Calendar Cover Quotes

On the late afternoon streets, everyone hurries along, going about their own business. Who is the person walking in front of you on the rain-drenched sidewalk? He is covered with an umbrella, and all you can see is a dark coat and the shoes striking the puddles. And yet this person is the hero of his own life story. He is the love of someone’s life. And what he can do may change the world. Imagine being him for a moment. And then continue on your own way.

I also suspected he was on the cover of the Denver Firefighters calendar, picture used for the month of July, he was that hot. If the firefighters merged with the police officers and they did a group shot that included Lawson and Jury, the paper might spontaneously combust.

the bouquet Between me and the world you are a bay, a sail the faithful ends of a rope you are a fountain, a wind, a shrill childhood cry. Between me and the world you are a picture frame, a window a field covered in wildflowers you are a breath, a bed, a night that keeps the stars company. Between me and the world, you are a calendar, a compass a ray of light that slips through the gloom you are a biographical sketch, a book mark a preface that comes at the end. between me and the world you are a gauze curtain, a mist a lamp shining in my dreams you are a bamboo flute, a song without words a closed eyelid carved in stone. Between me and the world you are a chasm, a pool an abyss plunging down you are a balustrade, a wall a shield’s eternal pattern.

You had a package. It was torn, so I looked in.” She lifted one of a stack of firefighter calendars, with his own mug and half-naked body on the cover. “Nice,” she said, a ghost of a smile crossing her lips. “Mr. 2008.” He bit back a sigh. “It’s for charity.” “And you definitely contributed.

I believe in schedules, routines, washi-tape-covered calendars, bulleted lists in graph-paper journals, and best-laid plans.

It’s a blur—dense, raucous, exhausting—feelings and thoughts all jumbled together into days and semesters, routines and first times, rolling along, rambling along, summer nights with all the windows open, lying on top of the covers, and darkening autumn mornings when no one wants to get out of bed, getting ready, getting better at things, wins and losses and days when it doesn’t go anyone’s way at all, and then, just as chaos begins to take some kind of shape, present itself not as a random series of emergencies and things you could have done better, the calendar, the months and years and year after year, stacked up in a messy pile starts to make sense, the sweetness of it all, right at that moment, the first times start turning into last times, as in, last first day of school, last time he crawls into bed with us, last time you’ll all sleep together like this, the three of you. There are a few years when you make almost all of your important memories. And then you spend the next few decades reliving them.

It's like escaping a hot, bright room for the serenity of a city at night, covered in snow. People eliminated. A carpet of silence for taxis to whisper across. The world becoming a pleasant dream of itself. The itch of want smoldering to life on skin. Memory sends a chill vanishing between vertebrae. It's New Year's Eve. Hail the Calendar! As if clocks will pause for a moment before reloading their long rifles. Years are tiny freckles on the face of a century. Where is the constellation we gazed at each night Through a bill rolled so tight the first President lost his breath, as our eyeballs literally unraveled? I am alone in the rectangular borough in the observatory, where even fire trucks can't rescue the arsonist stretching his calves in my brain.

She is soft, but knows when to stand her ground. Natural disasters aren't a mistake. They're not just a big ol' whoopsy that happened when Mother Nature and Source were planning their calendars out. Mother nature is intentional. Everything about her is intentional. Every rainfall, is intentional. Every sunny day, is intentional. Every storm, is intentional and every natural disaster is intentional. She will roar when she needs, when she needs us to take a closer look. That's what natural disasters are. She won't rob us of our opportunity to rise up together- that's our evolution and she's not gonna do our dirty (epic) work for us. But she will nudge us. And she does nudge us. Do you notice? If we don't do our best to take care of global warming, the tides will rise and beach side cities will be wiped. Perhaps our kids or our kids' kids won't ever see the glaciers of today. She's not gonna cover up for us, but she will love us on our journey and gives us clues and signs. It's up to us to pay attention.

