Cancelled Date Quotes

Was it normal to want to cancel and go home to read?

i miss the days my friends knew every mundane detail about my life and i knew every ordinary detail about theirs adulthood has starved me of that consistency that us the walks around the block the long conversations when we were too lost in the moment to care what time it was when we won and celebrated when we failed and celebrated harder when we were just kids now we have our very important jobs that fill up our very busy schedules we compare calendars just to plan coffee dates that one of us eventually cancels cause adulthood is being too exhausted to leave our apartment most days i miss knowing i once belonged to a group of people bigger than myself that belonging made life easier to live - friendship nostalgia

Get a grip, Dad. I'm not going to do anything you wouldn't do at my age.' He stands up and says, 'That's it. You're canceling this date.

nice girl will often cancel plans with a girlfriend if she gets a last-minute date. The bitch will hold her own simply by keeping her previously set plans.

I paid you five thousand instead and promised the balance only if you made the match. As it turns out, this is your lucky day because I've decided to write you the full check, whether the match comes from you or from Portia. As long as I have a wife and you've been part of the process, you'll get your money." He toasted her with his beer mug. "Congratulations." She put down her fork. "Why would you do that?" "Because it's efficient." "Not as efficient as having Powers handle her own introductions. You're paying her a fortune to do exactly that." "I'd rather have you." Her pulse kicked. "Why?" He gave her the melty smile he must have been practicing since the cradle, one that made her feel as though she was the only woman in the world. "Because you're easier to bully. Do we have a deal or not?" "You don't want a matchmaker. You want a lackey." "Semantics. My hours are erratic, and my schedule changes without warning. It'll be your job to cope with all that. You'll soothe ruffled feathers when I need to cancel at the last minute. You'll keep my dates company when I'm going to be late, entertain them if I have to take a call. If things are going well, you'll disappear. If not, you'll make the woman disappear. I told you before. I work hard at my job. I don't want to have to work hard at this, too." "Basically, you expect me to find your bride, court her, and hand her over at the altar. Or do I have to come on the honeymoon, too?" "Definitely not." He gave her a lazy smile. "I can take care of that all by myself.

I can’t get her out of my mind. She’s all I keep thinking about both day and night. I haven’t been able to concentrate on anything else. I’ve cancelled all my dates because I only want to see Ellery.” Connor Black's thought on Ellery Lane.

Do you want me to leave?' 'What? No fuckin' way do I want you to leave. What I want is for you to relax and enjoy yourself with me tonight, so all I'm doing by canceling our date is taking it our of the equation. If it happens to turn into a date later, then awesome. If it does't, then I might be a little disappointed...' He grins to let me know that he is teasing. 'There isn't any pressure here. I like you - a lot. I think that is pretty obvious. But I want you to want to be here with me in the same way as I do you. If you're not quite there yet, then that's ok. I'll wait until you are. However long it takes.

He had the sex tape, the canceled tour dates and now the record label’s sword of Damocles hanging over his head to prove it.

We may with a certain melancholic pride remove the job search engine from our bookmarks and cancel our subscription to a dating site in due recognition of the fact that – whatever we do – parts of our potential will have to go undeveloped and have to die without ever having had the chance to come to full maturity – for the sake of the benefits of focus and specialization.

Yes, and I’m nervous. What should I wear?” One of those hideous peasant dresses from Target. Fuck! Don’t wear anything, instead stay here with me. Cancel the date. See me . . . Kelsey. Fucking see me.

Lending Out Books You're always giving, my therapist said. You have to learn how to take. Whenever you meet a woman, the first thing you do is lend her your books. You think she'll have to see you again in order to return them. But what happens is, she doesn't have the time to read them, & she's afraid if she sees you again you'll expect her to talk about them, & will want to lend her even more. So she cancels the date. You end up losing a lot of books. You should borrow hers.

I didn't know until a year later that Marilyn Manson had canceled concert dates in our area out of respect, or that the NRA did not cancel their annual meeting, held at a hotel fifteen miles away from the school, just ten days after the shootings.

friendship nostalgia i miss the days when my friends knew every mundane detail about my life and i knew every ordinary detail about theirs adulthood has starved me of that consistency​ ​that us those walks around the block those long conversations when we were too lost in the moment to care what time it was when we won-and celebrated when we failed and celebrated even harder when we were just kids now we have our very important jobs that fill up our very busy schedules we have to compare calendars just to plan coffee dates that one of us will eventually cancel because adulthood is being too exhausted to leave our apartments most days i miss belonging to a group of people bigger than myself it was that belonging that made life easier to live how come no one warned us about how we'd graduate and grow apart after everything we'd been through how come no one said one of life's biggest challenges would be trying to stay connected to the people that make us feel alive no one talks about the hole a friend can leave inside you when they go off to make their dreams come true in college we used to stay up till 4 in the morning dreaming of what we'd do the moment we started earning real paychecks now we finally have the money to cross everything off our bucket lists but those lists are collecting dust in some lost corridor of our minds sometimes when i get lonely ​i​ still search for them i'd give anything to go back and do the foolish things we used to do i feel the most present in your presence when we're laughing so hard the past slides off our shoulders and worries of the future slip away the truth is​ ​i couldn't survive without my friends they know exactly what i need before i even know that i need the way we hold each other is just different so forget grabbing coffee i don't want to have another dinner where we sit across from each other at a table reminiscing about old times when we have so much time left to make new memories with how about you go pack your bags and i'll pack mine you take a week off work i'll grab my keys and let's go for ride we've got years of catching up to do

This is how books work. They take what’s in them, and add what’s in you, and the interface, more often than not, leads to picking up that book every chance you get. Sometimes the power is so great that you’re up all night; sometimes you have to (and yes, I do mean have to) cancel a coffee date so you can get to the end.

