è diventata un meme che potrete vedere nel prossimo episodio di Mai dire Hunger Games

@gold-insanity​ è fortunello, riceve un dono dagli sponsor! Che sarà mai?? Un beccuccio per l’acqua. E che ci fa? Infatti si arrabbia, lo tira nelle piante lontane e manda a fanculo con gestacci tutti. Sarà una vecchia diatriba con chi alle elementari gli diceva che non sapeva bere? Che doveva mettere tutto il collo della bottiglia in bocca perche altrimenti si sbrodolava tutto? Chi lo sa

@dichiarazione​ vorrebbe guardarsi allo specchio. Non per vedere quanto è bella, ma per capire e parlarsi, chiedersi che sta facendo, vedere se il tempo passato l’ha cambiata, se questa dieta l’ha resa troppo magra o emaciata. E si incazza urlando IN FIGA DE TO MARE ai quattro venti fino a quando le passa e inizia con altri anatemi

@iajato​ pensa ai vari film: Rambo, Predator, Dora l’esploratrice e pensa “che hanno loro che io non ho?” e allora sradica un albero, bello grosso, con molta pazienza, ingegno e un coltellino seghettato trovato nell’incavo di un albero e con  quell’albero ci fa una lancia. Una Lancia? Cioè sradichi na pianta secolare per una lancia? ma puoi farti na fabbrica di lance benedetta eh!

ve lo ricordate  IL TIZIO CHE SI LAMENTA CHE GLI ESAMI SONO ANDATI UNA MERDA E PRENDE 30 E LODE? E’ rintanato ancora nel suo buco di sterco pensando a cosa fare, a piangere e a ricordare casa. Poi piange perchè non si ricorda niente, non sa niente, e mo lo bocciano e l’appello lo salto basta vado a casa ma no resto per vedere le domande che non si sa mai mi servano la prossima volta e poi piange ancora e resta li. grazie.al.cielo.

Salutiamo i due nuovi morti della giornata, Addio buongiornissimo kaffe dei miei coglioni e addio Adamo 2.0, vi ricorderemo con grande affetto

#Hunger Games Anziani #episodio 4

[thepastisalreadywritten]

It may be the softest kiss in film history.

The sun is setting over West Side rooftops, the sky persimmon. A man, his leg in a cast, sleeps near an open window, undisturbed by a neighbor singing scales.

Just after the highest note is reached, a shadow climbs over the man’s chest, shoulder, and chin.

We see a face: blue eyes, red lips, skin like poured cream, pearls. Then he sees it.

The kiss happens in profile, a slow-motion hallucinatory blur somewhere between myth and dream, a limbic level of consciousness.

The director, Alfred Hitchcock, liked to say he got the effect by shaking the camera.

In truth, this otherworldly kiss comes to us by way of a double printing. Has any muse in cinema been graced with such a perfect cameo portrait of her power?

“How’s your leg?” she murmurs. “It hurts a little,” Jimmy Stewart answers.

Another soft kiss, more teasing questions. “Anything else bothering you?” she asks. “Uh-huh,” he says. “Who are you?”

Who, indeed! In 1954, when Rear Window premiered, Grace Kelly had been in only four films. She was hardly known to the public, and then she was suddenly known—a star.

In her first film, Fourteen Hours, she played an innocent bystander, on-screen for two minutes and 14 seconds.

In her second, Fred Zinnemann’s High Noon, she co-starred as the pacifist bride of embattled sheriff Gary Cooper.

In her third movie, John Ford’s Mogambo, she was the prim wife of an anthropologist (Donald Sinden) and Jane to big-game hunter Clark Gable’s Tarzan. It was a steep and impressive learning curve, straight to the top.

By the time Hitchcock got his hands on her, figuratively speaking, casting himself as Pygmalion to her Galatea, Grace Kelly was ready for her close-up.

Hitchcock gave her one after another, in three films that placed her on a pedestal—Dial M for Murder, Rear Window, and To Catch a Thief—enshrining her as an archetype newly minted.

“A snow-covered volcano” was how he put it. She was ladylike yet elemental, suggestive of icy Olympian heights and untouched autonomy yet, beneath it all, unblushing heat and fire.

By 1956, two years, six films, and one Academy Award after Rear Window—while the country was still wondering, Who are you, Miss Kelly?—she was gone, off to Europe to marry a prince, whence she would become Her Serene Highness Princess Grace of Monaco.

The appearance and then sudden disappearance of gifted, beautiful blondes is not unknown to Hollywood.

Before Grace Kelly’s five-year phase of radiance in the 50s, there was Frances Farmer, whose brilliance roused the industry for six years, from 1936 to 1942.