Most of what we got was crockery: from exotic crystal bowls to ceramic anomalies. Then, a cross-section of rugs- from a beautiful Kashmiri original to a memorable one with printed dragons and utterly incomprehensible hieroglyphics. Dibyendu (typically) gave us a scrabble set and Runai Maashi: that rocking chair. Yuppie work friends, trying to be unique and aesthetically offbeat, went for wind-chimes but there were really far too many of them by the end. We also got a fantastic number of white and off-white kurtas, jamdani sarees with complementary blouses, no less than nine suitcases, suit pieces, imported condoms, bed-sheets, bed-covers, coffee makers, coffee tables, coffee-table books, poetry books, used gifts (paintings of sunsets and other disasters), three nights and four days in Darjeeling, along with several variations of Durga, Ganesh and all the usual suspects in ivory, china, terracotta, papier-mâché, and what have you. Someone gave us a calendar that looking back, I think, was laudably sardonic. Others gave us money, in various denominations: from eleven to five hundred and one. And in one envelope, came a letter for her that she read in tears in the bathroom.’ ('Left from Dhakeshwari')

...I don't know, but I may have even been happy. Happy perhaps. Each century brought its portion of light and shadow, apathy and combat, truth and error, and its cortège of systems, new ideas, new illusions. In each of them the greenery of a springtime was bursting forth, and then would yellow, to be rejuvenated later on. So in that way life had the regularity of a calendar, history and civilization were being made, and man, naked and unarmed, armed himself and dressed; built hovel and palace, a crude village and Thebes of a Thousand Gates; created science that scrutinizes and art that elevates; made himself orator, mechanic, philosopher; covered the face of the globe; descended into the bowels of the Earth; climbed up to the sphere of the clouds, collaborating in that way in the mysterious work in which he mitigated the necessities of life and the melancholy of abandonment. My gaze, bored and distracted, finally saw the present century arrive, and behind it the future one, it came along agile, dexterous, vibrant, self-confident, a little diffuse, bold, knowledgeable, but in the end as miserable as the ones before, and so it passed...

She gave a little sob deep in her throat. 'Call it a prophecy, call it a prediction, call it fate - call it what you will. I fought against it hard enough, God knows. But the evidence of my own eyes, my own ears, my own senses, is too much for me. And the time's too short now. I'm afraid to take a chance. I haven't got the nerve to bluff it out, to sit pat. You don't gamble with a human life. Today's the 13th, isn't it? It's too close to the 14th; there isn't time-margin enough left now to be skeptical, to keep it to myself any longer. Day by day I've watched him cross off the date on his desk-calendar, drawing nearer to death. There are only two leaves left now, and I want help! Because on the 14th - at the exact stroke of midnight, as the 15th is beginning -' She covered her face with both arms and shook silently. 'Yes?' urged McManus. 'Yes?' 'He's become convinced - oh, and almost I have too - that at exactly midnight on the 14th he's to die. Not just die but meet his death in full vigor and health, a death rushing down to him from the stars he was born under - rushing down even before he existed at all. A death inexorable, inescapable. A death horrid and violent, inconceivable here in this part of the world where we live.' She took a deep, shuddering breath, whispered the rest of it. 'Death at the jaws of a lion.' ("Speak To Me Of Death")

Three bodies were found in a completely dry storeroom. They were dressed in blue uniforms. The three had emergency rations stored at their battle station, and they had ample water, since they had removed the cover to an adjacent freshwater tank... Two of the men wore wristwatches, and one of them carried a wallet-size calendar, which had the days checked off from 7 December to 23 December. It was believed their deaths were due to lack of oxygen. The discovery of these three men in an unflooded compartment caused a profound sense of anguish among our divers. Especially shaken were Moon and Tony, who had sounded the West Virginia's hull on 12 December and reported no response from within the ship.

Yet God clearly says first and foremost, “Have no other gods before me” (Ex. 20:3). Nothing here shall compare to me in your heart. Everything should so pale in comparison to me that it is as if you hated it. With our minutes and days and decades, we build houses and savings accounts and busy calendars full of activity. And in some deeper way, we build our reputations and friendships and invest in our kids and careers. We are looking for this life to matter. No, we are actually looking for ourselves to matter. So we keep so busy, so distracted, so in love with everything but our invisible, patient, jealous God. Christ said, “So therefore, any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple” (Luke 14:33). This covers literally everything.

