Compliment Wife Quotes

A broad smile spread across Will’s face. “Then we have no choice but to give our blessing too. Cordelia Carstairs,” he said, “the Carstairs and the Herondales will be bonded even more closely now. If James could have chosen his wife from all the women in all the worlds that are or ever were, I would wish for no other.” Tessa laughed. “Will! You cannot compliment our new daughter only on the chance of her last name!” Will was grinning like a boy. “Wait until I tell Jem—

My wife and her soft heart," War says. It sounds like a genuine compliment.

Lovely was my compliment. Could you not come up with your own?" "Lord Paen said compliment her, he did not say we had to be creative about it," the second man pointed out with a shrug

I continued down the hallway, past the library, with my eyes downcast, not wanting to talk to anyone. So immersed was I in my misery that I recoiled at the sound of a male voice emanating from just a few paces in front of me. "I know feet are fascinating, Alera, but it's much more sensible to pay attention to where you're going." Steldor stood outside the door to our quarters wearing a cocky and irritating grin, and for the thousandth time that day, I felt myself turning crimson. I stared at him, struggling for a witty rejoinder but unable to produce one. "Did you want something, my lord?" I finally asked, forcing a smile that felt like a grimace. "I simply wanted to see my beautiful wife," he said, countenance still smug, although his eyes had softened and I suspected the compliment was sincere.

I think I’m allowed to compliment my wife.” “Only if you behave.” “So is me telling you that your ass in that dress makes my cock hard as a rock behaving?

He complimented my wife,” he argued. “We didn’t have time to sit around and chitchat for an hour.

He emphasized the word toes, stretching out his feet a little more. This was now officially getting weird. Jack's voice buzzed in my head more forcefully. Compliment. His. Feet. "You have beautiful feet, Grand- er, Njord." The god beamed. "Oh, these old things? Well, you're kind. Did you know I once won a beauty contest with my feet? The prize was my wife!" I glanced at Blitz and Hearth, to see if I was imagining this entire conversation.

The point I’m trying to make is that I am the most unpleasant, rude, ignorant, and all-around obnoxious arsehole that anyone could possibly have the misfortune to meet. I am dismissive of the virtuous, unaware of the beautiful, and uncomprehending in the face of the happy. So if I didn’t understand I was being asked to be the best man, it is because I never expected to be anybody’s best friend, and certainly not the best friend of the bravest and kindest and wisest human being I have ever had the good fortune of knowing. John, I am a ridiculous man, redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. But as I am apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion. Actually, now I can. Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss — so sorry again about that last one. So know this: Today, you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved. In short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that. Now, on to some funny stories about John...

Hey, sweetheart. All alone in this palace?" She arched a brow when she felt the hand on her bottom and turned her head slowly to stare at McNab. He went red, then white, then red again. "Christ! Lieutenant. Sir." "Your hand's on my ass, McNab. I don't think you want it to be there." He snatched it away as if scorched. "God. Man. Shit. Beg your pardon. I didn't recognize you. I mean..." He jammed the hand he sincerely hoped she'd allow him to keep in his pocket. "I didn't know it was you. I thought... You look..." Words failed him. "I believe Detective McNab is trying to compliment you, Eve." Roarke slipped up beside them and, because it was too much to resist, stared hard into McNab's panicked eyes. "Weren't you, Ian?" "Yeah. That is..." "And if I believed he'd realized it was your ass he was fondling, I'd just have to kill him. Right here." Roarke reached out and flicked at the strings of McNab's snazzy red tie. "Right now." "Oh, I'd have already taken care of that myself," Eve said dryly. "You look like you could use a drink,Detective." "Yes, sir. I could." "Roarke, why don't you take care of him? Mira just came in. I want to talk to her." "Delighted." Roarke draped an arm around McNab's shoulder and squeezed just a little harder than comfort allowed.

Right then, in a nutshell: this one hasn't a single bone of obedient-little-wife material in her heavenly body.' 'Hasn't she? Then what kind of bone does your expertise detect?' Fermin came closer, adopting a confidential tone. 'The passionate kind,' he said, raising his eyebrows with an air of mystery. 'And you can be sure I mean that as a compliment.

unsolicited advice to adolescent girls with crooked teeth and pink hair When your mother hits you, do not strike back. When the boys call asking your cup size, say A, hang up. When he says you gave him blue balls, say you’re welcome. When a girl with thick black curls who smells like bubble gum stops you in a stairwell to ask if you’re a boy, explain that you keep your hair short so she won’t have anything to grab when you head-butt her. Then head-butt her. When a guidance counselor teases you for handed-down jeans, do not turn red. When you have sex for the second time and there is no condom, do not convince yourself that screwing between layers of underwear will soak up the semen. When your geometry teacher posts a banner reading: “Learn math or go home and learn how to be a Momma,” do not take your first feminist stand by leaving the classroom. When the boy you have a crush on is sent to detention, go home. When your mother hits you, do not strike back. When the boy with the blue mohawk swallows your heart and opens his wrists, hide the knives, bleach the bathtub, pour out the vodka. Every time. When the skinhead girls jump you in a bathroom stall, swing, curse, kick, do not turn red. When a boy you think you love delivers the first black eye, use a screw driver, a beer bottle, your two good hands. When your father locks the door, break the window. When a college professor writes you poetry and whispers about your tight little ass, do not take it as a compliment, do not wait, call the Dean, call his wife. When a boy with good manners and a thirst for Budweiser proposes, say no. When your mother hits you, do not strike back. When the boys tell you how good you smell, do not doubt them, do not turn red. When your brother tells you he is gay, pretend you already know. When the girl on the subway curses you because your tee shirt reads: “I fucked your boyfriend,” assure her that it is not true. When your dog pees the rug, kiss her, apologize for being late. When he refuses to stay the night because you live in Jersey City, do not move. When he refuses to stay the night because you live in Harlem, do not move. When he refuses to stay the night because your air conditioner is broken, leave him. When he refuses to keep a toothbrush at your apartment, leave him. When you find the toothbrush you keep at his apartment hidden in the closet, leave him. Do not regret this. Do not turn red. When your mother hits you, do not strike back.

You’re not ugly. Stop pretending you don’t know it. No one likes a pretty person who fishes for compliments.” “Ah, but it’s different when it’s my wife complimenting me.” He practically purred the words.

Brutes, those cops were, talking about me that way. Didn’t they know I’d been the wife of a scientist? Didn’t they know I’d worn the most elegant silk blend dresses, gone to dinners at the university? The wife of a state senator had complimented me on my hairdo. They’d printed my picture in the paper a few times. I’d sung in a chorus at college. I’d studied Japanese calligraphy. I once saved a kitten that had crawled up into the wheel well of an old man’s car. And what were those cops good for? Pulling people over for speeding? I pictured their mindspace crawling with headless rats, spewing blood, white flashing neck bones, severed heads gnawing at dead headless bodies. It made me sick to imagine their thoughts, those monsters.

Your wife’s willingness to allow a daughter to grow inside her who had, by all laws of probability, a fifty-percent chance of inheriting your face, is something you should view as a compliment. Perhaps the greatest compliment a woman can give a man.

But as to your writing me that I don’t love you very much, I don’t know whether you’re saying this in earnest or whether I should realise that you’re joking with me. Still, what you say disturbs me. You are measuring a very healthy expression of a wife’s loyalty by the standard of the insincere flattery of well-worn phrases. But I shall love you, my husband. What does it mean to you that you reassure me with those trivial little compliments? Do you want me to believe that you expect me to comb my hair in a stylish fashion for your homecoming? Or to feign adoring looks with a painted face? Let women without means, who worry and have no confidence in their virtue, flutter their eyelashes and play games to gain favour with their husbands. This is the adulation of a fox and the birdlime of deceitful bird hunting. I don’t want to have to buy you at such a price. I’m not a person who lays more stock in words than duty. I am truly your Laura, whose soul is the same one you in turn had hoped for.

