Dana Ives Quotes

There are days when I think I don't believe anymore. When I think I've grown too old for miracles. And that's right when another seems to happen.

Similar to a butterfly, I've gone through a metamorphosis, been released from my dark cocoon, embraced my wings, and soared!

There's a cover for every pot, but I've never seen so many mismatched pots and covers in all my life. - Ellen Wasserfeldman, from Notes from Ellen Wasserfeldman by Alisa Dana Steinberg

I've learned enough this year to know that life may surprise you, but not usually in the ways you imagine.

I've taken you for a lot of things, but a fool was never one of them.

Um, Galen . . . This one is leaking."Styxx Galen laughed. Danae cried out in horror. " am so sorry, Highness! I--" "Bah," Galen scoffed, interrupting her. "Not the worst that boy's had on him, is it, young prince?" "Definitely not. But . . ." He passed Elpis back to Galen. "I fear I have no experience with this realm of domesticity. I've never even seen a pana, never mind tried to apply one to such a small person.

What I've discovered is that by keeping peace with those who hurt me, I had no peace. Rather, I was in turmoil. I suffered the aftermath of sexual violence. I am the one who has battled for my life.

Emma?” “Hmm?” “You took everything I told you really well.” “I’ve never understood the woe-is-me thing. I mean, the hottest guy in town just told me he wants me badly enough to bite me and make me like him, and now he wants to drag me home and ravish me. I’m going to, what, run screaming into the night? Oh, no! I’m a Puma now! My life is over! Sob!” Emma rolled her eyes. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, it’s freaking me out a bit, and it’s probably going to cost me a fortune in bikini waxing, but it’s not the end of my world.” Max nearly ran off the road. “You get a bikini wax?” “Wouldn’t you like to know?” “Hell yes.

It’s a sad day when you finally realize that not everyone you love has to love you back. It’s a lesson I keep on forgetting I’ve learned before.

Touch things. I’ve said it again and again. Look. Always, always look. Assuming what is in a box or at the back of a shelf does no good whatsoever. But assuming is the hardest thing for me to fight in my war against clutter. I see a mass of stuff and assume it’s full of emotions. I assume every last item in the pile, box, or closet will rip my heart right out of my chest. Every single item will represent a part of life I’m not ready to accept is over.

You’re awfully confident for someone the size of a flea bite.” Robin almost laughed at the insult Kael muttered. Michaela did laugh. “I know, but I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve if someone decides to get frisky.” She made some idiotic motions with her hands and feet that Robin assumed were supposed to be some form of martial arts but looked more like a squirrel having seizures. “Take that, bad guys!” Robin couldn’t stop himself from patting her on the head. “You’re cute.” She wagged her finger in the air. “And lethal. Don’t forget lethal.” She waved toward the elevator. “And here we are.

I look at it this way - I don't ever want to apologize for something i've said, but I want to be gracious enough to be ready to apologize if I ever need to. My answers to those questions have come gradually and after some trial and error. In my own life, personally and professionally, I've realized that being civil is an active decision that I get to choose to make several times a day. That's why I believe there's hope - civility is not extinct. It is a choice.

I've heard some people claim that their abuser/rapist made them stronger. We must realize that abusers and predators don't get credit for our strength, nor our healing. They did not make us stronger. Rather, the abusers and predators broke us. They shattered us. They turned our lives into a living hell. They violated us! Do you know who made you stronger? Do you know who made you brave? YOU did! You are a courageous survivor. You did the hard work. You overcame great obstacles. You are the one healing you. You did it!

I've just become a character, we all have, in a story we don't get to write ourselves.

I’ve consciously decided to view my home as a place to live instead of a place to store all my great ideas and their attached stuff.

If I've learned one thing it's that we can't live in regret. God doesn't want that for our lives. ~Barrett Thorn

The only thing that matters is that I genuinely care about someone. I feel. That's all I've ever wanted. To make people feel.