Furber had come in the late fall following that enormous summer, now famous, in which the temperature had hung in the high nineties along the river for weeks, parching the fields, drying and destroying; weeks which had, unmindful of the calendar, fallen undiminished into October so that the leaves shriveled before they fell and fell while green, the river level fell, exposing flat stretches of mud and bottom weed, the Siren Rocks were seen for the first time in twenty years, quite round and disappointingly small, and an unmoving cover of dust lay thickly everywhere, on fields, trees, buildings, on the river itself which crawled beneath it blindly like a mole. -- William H. Gass, Omensetter's Luck, p. 97, Penguin Twentieth Century Classics, 1997 (first published by The New American Library 1966).

Then when I finally manage to fall asleep with my untouched mate lying next to me," he said, giving me a heated gaze, "She rolls right through her wall and onto me." "This has to be the bond--- I don't roll around in my sleep." I covered my face with a pillow. "And I certainly don't throw myself on men I've known only for a matter of weeks." I'd never thrown myself at men at all, to be honest, but Devin is not high school puppy love material, and he's no college fling that was never meant to be. If anything, he was straight out of the calendar Candace kept on her fridge. "Not that I was bothered by it. In fact, I wouldn't mind a repeat." I threw my pillow at him and covered my face as he laughed. "Please forget that happened." "Absolutely not." He pulled my hands from my face. "It was charming, don't be upset." He leaned forward and the rest of the blankets fell away. A burst of lust ran through me as my eyes wandered south, and I couldn't tell if it was from me or Devin or if it even mattered because we were both acutely aware of it. I groaned and covered my face with my hands. "I'm all yours to look at, you know." Devin gently pried my hands from my face, taking one of them to press against his chest.

45 Mercy Street In my dream, drilling into the marrow of my entire bone, my real dream, I'm walking up and down Beacon Hill searching for a street sign - namely MERCY STREET. Not there. I try the Back Bay. Not there. Not there. And yet I know the number. 45 Mercy Street. I know the stained-glass window of the foyer, the three flights of the house with its parquet floors. I know the furniture and mother, grandmother, great-grandmother, the servants. I know the cupboard of Spode the boat of ice, solid silver, where the butter sits in neat squares like strange giant's teeth on the big mahogany table. I know it well. Not there. Where did you go? 45 Mercy Street, with great-grandmother kneeling in her whale-bone corset and praying gently but fiercely to the wash basin, at five A.M. at noon dozing in her wiggy rocker, grandfather taking a nap in the pantry, grandmother pushing the bell for the downstairs maid, and Nana rocking Mother with an oversized flower on her forehead to cover the curl of when she was good and when she was... And where she was begat and in a generation the third she will beget, me, with the stranger's seed blooming into the flower called Horrid. I walk in a yellow dress and a white pocketbook stuffed with cigarettes, enough pills, my wallet, my keys, and being twenty-eight, or is it forty-five? I walk. I walk. I hold matches at street signs for it is dark, as dark as the leathery dead and I have lost my green Ford, my house in the suburbs, two little kids sucked up like pollen by the bee in me and a husband who has wiped off his eyes in order not to see my inside out and I am walking and looking and this is no dream just my oily life where the people are alibis and the street is unfindable for an entire lifetime. Pull the shades down - I don't care! Bolt the door, mercy, erase the number, rip down the street sign, what can it matter, what can it matter to this cheapskate who wants to own the past that went out on a dead ship and left me only with paper? Not there. I open my pocketbook, as women do, and fish swim back and forth between the dollars and the lipstick. I pick them out, one by one and throw them at the street signs, and shoot my pocketbook into the Charles River. Next I pull the dream off and slam into the cement wall of the clumsy calendar I live in, my life, and its hauled up notebooks.

both the Egyptian [and] American pyramids, the outside of the structures was covered with a thick coating of smooth, shining cement.”   “The Aztecs, like the Egyptians, had progressed through all the three different modes of writing—the picture-writing, the symbolical, and the phonetic. They recorded all their laws, their tribute-rolls specifying the various imposts, their mythology, astronomical calendars, and rituals, their political annals and their chronology. They wrote on cotton-cloth, on skins prepared like parchment, on a composition of silk and gum, and on a species of paper, soft and beautiful, made from the aloe. Their books were about