Like Kelly, Farmer was intelligent, her own person, and a serious actress wary of binding contracts.

In 1957, only a year after Grace Kelly’s departure, Diane Varsi took the baton, making a big impression as a sensitive ingénue in Peyton Place.

Varsi, too, was both smart and skeptical of Hollywood, and fled the industry in 1959. (She returned in the late 60s, but without momentum.)

Farmer and Varsi left, respectively, in mental and emotional disarray.

The word “disarray,” however, would never find its way into a sentence that included the name Grace Kelly.

She was always in control. Always prepared. Always well groomed and well mannered, delightful and kind. And always, eternally it seems, beautiful.

Though it is in Rear Window where Grace Kelly achieves full iconic stature, answering Stewart’s question by circling the room in her pure-white snowcap of a skirt, there is nothing “rear window” about her.

She states her full name as she switches on three lights, and her picture-window, Park Avenue perfection is itself a kind of incandescence.

Here was a white-glove glow to make men gallant and women swoon, and it was present whether she was dressed in dowdy daywear (her beloved wool skirts and cashmere cardigans) or in the confections of Hollywood designers and Paris couturiers.

Hitchcock goes so far as to make a joke of it. “She’s too perfect,” Jimmy Stewart complains.

“She’s too talented. She’s too beautiful. She’s too sophisticated. She’s too everything but what I want.”

And it was true, except for that last, because at the moment when Miss Kelly left Hollywood, the whole world wanted her.

The Kelly Way

The story of Grace Kelly has been told and retold by friends, journalists, historians, and hacks.

This April, it will be told yet again, not in words but in artifacts, when London’s Victoria and Albert Museum unveils the exhibition “Grace Kelly: Style Icon.”

It begins as her story must, in Philadelphia, where she was born on November 12, 1929. Baby pictures aside, the image that seems to set her life in motion is one that recurs in a series of vacation snapshots.

It is Grace as a little girl on the Jersey Shore, being twirled in the air by her father, who looks Herculean in a tank suit as he swings her by her legs or by an arm and a leg.

The photos capture an essential dynamic: Jack Kelly was the vortex of his family, and its life revolved around him—his principles, his dreams, his drive.

Jack’s goal was success in all things, pursued honestly yet relentlessly, and his drive was physical.

It manifested itself both in sports—he was celebrated for winning three Olympic gold medals in sculling (one newspaper called him “the most perfectly formed American male”)—and in business, where his construction company, Kelly for Brickwork, became the largest of its kind on the East Coast.

His sex drive was Herculean, too. Marriage did not limit Jack’s love life, which was discreet but busy. In many ways the Kellys were like the Kennedys—bright, shining, charismatic, Irish-Catholic Democrats, civically and politically engaged. (Jack once ran for Philadelphia mayor, losing by only a small margin.)

Similarly, Kelly women were expected to be team players—outdoorsy, sporting, and supportive of their men.

Margaret Majer Kelly, Grace’s mother, was herself an impressive physical specimen.

A former cover-girl model and competitive swimmer, she was the first woman to teach physical education at the University of Pennsylvania.

Her German-Protestant discipline meshed nicely with her husband’s can-do spirit. When they married, she converted to Catholicism. Despite their winning energies, the Kellys were not social climbers.

In the Philadelphia of those days, Irish Catholics, even rich ones, were outsiders. Thus, the family never lived on the fabled Main Line, as so many Americans thought they had (because Hollywood publicists decided they had).

The Kellys built a 17-room home in the Philadelphia neighborhood of East Falls, overlooking the Schuylkill River, upon which Jack rowed.

And there they stayed, enviably wealthy, sailing through the Great Crash without a dip because Jack didn’t play the stock market.

“I’m Going to Be a Princess”

Grace Patricia Kelly was the third child of four and the only one without a clear definition.

Peggy, extremely witty and her father’s favorite, was the eldest. John Junior, born second, was the only boy. (“Kell” would become a champion rower like his father, not because he wanted to but because his father expected him to.) And Lizanne was the baby.

Grace was defined by what she wasn’t: not athletic, not outgoing, not boisterously healthy (she suffered sinus trouble and asthma).

A much-repeated family story has young Grace locked in a cupboard by tempestuous Lizanne. Instead of crying to get out, Grace stayed quietly locked in, playing with her dolls, for hours.

“She seemed to have been born with a serenity the rest of us didn’t have,” Lizanne later explained. Unfortunately, serenity didn’t particularly impress Jack.

Grace was active in a place where it didn’t show: her imagination.