Ildiko shuddered.  Her hope to never again see or eat the Kai’s most beloved and revolting delicacy had been in vain.  When Brishen informed her that the dish was one of Serovek’s favorites, she resigned herself to another culinary battle with her food and put the scarpatine on the menu.  She ordered roasted potatoes as well, much to the head cook’s disgust. When servants brought out the food and set it on the table, Brishen leaned close and whispered in her ear.  “Revenge, wife?” “Hardly,” she replied, keeping a wary eye on the pie closest to her.  The golden top crust, with its sprinkle of sparkling salt, pitched in a lazy undulation.  “But I’m starving, and I have no intention of filling up on that abomination.” Their guest of honor didn’t share their dislike of either food.  As deft as any Kai, Serovek made short work of the scarpatine and its whipping tail, cleaved open the shell with his knife and took a generous bite of the steaming gray meat. Ildiko’s stomach heaved.  She forgot her nausea when Serovek complimented her.  “An excellent choice to pair the scarpatine with the potato, Your Highness.  They are better together than apart.” Beside her, Brishen choked into his goblet.  He wiped his mouth with his sanap.  “What a waste of good scarpatine,” he muttered under his breath. What a waste of a nice potato, she thought.  However, the more she thought on Serovek’s remark, the more her amusement grew. “And what has you smiling so brightly?”  Brishen stared at her, his lambent eyes glowing nearly white in the hall’s torchlight. She glanced at Serovek, happily cleaning his plate and shooting the occasional glance at Anhuset nearby.  Brishen’s cousin refused to meet his gaze, but Ildiko had caught the woman watching the Beladine lord more than a few times during dinner. “That’s us, you know,” she said. “What is us?” “The scarpatine and the potato.  Better together than alone.  At least I think so.” One of Brishen’s eyebrows slid upward.  “I thought we were hag and dead eel.  I think I like those comparisons more.”  He shoved his barely-touched potato to the edge of his plate with his knife tip, upper lip curled in revulsion to reveal a gleaming white fang. Ildiko laughed and stabbed a piece of the potato off his plate.  She popped it into her mouth and chewed with gusto, eager to blunt the taste of scarpatine still lingering on her tongue.

I immersed myself in my relationship with my husband, in little ways at first. Dutch would come home from his morning workout and I’d bring him coffee as he stepped out of the shower. He’d slip into a crisp white shirt and dark slacks and run a little goop through his hair, and I’d eye him in the mirror with desire and a sultry smile that he couldn’t miss. He’d head to work and I’d put a love note in his bag—just a line about how proud I was of him. How beautiful he was. How happy I was as his wife. He’d come home and cook dinner and instead of camping out in front of the TV while he fussed in the kitchen, I’d keep him company at the kitchen table and we’d talk about our days, about our future, about whatever came to mind. After dinner, he’d clear the table and I’d do the dishes, making sure to compliment him on the meal. On those weekends when he’d head outside to mow the lawn, I’d bring him an ice-cold beer. And, in those times when Dutch was in the mood and maybe I wasn’t, well, I got in the mood and we had fun. As the weeks passed and I kept discovering little ways to open myself up to him, the most amazing thing happened. I found myself falling madly, deeply, passionately, head-over-heels in love with my husband. I’d loved him as much as I thought I could love anybody before I’d married him, but in treating him like my own personal Superman, I discovered how much of a superhero he actually was. How giving he was. How generous. How kind, caring, and considerate. How passionate. How loving. How genuinely good. And whatever wounds had never fully healed from my childhood finally, at long last, formed scar tissue. It was like being able to take a full breath of air for the first time in my life. It was transformative. And it likely would save our marriage, because, at some point, all that withholding would’ve turned a loving man bitter. On some level I think I’d known that and yet I’d needed my sister to point it out to me and help me change. Sometimes it’s good to have people in your life that know you better than you know yourself.

You have a great attitude whenever you race,” Nancy complimented. “Why thank you, Miss Cooper.” Dudeman’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “Miss Cooper? Are we going all formal nowadays?” Kaity teased. “We just faced death together—twice—so let’s not be on a last-name basis!” Sharko grinned. He couldn’t resist building onto his wife’s quip. “Since you still won money,” he said cheekily, “why don’t you pay for lunch, Mr. Erskin.” “Gah!” Dudeman pretended to choke. “Remind me to get my name legally changed!” Excerpt From Defector (Starganauts Series, #3)

I felt it as sure as the love I had for her: every husband should have a man available to help worship his wife's pussy. Nothing was more intimate and caring than a husband who approved of one particular man violating his bride's vows. It was more than just his relationship to his bride. It was the special connection multiplied between all three. It was an enrichment all husbands should know. If the husband truly loved his wife, he should know that another man ejaculating on her face was a gift – cumming in her pussy a compliment above all others. The bond of trust was strengthened. The intimacy intensified beyond imagination. The love nurtured to transcendence.

Warren,still staring at the splendid black eye and several cuts on his face, remarked, "Hate to see what the other fellow looks like," which James supposed was a compliment of sorts, since Warren had personal experience of his fists from numerous occasions himself. "Like to congratulate the other fellow myself," Nicholas said with a smirk, which got him a kick under the table from his wife. James nodded to Reggie. "Appreciate it, m'dear. My feet wouldn't reach." To which she blushed that her kick had been noticed. And Nicholas, still wincing, managed a scowl,which turned out rather comical looking, considering the two expressions didn't mix all that well. "Is Uncle Toony still among the living?" Amy asked, probably because neither James nor his brother had returned back downstairs last night. "Give me a few more days to figure that out,puss, 'cause I bloody well ain't sure just now," Anthony said as he came slowly into the room,an arm tucked to his side as if he were protecting some broken ribs. A melodramatic groan escaped as he took the seat across from his brother. James rolled his eyes hearing it. "Give over,you ass," he sneered. "Your ife ain't here to witness your theatrics." "She's not?" Anthony glanced down the table, then made a moue and sat back in his chair-minus groaning this time. However, he did complain to James, "You did break my ribs,you know." "Devil I did, though I'll admit I considered it. And by the by, the option is still open." Anthony glared at him. "We're too bloody old to be beating on each other." "Speak for yourself, old man. One is never too old for a spot of exercise." "Ah,so that's what we were doing?" Anthony shot back dryly, as he gently fingered his own black eye. "Exercising, was it?" James raised a brow. "And that's not what you do weekly at Knighton's Hall? But I understand your confusion in the matter, since you're used to doling out the damage, rather than receiving any. Tends to give one a skewed perspective. Glad to have cleared that up for you." It was at that point that Jason walked in, took one look at his two younger brothers' battered faces, and remarked, "Good God, and at this time of the year,no less? I'll see you both in my study.