The uncertainty, the enlargement of the feeling of being uncertain, as when, through a misunderstanding of possible dates, one does not know whether the guests are really coming to a party, that had been with him ever since he had dispatched Andrés with the report to Golz, had all dropped from him now. He was sure now that the festival would not be cancelled. It’s much better to be sure, he thought. It’s always much better to be sure.

The things about you I appreciate May seem indelicate: I'd like to find you in the shower And chase the soap for half an hour. I'd like to have you in my power And see your eyes dilate. I'd like to have your back to scour And other parts to lubricate. Sometimes I feel it is my fate To chase you screaming up a tower Or make you cower By asking you to differentiate Nietzsche from Schopenhauer. I'd like successfully to guess your weight And win you at a fête. I'd like to offer you a flower. I like the hair upon your shoulders, Falling like water over boulders. I like the shoulders too: they are essential. Your collar-bones have great potential (I'd like your particulars in folders Marked Confidential). I like your cheeks, I like your nose, I like the way your lips disclose The neat arrangement of your teeth (Half above and half beneath) In rows. I like your eyes, I like their fringes. The way they focus on me gives me twinges. Your upper arms drive me berserk. I like the way your elbows work. On hinges … I like your wrists, I like your glands, I like the fingers on your hands. I'd like to teach them how to count, And certain things we might exchange, Something familiar for something strange. I'd like to give you just the right amount And get some change. I like it when you tilt your cheek up. I like the way you not and hold a teacup. I like your legs when you unwind them. Even in trousers I don't mind them. I like each softly-moulded kneecap. I like the little crease behind them. I'd always know, without a recap, Where to find them. I like the sculpture of your ears. I like the way your profile disappears Whenever you decide to turn and face me. I'd like to cross two hemispheres And have you chase me. I'd like to smuggle you across frontiers Or sail with you at night into Tangiers. I'd like you to embrace me. I'd like to see you ironing your skirt And cancelling other dates. I'd like to button up your shirt. I like the way your chest inflates. I'd like to soothe you when you're hurt Or frightened senseless by invertebrates. I'd like you even if you were malign And had a yen for sudden homicide. I'd let you put insecticide Into my wine. I'd even like you if you were Bride Of Frankenstein Or something ghoulish out of Mamoulian's Jekyll and Hyde. I'd even like you as my Julian Or Norwich or Cathleen ni Houlihan. How melodramatic If you were something muttering in attics Like Mrs Rochester or a student of Boolean Mathematics. You are the end of self-abuse. You are the eternal feminine. I'd like to find a good excuse To call on you and find you in. I'd like to put my hand beneath your chin, And see you grin. I'd like to taste your Charlotte Russe, I'd like to feel my lips upon your skin I'd like to make you reproduce. I'd like you in my confidence. I'd like to be your second look. I'd like to let you try the French Defence And mate you with my rook. I'd like to be your preference And hence I'd like to be around when you unhook. I'd like to be your only audience, The final name in your appointment book, Your future tense.

There must be more than this, Sarah Boyle thinks, from time to time. What could one do to justify one's passage? Or less ambitiously, to change, even in the motion of the smallest mote, the course and circulation of the world? Sometimes Sarah's dreams are of heroic girth, a new symphony using laboratories of machinery and all invented instruments, at once giant in scope and intelligible to all, to heal the bloody breach; a series of paintings which would transfigure and astonish and calm the frenzied art world in its panting race; a new novel that would refurbish language. Sometimes she considers the mystical, the streaky and random, and it seems that one change, no matter how small, would be enough. Turtles are supposed to live for many years. To carve a name, date and perhaps a word of hope upon a turtle's shell, then set him free to wend the world, surely this one act might cancel out absurdity?

The Qur’an’s tolerant verses: “canceled” What’s more, the Qur’an’s last word on jihad is not defensive, but offensive. The suras of the Qur’an are not arranged chronologically, but according to length. However, Islamic theology divides the Qur’an into “Meccan” and “Medinan” suras. The Meccan ones come from the first segment of Muhammad’s career as a prophet, when he simply called the Meccans to Islam. Later, after he had fled to Medina, his positions hardened. The Medinan suras are less poetic and generally much longer than those from Mecca; they’re also filled with matters of law and ritual—and exhortations to jihad warfare against unbelievers. The relatively tolerant verses quoted above and others like them generally date from the Meccan period, while those with a more violent and intolerant edge are mostly from Medina. Why does this distinction matter? Because of the Islamic doctrine of abrogation (naskh). This is the idea that Allah can change or cancel what he tells Muslims: “None of Our revelations do We abrogate or cause to be forgotten, but We substitute something better or similar: knowest thou not that Allah Hath power over all things?” (Qur’an 2:106). According to this idea, the violent verses of the ninth sura, including the Verse of the Sword (9:5), abrogate the peaceful verses, because they were revealed later in Muhammad’s prophetic career: In fact, most Muslim authorities agree that the ninth sura was the very last section of the Qur’an to be revealed.