Early on, she told her sister Peggy, “One day I’m going to be a princess.”

Make-believe was where Grace excelled, both in playing with her dolls and in class theatricals, beginning with her first big role—the Virgin Mary in the Ravenhill-convent-school Nativity pageant—and continuing through high school.

Years later, as she was just gaining notice in Hollywood, the Los Angeles Times would write that she “came seemingly out of nowhere.” This was not true.

Alongside the sporting blood in the Kelly clan ran a more verbal line of showmanship—the stage. Jack Kelly had two brothers who had gained fame in the theater: Walter Kelly, a successful vaudevillian, and George Kelly, a Pulitzer Prize–winning playwright.

George became Grace’s mentor and confidant. It was he who encouraged her dream of acting, who warned her about Hollywood’s feudal studio system, and whose name helped her win late admission to the renowned American Academy of Dramatic Arts, in Manhattan.

Grace’s parents did not want her to leave home for New York. According to close friend Judith Balaban Quine, who would be one of Grace’s six bridesmaids and later the author of The Bridesmaids: Grace Kelly, Princess of Monaco, and Six Intimate Friends, Jack Kelly thought acting “a slim cut above streetwalker”—not an uncommon view at the time.

But Grace was adamant. “She got away from home early,” her brother, Kell, once said. “None of the rest of us managed to do that.”

Grace did well at the academy, and in her graduation performance, played the role of Tracy Lord, the privileged heiress in The Philadelphia Story.

This was the beginning of the potent, sometimes prophetic connection between life and art that would reverberate through the career of Grace Kelly.

When in 1949 she won her first big part on Broadway—the daughter in The Father, with Raymond Massey in the lead—it was again a role in sync with her own situation: the loving daughter who must break away from a powerful family.

Grace got good notices, which brought calls from New York television producers, but Broadway did not fall at her feet.

The problem was her voice: it was too high, too flat (those sinuses), and not easily projected over the footlights.

She put a clothespin on her nose and worked to bring her voice down a register, to achieve clarity and depth.

The result was diction with a silver-spoon delicacy—slightly British—and the stirring lilt of afternoon tea at the Connaught.

The Kellys teased Grace mercilessly, this putting on airs, but her new voice would be key.

So would her walk. Grace had studied ballet as a girl, keen on becoming a ballerina, but she grew too tall (five feet six) to be a classical dancer in that era.

She never, however, lost her ballet posture or a dancer’s awareness of her limbs in space. Furthermore, she’d paid her own tuition at the academy by doing lucrative work, making more than $400 a week as a commercial model for the John Robert Powers agency, selling soap, cigarettes, whatever, in print ads.

This too contributed to a poise, an inner stillness, in the way she moved. Her walk became something unique:

regal above the waist, shoulders back and head high, and a floating quality below, akin to a geisha’s glide, or a swan’s.

In fact, Grace developed her acting chops not onstage but in the live “playhouse” television dramas that were a new form of entertainment in the early 50s, and one of her more than 30 TV appearances was in a shortened version of Ferenc Molnár’s The Swan.

In this play, Grace, as a princess, must choose between young love and a destiny tied to duty, a life where she will “glide like a dream on the smooth surface of the lake and never go on the shore. . . . There she must stay, out on the lake, silent, white, majestic.”

It’s hard not to feel clairvoyance in this metaphor. Add in the white gloves she wore to auditions—unheard of in the drafty, gypsy world of theater—and the neutral hose, the low-heeled shoes, the slim wool skirts, the camel-hair coat, the horn-rimmed glasses (she was nearsighted), and the less-is-more makeup.

Well, Grace was her mother’s daughter, and Margaret had never approved of frippery.

“She was fun and jolly and pretty and nice to have around,” says Laura Clark, who was an editor at Harper’s Bazaar when she met Grace in the early 1950s, still a struggling actress.

Clark remembers her style of dress as “very conservative. You know, the circle pin and the white collars. The sweater-and-tartan-skirt look. Almost schoolgirlish.”

Fellow actress and close friend Rita Gam described Grace’s daytime style as that of a “small-town high-school teacher,” while fashion designer Oleg Cassini, whom Grace would begin dating in 1954 and almost marry, called it her “Bryn Mawr look.”

Maree Frisby Rambo, Grace’s best friend from childhood, says that, growing up, Grace wasn’t terribly interested in clothes.

“We all wore about the same thing. Sweaters and skirts and loafers and socks. It was like a uniform. Dances and things, she’d wear a dress of Peggy’s.”

That changed when Grace left home. “I remember she’d been in New York for a while,” Rambo recalls.