I wish all the lesson I've learned could be transferred to you through osmosis. Unfortunately, you'll have to learn them on your own, since no one ever learns from anyone else's experience. That's why history always repeats itself.

As a reflect on my life, here is what I have learned, how I have grown, and how I've been transformed. Little Dana as a child may have been a people-pleaser. She may have been a vulnerable, naive girl who was controlled by her mean-spirited family members. But that little girl doesn’t exist. Not anymore.

My grandmother, perhaps the biggest Elvis fan on earth, loved going to Memphis and visiting Graceland with her sister, daughter, and nieces. She had photo albums full of their trips; they’d go and she would take photos of the exact same things trip after trip. It was her mecca. She had a photo of Elvis’s headstone in various seasons, and you could watch her daughter and nieces grow up in a series of photos in front the mansion’s driveway gate. It was routine. I’ve come to regard Dianne Feinstein’s “assault weapons” press conferences in the same way. Every few years or so, Senator Feinstein calls a press conference, the D.C. version of theater, and plays Vanna White with guns strapped to whiteboards. You can watch her age through the years at these pressers via Google Images. She begins with a youthful plump to her cheeks, standing tall, holding up a rifle to her chest and as the years go by she takes on the posture of a cocktail shrimp and simply motions to the boards. I give her credit for her dedication to never learning a single thing about the firearms she proposes to ban. It takes devotion to remain ignorant about a topic when you spend decades discussing it.

I was still dating Dana, who called me with an urgent message: she and her mother wanted to place bets on the Super Bowl. They wanted to bet the over-under. This was a first. “So how much do you want to bet?” I asked. “Okay, I’ve thought about it, and I want fifty dollars on the over, and so does Mom.” “Okay, I got it.” I hung up, having no intention of placing that bet because I would never bet fifty dollars on anything.

Once I've coated the parsnips in a honey-saffron glaze, Rachel helps me plate them alongside the brisket, stuffed cabbage, and sweet potato tzimmes, and we carry the plates out to the dining room together. "Let me explain a little about tonight's dinner," I say, addressing the softly lit faces around the table, which is covered with flickering votives and tapered candles. I launch into a description of the Jewish New Year and the symbolism behind all of the food: how the honey represents the hope of a sweet new year, how the challah is round instead of braided to represent the circle of life, how my grandmother used to make stuffed cabbage on every possible occasion because it reminded her of her Hungarian mother. I tell them lots things- about food, about my bubbe, about me- and to my surprise, they actually pay attention. They hang on my every word and ask intelligent questions and make thought-provoking points of their own. And I realize, hey, these are people who get it, people who love to eat and talk about food and culture as much as I do. Most of them aren't Jewish, but that doesn't matter. Every family has its traditions. Every family has a story to share. That's the point of this dinner- to swap stories and histories and see how food can bring people together.

Dana drew in a sharp breath. “Reach out your hand, sis. Jon’s right beside you.” Through the eerie green light of his enhanced night vision, Eli watched Dana slowly extend her hand, palm up. Jon shifted closer. “I’m here,” he whispered. He touched her hand with his fingertips at first, afraid a strong grip might send her into a panic. He wanted to hold her in his arms, doubted she’d let him. His emotions rioting all over the spectrum, Jon inched closer, moving slow until her fingers wrapped around his hand and tugged. He swallowed hard, longed to gather her into his arms and never let go. The clock in his head, however, denied the chance for more than a minute or two at most. Her hand still in his, Jon sat beside Dana, moved his hands to her forearms and let her make the next move. Jon’s heart almost leaped out of his chest when she flung herself into his arms. He pulled her close, his throat tight. “I’ve got you, baby. No one will take you from me, I promise.” He placed a soft kiss on her neck. “We’ll have to fight our way out of here. Can you run?