Leaning back in his chair, Ian listened to Larimore’s irate summation of the wild and fruitless chase he’d been sent on for two days by Lady Thornton and her butler: “And after all that,” Larimore flung out in high dudgeon, “I returned to the house on Promenade Street to demand the butler allow me past the stoop, only to have the man-“ “Slam the door in your face?” Ian suggested dispassionately. “No, my lord, he invited me in,” Larimore bit out. “He invited me to search the house to my complete satisfaction. She’s left London,” Larimore finished, avoiding his employer’s narrowed gaze. “She’ll go to Havenhurst,” Ian said decisively, and he gave Larimore directions to find the small estate. When Larimore left, Ian picked up a contract he needed to read and approve; but before he’d read two lines Jordan stalked into his study unannounced, carrying a newspaper and wearing an expression Ian hadn’t seen before. “Have you seen the paper today?” Ian ignored the paper and studied his friend’s angry face instead. “No, why?” “Read it,” Jordan said, slapping it down on the desk. “Elizabeth allowed herself to be questioned by a reporter from the Times. Read that.” He jabbed his finger at a few lines near the bottom of the article about Elizabeth by one Mr. Thomas Tyson. “That was your wife’s response when Tyson asked her how she felt when she saw you on trial before your peers.” Frowning at Jordan’s tone, Ian read Elizabeth’s reply: My husband was not tried before his peers. He was merely tried before the Lords of the British Realm. Ian Thornton has no peers. Ian tore his gaze from the article, refusing to react to the incredible sweetness of her response, but Jordan would not let it go. “My compliments to you, Ian,” he said angrily. “You serve your wife with a divorce petition, and she responds by giving you what constitutes a public apology!” He turned and stalked out of the room, leaving Ian behind to stare with clenched jaw at the article. One month later Elizabeth had still not been found. Ian continued trying to purge her from his mind and tear her from his heart, but with decreasing success. He knew he was losing ground in the battle, just as he had been slowly losing it from the moment he’d looked up and seen her walking into the House of Lords.

Love, love, love—all the wretched cant of it, masking egotism, lust, masochism, fantasy under a mythology of sentimental postures, a welter of self-induced miseries and joys, blinding and masking the essential personalities in the frozen gestures of courtship, in the kissing and the dating and the desire, the compliments and the quarrels which vivify its barrenness. ‘We were not made to idolize one another, yet the whole strain of courtship is little more than rank idolatry.’ It may seem that young men no longer court with the elaborate servilities that Mary Astell, the seventeenth-century feminist, was talking about, but the mystic madness of love provides the same spurious halo, and builds up the same expectations which dissipate as soon as the new wife becomes capable of ‘calmly considering her Condition

1. All-or-Nothing Thinking The tendency to think in extremes like “always” and “never” without considering nuanced degrees between. “My boyfriend broke up with me; I always ruin my relationships.” 2. Overgeneralization The tendency to make broad assumptions based on limited specifics. “If one person thinks I’m stupid, everyone will.” 3. Mental Filter The tendency to focus on small negative details to the exclusion of the big picture. “My A+ average doesn’t matter; I got a C on an assignment.” 4. Disqualifying the Positive The tendency to dismiss positive aspects of an experience for irrational reasons. “If my friend compliments me, she is probably just saying it out of pity.” 5. Jumping to Conclusions The tendency to make unfounded, negative assumptions, often in the form of attempted mind reading or fortune telling. “If my romantic interest doesn’t text me today, he must not be interested.” 6. Catastrophizing The tendency to magnify or minimize certain details of an experience, painting it as worse or more severe than it is. “If my wife leaves me, then I will never be able to recover from my misery.” 7. Emotional Reasoning The tendency to take one’s emotions as evidence of objective truth. “If I feel offended by someone else’s remark, then he must have wronged me.” 8. Should Statements The tendency to apply rigid rules to how one “should” or “must” behave. “My friend criticized my attitude, and that is something that friends should never do.” 9. Labeling The tendency to describe oneself in the form of absolute labels. “If I make a calculation error, it makes me a total idiot.” 10. Personalization The tendency to attribute negative outcomes to oneself without evidence. “If my wife is in a bad mood, then I must have done something to upset her.

Unfortunately, the Hospital Fund Raising Committee, to which Elizabeth was assigned, spent most of its time mired down in petty trivialities and rarely made a decision on anything. In a fit of bored frustration, Elizabeth finally asked Ian to step into their drawing room one day, while the committee was meeting there, and to give them the benefit of his expertise. “And,” she laughingly warned him in the privacy of his study when he agreed to join them, “no matter how they prose on about every tiny, meaningless expenditure-which they will-promise me you won’t point out to them that you could build six hospitals with less effort and time.” “Could I do that?” he asked, grinning. “Absolutely!” She sighed. “Between them, they must have half the money in Europe, yet they debate about every shilling to be spent as if it were coming out of their own reticules and likely to send them to debtors’ gaol.” “If they offend your thrifty sensibilities, they must be a rare group,” Ian teased. Elizabeth gave him a distracted smile, but when they neared the drawing room, where the committee was drinking tea in Ian’s priceless Sevres china cups, she turned to him and added hastily, “Oh, and don’t comment on Lady Wiltshire’s blue hat.” “Why not?” “Because it’s her hair.” “I wouldn’t do such a thing,” he protested, grinning at her. “Yes, you would!” she whispered, trying to frown and chuckling instead. “The dowager duchess told me that, last night, you complimented the furry dog Lady Shirley had draped over her arm.” “Madam, I was following your specific instructions to be nice to the eccentric old harridan. Why shouldn’t I have complimented her dog?” “Because it was a new fur muff of a rare sort, of which she was extravagantly proud.” “There is no fur on earth that mangy, Elizabeth,” he replied with an impenitent grin. “She’s hoaxing the lot of you,” he added seriously. Elizabeth swallowed a startled laugh and said with an imploring look, “Promise me you’ll be very nice, and very patient with the committee.” “I promise,” he said gravely, but when she reached for the door handle and opened the door-when it was too late to step back and yank it closed-he leaned close to her ear and whispered, “Did you know a camel is the only animal invented by a committee, which is why it turned out the way it has?” If the committee was surprised to see the formerly curt and irascible Marquess of Kensington stroll into their midst wearing a beatific smile worth of a choir boy, they were doubtlessly shocked to see his wife’s hands clamped over her face and her eyes tearing with mirth.

Not many people understood her. She loved visiting temples. She loved children and flowers, simple things and actually everything reminded her of God's Love. She found Kindness more beautiful than anything of this world. She breathed in Faith and trusted God no matter what. She was free as a bird and travelled far and wide only to know in her heart that one day she will find what Her Soul's been searching for since eternity in God's Timing. She was often looked at as pretty and intelligent, and she loved the compliments but when someone called her Godloving that stole her heart. She loved dreams and knew that all she ever wants is a Man who could walk beside her, hand in hand, living dreams and following passions in a journey of Love's adventure. She didn't just want to be a wife, she wanted to be a partner in dreams, a co-sharer of aspirations, a travel mate through the happiness and difficulties of Life. She wasn't looking for a smooth sail, she knew every bond has trying moments, just that she wanted someone who would stand by her every step of the way, just like she would have his back every single time. She wasn't looking for a hero, she was looking for an equal, a soul-counterpart sailing through life with Love, Respect and Passion. She wasn't looking for a ring, she was waiting for a Heart that was already written in the stars as hers forever. And she knew no matter what, someday someone will come who will bend his knees before God and ask Him to make her all of his, not just for a temporary timespan but for lifetimes that their souls needed to take human shape in. She knows someday she wouldn't visit temples alone, someone would stand right beside her and together they would pray for the family that would create in the blessings of Him who has already got it all planned. - and the right person would understand her because God understands Souls and Love.