“She came to Philadelphia, and I invited her to the Cricket Club to go swimming, and she appeared, and she just looked different. Whatever she had on was so chic, as opposed to us. She looked New York, where the rest of us looked Chestnut Hill.”

So the voice, the walk, the reserved bluestocking style—it all came together in a kind of crystalline equation. You couldn’t say it was calculated.

Grace was well brought up, disciplined, cultured and shy. She was only highlighting what she had, just as when she took the advice of her modeling friend Carolyn Reybold, who told her to stop hiding her too square jaw under a pageboy and instead accentuate her jawline.

Grace pulled back her hair and pulled on her gloves. All that was left now was for the right camera to find her.

The Camera Finds the Face

“She would never have had a career in the theater,” Don Richardson told Robert Lacey, whose definitive biography, Grace, was published in 1994.

Richardson was a theater director who worked with academy students, and he was also one of Grace’s lovers.

“Great looks and style, yes, but no vocal horsepower.”

One day, though, Richardson was studying some photographs he’d taken of Grace, and a headshot transfixed him.

“When you looked at that picture, you were not looking at her. You were looking at the illusion of her. . . . The camera did more than love her. It was insane about her—just like I was. When I looked at that photograph, I knew that her future would have to be in pictures."

In The Face of the World, the photographer Cecil Beaton explains why the camera was insane for Grace Kelly.

“She has, most important of all, a nice nose for photography: flat, it hardly exists at all in profile.”

This meant it wouldn’t cast shadows that could trouble the cameraman.

Furthermore, Beaton writes, “all photogenic people have square faces.…[Grace’s] mouth, the tip of her nose, her nostrils—all are extremely sensitive. Their beauty is effective against the rugged background of the square face.”

Grace’s first film, Fourteen Hours, was not the one that set her movie career in motion. And while 1952’s High Noon put her on the map, it was more of a spotlight than a spark.

No, the touchstone was a little black-and-white screen test she shot for Twentieth Century Fox in early 1950, for a movie called Taxi, the part of a poor Irish girl.

Grace didn’t get the role, but the test hung around.

In 1952, it caught the eye of John Ford, who said, “This dame has breeding, quality and class.”

He cast her in Mogambo. A year later, Alfred Hitchcock saw the test. He was in need of a leading lady for Dial M for Murder, having lost his previous muse, Ingrid Bergman, who’d run off with the married director Roberto Rossellini.

On the basis of the Taxi audition, plus a scene or two of High Noon (in which he thought her “mousy”—a compliment), Grace was hired.

“From the Taxi test,” Hitchcock explained, “you could see Grace’s potential for restraint. He liked what he called her “sexual elegance.”

Grace’s rise in Hollywood was swift, and her self-possession was stunning. On her own, she worked out an enviable seven-year contract with MGM, one that allowed her the freedom to live in Manhattan every other year, so she could pursue the stage, which was still her dream.

She had no qualms about turning down stupid scripts, and was tight-lipped when reporters asked personal questions.

Financially prudent and secure, she didn’t have to accept second-rate stuff or play the publicity game.

“She selects clothes and stories and directors with the same sureness,” said eminent Hollywood designer Edith Head, who dressed Grace in four films. “She’s always right.”

Grace loved the feeling of family on a movie set and was adored by her colleagues, whether they were people behind the scenes or stars such as Ray Milland, Cary Grant and Frank Sinatra.

Oddly, the brass at MGM never seemed to understand their Miss Kelly, or value what they had in her. Of the nine movies she made after signing with MGM, five were with other studios to whom MGM lent her out.

The Country Girl, a serious drama for which she won her best-actress Oscar, was made at Paramount.

A Fairy Tale Takes Form

The year 1955 was a big one for Grace. She had four films in the theaters and was the year’s highest-earning female star.

At the Academy Awards, not only did she win an Oscar but Bob Hope declared:

“I just wanna say, they should give a special award for bravery to the producer who produced a movie without Grace Kelly.”

That same year, she rose to the top of the Best-Dressed List, sharing the No. 1 spot with socialite and Über-Wasp Babe Paley, who wore mostly Mainbocher.

That Grace, who did not wear couture, could tie with Babe, who did attest to Grace’s discerning eye.

“The stylish image of Grace Kelly was everywhere,” writes H. Kristina Haugland in Grace Kelly: Icon of Style to Royal Bride, “including department store windows.

In the fall of 1955, her likeness was used to create a line of mannequins.” It was in 1955 and ’56 that Grace ascended to something white, silent, majestic.