You’ll need a dress,” I tell her and wait for the objection I know is coming. “I have dresses,” she replies, but tiny lines of concern mar her forehead and I’ve been with enough women to know what’s going through her head. Does she have the right dress for this? How fancy is the event? What will everyone else be wearing? Add to that—she can’t have the budget for a dress. She’s fresh out of college and on a teacher’s salary, both of which tell me it isn’t likely she has an appropriate dress hanging in her closet. Shit, this entire scheme is pure genius, I think, as I make a mental note to cancel the date I had lined up for this wedding when I get home. This is a formal event. We’ll pick up a dress this weekend.” She gives me a dirty look. “What do you mean we’ll pick up a dress this weekend?” “I mean shopping. I’ll pick you up at ten on Saturday.” “I can find a dress by myself,” she says firmly. “Please. You were wearing pants with donuts on them the second time I saw you. If you can even call those things pants.” Fucking leggings left nothing to the imagination. And I’ve done a lot of imagining. Mostly involving her legs wrapped around my hips. “Half my family is going to be there. I’ll pick out the dress.” I could give a fuck about the dress. I want to spend time with her that she thinks isn’t a date, so she’ll relax and be herself. “Well, that was rude,” she deadpans. I shrug. “Besides, you’re doing me a favor,” I remind her, “so the dress is on me.” “Whatever,” she agrees sullenly. “You’re welcome,” I reply.

What does one wear to a ranch early in the morning? I wondered. I was stumped. I had enough good sense, thank God, to know my spiked black boots--the same boots I’d worn on basically every date with Marlboro Man thus far--were out of the question. I wouldn’t want them to get dirty, and besides that, people might look at me funny. I had a good selection of jeans, yes, but would I go for the dark, straight-leg Anne Kleins? Or the faded, boot-cut Gaps with contrast stitching? And what on earth would I wear on top? This could get dicey. I had a couple of nice, wholesome sweater sets, but the weather was turning warmer and the style didn’t exactly scream “ranch” to me. Then there was the long, flax-colored linen tunic from Banana Republic--one I loved to pair with a chunky turquoise necklace and sandals. But that was more Texas Evening Barbecue than Oklahoma Early-Morning Cattle Gathering. Then there were the myriad wild prints with sparkles and stones and other obnoxious adornments. But the last thing I wanted to do was spook the cattle and cause a stampede. I’d seen it happen in City Slickers when Billy Crystal fired up his cordless coffee grinder, and the results weren’t the least bit pretty. I considered cancelling. I had absolutely nothing to wear. Every pair of shoes I owned was black, except for a bright yellow pair of pumps I’d bought on a whim in Westwood one California day. Those wouldn’t exactly work, either. And I didn’t own a single shirt that wouldn’t loudly broadcast *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* I wanted to crawl under my covers and hide.

Chelsea was something else. Like an unstoppable force of nature. Similar to a hurricane or a tornado. Or a pit bull. Violet admired that about her. And, in this instance, Chelsea had proven to be nothing less than formidable. So when Jay had mentioned earlier in the week that they might be able to go to the movies over the weekend, Chelsea held him to it. A time and a place were chosen. And word spread. And, somehow, Chelsea managed to unravel it all. She still wanted the Saturday night plans; she just didn’t want the crowd that came with them. She’d decided it should be more of a “double date.” With Mike. Except Mike would never see it coming. By the time the bell rang at the end of lunch on Friday, everyone had agreed to meet up for the seven o’clock showing the next night. But when they split up to go to their classes, Chelsea set her own plan into motion. She began to separate the others from the pack and, one by one, they all fell. She started with Andrew Lauthner. Poor Andrew didn’t know what hit him. “Hey, Andy, did you hear?” From the look on his face, he didn’t hear anything other than that Chelsea-his Chelsea-was talking to him. Out of the blue. Violet needed to get to class, but she was dying to see what Chelsea had up her sleeve, so she stuck it out instead. “What?” His huge frozen grin looked like it had been plastered there and dried overnight. Chelsea’s expression was apologetic, something that may have actually been difficult for her to pull off. “The movie’s been canceled. Plans are off.” She stuck out her lower lip in a disappointed pout. “But I thought…” He seemed confused. So was Violet. “…didn’t we just make the plans at lunch?” he asked. “I know.” Chelsea managed to sound as surprised as he did. “But you know how Jay is, always talking out of his ass. He forgot to mention that he has to work tomorrow night and can’t make it.” She looked at Violet and said, again apologetically, “Sorry you had to hear that, Vi.” Violet just stood there gaping and thinking that she should deny what Chelsea was saying, but she wasn’t even sure where to start. She knew Jules would have done it. Where was Jules when she needed her? “What about everyone else?” Andrew asked, still clinging to hope. Chelsea shrugged and placed a sympathetic hand on Andrew’s arm. “Nope. No one else can make it either. Mike’s got family plans. Jules has a date. Claire has to study. And Violet here is grounded.” She draped an arm around Violet’s shoulder. “Right, Vi?” Violet was saved from having to answer, since Andrew didn’t seem to need one. Apparently, if Chelsea said it, it was the gospel truth. But the pathetic look on his face made Violet want to hug him right then and there. "Oh," he finally said. And then, "Well, maybe next time." "Yeah. Sure. Of course," Chelsea called over her shoulder, already dragging Violet away from the painful scene. "Geez, Chels, break his heart, why don't you? Why didn't you just say you have some rare disease or something?" Violet made a face at her friend. "Not cool." Chelsea scoffed. "He'll be fine. Besides, if I said 'disease,' he would have made me some chicken soup and offered to give me a sponge bath or something." She wrinkled her nose. "Eww." The rest of the afternoon went pretty much the same way, with a few escalations: Family obligations. Big tests to study for. House arrests. Chelsea made excuses to nearly everyone who'd planned on going, including Clair. She was relentless. By Saturday night, it was just the four of them...Violet, Jay, Chelsea, and, of course, Mike. It was everything Chelsea had dreamed of, everything she'd worked for.