So,” John said, “I’ll meet you at your place at eight, and we can walk over together?” “What? For what?” “The vigil.” “I’m not going to that.” I tried to ignore his surprise, his dogged faith. “Of course you are.” “I don’t know this person.” John continued to stand there, arms hanging down. The knife skidded so much I lost my grip and had to pick it up again. “It could’ve been you,” he said finally. “No,” I said, chopping bluntly, breaking more than slicing the lettuce, “it couldn’t. I’ve worked my whole life so that it couldn’t be me.” White flash of a face. Where did they go, those boys, after they left us behind? “Last night,” John began. He paused, still looking wounded. “You were so happy.” I gathered the lettuce into a bin and held it against my stomach like a barrier. “If it had been me, it would’ve been your fault.” John reeled as though I’d struck him. “You’re a coward,” he said. “You’ve worked your whole life because you’re a coward.” “What do you know? What do you know about anything?” His family moved for him. The hormones. The surgery he was allowed to accept or reject. I waved my arm around the kitchen, at the stunned cooks watching us. “Nobody has to know about you! You can blend in whenever you want!” “You honestly believe that? You think my life’s been easy?” “Yes, I think it’s been fucking easy!” I screamed. “They don’t know! I didn’t know! I wish I still didn’t know!” I tried to shove past him. He touched my back. I remembered Humphrey Bogart’s hand, I remembered dancing, I remembered the gown twirling, I remembered the boy who complimented my ass, I remembered being told I was beautiful. I remembered the woman staring back at me in the Métro windows, her wink. I tried to pull away. John embraced me with my arms pinned to my sides, the lettuce bin between us, its raw, wet smell pushed toward our faces. In full view of the entire kitchen, he kissed me. A kiss that made me think of the woefully few people I had kissed in my life. A kiss that reminded me I had never been loved. A kiss that said I could not be John unless I risked being Dana.   My

Ja sam za vreme rata imao dnevnik koji sam vukao za sobom, kao neku kupusaru. Bio je strašno narastao. Ono što sam bio rešio da štampam na Univerzitetu u Beogradu iznosilo je, čini mi se, najmanje dvanaest štampanih tabaka. Pošto izdanje "Maske", latinicom, niko nije čitao, ja sam prvo preštampao "Masku" u časopisu "Dan", a posle sam počeo da tražim izdavača za "Dnevnik", koji sam bio nazvao "o Čarnojeviću". Našao sam izdavača za "Đerleza" Ive Andrića, ali "Dnevnik" je bio isuviše dug. Međutim, Vinaver je bio bolje sreće. On je, u jesen 1920, uspeo da zadobije kompanjone knjižare koja se nazivala "Sveslovenska", da izdadu jednu biblioteku modernih. U tu biblioteku trebalo je da uđe, prvo, moja knjiga o Čarnojeviću, Vinaverov "Gromobran", i Rastkov "Perun". Samo, posle dugih pregovora, knjižara je tražila da nijedno delo ne sme biti duže od 7 tabaka. Pored toga, ta knjižara, odnekuda, umešala je u to i profesora Univerziteta Vladu Ćorovića, inače mog prijatelja, kao nekog arbitra o moralu. On je tvrdio da u mom "Dnevniku" treba iseći dobar deo kao pornografiju. Sem toga je tvrdio da u toj knjizi ima isuviše pesimizma i da, posle jednog strašnog rata, nama treba sasvim drukčija literatura. Optimistička. Zdrava. Ne dekadentna. Protiv optužbe da sam "dekadent" ja sam se nekako još borio, ali protiv optužbe da sam pornograf bilo je nemoguće boriti se. Morao sam pristati na tu književnu cenzuru, koju je i jedan profesor Univerziteta podupirao. Međutim, nije se na tome svršilo. Oktobra 1920, ja sam se bio rešio da odem iz Beograda i čekao sam na to, sa stanom u jednoj sobi hotela "Pariz", u Beogradu. Sa mnom, u istoj sobi, stanovao je i slikar Petar Dobrović. Petar se, sa mnom zajedno, i u Pariz spremao. Tu mi je jednog dana saopšteno da u "Dnevnik o Čarnojeviću", ne može ući više od 5 tabaka. Tih dana ja sam imao mnogo briga, i neprilika, u svom privatnom životu, i bio sam razdražen toliko, da sam spaljivao stara pisma, pa i rukopise, koje u Zagrebu nisam štampao. Pa sam i ono što nije moglo da uđe u Dnevnik spalio. Dobrović se tome, grohotom, smejao. Veli, kad dođe u Pariz, i on će svoje stare slike tako. Petar je autor vinjete na naslovnim stranama biblioteke "Albatros" (po Bodleru). Njegov Albatros tu liči na patku. Možda pravog albatrosa nije bio još video, ili ga se nije sećao. Vinaver je vršio korekturu "Dnevnika", dok se štampao, pa je pomešao i raspored pojedinih poglavlja. Ja sam onda već bio u Parizu.