This is from Elizabeth,” it said. “She has sold Havenhurst.” A pang of guilt and shock sent Ian to his feet as he read the rest of the note: “I am to tell you that this is payment in full, plus appropriate interest, for the emeralds she sold, which, she feels, rightfully belonged to you.” Swallowing audibly, Ian picked up the bank draft and the small scrap of paper with it. On it Elizabeth herself had shown her calculation of the interest due him for the exact number of days since she’d sold the gems, until the date of her bank draft a week ago. His eyes ached with unshed tears while his shoulders began to rock with silent laughter-Elizabeth had paid him half a percent less than the usual interest rate. Thirty minutes later Ian presented himself to Jordan’s butler and asked to see Alexandra. She walked into the room with accusation and ire shooting from her blue eyes as she said scornfully, “I wondered if that note would bring you here. Do you have any notion how much Havenhurst means-meant-to her?” “I’ll get it back for her,” he promised with a somber smile. “Where is she?” Alexandra’s mouth fell open at the tenderness in his eyes and voice. “Where is she?” he repeated with calm determination. “I cannot tell you,” Alex said with a twinge of regret. “You know I cannot. I gave my word.” “Would it have the slightest effect,” Ian countered smoothly, “if I were to ask Jordan to exert his husbandly influence to persuade you to tell me anyway?” “I’m afraid not,” Alexandra assured him. She expected him to challenge that; instead a reluctant smile drifted across his handsome face. When he spoke, his voice was gentle. “You’re very like Elizabeth. You remind me of her.” Still slightly mistrustful of his apparent change of heart, Alex said primly, “I deem that a great compliment, my lord.” To her utter disbelief, Ian Thornton reached out and chucked her under the chin. “I meant it as one,” he informed her with a grin. Turning, Ian started for the door, then stopped at the sight of Jordan, who was lounging in the doorway, an amused, knowing smile on his face. “If you’d keep track of your own wife, Ian, you would not have to search for similarities in mine.” When their unexpected guest had left, Jordan asked Alex, “Are you going to send Elizabeth a message to let her know he’s coming for her?” Alex started to nod, then she hesitated. “I-I don’t think so. I’ll tell her that he asked where she is, which is all he really did.” “He’ll go to her as soon as he figures it out.” “Perhaps.” “You still don’t trust him, do you?” Jordan said with a surprised smile. “I do after this last visit-to a certain extent-but not with Elizabeth’s heart. He’s hurt her terribly, and I won’t give her false hopes and, in doing so, help him hurt her again.” Reaching out, Jordan chucked her under the chin as his cousin had done, then he pulled her into his arms. “She’s hurt him, too, you know.” “Perhaps,” Alex admitted reluctantly. Jordan smiled against her hair. “You were more forgiving when I trampled your heart, my love,” he teased. “That’s because I loved you,” she replied as she laid her cheek against his chest, her arms stealing around his waist. “And will you love my cousin just a little if he makes amends to Elizabeth?” “I might find it in my heart,” she admitted, “if he gets Havenhurst back for her.” “It’ll cost him a fortune if he tries,” Jordan chuckled. “Do you know who bought it?” “No, do you?” He nodded. “Philip Demarcus.” She giggled against his chest. “Isn’t he that dreadful man who told the prince he’d have to pay to ride in his new yacht up the Thames?” “The very same.” “Do you suppose Mr. Demarcus cheated Elizabeth?” “Not our Elizabeth,” Jordan laughed. “But I wouldn’t like to be in Ian’s place if Demarcus realizes the place has sentimental value to Ian. The price will soar.

An American businessman took a vacation to a small coastal Mexican village on doctor’s orders. Unable to sleep after an urgent phone call from the office the first morning, he walked out to the pier to clear his head. A small boat with just one fisherman had docked, and inside the boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish. “How long did it take you to catch them?” the American asked. “Only a little while,” the Mexican replied in surprisingly good English. “Why don’t you stay out longer and catch more fish?” the American then asked. “I have enough to support my family and give a few to friends,” the Mexican said as he unloaded them into a basket. “But… What do you do with the rest of your time?” The Mexican looked up and smiled. “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take a siesta with my wife, Julia, and stroll into the village each evening, where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos. I have a full and busy life, señor.” The American laughed and stood tall. “Sir, I’m a Harvard M.B.A. and can help you. You should spend more time fishing, and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. In no time, you could buy several boats with the increased haul. Eventually, you would have a fleet of fishing boats.” He continued, “Instead of selling your catch to a middleman, you would sell directly to the consumers, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing, and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village, of course, and move to Mexico City, then to Los Angeles, and eventually to New York City, where you could run your expanded enterprise with proper management. The Mexican fisherman asked, “But, señor, how long will all this take?” To which the American replied, “15-20 years, 25 tops.” “But what then, señor?” The American laughed and said, “That’s the best part. When the time is right, you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich. You would make millions.” “Millions señor? Then what?" “Then you would retire and move to a small coastal fishing village, where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take a siesta with your wife, and stroll in to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos.

They heard Hugo ask if the plan for the hors d'oeuvres was still in operation, and they heard Colette ask about plucking the feathers off crows, and they heard Kevin complain that he didn't know whether to hold the birdpaper in his right hand or his left hand, and they heard Mr. Lesko insult Mrs. Morrow, and the bearded man sing a song to the woman with the crow-shaped hat, and they heard a man call for Bruce and a woman call for her mother and dozens of people whisper to and shout at, argue with and agree upon, angrily accuse and meekly defend, furiously compliment and kindly insult dozens of other people, both inside and outside the Hotel Denouement, whose names the Baudelaires recognized, forgot, and had never heard before. Each story had its story, and each story's story was unfathomable in the Baudelaire orphans' short journey, and many of the stories' stories are unfathomable to me, even after all these lonely years and all this lonely research. Perhaps some of these stories are clearer to you, because you have spied upon the people involved. Perhaps Mrs. Bass has changed her name and lives near you, or perhaps Mr. Remora's name is the same, and he lives far away. Perhaps Nero now works as a grocery store clerk, or Geraldine Julienne now teaches arts and crafts. Perhaps Charles and Sir are no longer partners, and you have had the occasion to study one of them as he sat across from you on a bus, or perhaps Hugo, Colette, and Kevin are still comrades, and you have followed these unfathomable people after noticing that one of them used both hands equally. Perhaps Mr. Lesko is now your neighbor, or Mrs. Morrow is now your sister, or your mother, or your aunt or wife or even your husband. Perhaps the noise you hear outside your door is a bearded man trying to climb into your window, or perhaps it is a woman in a crow-shaped hat hailing a taxi. Perhaps you have spotted the managers of the Hotel Denouement, or the judges of the High Court, or the waiters of Cafe Salmonella or the Anxious Clown, or perhaps you have met an expert on injustice or become one yourself. Perhaps the people in your unfathomable life, and their unfathomable stories, are clear to you as you make your way in the world, but when the elevator stopped for the last time, and the doors slid open to reveal the tilted roof of the Hotel Denouement, the Baudelaires felt as if they were balancing very delicately on a mysterious and perplexing heap of unfathomable mysteries.

Men love compliments, affection, and help. If you’re a stay-at-home mom and he works, consider having the house clean for him when he gets home. Remember that a clean environment promotes a peaceful atmosphere and if you sow peace in him, you’ll reap it from him. If you want to compliment him, don’t merely say something nice yet trite. Instead, think for a while to identify something you really admire about him. Then tell him from your heart what you admire about him and why. If you feel as if you can’t admire him, try to remember those reasons you did when you were first married. Whether you are a husband or a wife, reflect on the good, not the negative, that you see in your spouse. Does God reflect on the negative He sees in you? Remember that He calls you to forgive seventy times seven. So forgive, and overlook the weaknesses in your spouse even as God overlooks them in you. And Jesus warned us,

One of the students, whom I did not know well, approached me afterwards and complimented me on the exposé. He knew little about the Greek-Orthodox branch of Christianity and he thought that life in Romania gave me that background. He then invited me to his house, he and his wife, a young actress, lived close to Columbia. I enjoyed my lunch with them, on that spring day in April, 1948. The two of them invited me to visit them during the Easter vacation, at a prestigious university in New Hampshire, where his father was a professor.