For a moment we just sit there silently, our heads tipped back as we stare at the sky. A minute passes, maybe two. And then Ryder’s hand grazes mine before settling on the ground, our pinkies touching. I suck in a breath, my entire body going rigid. I’m wondering if he realizes it, if he even knows he’s touching me, when just like that, he draws away. Ryder clears his throat. “So…I hear you’re going out with Patrick on Friday.” “And?” I ask. That brief connection that we’d shared is suddenly gone--poof, just like that. “And what?” he answers with a shrug. “Oh, I’m sure you’ve got an opinion on this--one you’re just dying to share.” Because Ryder has an opinion on everything. “Well, it’s just that Patrick…” He shakes his head. “Never mind. Forget I brought it up.” “No, go on. It’s just that Patrick what?” “Seriously, Jemma. It’s none of my business.” “C’mon, Ryder, get it out of your system. What? Patrick is looking to get a piece? Is using me? Is planning on standing me up?” I can’t help myself; the words just tumble out. “I was going to say that I think he really likes you,” he says, his voice flat. I bite back my retort, forcing myself to take a deep, calming breath instead. That was not what I had expected him to say--not at all--and it takes me completely by surprise. Patrick really likes me? I’m not sure how I feel about that--not sure I want it to be true. “What do you mean, he really likes me?” I ask stupidly. “Just what I said. It’s pretty simple stuff, Jemma. He likes you. I think he always has.” “And you know this how?” He levels a stare at me. “Trust me on this, okay? He’s got problems, sure, but he’s a decent guy. Don’t break his heart.” I scramble to my feet. “I agreed to go out with him--once. And I’m probably going to cancel, anyway, because after today’s news, I’m really not in the mood. But the last thing I need is dating advice from you.” “How come every conversation we have ends like this--with you going off on me? You didn’t use to be like this. What happened?” He’s right, and I hate myself for it--hate the way he makes me feel inside, as if I’m not good enough. I mean, let’s face it--I know I’m nothing special. I’m not beauty-pageant perfect like Morgan, or fashion-model gorgeous like Lucy. Unlike Ryder and Nan, I don’t have state-championship trophies lining my walls. My singing voice is only so-so, I can’t draw or play a musical instrument, and if the school plays are any indicator, I can’t act for shit, either.

cut back on my own work, passing up an opportunity to follow the Dukakis campaign for Rolling Stone, and I was losing friends the way addicts do, by canceling dates at the last minute.

date canceled because he got wrapped up in playing Warcrack — excuse me, Warcraft

She pulled the classic lie that every pregnant woman tells: 'I'm not going to have a cocktail with dinner because I'm on antibiotics. I have a cold.' You have a cold? Really? Why aren't you sneezing? Why didn't you cancel our date to go out for drinks if you had a cold? Why did you go to work today? No woman I know would ever listen to her doctor's warnings about alcohol - unless she was pregnant. If a doctor said to any of my girlfriends, 'Even one glass of wine tonight could bring about Armageddon,' they'd be like, 'Well, we've had fun here while it lasted. Can I get a pinot grigio?

Lending Out Books You're always giving, my therapist said. You have to learn how to take. Whenever you meet a woman, the first thing you do is lend her your books. You think she'll have to see you again in order to return them. but what happens is, she doesn't have the time to read them, & she's afraid if she sees you again you'll expect her to walk about them, & will want to lend her even more. So she cancels the date. You end up losing a lot of books. You should borrow hers.

Ironically, given the high-tech quality of the diagnostic and monitoring effort, the containment policies were based on traditional methods dating from the public health strategies against bubonic plague of the seventeenth century and the foundation of epidemiology as a discipline in the nineteenth century—case tracking, isolation, quarantine, the cancellation of mass gatherings, the surveillance of travelers, recommendations to increase personal hygiene, and barrier protection by means of masks, gowns, gloves, and eye protection. Although SARS affected twenty-nine countries and five continents, the containment operation successfully limited the outbreak primarily to hospital settings, with only sporadic community involvement. By July 5, 2003, WHO could announce that the pandemic was over.

Infidelity, cheating is what my wife accused me of and wants divorce. she filled for divorce after 22 years of marriage. she is angry I once had a relationship with her sister when I was in Vegas. I hadn´t even met my wife then, she found out and told me because she can´t bear the pain that I didn´t tell her all this years of our marriage. I do not think it´s important because It happened 4 years before I met my wife at the airport and we started being friends and we dated for about a month or two and we got married. It was when we were getting married I found out they were sisters. She was the elder sister to my wife. We have 4 grown up teenagers together, I do not understand why all these matters. Her sister is also married to someone else and they are happy, I do not know why my wife can´t let go even after so much apology. But to my greatest surprise, I came across a psychic I found that helped my marriage, (sangopriesteslovesolution(At)gmail. com) whom so many people where talking good reviews about on Yelp. He helped me out to cast a love reuniting forgiving spell that made my wife come to me just last week to reconcile back to me and cancel the on going divorce. we have immediately renew our marriage vows and promise to love each other more than ever till death do us part. What would I have done if not for this love solution temple priestess sango?? lovesolutiontemple.com send messages to get quick reply on 561 412 1776. I have never been this happen with my wife in years ever since she found out.