I’ve heard there are women who don’t like chocolate. But I’ve never met any.

I've gotten to the point where I'm not even a little apologetic about this business of not eating stuff that's bad for me. No one else has to live with my fat, work through my energy and mood swings, pay my doctor bills, fight my cravings, for face my family history of diabetes and cancer. If people insist, I can get a little testy.

I’ve known for at least 30-40 years: You cannot control anyone except yourself, so I went to war against myself, and tried to control, mangle and corral myself into being perfect, and into being able to tolerate and to accept anything, without needing or wanting anything, and without judging or discerning anything about anyone ever. And it STILL wasn’t enough.

Why me? Why would you want me?” she asked in bewildered frustration. “You–you make everything else so unimportant… I’ve never had much direction in my life, nothing I wanted to devote myself to until you held my hand and sat with me when I prayed I would die. Just wanting to hear your voice made me fight to get through the hell of each day. I loved you before I even saw your face.

I’ve come to know I’m losing my ventral anchor when my thoughts begin to get just a bit chaotic or disorganized. I start to feel stuck in one story and forget that there are other possibilities.

I’ve found that an easy way to bring some self-compassion is by adding one of my favorite words: yet. Yet holds a feeling of change and a sense of possibility.

I felt the first stirring of energy in my body that signals I am beginning to come back to life, and I turned toward it. Next I felt a bit of hope returning and that opened up my well-traveled path back to ventral and feeling alive again. I experimented with ways to honor and deepen this experience so I could stay anchored there. What I discovered was that feeling grateful for finding my way to safety and regulation was not enough. I needed a more active celebration to bring my system alive. It was the act of celebrating by saying out loud and with passion, “I’ve arrived! I’m here!” that helped me feel fully alive and anchored again. I’ve discovered that for my system, actively acknowledging by celebrating out loud is an important part of the experience. When I celebrate, I strengthen my ability to stay anchored in safety.

It’s the other way around, love. Nothing but good has been happening in my life since I’ve met you. I’m the lucky one, if anything.

Then I grab the butter and flour and start on the banana bread, a recipe I've made so many times I know it by heart. I've made numerous variations over the years---sometimes adding chocolate chips and crystallized ginger, at others drizzling a lime-coconut glaze over the top---but no matter what tweaks I make, licking the streaks of golden batter left in the bowl is pretty much mandatory. Once I've poured the batter into the pan and stuck it in the oven, I finish cleaning up the kitchen, dusting the bits of flour off the counter and washing the bowls and spatulas. The caramel-laced scent of banana bread wafts across the kitchen, filling the room with its sweet perfume. If I had to draw up a list of the best baking smells in the world, banana bread would, without question, rank in the top five. Possibly the top two. I'm not sure why its smell is so intoxicating, but one whiff and I'm ready to attack that baking pan like a cheetah on a fresh kill.

Where did you grow up?" He wiggled his eyebrows at her. "Who says I've grown up?