These were the years of her last three movies: the glorious To Catch a Thief, filmed on the French Riviera, all sea and sky; The Swan, from the play that she’d done on television in 1950, and which was now getting the lavish MGM treatment, and High Society, a musical remake of The Philadelphia Story, co-starring Bing Crosby and Frank Sinatra.

Any actress would be floating with this kind of material, and Grace, almost literally, wasin fabrics that were light, airy, and ineffable (a theme that had begun with Rear Window).

She wore chiffon, watered silk, unlined linen, and that most levitational textile, silk organza.

The costumes that designers Edith Head and Helen Rose were making for these films show that everyone was on the same page, working in celestial alignment.

“Every few decades, Hollywood finds a way to classicize the look of one of its stars,” says film and dance critic Don Daniels.

“It did it with Marlene Dietrich. It did it with Katharine Hepburn. And it eventually did it with Grace Kelly.

Helen Rose specialized in this sort of thing in the 50s, in films like Athena and Jupiter’s Darling. She worked on this look for Grace in both The Swan and High Society.

It’s every now and then a woman and her look floats into the public consciousness and can be styled so that we remember Greek goddesses.”

The Swan was a costume drama and hews to an Empire line. But in To Catch a Thief andHigh Society, references abound to both classical draping and classical dance, an art form full of mythological creatures.

Grace’s gowns are columnar, with waterfall pleats and cascades of fluting, sheer trains flowing from the back (where wings would be, if she had them), and sheer scarves like soft breezes around her neck.

All this pleating and fluting and floating was in tune with the Hellenistic sculpting of 50s couturiers such as Madame Grès and the Greek designer Jean Dessès.

Grace’s day dresses have fitted bodices and skirts blossoming from the waist—a very clever fusion of the ballerina’s tutu with the American shirtwaist, and a shape that allowed her to move freely (as she did in the sensational flowered shirtwaist of Rear Window, in which she climbed a fire escape).

As for color, Grace was given her own Apollonian palette. Wheat-field and buttercup yellows, azure and cerulean blues, seashell pink and angel-skin coral, Sun King gold and Olympus white—no one wore white like Grace Kelly.

To those with a feeling for history, beauty, and style, Grace Kelly’s late-career wardrobe—the huntress Artemis during the day and Aphrodite at night—is unforgettable if not positively Delphic.

“Every time I see Grace Kelly I’m influenced by what she wears,” says Janie Bryant, the costume designer for AMC’s Mad Men. “The simplicity, it is so classic, but it’s always dramatic.”

“When I branched out into women’s wear,” says designer Tommy Hilfiger, who has an Andy Warhol silkscreen of Grace Kelly in his New York apartment:

“I began to really study icons of style. Grace stood out. Style is enduring and forever. It’s something you cannot buy. There is a chic-ness to conservative style done in an elegant way.

You know, we did a book called Grace Kelly: A Life in Pictures. We did this as an inspiration book, not only for ourselves. We find that the French are obsessed with her, and the Japanese are intrigued.”

“She didn’t necessarily lead fashion in a new direction,” says Jenny Lister, a curator of Textiles and Fashion at the Victoria and Albert Museum.

She’s become shorthand for a very polished and well-accessorized look. Contemporary designers like Zac Posen have talked about her timeless appeal.

"I think it boils down to quite ethereal ideas because in some of her films, she almost seemed like a goddess, and because they couldn’t pin her down—she was so private. That aura of mystery, she retained that. And because she stopped making films, it never changed.”

“Though Grace can be very inviting,” says Janie Bryant, “and her voice has a warmth to it, there’s also an austerity to her. It’s about the façade.”

“I think Grace Kelly was someone that came along at the right time,” says fashion historian June Weir.

“If she had come along in the 60s, or in the 40s, I don’t think it would have worked. She was the perfect 1950s beauty. Pastel colors, beautiful luxury fabrics, and very pretty necklines.”

“High Society,” says Robert Lacey, “just the whole confection of that. It was just the most extraordinary way to fly out on a new cloud.

Sophia Loren, Audrey Hepburn, Grace—they were all absolute archetypes of particular sorts of beauty. They’re the end of the star system. To my mind, more beautiful than any stars of the earlier years, and more beautiful than anything since.

With the newer generations, we subconsciously know there’s artifice involved. And we don’t quite believe what we see. But we did believe what we saw with Grace.”

Goddess of Love

If we only had the woman Grace Kelly was in her films—the golden girl in the shirtwaist dress, the classical creature in white chiffon—it would be enough to place her in the pantheon.

But with the biographies published after her untimely death at 52 in 1982—when she was driving with her younger daughter, Stephanie, and their car flew off the road and down a mountainside—her symbology became more complicated, and certainly more fascinating.