The colonists took advantage of the Aboriginal cultural beliefs to further their own gains. The Nyungar people who once walked tall and proud, now hung their head in sorrow. They had become dispossessed; these teachers and keepers of the traditional Law were prevented from practising it. They had to fight to find ways to return to their secret and sacred sites to perform their dances and other ceremonies that were crucial to their culture and whole way of life. Their pain and suffering remained hidden and repressed, silent and deep. They remembered the corroborrees and songs that they were forbidden to dance and sing unless commanded by government officials. No longer would the corroborrees be shared and danced by scores of feet, kicking up the dust in the moonlight around the glowing fires. Warriors with painted bodies and plumes of feathers on their ochre-covered heads would become faded images, buried in the past. The important dates on their seasonal calendars would be forgotten.

Ribbons of early morning light filter in through the thick canopy of leaves covering the forest and I realize that night is long behind me.

That dog’s smarter than I am.” She winked at Ash, and Ashley giggled. Then she left the house. Kristin gazed through the window and in the near distance, saw Rick, Madison, Danny and Quincy on their boat coming into dock. She immediately understood what her daughter hadn’t voiced. The dog’s real family was here now. Ashley would be left out. “The hordes will want lunch, so I’ve got to leave,” said Cathy. “I came over to invite you guys to supper. We’ll grill outside - very informal. I hope you can make it.” Kristin did not have a social calendar, but neither was she sure about having Rick’s “hands-on” family in her personal life. Still, after last night’s get together, it was probably too late for keeping many secrets. “What can we bring to the party?” “Oh, goody!” Cathy was back in form. “Rick will be happy.” The two women walked outside in time to see Quincy race toward Ashley and cover her with kisses. “Ugh!” Ashley protested. “You’re all wet and yucky, Quince.” She stepped back. “You would be too if you kept jumping in the lake for a swim.” Rick joined them, tee shirt soaked, hair standing on end. Eyes bright. He jerked his head toward his sister. “From now on, it’s either the hound or your monsters. Not both.” She punched him lightly on the arm. “Sure, sure, sure. When I see it, I’ll believe it. Ricky, the kids play you the way you play a fish - pulling in the line, letting it out, pulling it in until they catch you. And they always catch you.” She grinned at Kristin. “A real fish might escape, but this fish doesn’t have a chance with the kids. He

Miss Elizabeth has never been to Old School Custard. Shall we?" "What's the flavor?" "Has that ever stopped us?" Nick pulled out his phone and started tapping. "It's our lucky day, kiddo. Salted Caramel." He turned to me as we headed out the door. "It's a frozen custard shop that makes only one flavor a day, but they always have chocolate and vanilla for backup." "I've never had frozen custard." "You're in for a treat----tons more calories than ice cream, but much creamier. Complete yum." Old School Custard was a small shop with walls covered in pictures of all the local high schools. I found Garfield and imagined Tyler in that huge building, teaching his beloved math. I then noticed an amazing chalk calendar with the flavor for each day listed, with creative drawings, and I understood why it was addicting---who could resist flavors like Malted Milk Balls, Caramel Macchiato, Espresso, or Banana Nutella? I ordered the Turtle Sundae----two scoops of Salted Caramel custard, pecans, hot fudge, caramel sauce, and whipped cream. Nick ordered the Recess, pretty much the same thing, but with Reese's Peanut Butter Cups instead of pecans. And Matt's Playground came complete with crushed Oreos for "dirt" and gummy worms.

March 28: Mascotte (Italy) produces on its cover the “Golden Dreams” nude calendar shot (the pose in which she is upright), but paints over her bare breasts and bottom, simulating a blue two-piece swimsuit.