What question do you get that really bugs you? Jep: “How in the world did you get your wife?” I point to my beard and say, “There’s dimples under here.” I guess people are trying to be nice, and I take it as a compliment when they tell me my wife is beautiful. Jess: Another question we get is, “Your show is fake, right?” That’s easy. We are the same on television as we are in person. What you see is who we are and how we live our lives. Plus, look at Uncle Si. No one could make him up or write dialogue for him. That is exactly how he talks. But Si is the sweetest, kindest man I know, and I adore him. He loves to sit and tell stories to the kids. I’ve also had people tell me I’m prettier in person, or they remark on how little I am. That makes me think, Am I ugly on TV? Do I look bigger on TV? I’ve also had comments about how I married for money. Trust me. We wouldn’t have had a trailer honeymoon if we’d had money when we got married.

Congratulations on your exciting opportunity!” declared the blob in a voice that sounded like a mix between sandpaper and nails on a chalkboard. It appeared to be wholly ignorant of the way its voice sounded, its words infused with a joyful sincerity Paresh found unsettling. “Excuse me?” asked Paresh, who had never encountered an alien before but decided that if the first thing they did when they invaded was congratulate you, they couldn’t be all that bad. “We have identified you as a potential host body. We find your body very desirable.” No one was allowed to find his body desirable but his wife, dammit. “Host body?” “Our analysts have determined that your body’s complexion, specific gravity, and the length of its extremities are optimal for our experience.” Sita had never commented on his specific gravity, but Paresh took it as a compliment. She had commented on the length of his extremity.

No sugarcoating would be necessary,” Matthew interrupted calmly. “Daisy…that is, Miss Bowman, is entirely—” Beautiful. Desirable. Bewitching. “—acceptable. Marrying a woman like Miss Bowman would be a reward in itself.” “Good,” Bowman grunted, clearly unconvinced. “Very gentlemanly of you to say so. Still, I will offer you fair recompense in the form of a generous dowry, more shares in the company and so forth. You will be quite satisfied, I assure you. Now as to the wedding arrangements—” “I didn’t say yes,” Matthew interrupted. Bowman stopped pacing and sent him a questioning stare. “To start with,” Matthew continued carefully, “it is possible Miss Bowman will find a suitor within the next two months.” “She will find no suitors of your caliber,” Bowman said smugly. Matthew replied gravely despite his amusement. “Thank you. But I don’t believe Miss Bowman shares your high opinion.” The older man made a dismissive gesture. “Bah. Women’s minds are as changeable as English weather. You can persuade her to like you. Give her a posy of flowers, throw a few compliments in her direction…better yet, quote something from one of those blasted poetry books she reads. Seducing a woman is easily accomplished, Swift. All you have to do is—” “Mr. Bowman,” Matthew interrupted with a sudden touch of alarm. God in heaven, all he needed was an explanation of courtship techniques from his employer. “I believe I could manage that without any advice. That’s not the issue.” “Then what…ah.” Bowman gave him a man-of-the-world smile. “I understand.” “You understand what?” Matthew asked apprehensively. “Obviously you fear my reaction if you should decide later on that my daughter is not adequate to your needs. But as long as you behave with discretion, I won’t say a word.” Matthew sighed and rubbed his eyes, suddenly feeling weary. This was a bit much to face so soon after his ship had landed in Bristol. “You’re saying you’ll look the other way if I stray from my wife,” he said rather than asked. “We men face temptations. Sometimes we stray. It is the way of the world.” “It’s not my way,” Matthew said flatly. “I stand by my word, both in business and in my personal life. If or when I promise to be faithful to a woman, I would be. No matter what.” Bowman’s heavy mustache twitched with amusement. “You’re still young enough to afford scruples.” “The old can’t afford them?” Matthew asked with a touch of affectionate mockery. “Some scruples have a way of becoming overpriced. You’ll discover that someday.” “God, I hope not.” Matthew sank into a chair and buried his head in his hands, his fingers tunneling through the heavy locks of his hair.

add the following: de-cluttering your house, buying your wife flowers while grocery shopping, complimenting a stranger, tracking your daily expenses or eating that darn piece of fruit?

The Sovereign has also implied that the instability in their marriage is an over-riding consideration in any musings she may have about abdication. Naturally this does not please Prince Charles who refused to speak to his mother for several days following her 1991 Christmas broadcast when she spoke of her intention to serve the nation and the Commonwealth for “some years to come”. For a man who holds his mother in total awe that silence was a measure of his anger. Once again he blamed the Princess of Wales. As he stalked along the corridors at Sandringham the Prince complained to anyone who would listen about the state of his marriage. Diana pointed out to him that he had already abdicated his regal responsibilities by allowing his brothers, Princes Andrew and Edward, to take over as counsellors of state, the official “stand ins” for the Sovereign when she is abroad on official business. If the Prince showed such indifference to these nominal constitutional duties, she asked sweetly, why should his mother give him the job. Certainly the last twelve months have seen the Queen and daughter-in-law develop a more relaxed and cordial relationship. At a garden party last summer the Princess felt confident enough to essay a little joke about the Queen’s black hat. She complimented her on the choice, remarking how it would come in useful for funerals. In a more serious vein they have had confidential discussions about her eldest son’s state of mind. At times the Queen finds the direction of his life unfocused and his behaviour odd and erratic. It has no escaped her notice that he is as unhappy with his lot as his wife.

I lied to you,” she said with a belligerent edge. He hid a smile. “I lied to you.” “I’m domineering and used to getting my own way.” “I like a woman who knows her own mind.” “I’m stubborn and opinionated.” “If I’m contemplating a lifetime with a lassie, I want her to show a bit of spirit.” “I have no society polish. A countess should be sophisticated, whereas I’ve never had a season. I’ve never even been to London.” “Aye, you’ll settle into the Highlands well, then. My home is a long journey from the bright lights of Edinburgh—a wee wife who pines for city life would never be happy with me.” She narrowed her eyes. “I kissed you like there’s no tomorrow.” “Are you trying to convince me for or against?” Her lips twisted in self-denigration. “I’m clearly a woman of wayward morals.” He couldn’t contain his laughter. “Is that right?” Her cheeks were fiery now. “You don’t want to marry a flirt.” “If I’m the only laddie my wife flirts with, I have no objection.” Her expression was a mixture of defiance and shame. “How do you know I don’t kiss every gentleman the way I…I kissed you?” He smiled gently. “Have you ever kissed anyone else like that?” “No.” Her long eyelashes, darker honey than her hair, flickered down. “But that doesn’t mean I won’t.” She was bewitching. He’d admitted to being besotted. Every moment in her company only deepened his enchantment. “I’ll take my chances.” “Surely you want a wife you can trust.” “Apart from your…waywardness and propensity for impersonating fairytale characters, I believe you’re an admirable creature.” “Hardly.” The compliment didn’t please her. “I let you take liberties.” “As your future husband, I’d like to place it on record that I intend to take liberties at every opportunity.” He paused. “Scotland’s a gey chilly place, especially in the winter. I don’t want a cold marriage bed.” She stiffened. “There remains one insurmountable obstacle.” “What’s that?” Her delicate jaw set in an obstinate line. “I don’t want to marry you.” With

The first man, away back in the later Pliocene, who knocked out a hairy elephant with his club, or saw his pretty reflection, or received a compliment, became suddenly conceited (it was a mutation) and there was immediately evolved the first reflective thought in the world. It was: 'I am the center of the Universe!' Where upon he took himself a wife, transmitted this bigotry of his germ plasm, and through hundreds of thousands of years the same thought without much alternation has been our heritage.