We learned that the volcano under the snowcap was surprisingly active and full of fire.

Grace Kelly, the swan princess in white gloves, was neither a virgin when she married Prince Rainier III of Monaco, in 1956 (she’d lost it at 17, just before she left home for New York City), nor virginal in the way she had conducted her love life up until then.

As the truth came out about Grace’s sex life as a single girl, in books ever more salacious in their details, it was a shock, sharply at odds with her pristine screen persona.

Some make it sound as if she slept with every man who crossed her path. She did not. “We were together a lot,” says Maree Rambo, “and that was just not her style.”

And while one biographer claims Grace had affairs with almost every one of her co-stars—Cooper, Gable, Milland, Holden, Crosby, Grant, Sinatra—others believe it was only Holden for sure, probably Milland, and maybe Gable.

Grace was romantic and passionate. She followed her heart, which might or might not lead to bed. All her biographers agree that she never used sex to win roles.

Judged in retrospect, not by 50s standards but by feminist ones, she was as self-possessed about her sexuality as she was about her work.

“Grace was in many ways ahead of her time,” says the writer Donald Spoto, whose biography High Society: The Life of Grace Kelly was published in November.

“Her Catholic upbringing and the force of her parents’ arguments and insistence on these codes of conduct were attended to but not heeded. She had an independent conscience from her earliest years.

Grace said to me, ‘I was constantly falling in love, and it never occurred to me that this was wrong or bad.’

And when social or religious issues said otherwise, my impression is that she heard it, and then said, ‘Well, thank you for your input. If you’ll excuse me, I have a date.’”

“If the testimony of her succession of boyfriends is to be believed,” says biographer Robert Lacey, “she was very moder, col, relaxed and wasted no time.

I think it was her rebellion against her father. In every other way she was such a good girl, and did what Daddy wanted, and of course brilliantly achieved in her field, just as Daddy brilliantly achieved in his.

I’m sure she was devout, an absolutely sincere Catholic, but taking full advantage of the Catholic mechanisms for private misdemeanors.”

“Grace was the daughter of a very liberated woman,” says Wendy Leigh, the author of True Grace: The Life and Times of an American Princess.

“Margaret was a healthy German blonde with no shame about her body. And then Grace’s father was a great philanderer, so that she had the measure very early on about male animal instinct. And rather than walk away from it, Grace basically embraced it.”

“She was shy. But physically, she was not shy,” the actor Alexandre D’Arcy, who had a monthlong romance with Grace in 1948, told Robert Lacey.

“She was . . . very warm indeed as far as sex was concerned. You would touch her once and she would go through the ceiling.”

Gwen Robyns, who published Princess Grace in 1976 and then became a close friend to Grace, puts it simply: “She just adored sex. She made no bones about it. We were lying on the bed one day, and I said something about sex, and she said, ‘It’s heaven.’”

Grace was not unlike the ballerina Margot Fonteyn, another midcentury artist who was cherished for her aura of chastity and purity, a fairy-tale femininity girded for greater things.

Fonteyn, it was later revealed, was accomplished in bed and often in bed. There is a connection between art and sex, with arousal in one realm speaking to arousal in another.

Performers, like gods and goddesses, must assert themselves in space, which takes all kinds of energy pulled from all kinds of sources.

While no one had a problem with this when it came to men and their muses, women of that era had to be quieter.

Grace and Margot, who knew each other, were both quiet. But sex, Don Richardson remembers Grace saying, “put lights” in her eyes.

The Clock Is Ticking

If Grace did not feel a societal pressure to bridle her passions, she did feel the clock ticking regarding marriage and children, for which she longed.

On 6 January 1956, page one of The New York Times read, PRINCE OF MONACO TO WED GRACE KELLY.

Unbeknownst to those who knew her, Grace, during the filming of MGM’s The Swan, had glided into love with Rainier Grimaldi, whom she’d met in 1955 and had been exchanging letters with ever since.

“She was playing in The Swan and she was playing a princess,” says Robyns. “Along comes this prince, and, being Grace, she was carried away by dreams and things.”

Grace had also made it clear that she didn’t want to be an aging beauty in Hollywood.

“The Wedding of the Century,” as it was referred to at the time (Grace called it “the Carnival of the Century”), was arguably the first multi-media press event on a modern scale.

There was a slew of reporters and photographers on the ship that took Grace and her entourage of 66 to Monaco; nearly 2,000 reporters crowded the cathedral ceremony, “more press there than guests,” remembers Maree Rambo, who was a bridesmaid; and the wedding itself was filmed by MGM and broadcast live to more than 30 million viewers in Europe.