With our minutes and days and decades, we build houses and savings accounts and busy calendars full of activity. And in some deeper way, we build our reputations and friendships and invest in our kids and careers. We are looking for this life to matter. No, we are actually looking for ourselves to matter. So we keep so busy, so distracted, so in love with everything but our invisible, patient, jealous God. Christ said, “So therefore, any one of you who does not renounce all that he has cannot be my disciple” (Luke 14:33). This covers literally everything. In essence, “Stop eating the flowers! Wake up

The man could grace the covers of magazines and romance novels, but if she needed eye candy, she’d buy herself a beefcake calendar. She knew they made one with guys from the NYFD. Maybe they made one with mechanics. She had no problem imagining Nick with the zipper of his coveralls pulled low, showing his muscled chest, washboard abs, and treasure trail leading down to. . .well, let’s just say she wouldn’t mind checking out his undercarriage.

FOR MY SPIRITUAL LIFE... What’s the ONE Thing I can do to help others... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to improve my relationship with God... ? FOR MY PHYSICAL HEALTH... What’s the ONE Thing I can do to achieve my diet goals... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to ensure that I exercise... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to relieve my stress... ? FOR MY PERSONAL LIFE... What’s the ONE Thing I can do to improve my skill at ________... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to find time for myself... ? FOR MY KEY RELATIONSHIPS... What’s the ONE Thing I can do to improve my relationship with my spouse/partner... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to improve my children’s school performance... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to show my appreciation to my parents... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to make my family stronger... ? FOR MY JOB... What’s the ONE Thing I can do to ensure that I hit my goals... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to improve my skills... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to help my team succeed... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to further my career... ? FOR MY BUSINESS... What’s the ONE Thing I can do to make us more competitive... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to make our product the best... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to make us more profitable... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to improve our customer experience... ? FOR MY FINANCES... What’s the ONE Thing I can do to increase my net worth... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to improve my investment cash flow... ? What’s the ONE Thing I can do to eliminate my credit card debt... ? BIG IDEAS So how do you make The ONE Thing part of your daily routine? How do you make it strong enough to get extraordinary results at work and in the other areas of your life? Here’s a starter list drawn from our experience and our work with others. Understand and believe it. The first step is to understand the concept of the ONE Thing, then to believe that it can make a difference in your life. If you don’t understand and believe, you won’t take action. Use it. Ask yourself the Focusing Question. Start each day by asking, “What’s the ONE Thing I can do today for [whatever you want] such that by doing it everything else will be easier or even unnecessary?” When you do this, your direction will become clear. Your work will be more productive and your personal life more rewarding. Make it a habit. When you make asking the Focusing Question a habit, you fully engage its power to get the extraordinary results you want. It’s a difference maker. Research says this will take about 66 days. Whether it takes you a few weeks or a few months, stick with it until it becomes your routine. If you’re not serious about learning the Success Habit, you’re not serious about getting extraordinary results. Leverage reminders. Set up ways to remind yourself to use the Focusing Question. One of the best ways to do this is to put up a sign at work that says, “Until my ONE Thing is done—everything else is a distraction.” We designed the back cover of this book to be a trigger —set it on the corner of your desk so that it’s the first thing you see when you get to work. Use notes, screen savers, and calendar cues to keep making the connection between the Success Habit and the results you seek. Put up reminders like, “The ONE Thing = Extraordinary Results” or “The Success Habit Will Get Me to My Goal.” Recruit support. Research shows that those around you can influence you tremendously. Starting a success support group with some of your work colleagues can help inspire all of you to practice the Success Habit every day. Get your family involved. Share your ONE Thing. Get them on board. Use the Focusing Question around them to show them how the Success Habit can make a difference in their school work, their personal achievements, or any other part of their lives.

The minute he arrived at his own parents' house and was confronted by the smallness of the rooms, the old walls covered with dusty calendars, and passepartout pictures of animals, the electrical wires snaking and dangling loosely from the ceiling, the buzzing fluorescent lamp that never lit properly, transforming the house into a gloomy, dusty cubicle, he wanted to return to the city. He could not properly splice in movie landscapes here, because everything was too familiar, and because he was too connected with the droning quarrels.

Henry David Thoreau wrote that the efficient worker does not fill his day with work, but goes about it with ease and a wide margin for relaxation. Being busy or having a full calendar is only a cover-up of productivity. It is a sign of misaligned priorities.