THIRTY-DAY IMPROVEMENT GUIDE Between now and _____ I will A. Break these habits: (suggestions) 1. Putting off things. 2. Negative language. 3. Watching TV more than 60 minutes per day. 4. Gossip. B. Acquire these habits: (suggestions) 1. A rigid morning examination of my appearance. 2. Plan each day’s work the night before. 3. Compliment people at every possible opportunity. C. Increase my value to my employer in these ways: (suggestions) 1. Do a better job of developing my subordinates. 2. Learn more about my company, what it does, and the customers it serves. 3. Make three specific suggestions to help my company become more efficient. D. Increase my value to my home in these ways: (suggestions) 1. Show more appreciation for the little things my wife does that I’ve been taking for granted. 2. Once each week, do something special with my whole family. 3. Give one hour each day of my undivided attention to my family. E. Sharpen my mind in these ways: (suggestions) 1. Invest two hours each week in reading professional magazines in my field. 2. Read one self-help book. 3. Make four new friends. 4. Spend 30 minutes daily in quiet, undisturbed thinking.

Nina looked at her. 'Everyone describes him so differently.' She paused, unsure. 'He was one guy, but there's no consensus about what he was like. For Peter's mom, he was a blowhard who drank too much; for Millie, he was the kindest man in the world who made endless time for her.' Eliza shrugged. 'People change. There's forty years between the William that Peter's mom knew and the William that Millie knew. Parents get stuck in the amber of childhood, right? Whenever my parents visit, I feel myself becoming a cranky fourteen-year-old. I saw William through the lens of being his wife; I look at Millie only as her mother... You see what I mean?' 'Sure. So I'll never see my dad properly, only through the filter of other people's opinions.' 'Or maybe it'll average out and you'll be the only one who sees the real him.' Nina laughed. 'Maybe there is no real thing for anyone. Maybe all of us change depending on where we are and who we're with.' 'And that's why you like to be alone.' Eliza looked at her and smiled. 'How do you mean?' 'Because you prefer who you are when you're alone.' Nina shrugged. 'It takes a lot of energy to be with other people. It's easier to be myself when there's no one else there.' 'Some people take energy; some people give energy... Occasionally, you get lucky and find someone whose energy balances your own and brings you into neutral.' She paused. 'My God, I've been in Malibu too long. I said that completely without irony.' Nina laughed. 'It was really convincing. I think I even heard a tiny temple bell ringing somewhere...' Eliza made a face at herself. 'Your dad used to say being with me was as good as being alone.' Eliza laughed. 'I think he meant it as a compliment.' The two women looked at each other. 'I think we're overthinking this,' said Eliza. 'More wine?

Glennon. She just didn’t give a fuck.' His wife understood this to be the ultimate compliment for him to bestow upon a woman. She also understood that it was no compliment. Any woman who doesn’t give a fuck is simply abandoning her soul to adhere to the rules. No woman on earth doesn’t give a fuck—no woman is that cool—she’s just hidden her fire. Likely, it’s burning her up.

Stephen sat silently for a while, reassured about his daughter but unsure whether he’d just been insulted or complimented by his wife. Sometimes it was wisest to say nothing.

And yet, there can be no bigger teacher, than life itself. Between 1998 and 2003, when the Scorpio was being developed, Pawan’s wife Mamta was diagnosed with breast cancer. At such a time, it would be natural to demand more time, more attention, from her husband. But Mamta was made of tougher stuff. She knew how crucial the Scorpio project was… A chance for Pawan to show the stuff he was made of. “Focus on your work, I can take care of myself,” she said to her husband. Through painful surgery, chemotherapy and radiation, Mamta remained positive. Neither Pawan nor the kids saw her moaning and groaning, in pain or distress. I don’t believe in or use too many buzzwords, and when I make any speech, what I hear as a compliment is that your speech was beautifully simple. “It is not that I was in denial but sharing my pain would make my family miserable… what would be the point? It was my battle, that I had to fight.

Instead of flattering and flirting, show professionalism. Ask yourself: Would I share this compliment in front of my wife? Encourage that coworker regarding her work habits, her timeliness, or her character and integrity, as appropriate. And always do it in the company of other people, never alone. Otherwise, you are playing with fire. Proverbs 6:27 says, “Can a man scoop a flame into his lap and not have his clothes catch on fire?

She blurted, “Are you planning to offer for Penelope Grayson’s hand?” The words were out of her mouth before she knew what she was saying. She dipped her chin, a blush spreading across her cheeks. She had no idea why she had asked such an inappropriate question. More than that, she had a sudden intense dread of his answer. If she had been looking at his face, she would have seen the look of shock that passed over it and known his answer before he spoke it. “No. Alex. No, I have never intended to propose to Penelope. She’s very beautiful, but…” He paused. “She’s not you.” Her eyes flew to meet his as she realized just how monumental this moment—that statement—was. “I confess, earlier in the season, I had plans to court Penelope. She seemed the ideal…candidate.” “Charming sentiment,” Alex said, adding, “It’s incredible that men think of finding a wife in the same vein as electing a politician.” Ignoring her pontification, he continued, “However…that’s all changed now. I can’t imagine being with Penelope. Because I seem only to be able to imagine being with you.” Attempting to ignore the lurch in her stomach that occurred in response to those words, she asked, “What does that mean?” “It means that you’ve become the standard to which I hold all the other women in my life. Are they as humorous as you, as easy to speak with, as charming, as witty, as…” He stopped. “Go on,” she prodded. He smiled at her shameless ploy for more compliments. “As wonderful as you. As clever. As beautiful.” She blushed shyly. “I’m not beautiful.” “Yes, love, you are.” He stepped closer to her, pulling her close and tracing the curve of her cheek. “So beautiful that I rather wonder how I could have missed it before this season.” And, with that, he kissed her.

Why the devil do you dress like that,” he rasped, “when you’re easily the most beautiful woman in the territory?” Emma’s cheeks pulsed. She started to protest, then stopped herself in confusion. Had Steven’s question been a compliment or an insult? “What’s wrong with this dress?” she asked evenly, when she’d had a few moments to compose herself. “It’s plain enough for a missionary’s wife,” Steven replied. Although the words bit, Emma saw kindness in his eyes, and genuine curiosity. She wanted in the worst way for Steven to find her attractive, and the knowledge surprised and shamed her. After all, she was considering marrying Fulton, and she rarely gave his opinions a second thought. Uncharacteristic tears swelled along her lashes. “Hell and damnation,” Steven muttered. “I didn’t mean to make you cry.” Emma drew her lace-trimmed handkerchief from under her cuff and dried her eyes in the most dignified manner she could manage. “I do wish you wouldn’t swear.” He sighed heavily. “I’m sorry, Emma. It’s just that a woman like you—well, you should be dressed in silks and satins, with a lace ruffle here and there. And maybe some bosom showing.” He narrowed his gaze for a moment, as if envisioning the change. “Yes. You have a very nice chest.” Once again Emma’s cheeks burned. Shocked though she was, his words had set a fire racing through her insides, and she started out of her chair. “If you’re going to be vulgar…” He reached out and caught hold of her hand when she would have risen. It was as though she’d dragged her feet across a thick carpet, then touched the door knob. She flinched at the sweet shock. “Please,” he said in a low, husky voice. “Don’t go.” Emma sank back into the chair. His strong fingers relaxed around hers reluctantly, it seemed to her, then released their grasp entirely. “It must be terrible, being so grimy dirty.” His teeth flashed white against a suntanned face. “Kind of you to put it that way, Miss Emma.” She bit her lower lip for a moment. “I meant—well, you must be very uncomfortable. It’s a pity you couldn’t go downstairs and use Chloe’s bathtub.” He arched his golden brown eyebrows. “I could, Miss Emma,” he said quietly, “if you’d help me.” Emma’s heart set instantly to pounding, and she drew back in her chair. “Help you?” “Get down the stairs,” he said. “I didn’t mean you should help me bathe.” She smiled, much relieved, though her heart rate had hardly slowed and she still felt a little dizzy. “Oh.