It was a marriage that seemed to embody the wedding-cake ideal of postwar, 50s culture, with its emphasis on fairy-tale fertility and prosperity. The little principality of Monaco was stepped like a wedding cake, and its palace was as pink as a petit four.

Even bartenders toasted the event, serving a new drink called the Princesse Cocktail: equal parts bourbon, grenadine, and fresh cream.

Grace became pregnant with that precious first child (Caroline)—the offspring who would secure the Grimaldi succession in Monaco, and hence its independence from France—on her honeymoon.

It was during that first pregnancy that Grace turned an accessory by Hermès into a much-coveted cult item.

Out in public, she shielded her belly with a large square handbag made of brown pigskin, the Hermès sac à dépêches pour dames.

The descendant of a 1930s Hermès saddlebag, it was simple, sensible and superbly made, yet another example of “always.”

Grace was carrying the principality’s future, and she protected it with something proven from the past.

In her honor, Hermès christened this bag “the Kelly.”

Where the Hermès Birkin bag, named for the actress Jane Birkin, has something more of bling about it, the Kelly remains the icon of impeccable breeding and quiet good taste.

With the same discipline, culture, and kindness that she had brought to her career as an actress, Grace fulfilled her duties as a princess.

She had hoped that now and then she could return to Hollywood to make movies because she loved and missed acting.

This hope was dashed. Rainier was ambivalent, the roles on offer were problematic, and her schedule as a wife, mother, and royal was consuming.

Hers turned out to be not a fairy-tale marriage but the kind of marriage anyone has, with ups and downs, joys and disappointments, and patches of marital discord.

Did Rainier step out on her? Did Grace, finally, step out on him? Some of her biographers say yes and yes. Others are not so sure—as Donald Spoto cautions, “Nobody held the lamp.”

Her oldest friend, Maree Rambo, says today, “I don’t know, but I don’t think so.”

As the years pulled on, Grace began to see that “disarray,” the word that didn’t apply to her, had a place in life. And “always”—so allied with perfection, and classicism, and her—was a kind of trap.

It was with tears in her eyes that she said to her friend producer John Foreman, “I know where I am going to be every single day for the rest of my life.”

And sometime later, when she learned that one of her six bridesmaids had been living in a shelter, she told Judith Balaban Quine that she was strangely envious.

“I know it might sound awful and insensitive,” Quine remembers Grace saying, “but the thought of just getting up every day and doing what that day brings you sounds wonderful to me in certain ways.”

In tiny Monaco, half the size of Manhattan’s Central Park, it was as if Grace were locked back into that cupboard but without her dolls to play with.

Her life was laid out along narrow corridors, much like the corniche on which she took her last drive—rock on one side, open air on the other.

It was a slim road full of hairpin turns that connected the family getaway, Roc Agel, to the pink palace where protocol reigned.

“Strung like a slender thread across the clouds” is how Quine described one of these upper corniches.

On that fateful day of 13 September 1982, Grace didn’t let the chauffeur drive because the car was too full.

She and Stephanie were up in the front, and across the backseat, she’d placed dresses that needed altering for the coming season. She didn’t want them wrinkled.

She was excited about new projects that were blossoming, and by all accounts, she and Rainier were enjoying a renewed closeness.

The best medical guess is that Grace suffered a small “warning” stroke while driving that treacherous road, which caused her to lose control of the car.

A few seconds of blurred consciousness, like the kiss in Rear Window, and the clouds reclaimed their own.

Laura Jacobs is a Vanity Fair contributing editor.

#Grace Kelly #Grace of Monaco #Prince Rainier of Monaco #Hollywood

[checkmate123]

Are the ponies pregnant?

Martha is due to foal in November. She usually goes about a week early. She'll have a purebred Clydesdale foal. The stallion was a wee bit smaller than her but the mare dictates the height in most cases.

Solstice is due in December. It will be her first foal. Stallion was a Shire horse so if she has a filly I'll be able to register it. They're a rare breed here in NZ.

Martha is 16. This will be her last foal.

Stallion- Rambo.

Solstice is Martha's 2015 foal.