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Date cancelled my ass. No one would cancel on Zach. I’d bet my secret gummy bear stash he was planning to come alone.

chaos in her eyes Sitting with Christine, thinking about the chaos in her eyes, his emotional chaos, plotting to lure her out for a weekend of love, he wished in a chaotic, physical logic,” I wish I could count the number of causes and their probabilities that affect your feelings about me and that will determine what kind of answer I get if I ask you out for a date.” -What? What is that you just said? (An internal voice). By knowing the causes and the probabilities of the order in which they occur, you predict emotions Is that possible? Can we treat human emotions like the weather? Are there sensors to measure our emotions across time points in our history from which we can predict our future actions and their impact on us and others? Is there a computer with enormous capacity that can collect, analyze, and predict them? Do human emotions fall within this randomness? Throughout their history, physicists have rejected the idea of a relationship between human emotions and the surrounding world. Emotions are incomprehensible, they cannot be expected, what cannot be expected cannot be measured, what cannot be measured cannot be formulated into equations, and what cannot be formulated into equations, screw it, reject it, get rid of it, it is not part of this world. These ideas were acceptable to physicists in the past before we knew that we can control the effect of randomness to some extent through control sciences, and predict it by collecting a huge amount of data through special sensors and analyzing it. What affects when a plane arrives? Wind speed and direction? Our motors compensate for this unwanted turbulence. A lightning strike could destroy it? Our lightning rods control this disturbance and neutralize its danger. Running out of fuel? We have fuel meter indicators. Engine failure? We have alternative solutions for an emergency landing. All fall under the category of control sciences, But what about the basic building blocks of an airplane model during its flight? Humans themselves! A passenger suddenly felt dizzy, and felt ill, did the pilot decide to change his destination to the nearest airport? Another angry person caused a commotion, did he cause the flight to be canceled? Our emotions are part of this world, affect it, and can be affected by, interact with. Since we can predict chaos if we have the tools to collect, measure, and analyze it, and since we can neutralize its harmful effects through control science, thus, we can certainly do the same to human emotions as we do with weather and everything else that we have been able to predict and neutralize its undesirable effect. But would we get the desired results? nobody knows… -“Not today, not today, Robert”, he spoke to himself. – If you can’t do it today, you can’t do it for a lifetime, all you have to do now is simply to ask her out and let her chaos of feelings take you wherever she wants. Unconsciously, about to make the request, his phone rang, the caller being his mother and the destination being Tel Aviv. Standing next to Sheikh Ruslan at the building door, this wall fascinated him. -The universe worked in some parts of its paint even to the point of entropy, which it broke, so it painted a very beautiful painting, signed by its greatest law, randomness. If Van Gogh was here, he would not have a nicer one. Sheikh Ruslan knocked on the door, they heard the sound of footsteps behind him, someone opened a small window from it, as soon as he saw the Sheikh until he closed it immediately, then there was a rattle in the stillness of the alley, iron locks opening. Here Robert booked a front-row seat for the night with the absurd, illogic and subconscious.

We never did lack for eager volunteers, but there was no one who could give them [Florida volunteers] clear-cut directions. Some work was duplicated while other chores were left undone. The national office in Washington was in the same plight. In the confusion, local jealousies and rivalries thrived. Compared with the professional and well-financed campaigns of the other candidates, mine did not inspire confidence. There were countless damaging results; a trip to St. Petersburg was rescheduled five times and finally cancelled four days before the last date agreed on, but no one in Tampa thought to tell the St. Petersburg TImes, and its reporter went out and waited for me to arrive. It was not a good way to treat one of the state's leading newspapers.

I wonder if you know, I think, I wonder if you know that I'd cancel it in a heartbeat to be with you. Not even to go on a date with you. Just to sit in the same room as you.

hell. Mitch’s sister, Marie, has gone missing without a trace. His date is canceled,