When someone walks by with a plate of fried fish, I gag. “Gross.” I cover my mouth and nose for a minute. “Kinda felt nauseated there for a sec,” I explain to Roxy when she asks what’s wrong. She folds her lips, like she has to physically restrain herself from speaking. “What?” I don’t want her to hold back with me. “Could you be pregnant?” she whispers. I laugh because no. Except… Everything around me slows down and goes a little sideways as a dizzy spell hits me. I suppose that’s what I get for checking out of the hospital against doctor’s orders. I can’t be pregnant. I don’t think. “Oh my God. What if I am?” “When did you get your last period?” she asks as I break out the calendar app on my phone.

And then you arrive on the scene... A Family. They bring you home from the hospital, at which point everything speeds up. It's a montage of first moments, all of the major and minor milestones: first step, first word, first time sleeping through the night. There are a few years in a family when, if everything goes right, the parents aren't alone anymore, they've been raising their own companion, the kid who's going to make them less alone in the world and for those years they are less alone. It's a blur - dense, raucous, exhausting - feelings and thoughts all jumbled together into days and semesters, routines and first times, rolling along, rambling along, summer nights with all the windows open, lying on top of the covers, and darkening autumn mornings when no one wants to get out of bed, getting ready, getting better at things, wins and losses and days when it doesn't go anyone's way at all, and then, just as chaos begins to take some kind of shape, present itself not as a random series of emergencies and things you could have done better, the calendar, the months and years and year after year, stacked up in a messy pile starts to make sense, the sweetness of it all, right at that moment, the first times start turning into last times, as in, last first day of school, last time he crawls into bed with us, last time you'll all sleep together like this, the three of you. There are a few years when you make almost all of your important memories. And then you spend the next few decades reliving them.

was a small lavatory. The door to the lavatory was missing and Myers screwed his face up at the sight of the mess inside. The place didn’t need cleaning. It needed burning. There were a few random, oil-stained chairs dotted about and a collection of torn car magazines. It was the poorest attempt at a customer waiting area Myers had ever seen. Along the back wall, however, was a large workbench and two tall tool chests. They were red with silver handles and covered in stickers. On the wall above the bench, which was covered in spare parts, drinks cans, and oily rags, were several calendars which fell into the category of cliché garage topless pictures. To the right of the workbench was a fire escape door with a long, silver push-handle and Myers thought that even hovels like the garage needed to have some form of emergency exit. He wondered what he’d find out there, then shuddered at the thought. He stepped into the space and felt a strange guilty pang of combined intrusion and fear. There were no cars in the garage, but the air retained a thick, oily smell borne of years of spilt oil and vapour seeping into the pores of every surface in there. He pulled his jacket in tight around him. It seemed as if every surface was coated in a thick layer of grease. But there was something else in that smell. Something that had combined with the oil to form a sickly aroma. He knew the smell, but it had been tainted by the oil and he couldn’t put his finger on it. There was something not quite right about the place. It was the first time he actually wished Fox had been there with him. Another pair of eyes would be useful, and despite her annoying traits, she was actually turning out to be a smart thinker. It was she who had seen the slight variation in the forms. It was she who had known the format of the numbers reflected a container number. And it was she who had theorised that Donald Cartwright could be in trouble. The fact that Donald Cartwright was not in the garage did not mean he wasn’t in trouble. In fact, it only gave weight to the theory. Something had happened in the garage. And Myers was sure the two were connected. Donald Cartwright’s shipment had been delivered to the garage, the only delivery for years that hadn’t been delivered to his father’s warehouse. The form was different and the adviser, Sergio, hadn’t countersigned it. The

Like all traders and investors, I periodically review the performance of my portfolios and check in on whether they are getting the job done. I say periodically, because the temptation – a dangerous one for many – is to be constantly watching and let’s face it, this is a long term game, not a get rich quick punt, right? As such, over the past few months, one of my personal favourites – the covered call, has continued to deliver the cash flow I seek from that particular portfolio. For example, this calendar year, in the Australian market, FMG being the one blot on the ledger, we have had only one loser from 13 closed positions. For those that obsess about win/loss ratios – a flawed measure in my book – that is a 92% win rate for the calendar year. Of course, this is a reflection of the underlying market conditions, which have been supportive of the strategy.