If the weather does remain fair, I would like to take Winnie with me into town soon.” Emmie nodded but pulled her feet up under her, making herself look smaller and even a little defensive. “Miss Farnum, nobody will treat her badly in my company.” “They would not dare,” she agreed, but her tone was off. A little flippant or bitter. “But?” He sipped his drink and tried not to focus on the way candlelight glinted off her hair, which was swept back into a soft, disheveled bun at her nape. “Winnie will parade around town with you,” she said, an edge to her voice, “and have a grand time as long as you are at her side. Emboldened by your escort and her happy experiences, she will wander there again on her own, and sooner or later, somebody will treat her like the pariah she is.” “Go on.” He was a bastard, but he hadn’t considered this. “I wonder, when I watch you and Lord Amery cosseting and fussing over Winnie, if I don’t do her a disservice by allowing such attentions. She is desperate for your regard and affection, your time, and yet she cannot grow to depend on it. Still, her instincts are right: She is deserving of just such care, and had her father been a decent man, she would have had at least some of that from him.” “But?” The earl watched the emotions play across the lady’s face and saw there was much she wasn’t saying. “But she cannot grow to rely on such from others,” Emmie said, setting her drink down with a definite clink. “Sooner or later, you will return to London or take a wife, and Winnie will be sent off, to school, to a poor relation, to somewhere. Her future is not that of the legitimate daughter of an earl, and she must learn to rely on herself.” “As you have?” He watched as she rose and started pacing the room. She crossed her arms and hunched her shoulders, her expression troubled. “Of course as I have.” She nodded then startled as thunder rumbled even closer. “Winnie deserves the hugs and cuddles and compliments and guidance you give her, but what she deserves and what life will hand her are two different things. She needs to know not every friendly gentleman who offers her a buss on the cheek can be trusted to respect her.” The

Umma is the opposite of every female that I saw or knew so far in America. She doesn’t change her mind every few seconds, minutes, or months. She is steady. Her love and loyalty are forever. Her friendship is something you can count on. She is an amazing talent, while being so modest and down to earth. She is a young wife and mother, and an extremely attractive woman without conceit. She doesn’t need or want everyone to look at her or to give her compliments all day to feel all right about herself. She is an incredible cook, who fills every one of her dishes and pots at every meal, with love. After eating, you could feel the love growing in your belly and strengthening your body. She is a hard worker but always pleasant. She is so smart, yet so unselfish. Even when she criticizes she is accurate but soft and always sweet. The best thing about her is her certainty. Her belief in and dedication to Allah is unshakable. You could see it in her every action every day, without her preaching a word of it. Her family is her life. Umma’s love for my father is like radiation, something active and extreme that’s in each speck of the atmosphere every day. Since leaving the North Sudan, where Umma was born, raised, married, and gave birth, I do not mention her husband, my father, because mentioning missing him would set off a tidal wave of her emotions and desires and a typhoon of her tears that could only drown everyone and everything in its path. We live life like he is right here beside us in the United States.

Verbally cherishing your wife with compliments, for example, is a good thing for her, good for Sylvie to see, and a good thing for Sylvie to expect from her guy or gal when she grows up.

Fables and Fortune Hunters An American businessman took a vacation to a small coastal Mexican village on doctor’s orders. Unable to sleep after an urgent phone call from the office the first morning, he walked out to the pier to clear his head. A small boat with just one fisherman had docked, and inside the boat were several large yellowfin tuna. The American complimented the Mexican on the quality of his fish. “How long did it take you to catch them?” the American asked. “Only a little while,” the Mexican replied in surprisingly good English. “Why don’t you stay out longer and catch more fish?” the American then asked. “I have enough to support my family and give a few to friends,” the Mexican said as he unloaded them into a basket. “But … What do you do with the rest of your time?” The Mexican looked up and smiled. “I sleep late, fish a little, play with my children, take a siesta with my wife, Julia, and stroll into the village each evening, where I sip wine and play guitar with my amigos. I have a full and busy life, señor.” The American laughed and stood tall. “Sir, I’m a Harvard M.B.A. and can help you. You should spend more time fishing, and with the proceeds, buy a bigger boat. In no time, you could buy several boats with the increased haul. Eventually, you would have a fleet of fishing boats.” He continued, “Instead of selling your catch to a middleman, you would sell directly to the consumers, eventually opening your own cannery. You would control the product, processing, and distribution. You would need to leave this small coastal fishing village, of course, and move to Mexico City, then to Los Angeles, and eventually New York City, where you could run your expanding enterprise with proper management.” The Mexican fisherman asked, “But, señor, how long will all this take?” To which the American replied, “15–20 years. 25 tops.” “But what then, señor?” The American laughed and said, “That’s the best part. When the time is right, you would announce an IPO and sell your company stock to the public and become very rich. You would make millions.” “Millions, señor? Then what?” “Then you would retire and move to a small coastal fishing village, where you would sleep late, fish a little, play with your kids, take a siesta with your wife, and stroll to the village in the evenings where you could sip wine and play your guitar with your amigos …

here I was: shouting compliments about Joe through the mayonnaise-colored living room of my childhood and hoping I would start to believe them.

Do I?’ They looked at each other. ‘I think so. I believe you could take me as few other men could take me – matching my arrogance with your own.’ There was a silence between them. ‘But . . .’ she said. ‘But?’ ‘But it could not be. Even if you were willing. I have the instinct of a wanton but the emotions of a wife. I have too much love for Dwight. And too much love for Demelza. And perhaps even too much love for you.’ He raised his eyes and smiled at her. ‘That’s the nicest compliment of all.’ The colour in her face came and went. ‘I am not here to pay you compliments, Ross, but only – I’m only trying to say some things that I think you should hear. If we got rid of Ellen – as we easily could – and spent all night making love, and if then the first time I went to Nampara I told Demelza about it, do you think she would be hurt?

It can come across in many ways; for instance, stealing compliments. Have you ever felt like your wife nags you to notice her? Or it could take the form of her looking for compliments from someone other than you, like an ex-boyfriend or an ex-husband. If your wife is receiving abundant compliments from you, she won’t be tempted to steal affection or affirmation from other men. Or from your kids. Or from television. And she won’t have to manufacture significance from you by putting you down in order to build herself up. In her darker moments, she won’t have to steal your happiness by constantly bringing up the past and using it against you.