After the miscarriage I was surrounded by dead-baby flowers, dead-baby books, and lots of boxes of dead-baby tea. I felt like I was drowning in a dead-baby sea. My mother didn’t know how to help but knew that I needed her. She sent me a soft bathrobe and a teapot, and I wept for hours on the phone with her. Mostly, she listened as I sorted through all my thoughts and feelings. If I’m angry or upset about something, or even if I’m happy about something, it isn’t real until I articulate it. I need a narrative. I guess that’s something Jeff and I share. We both need a story to fit into. The Burton ability to turn misfortune into narrative is something I’m grateful I was taught. It helps me think, Well, okay, that’s just a funny story. You should hear my father talking about his mother and those damn forsythia bushes. My sisters-in-law sent me lovely, heartfelt packages. Christina sent me teas and a journal and a letter I cherish. She included Cheryl Strayed’s book Tiny Beautiful Things: Advice on Love and Life from Dear Sugar. Christina is a mother. I felt like she understood the toll this sadness was taking on me, and she encouraged me to practice self-care. Jess gave me the book Reveal: A Secret Manual for Getting Spiritually Naked by Meggan Watterson and some other books about the divine feminine. She knew that there was nothing she could say, but everything she wanted to articulate was in those books. Jess has always had an almost psychic ability to understand my inner voice. She is quiet and attuned to what people are really saying rather than what they present to the world. I knew her book choices were deliberate, but I couldn’t read them for a while because they were dead-baby books. If people weren’t giving me dead baby gifts, they wanted to tell me dead-baby stories. There’s nothing more frustrating than someone saying, “Well, welcome to the club. I’ve had twelve miscarriages." It seemed like there was an unspoken competition between members of this fucked up sorority. I quickly realized this is a much bigger club than I knew and that everyone had stories and advice. And as much as I appreciated it, I had to find my own way. Tara gave me a book called Vessels: A Love Story, by Daniel Raeburn, about his and his wife’s experience of a number of miscarriages. His book helped because I couldn’t wrap my head around Jeff’s side of the story, and he certainly wasn’t telling it to me. He was out in the garage until dinnertime every day. He would come in, eat, help Gus shower, and then disappear for the rest of the night. I often read social media posts from couples announcing, “Hey we miscarried but it brought us closer together." I think it’s fair to say that miscarriage did not bring Jeffrey and me closer together. We were living in the same space but leading parallel lives. To be honest, most of the time we weren’t even living in the same space. That spring The Good Wife was canceled. We had banked on that being a job Jeff would do for a couple of years, one that would keep him in New York City. Then he landed Negan on The Walking Dead, and suddenly he would be all the way down in Georgia for the next three to five years. We were never going to have another child. It had been so hard to get pregnant. I felt like I was pulling teeth trying to coordinate dates when Jeff would be around and I’d be ovulating. It felt like every conversation was about having a baby. He’d ask, “What do you want for dinner?" I’d say, “A baby." “Hey, what do you want to do this weekend?" I’d say, “Have a baby.

Does that mean you’re canceling our date?” I ask, a hint of hope in my tone. As much as I need Enzo to take me home—I always hate what comes after. “It’s not a date. But, no, if you want out, then leave by yourself like a big girl.” God, he’s so mean. Why do I like it?

In 2013, Dropbox CEO Drew Houston and his top team used their powers over all employees of this file-sharing company to cancel hundreds of time-sucking meetings. Employees were wasting so much time in meetings that they kept missing crucial deadlines, especially shipping dates. Drew’s team decided to help Dropbox employees avoid heaping unnecessary meetings on themselves. Dropbox IT folks removed nearly all standing meetings from employees’ calendars and made it impossible for them to add new meetings to their calendars for two weeks. Employees were notified via an email titled “Armeetingeddon has landed.” After explaining why their calendars were “a bit light,” the email asked, “Ahhh, doesn’t it feel fantastic?

To a man like Nathan, "danger is the possibility that a date will publicly accuse him of impropriety: a #Metoo movement, a reputation for being "toxic", a "cancellation" if you will. He's less concerned with hurting or disappointing a woman than with protecting himself from unpleasant inconvenience.

I didn’t see a hint of the Alex I’d gotten to know over the past few months. The one who’d stayed and canceled a date to watch movies with me, the one who’d choked down one of the most disgusting cookies ever made and he lied about it being “fine” because he didn’t want to hurt my feelings, the one who’d taught me how to swim and showed me a world I’d thought only existed in fantasies. A world in which I loved and have been loved in return. He hadn’t said it, but I thought… I’d really thought he loved me and had just been too scared to say it.

While the phone was handy, I also called Wendy and got her mother again. She said that Wendy had a sore throat and couldn’t talk. I wasn’t about to quit that easily. “Can she listen?” I asked. “I’ll do the talking, and she can tap once for yes and twice for no.” Mrs. Westfall laughed. “I’m serious. Can she do that?” “Only for a minute. I’ll get her.” The next thing I heard was a whispered, “Hi.” “No talking,” Mrs. Westfall called out. “Hi, Wendy. Did your mom tell you the code? One tap for yes, two for no, three if you’re being held prisoner against your will.” Three quick taps from her. “That’s what I figured. Well, you haven’t missed much at school. Same old stuff. Somebody tried to assassinate Mr. Crowell, but he was wearing a bulletproof vest. And then when the cops came, they found marijuana growing in the teacher’s lounge. But all the evidence was destroyed in the fire. I guess you heard that the whole junior class was trapped in the auditorium and got wiped out. All except for Delbert Markusson. He was out in the parking lot, sneaking a smoke. So Delbert’s now junior class president. He’s also vice-president and secretary. He says the junior prom may be canceled, or he may have it over at his house—if he can find a date.” “Wind it up,” Mrs. Westfall said. “Are you going to be back tomorrow?” Two taps. “How about Monday?” One loud tap. “I’m going to San Francisco this weekend. Shall I send you a postcard?” Tap. “I’ll see you on Monday.” She tapped, then hung up. “Are you in love with Eddie Carter?” I said into the dead phone. I gave the receiver a loud slap.