We would think a man insane who, instead of covering his house with a roof and putting windows in his window frames, goes out in stormy weather, and scolds the wind, the rain, and the clouds. But we all do the same when we scold and blame the evil in other people instead of fighting the evil which exists in us. It is possible to get rid of the evil inside of us, as it is possible to make a roof and windows for our house. This is possible. But it is not possible for us to destroy evil in this world, just as we cannot order the weather to change and the clouds to disappear. If, instead of teaching others, we would educate and improve ourselves, then there would be less evil in this world, and all people would live better lives. Do not be embarrassed by your mistakes. Nothing can teach us better than our understanding of them. This is one of the best ways of self-education. —THOMAS CARLYLE

for shade sail That is true, however when you read the fine print of a warranty they are all virtually the same. I understand op is talking about a metal roof, but in conditions of asphalt the products are the same regarding quality irrespective of supplier with a warranty generally simply cobering up to 20 years. Warranty as well only cover elements, certainly not install. The cert simply gaurantees the merchandise is normally intalled to company specs. Whats even more important may be the roofers do the job warranty. If the roof structure isn't installed correctly regardless of certification it will fail and warranty will be voided. A certification is purchased, no training is done. Thus if the roofer just buys a cert to improve business it will not matter if he follows the cert. Yes they could loose the, but most obtain the cert to improve business, certainly not for just about any added warranty for the home owner. So with regard to warranty a roofers warranty on their work is considerably more important. Just about all roofs mounted incorrectly or with shotty workmanship will are unsuccessful in a calendar year. Edit: added paet about warranty only covering materials.

Devon,” she said breathlessly, when they were both naked and he had lowered beside her, “I…I should confess to a small prevarication.” She wanted complete honesty between them. No secrets, nothing held back. “Yes?” he asked with his lips against her throat, one of his thighs pressing between hers. “Until recently, I hadn’t really checked my calendar to make certain I was--” She broke off as he used the edge of his teeth to delicately score her throat. “--counting days properly. And I had already resolved to take full responsibility for…” His tongue was playing in the hollow at the base of her neck. “…what happened that morning. After breakfast. You remember.” “I remember,” he said, kissing his way down to her breasts. Kathleen grasped his head in her hands, urging him to look at her and pay attention. “Devon. What I’m trying to say is that I may have misled you last night…” She swallowed hard and forced herself to finish. “…when I said that my monthly courses had started.” He went very still. His face was wiped clean of all expression as he stared down at her. “They haven’t?” She shook her head, her anxious gaze searching his. “In fact, I’m quite late.” One of his hands came to her face, a tremor running through his long fingers. “You might be pregnant?” he asked huskily. “I’m almost certain of it.” Devon stared down at her dazedly, a flush covering his face. “My sweet, beautiful love, my angel--” He began to look over her intently, pressing kisses along her body, caressing her stomach. “My God. This settles it: I am the luckiest sod in England.

I hope you’ll consider marrying me sooner rather than later.” Another kiss, slow and devastating. “Because I long for you, Kathleen, my dearest love. I want to sleep with you every night, and wake with you every morning.” His mouth caressed her with deepening pressure until her arms curled around his neck. “And I want children with you. Soon.” The truth was there, in his voice, his eyes, on his lips. She could taste it. She realized in wonder that somehow, in the past months, his heart had indeed changed. He was becoming the man fate had intended for him to be…his true self…a man who could make commitments and meet his responsibilities, and most of all, love without holding anything back. Sixty years? A man like that shouldn’t have to wait even sixty seconds. Fumbling a little with the watch chain, she lifted it and slipped it over her head. The glimmering gold timepiece settled over her heart. She looked up at him with swimming eyes. “I love you, Devon. Yes, I’ll marry you, yes--” He hauled her against him and kissed her without reserve. And he continued to kiss her hungrily as he undressed her, his mouth tender and hot as he ravished every exposed inch of skin. He removed everything but the little gold watch, which Kathleen insisted on keeping. “Devon,” she said breathlessly, when they were both naked and he had lowered beside her, “I…I should confess to a small prevarication.” She wanted complete honesty between them. No secrets, nothing held back. “Yes?” he asked with his lips against her throat, one of his thighs pressing between hers. “Until recently, I hadn’t really checked my calendar to make certain I was--” She broke off as he used the edge of his teeth to delicately score her throat. “--counting days properly. And I had already resolved to take full responsibility for…” His tongue was playing in the hollow at the base of her neck. “…what happened that morning. After breakfast. You remember.” “I remember,” he said, kissing his way down to her breasts. Kathleen grasped his head in her hands, urging him to look at her and pay attention. “Devon. What I’m trying to say is that I may have misled you last night…” She swallowed hard and forced herself to finish. “…when I said that my monthly courses had started.” He went very still. His face was wiped clean of all expression as he stared down at her. “They haven’t?” She shook her head, her anxious gaze searching his. “In fact, I’m quite late.” One of his hands came to her face, a tremor running through his long fingers. “You might be pregnant?” he asked huskily. “I’m almost certain of it.” Devon stared down at her dazedly, a flush covering his face. “My sweet, beautiful love, my angel--” He began to look over her intently, pressing kisses along her body, caressing her stomach. “My God. This settles it: I am the luckiest sod in England.