One Colorado teacher told me (hyperbolically) that the disproportionate focus on punishing awful teachers made her feel “I’ve chosen a profession that, in the public eye, is worse than prostitution.

upbeat one you’ve sent. You’re going to design clothes for the store, you’ve taken up riding, and you feel that life is currently very good. I’m so happy to hear of these positive developments! Most of all, I’m glad that you don’t feel guilty about being happy. A majority of people go through life carrying around guilt, feeling that they never quite measure up to the expectations of others or, more importantly, themselves. In your case, however, it sounds like you’re making sound decisions, ones that you’re not second guessing. If all of my parishioners were like you, I suspect I’d be out of a job and could take up golf or spend more time singing. Yes, I’ve found a new pub that allows me to sing my heart out, and the people there are so much fun to be with. When I take off my collar, I’m just one of the mates, a regular bloke as my friend Niles puts it when we have a pint. Unfortunately, I broke a finger the other day while working out at the gym. I jammed it while having a go at the hanging punching bag. I was taking out my frustrations since a parishioner recently told me that I sounded a little too happy and optimistic in my sermons. The woman, who is about sixty years old, said that Catholic priests should behave with more decorum. She also said that if I continued to preach as I do, she would report me to my bishop. She’s not really a bad soul but has a reputation as a troublemaker, so I’m not concerned. She is a

For a long time I didn’t have a defined Dana doctrine to describe this approach; it was more a ball of string. Then one morning at a hotel I came back to my room for bed after a speaking event, and the hotel staff had placed a Zen card with a Buddhist saying on my pillow (this will make Gutfeld roll his eyes). It read, “Say little. But when you speak, utter gentle words that touch the heart. Be truthful. Express kindness. Abstain from vanity. This is the way.” I had an “Aha!” moment when I read those words, because it captured how I was trying to live my life most productively and happily. I carried the card with me for months until I tacked it in my medicine cabinet, and I still see it every morning and night when I brush my teeth. The card is a little worn, but its message never gets old. In the morning it helps set my intention for the day, and at night it reminds me to forgive myself if I haven’t lived up to it (usually because I’ve let Bob Beckel push my buttons).

You sure look wonderful for someone who just had a baby.” “I’ve been very spoiled this week. Lots of help. When you need something, anything, this is the place to be.” “You’re feeling good?” “Fantastic. And she’s a good little girl.” He peered into the cradle. “Ah, then where is she?” “I’ll give you three guesses. I can’t get John to put her down.” He chuckled. “Is he holding her while he’s stirring a pot?” Joe asked. “Lord, I hope not. He said he was going to see if Christopher would lie down for a little nap and took Dana upstairs with him. The one who could use a nap is John. He must surely be exhausted.” Joe

Okay, more disclosure. I'm not a fugitive at the moment, but I might become one. I don't know if I'm going back for a trial. I can't go to prison and leave the twins alone. We'll leave before it comes to that. I don't want to get you in trouble." Hilda waved off the words. "I'm an old woman. They ain't gonna take me out of here in shackles. I've seen most of the local officers run around in diapers." Luanne was pretty sure that didn't mean immunity. She'd seen Chase naked, and that hadn't stopped him from arresting her. She didn't tell that to Aunt Hilda.

We all would like to think that there are clear boundaries that separate truth from lies and reality from fantasy. I used to think that but I don't anymore. I've found that those boundaries can be vague, obscure, and frequently changing.

If I've learned one thing, its that we can't live in regret. God doesn't want that for our lives.~ Barrett Thorn

I’ve never taken shots of stars before,” Violet says. “How do you do it?” “You start with as wide an f-stop as the lens will allow. I like a shutter speed of about twenty seconds. Manual mode—” “But wouldn’t they be blurry like that?” I smile. “The secret—turn the white balance off and set the optical resolution to the highest setting. Bada bing. Bada boom.” Click-click-click.

I'm not a fool, Jack Currer, no matter what you might think of me. Oh, I assure you, Miss Sinnett, I've taken you for a lot of things, but a fool was never one of them.

I’ve prayed for you since the day I met you.

I’m not coming up out of this pussy until I’ve fucked the stress up out of you,” he declared, kissing her cheek. “Keep nutting on this dick, Love.