I weave through LA's famous Farmers Market, which is really more of an outdoor food court, and now I'm a few minutes late. And the place is packed and there's still the uncertainty about where to meet when I look down and realize I'm wearing yellow pants. Yellow pants. Really? Sometimes I don't know what I'm thinking. They're rolled at the cuff and paired with a navy polo and it looks like maybe I just yacht my yacht, and I'm certain to come off as an asshole. I thin about canceling, or at least delaying so I can go home and change, but the effort that would require is unappealing, and this date is mostly for distraction. And when I round the last stall--someone selling enormous eggplants, more round than oblong, I see him, casually leaning against a wall, and something inside my body says there you are. 'There you are.' I don't understand them, these words, because they seem too deep and too soulful to attach to the Farmers Market, this Starbucks or that, a frozen yogurt place, or confusion over where to meet a stranger. They're straining to define a feeling of stunning comfort that drips over me, as if a water balloon burst over my head on the hottest of summer days. My knees don't buckle, my heart doesn't skip, but I'm awash in the warmth of a valium-like hug. Except I haven't taken a Valium. Not since the night of Lily's death. Yet here is this warm hug that makes me feel safe with this person, this Byron the maybe-poet, and I want it to stop. This--whatever this feeling is--can't be a real feeling, this can't be a tangible connection. This is just a man leaning against a stall that sells giant eggplants. But I no longer have time to worry about what this feeling is, whether I should or shouldn't be her, or should or should't be wearing yellow pants, because there are only maybe three perfect seconds where I see him and he has yet to spot me. Three perfect seconds to enjoy the calm that has so long eluded me. 'There you are.' And then he casually lifts his head and turns my way and uses one foot to push himself off the wall he is leaning agains. We lock eyes and he smiles with recognition and there's a disarming kindness to his face and suddenly I'm standing in front of him. 'There you are.' It comes out of my mouth before I can stop it and it's all I can do to steer the words in a more playfully casual direction so he isn't saddled with the importance I've placed on them. I think it comes off okay, but, as I know from my time at sea, sometimes big ships turn slowly. Byron chuckles and gives a little pump of his fist. 'YES! IT'S! ALL! HAPPENING! FOR! US!' I want to stop in my tracks, but I'm already leaning in for a hug, and he comes the rest of the way, and the warm embrace of seeing him standing there is now an actual embrace, and it is no less sincere. He must feel me gripping him tightly, because he asks, 'Is everything okay?' No. 'Yes, everything is great, it's just...' I play it back in my head what he said, the way in which he said it, and the enthusiasm which only a month had gone silent. 'You reminded me of someone is all.' 'Hopefully in a good way.' I smile but it takes just a minute to speak. 'In the best possible way.' I don't break the hug first, but maybe at the same time, this is a step. jenny will be proud. I look in his eyes, which I expect to be brown like Lily's but instead are deep blue like the waters lapping calmly against the outboard sides of 'Fishful Thinking.' 'Is frozen yogurt okay?' 'Frozen yogurt is perfect.

Defries was forced to cancel dates in Dallas and Houston because of weak advance sales.

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Although we had the same upbringing, David has always been more confident. Once, back in high school, we both had Saturday night dates who canceled on us in the late afternoon. I spent the rest of the weekend moping around the house, wondering what was wrong with me. David laughed off the rejection, announcing, “That girl missed out on a great thing,” and went off to play basketball with his friends. Luckily, I had my younger sister, wise and empathetic way beyond her years, to console me.

One of the most surprising findings to emerge from neuroscience in recent years is that rather than responding in real time to the vast amount of incoming sensory data, the brain tries to keep one step ahead by constantly predicting what will happen next. It simulates a model of the immediate future based on what has just happened. When its predictions turn out to be wrong—for example, we’re feeling just fine then suddenly experience a stab of anxiety about a romantic date—this mismatch creates an unpleasant sense of dissatisfaction that we can either try to resolve by ruminating and then doing something to alleviate the anxiety (canceling the date, perhaps) or by updating the brain’s model of reality (investigating and accepting the new sensation). These alternative strategies employ the “narrative” and “being” modes of thought I described earlier in this chapter. Of course, both strategies have their place according to the situation, but an overreliance on avoidance behavior rather than acceptance stores up problems for the future because there are many things in life that cannot be changed and therefore need to be faced. Mindfulness through interoception is all about accepting the way things are. When we are mindful, the insula continually updates its representation of our internal world to improve its accuracy by reducing discrepancies between expectation and reality. As we’ve seen in previous chapters, this reality check—the focusing of dispassionate attention on unpleasant sensations such as pain or anxiety—loosens the hold that they have over us. So the structural changes in the brains of highly experienced meditators of Siddhārtha’s caliber, in particular in their insula and ACC, may be responsible for the imperturbable calm and acceptance that is the ultimate goal of contemplative practice, sometimes described as enlightenment or nirvana.

After every trifling thing you have put me through From the times you were not there to hold my hand From the missed calls, late nights and cancelled dates To the endless memories I have that aren’t filled with happy thoughts of you and I But the sad and vivid images of me with a bottle of wine and a mascara-streaked face We’ve been here before Me crying You lying Me complaining You

A lot of interest had developed on the contest to design a cachet or postal mark for envelopes that were to be mailed at the North Pole. I had reasoned that we could assume and later get confirmation of authority to act as an official post office at the North Pole, which meant that the stamps on the envelopes could be canceled with the ship’s name and date and our very interesting location at the time of their mailing. There were two superb entries in the competition. One was done by Bill McNally, a very talented artist, and John Kurrus, who was almost as good a cachet designer as he was a periscope welder. The other entry was developed by John Krawczyk and was a bit more adaptable to the face of an envelope.