And then you arrive on the scene, Baby Willis. A little tiny Kung Fu Boy. And for a moment the backstories and fragments and scenes filled with background players and nonspeaking parts, it all makes a kind of sense, all of it leading to this. A family. They bring you home from the hospital, at which point everything speeds up. It’s a montage of first moments, all of the major and minor milestones: first step, first word, first time sleeping through the night. There are a few years in a family when, if everything goes right, the parents aren’t alone anymore, they’ve been raising their own companion, the kid who’s going to make them less alone in the world and for those years they are less alone. It’s a blur—dense, raucous, exhausting—feelings and thoughts all jumbled together into days and semesters, routines and first times, rolling along, rambling along, summer nights with all the windows open, lying on top of the covers, and darkening autumn mornings when no one wants to get out of bed, getting ready, getting better at things, wins and losses and days when it doesn’t go anyone’s way at all, and then, just as chaos begins to take some kind of shape, present itself not as a random series of emergencies and things you could have done better, the calendar, the months and years and year after year, stacked up in a messy pile starts to make sense, the sweetness of it all, right at that moment, the first times start turning into last times, as in, last first day of school, last time he crawls into bed with us, last time you’ll all sleep together like this, the three of you. There are a few years when you make almost all of your important memories. And then you spend the next few decades reliving them.

And so I can always find this, here is the best thing I have read about the experience of being a parent: "And then you arrive on the scene... A Family. They bring you home from the hospital, at which point everything speeds up. It's a montage of first moments, all of the major and minor milestones: first step, first word, first time sleeping through the night. There are a few years in a family when, if everything goes right, the parents aren't alone anymore, they've been raising their own companion, the kid who's going to make them less alone in the world and for those years they are less alone. It's a blur - dense, raucous, exhausting - feelings and thoughts all jumbled together into days and semesters, routines and first times, rolling along, rambling along, summer nights with all the windows open, lying on top of the covers, and darkening autumn mornings when no one wants to get out of bed, getting ready, getting better at things, wins and losses and days when it doesn't go anyone's way at all, and then, just as chaos begins to take some kind of shape, present itself not as a random series of emergencies and things you could have done better, the calendar, the months and years and year after year, stacked up in a messy pile starts to make sense, the sweetness of it all, right at that moment, the first times start turning into last times, as in, last first day of school, last time he crawls into bed with us, last time you'll all sleep together like this, the three of you. There are a few years when you make almost all of your important memories. And then you spend the next few decades reliving them.

If you want your sins to be “covered” by the Lord (Ps. 32.1), do not parade your virtues before others. God will treat our sins the same way that we treat our virtues. St. Mark the Ascetic

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All he cared about was that he ended up in the slot he’d bought, right next to Marilyn’s. She was the first woman to grace the cover of Playboy and to appear nude inside its pages. He put her in there without her permission, after buying the photos from a calendar company. She never got a dime. And she certainly didn’t have any say in whose bones would be lying next to hers for all eternity.

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