Come here,” he says, tugging on my arm a bit. “I just want to hold you for a second. I’ve missed you.

You wrote that you wanted to be beautiful more than anything else in your life, and now I’ve done that for you," Paul snapped heatedly. "But I’ve wanted things too, Dana. You can be beautiful forever now... and I get to have a beautiful girl.

You wrote that you wanted to be beautiful more than anything else in your life, and now I’ve done that for you," Paul snapped heatedly. "But I’ve wanted things too, Dana. You can be beautiful forever now... and I get to have a beautiful girl.

I stick my hands in my pockets. I’ve forgotten how to act casual. Hands are the biggest obstacle. There’s nothing for them to do. It was the hardest part of picking up soccer. My reflex was to grab at the ball, protect my face, flail. Hands are too much a part of us. They give us away.

I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything the way I love her.

What he did to you wasn’t your fault, and it makes me hate him, not you. I’m pretty sure I’ve loved you since I first saw you dancing around in your yard to Britney Spears, your pigtails bouncing around in your face.” She laughs and wipes at her face. “I understand why you didn’t tell me, but I wish you had.

I don’t think I’ve ever loved anything the way I love her. And when she laughs—my God, when she laughs—my heart squeezes so tightly with love that I think it’s going to burst.

or not. Finding their house burned down would have put quite a kink in her plans.’ Clay looked up, impressed. ‘Could very well be.’ Dana lifted a shoulder. ‘If she knew Tammy from prison, that’s how she ended up at Hanover House. I’ve been racking my brain trying to figure out why. It would only make sense if there was absolutely no other place to hide. It was so much trouble, finding us, getting herself bruised. Even for Sue this seems like a lot of trouble just to pay back some social workers. But if her first plan was the Lewises’ and if she was afraid enough of Lorenzano . . . It might have been reason enough.

Don’t. You can’t go through life cautiously because you’re afraid to let people down. You’ll lose every time. People’s expectations of you are just that; theirs. You know I’ve always told you to live your life and experience all of it full circle.

Go back! I have a household to run. A medical practice. My treatise! I’ve been working on a treatise—a sort of manual of medicine and anatomy, and my papers will be all over my laboratory.

I’ve loved your pumpkin head ass since I was seventeen-years-old. So, the answer to your question is yes.

I've never worked here before. I'm just filling in for a friend--- which, by the way, I wouldn't have needed to do if you hadn't ruined everything and forced us to eat at Taco Bell." "I didn't force you to eat anywhere. And, anyway, after last night, I'm surprised you have the energy to fill in for anyone." "After last night, I'm surprised you think I'd have any interest in talking to you.

I've come to realize my market gig is like therapy for me. I've always loved being surrounded by food, but what I have come to cherish most at these markets is the sense of community. I know Frank the cheese guy and Barbara the mushroom lady. I swap muffins for raspberry jam with Josie at Jefferson Family Farms and ciabatta for apples with Maggie and Drew at Broad Tree Orchards. They've started to accept me as one of their own, at a time when I could use the company.

I unload the almond poppy seed muffins into a cloth-lined basket, and their sweet, vaguely nutty perfume fills the air. Unlike his sturdy raisin bran muffins, which are dense, dark, and chockablock with plump raisins, the almond poppy seed muffins are delicate and cakey, their crumb so light and tender they threaten to float out of the basket. When Rick isn't looking, I sneak a bite of one of the broken muffin tops, and before I know it I've eaten the entire thing, the flavor as rich as the texture is light, bursting with sweet almond essence.