Although making decisions by testing God with fleeces is generally a bad idea, sometimes it can look similar to setting reasonable goals. For example, suppose you are considering running a marathon. But you decide that you won’t sign up for the 26.2 mile race unless you first lose fifteen pounds and finish a half-marathon. In a way this sounds like laying out a fleece, but it is really just prudence and good goal setting. Humble goals and loosely held plans are good. Expecting God to do tricks for us is bad. Don’t pray: “God, if You want me to go out on this date, then make my professors cancel all their assignments for the weekend. If You don’t do that, I’ll just tell Josh that it wasn’t the Lord’s will that we go out.” The whole fleece approach to life is dangerously close to violating Jesus’ admonition, “You shall not put the Lord your God to the test” (Matthew 4:7). Now, I know Gideon asked God for some special dew. But there are good reasons to think Gideon’s request is not a normative example. For starters, Gideon didn’t have a Bible. More than likely, he didn’t have a single page of God’s inspired Word of his own. More importantly, the book of Judges generally does not provide a good example of much of anything. When the theme of the book is “everyone did what was right in his own eyes” (Judges 21:25), we should think twice before copying whatever practices or attitudes we find in its chapters. Gideon’s request was probably an indication of cowardice and unbelief more than faithful, wise decision making.

What happened to you?” Monica accused over a tray of leafy greens. “What?” Joy said. “Nothing.” “Well, that nothing has you eating your salad with a spoon.” Embarrassed, Joy switched utensils, tucking her hair behind her ear and letting her fingers linger there. She grinned again. “I’m just thinking,” she said, poking the lettuce, “about stuff.” “Thinking stuff.” Monica nodded and chewed. “Sounds dangerous.” “Not yet,” Joy chirped. Monica slapped both hands on her tray, “Okay, that’s it— spill.” “What?” “What ‘what?’ Don’t give me ‘what’ and expect me not to ask ‘what?’” Monica pointed her fork at Joy’s nose. “You’ve been a total nut job ever since that night at the Carousel, and what with breaking windows and random notes and skipping off after school, you think I don’t know there’s a ‘what?’” Monica sounded angry, which was her protective-sisterhood thing. Joy tried not to laugh. “Is it drugs?” Monica hissed over her salad. “Because if it’s drugs, so help me, I will beat your sorry pale pink butt from here to next Thursday. I will call your dad, I will call the cops and I will even call Gordon and cancel our date!” “Whoa.” Joy waved a napkin in surrender. “It’s not drugs. No drugs. I swear. Remember? No Stupid,” Joy said, but had to add, “But there is a someone.” “A someone?” “A someone.” “A guy?” Joy rolled her eyes. “Yes, a guy. There’s a guy. I like guys.” Monica pursed her lips. “There’s a guy and you like guys and you met a guy, this Someone-A-Guy?” Joy prodded her lunch, picking at the crust of her sandwich. “There’s a guy and I don’t know what I think about him. I’m just…thinking about him. A lot.” “Mmm,” Monica said noncommittally. “So does this guy have a name?” Joy considered the question. “Yes.” “Yes?” Monica prompted with a wave of speared iceberg lettuce. “And?” “And there’s not much to talk about.” Joy shrugged and took a wide bite of sandwich, filling her mouth. She couldn’t decide whether Indelible was his first name or Ink, but neither sounded particularly normal. As opposed to Gordon Wiener-Schnitzel. Still, it was a subject best avoided. “Uh-huh.” Monica joined Joy in a long bout of chewing. They exchanged glances and evasions like fencing partners until Monica swallowed. “Okay,” she said. “So, this mysterious Someone-A-Guy that you can’t stop thinking about— would I, as your best friend, theoretically speaking, give him a thumbs-up or a thumbs-down?” Two thumbs down, definitely, for mysteryguywhostabbedmeintheeye. Joy swallowed. “He’s not your type,” she said diplomatically. “But he’s your type?” Monica said. “And, what is your type, exactly?” “He’s…” Joy stumbled, trying to find the words. “Exciting. Intellectual. A little sad, which can be sweet.” The flash in her eye inspired her. “He’s an artist.” “An artist?” Monica sneered around cukes. “Please do not tell me that you’re going to go all emo on me. That’s worse than drugs.

Common ADHD behaviors such as not returning phone calls or e-mails, canceling social dates at the last minute, or arriving late make those you care about feel uncared for, even if that isn’t your intent.

Cancel the date. See me . . . Kelsey. Fucking see me.

Then why can’t you look at me?” I demanded. “Dammit, Ále.” A small, humiliating crack split her name in half. “Can you honestly look me in the eye and tell me you don’t love me anymore?” “Loving you was never the problem! I’ve loved you for eleven years, Dom. I loved you so much I lost myself. Everything I did, everything I gave up and endured was for you. The late nights, the missed dates, the canceled trips. I believed in you and wanted you to succeed, not because I cared about the money, but because you did. I thought one day, it would be enough, and you would be happy with what we had. But you’ll never be happy, and I’ll never be enough.

I’ve loved you for eleven years, Dom. I loved you so much I lost myself. Everything I did, everything I gave up and endured was for you. The late nights, the missed dates, the canceled trips. I believed in you and wanted you to succeed, not because I cared about the money, but because you did. I thought one day, it would be enough, and you would be happy with what we had. But you’ll never be happy, and I’ll never be enough.