You are a good man, Ioan,” she said to him. “By all appearances, a fine and capable leader as well. A queen could do well with a man such as you by her side.” Christian’s ears perked up at her words. Even though his body was throbbing from pain, he didn’t miss the look of heat that came into Ioan’s eyes, or the speculative gleam in Adara’s. It made his vision dim. Ioan gave her a hot, seductive smile. “I appreciate your compliment, Majesty. While we await your quarters being prepared, would you like to have something to eat?” His wife all but preened under the Welshman’s look. “Aye, my lord. We are truly famished and your kindness would be most appreciated.” Christian’s sight dimmed even more as he watched her coy smile. She even batted her eyelashes. This was more than he could stand. “Abbot?” Phantom asked. “Are you all right?” “I am fine,” he said from between clenched teeth. Phantom scoffed. “Whatever you say.” “He looks ill to me,” Lutian said. “Rather green and red. Can’t tell if he’s angry or vomitous.” Christian slanted a look at the fool that had him retreating. Adara felt a modicum of satisfaction at her husband’s ill humor until she saw the reddish stain that was barely discernible through the black cloth of his robe. “You’re bleeding,” she said sternly, moving to stand beside him. Christian tried to brush her off, but she would have none of it. Her anger flared. “Cease with your stubbornness, Christian. Your wounds need to be tended.” He glared at her. She glared back. Ioan whistled low. “Phantom, who is the queen, that Christian would tolerate her thusly?” Phantom folded his arms over his chest as he watched them. “His wife.” “Only until our marriage is annulled,” Christian snapped. Adara put her hands on her hips as she continued to glower at him. “Well, if you stand there until you bleed to death, we won’t need an annulment, now, will we?” Phantom sucked his breath between his teeth. “The queen has gotten a bit snippy, eh?” Christian looked to Ioan. “Have you a healer in your company?” Ioan snorted at that as he looked back and forth from Christian to Adara. “Heed my words well, Abbot, no man who possesses his full sense will ever come between a woman and her husband.” -Adara, Ioan, Phantom, Christian, & Lutian

He wears the cleanest shirts in town…his ‘Missus’ swears by TIDE!” I wonder if the rest of the family gets clean shirts as well. “Christmas morning, she’ll be happier with a Hoover [vacuum].” Quite personal, right? “Don’t worry, darling, you didn’t burn the Schlitz beer!” Quite a backhanded compliment, don’t you think? “So the harder a wife works, the cuter she looks.” That certainly would make a woman want to eat Kellogg’s Pep cereal, wouldn’t it? “Blow in her face, and she’ll follow you anywhere,” advises Tipalet. But what if she doesn’t like cigar smoke? Del Monte ketchup displayed its latest bottle in the hands of a surprised-looking woman with the slogan, “You mean a woman can open it?

Dear friends and enemies, Season’s greetings! It’s me, Serge! Don’t you just hate these form letters people stuff in Christmas cards? Nothing screams “you’re close to my heart” like a once-a-year Xerox. Plus, all the lame jazz that’s going on in their lives. “Had a great time in Memphis.” “Bobby lost his retainer down a storm drain.” “I think the neighbors are dealing drugs.” But this letter is different. You are special to me. I’m just forced to use a copy machine and gloves because of advancements in forensics. I love those TV shows! Has a whole year already flown by? Much to report! Let’s get to it! Number one: I ended a war. You guessed correct, the War on Christmas! When I first heard about it, I said to Coleman, “That’s just not right! We must enlist!” I rushed to the front lines, running downtown yelling “Merry Christmas” at everyone I saw. And they’re all saying “Merry Christmas” back. Hmmm. That’s odd: Nobody’s stopping us from saying “Merry Christmas.” Then I did some research, and it turns out the real war is against people saying “Happy holidays.” The nerve: trying to be inclusive. So, everyone … Merry Christmas! Happy Hannukah! Good times! Soul Train! Purple mountain majesties! The Pompatus of Love! There. War over. And just before it became a quagmire. Next: Decline of Florida Roundup. —They tore down the Big Bamboo Lounge near Orlando. Where was everybody on that one? —Remember the old “Big Daddy’s” lounges around Florida with the logo of that bearded guy? They’re now Flannery’s or something. —They closed 20,000 Leagues. And opened Buzz Lightyear. I offered to bring my own submarine. Okay, actually threatened, but they only wanted to discuss it in the security office. I’ve been doing a lot of running lately at theme parks. —Here’s a warm-and-fuzzy. Anyone who grew up down here knows this one, and everyone else won’t have any idea what I’m talking about: that schoolyard rumor of the girl bitten by a rattlesnake on the Steeplechase at Pirate’s World (now condos). I’ve started dropping it into all conversations with mixed results. —In John Mellencamp’s megahit “Pink Houses,” the guy compliments his wife’s beauty by saying her face could “stop a clock.” Doesn’t that mean she was butt ugly? Nothing to do with Florida. Just been bugging me. Good news alert! I’ve decided to become a children’s author! Instilling state pride in the youngest residents may be the only way to save the future. The book’s almost finished. I’ve only completed the first page, but the rest just flows after that. It’s called Shrimp Boat Surprise. Coleman asked what the title meant, and I said life is like sailing on one big, happy shrimp boat. He asked what the surprise was, and I said you grow up and learn that life bones you up the ass ten ways to Tuesday. He started reading and asked if a children’s book should have the word “motherfucker” eight times on the first page. I say, absolutely. They’re little kids, after all. If you want a lesson to stick, you have to hammer it home through repetition…In advance: Happy New Year! (Unlike 2008—ouch!)

Onstage, Hendrix was trying to get a young couple to engage in a dialogue sequence. The pair sat in armchairs facing each other, and Hendrix old the man, Michael, to pay his wife of three months, Tara, a compliment. 'What I appreciate most about you is that you're a good cook,' Michael said. 'So what I'm hearing you saying is that you appreciate that I'm a good cook,' Tara said, She seemed bored. To prompt Michael, Hendrix began, 'When I think about you as a good cook, I feel--' 'When I think about you as a good cook,' Michael said, 'I feel full, sleepy, and-- sexy.' 'Really?' asked Tara, a little annoyed. The woman sitting next to me groaned. Hendrix jumped in, 'When I think about you as a good cook, it reminds me of... try to find something from your childhood.' 'When I think about you as a good cook, I--' Michael stopped, then started over. 'When the house smells good, it reminds me of home and when my mom cooked and I feel loved.' Tara repeated him, her eyes now glassy with affection. Unprompted, she spoke the next line in the sequence: 'Is there anything more to that?' There wasn't. They hugged for sixty seconds as the rest of us watched. Hendrix told the crowd that the length of the average hug is three to nine seconds, but that a good hug, one that 'pushes the boundaries of relationship,' takes a whole minute.

Until recently - perhaps mid-2010s - accounts of being a foreigner in Japan were dominated by white, usually male, Anglo-centric perspectives. (Alright, not that much as changed.) They talk about 'doing the gaijin nod when you see another gaijin on the street.' (No one has ever done this to me.) They talk about playing the 'gaijin card' to get out of sticky situations, like, say, pretending not to speak any Japanese when they've forgotten to buy the correct ticket for the express train, so the hapless station attendant decides to let them go. There's a certain group of people (men) who drift through life here with the barest smattering of Japanese for decades relying on their Japanese spouses (wives) to keep the cogs of daily life spinning; this will never be viable for me. I will never experience the minor celebrity of being a white person in rural Japan (on balance, much healthier for one's ego), nor will I ever be someone people approach and fawn over because they want to make foreign friends (eventually, I realised this was also better), nor will local people ever compliment my looks (there was always a small part of me that wished I was noticeably beautiful). I've been perceived as a Japanese woman in unexpected ways. For example, at a musical gathering, an older white man once turned to me and asked: So whose wife are you? It took a great deal of self-restraint not to slap him.

One of my best students. It’s a strange compliment coming from a man who once turned a student into a wife.

Men, she knew, were not to be trusted. They had their courting face--all politeness, and bows, and compliments, and "May I have this dance?" And then they had the face they wore to stare down at their peas as they avoided the gaze of their wife across the dinner table. Worse still, she knew, she knew, that there were some very respectable, dignified, and exceedingly polite gentlemen who wore quite another face entirely behind closed doors. This was a cruel face of power wielded over another--a horse, a servant, even a wife.