The stallion - Dark Knight

#horse overload #my horses #martha #solstice #mares

[onlinediarykindathing]

20 febbraio 2023

Oggi mi sono vista con Daniele per andare a recuperare le tavole dall’auletta. Dovevo in realtà accompagnare mia sorella che avrebbe parlato con il dottorando con cui sta discutendo per trasformare la sua tesi in un paper. Figata. Anyway questo tipo dice ieri sera via mail che sta malato e dato che mia sorella si laurea dopodomani allora è meglio che lo ricontatta lei con calma dopo, intanto lui si riprende. Serviva quindi che io andassi oggi? no. Ho comunque un abbonamento mensile? si. Allora sono andata. Ieri sera mi scrive ricordandomi di restituirgli i sue volumi di one piece. Dato che lo so che è uno possessive verso le sue cose vado a preparare tutto in serata così la mattina avrei dovuto solo lavarmi e vestirmi ed uscire. Invece vedo che la copertina del volume 12 si è quasi staccata dal resto dei fogli dentro il volume (c’era già una pagina che si era staccata per metà senza che io la toccassi ma avendo procrastinato il problema me ne ero scordata) e quindi non potevo portarglieli così. Mi sono fatta venire un’ansia assurda per questa cosa. Io adoro quando le persone mi prestano cose perchè di solito non sembro una persona di cui la gente si fida, a differenza di ciò che dimostro poi. C’è sempre una certa aria di mistrust non so da cosa è causata. Fatto sta che ho i sensi di colpa grandi quanto il mare e già mi precipito a vedere se su amazon riesco a comprare la stessa versione del volume. Non è disponibile. Decido allora di fare un salto dalla feltrinelli prima di incontrarmi con lui, così in caso posso risolvere il problema senza che nessuno lo sappia. Mia sorella intanto controllerà da un’altra parte in mattinata così, se la feltrinelli delude ma lui ancora non è arrivato, faccio finta di averli dimenticati e glieli riporto un altro giorno. Ovviamente quando mai questo genere di piani funziona se viene attuato da me? Alla fine i caved e gli ho spiegato il fatto e lui è stato prima preoccupatissimo, forse ho esagerato io a parlarne ma davvero ho sensi di colpa grandissimi e pensava avessi combinato chissa cosa, poi si è messo lui a tranquillizzare me dicendo che un po di colla specifica risolve tutto. Io lo so che sotto sotto mi odia e che non mi presterà niente per i prossimi mesi ma so anche che ormai mi vuole bene (sempre sotto sotto) e che faremo passare quest’altra mia idiozia.

In tutto ciò il prof relatore ci scrive in mattinata e ci chiede senza mezzi termini di stampare una copia del tomo anche per l’assessore della città della tesi. Se. Su questa cosa io non sono d’accordo ne lo è Daniele (Rambo ormai è sparito dalla circolazione e secondo me si è preso anche la chiave dell’auletta che è sparita, ma non ho prove, solo speculazione soggettiva). Ile per rimanere in buoni rapporti col prof e per non fare ‘brutta figura’ dice che dovremo farlo. O se non ci va di scrivere noi al prof di questa cosa. Dice anche però che se mai faremo una mostra con le tavole e il tomo lì lei non verrebbe (it makes no sense, but i’ll let it slide cuz i know she’ll change her mind) (maybe). Come abbiamo risolto: portiamo dalla copisteria di fiducia la copia del tomo con copertina rigida per il prof di restauro, dopodichè ho inviato una mail per chiedere un preventivo per questo tomo in più ad una copisteria lontana e ora attendiamo news. Domani mi vedo col ile e gossippiamo un po’.

Mi sono intanto iscritta nel canale teams del C1, ora recupero mia sorella che mi aiuta a fare il test che serve per poter entrare nel corso.

Sto tanto a pensare come trascorrere il tempo con le persone che oggi ho raccontato a Daniele dei regali di Cate e Bobba (quando gli ho ricordato chi era Bobba subito ha detto ‘la ragazza che mi detto di non toccarti i capelli?’ Ottimo. Sempre grandi impressioni) e di come vorrei partecipare alla missione archeologica di aprile se Cate partecipa (lei è il mio aggancio, lei è regolare mentre io sarei un’infiltrata, non che questo mi abbia mai fermato prima d’ora) e che se non farà questa ci sarà quella di quest’estate sull’isola di Samos (super fantastico se si fa) e Daniele unprompted ha detto ‘quasi quasi verrei anche io’ il che è 1) nice per me perché avrò le mie persone preferite in viaggio e con Cate che ora si trascina Benedetto ovunque io non farò il loro terzo incomodo 2) Daniele non ci è mai andato in missione e secondo me la adorerà. Poi sono 3 settimane d’estate, io dovrò solo fare rifornimento di creme solari, ma se sono sopravvissuta a due settimane nella città del tirocinio della tesi posso sopravvivere ovunque. Già mi sto sognando le corse mattutine sul lungomare e i pomeriggi allo scavo e le serate. Vabbè sarei super contenta se si riesce ad organizzare questa cosa e se riesco a convincerlo sul serio a venire.