She rolls her eyes. "Great. Another shady loser. Just what you need." "People make mistakes, Libby. No one is perfect." She cackles loudly. "This coming from Miss Perfectionist." "Hey---that isn't fair. I'm far from perfect." "Oh, I know. Trust me, I've seen your closet." "Yeah, well, maybe if Mom took me shopping all the time, my closet would look more like yours." Libby shrinks back from the screen defensively. "Mom takes me shopping because we both like to shop. You hate shopping. You always have." "Or maybe I never felt welcome." "What? That's crazy. You were always welcome. You never wanted to come." "That's not how I remember it." Libby pulls her hair into a low ponytail. "You always think I get special treatment from Mom and Dad." I let out a huff. "Uh, maybe because you do?" "That's totally untrue. Like with the wedding? Dad is refusing to pay for those chairs, and he isn't budging." "I'd hardly call that an act of cruelty. They're chairs. Their main function is to serve as a resting place for your ass." "No, their main function is to look beautiful." "Perhaps you are unfamiliar with what a chair does...

Cut the bullshit. Your little ingénue act---it's pathetic." Her words sock me like a punch in the gut. As much as I hate lying to her face, as much as I've been dying to tell her the truth, to have it out once and for all in a big, messy fight, I'm not sure I'm ready for this. The steely look in her eyes, the tightness of her jaw---she'll crush me. "Okay. Fine," I say, the courage building inside me. I can do this. I have to. "Let's cut the bullshit, then." My eyes drift toward her cabinets. "Maybe we should talk over a glass of wine. Unless that would be bad for the baby." I wait for her to take the bait, but she just stares at me. "There is a baby, right? You wouldn't make something like that up. Only a crazy person would do that. Only someone who was truly horrible, all the way to her core." She clenches her jaw. "You have no idea what you're talking about." "Yes, I do. And you know it." "Watch yourself." "Why? So you can steamroll me like you steamroll everyone? You don't even love him." "You have no idea how I feel. About anything." "I know your marriage is one of convenience. That you sleep in separate bedrooms. That you're having an affair with a guy named Jacques." "And I suppose that makes you an expert on my love life." "No, but it means I know you don't have Hugh's interests at heart." "What do you know about his interests? You think you can parachute in, five years into our marriage, and decide you understand how or why any of this works? You think a month or two of screwing means you know more about him than I do?" "I know he doesn't love you. I know he never did." "Well, la-di-da. Here's a newsflash: It takes more than love to make a relationship work." "But you can't really make a relationship work without it, can you?" "You can if you want to." "Only if both people do. And Hugh doesn't. Not anymore." "Is that so? Then tell me, why did he just spend more than a week with me, discussing our future?" "Because you created a phantom pregnancy without consulting him? Because he's trying to do damage control?" "Ah, I see. Is that what you keep telling yourself?" My face grows hot. "It kills you that he'd choose me over you." She throws her head back and cackles. "Is that what you think? That he'd choose you? Christ, you're even more naive than I thought." "He loves me," I say. "He said so." "You know what else he loves? His career. And how do you think you fit in with that? Let me answer for you: You don't." My hands are shaking. "What about you? You're having an affair with some French guy named Jacques. How do you think that will play with Hugh's constituency? Let me answer for you: Not well.

It seems apparent, Mrs. Seagram," Ashley said sweetly, "one of us will be searching for a new dress designer first thing in the morning." "Oh, I couldn't switch," Dana replied innocently. "I've been going to Jacques Pinneigh since I was a little girl." Ashley Fleming's penciled brows raised questioningly. "Jacques Pinneigh? I've never heard of him." "He's more widely known as JCPenney," Dana smiled sweetly. "His downtown store is having a clearance sale next month. Wouldn't it be fun if we shopped together? That way we wouldn't wind up as lookalikes.

Grace is hard. I think it’s harder to forgive wrongs than to apologize for them. It is so much easier and satisfying to cut someone down, to rhetorically destroy him. God knows I’ve done my share of that. It’s easy to obliterate someone in a debate but much harder to persuade him to share your perspective. You have to bore through ego to do that, and let’s face it, many people are too thick-headed.

woke to the crack of gunfire, screaming, and running feet. Before she could move, a gun was shoved into her back. She looked over her shoulder at the merciless dark eyes of the man holding the weapon. “Hello, Dana Sorenson. I’ve got a job for you.” She’d had a job, one that hadn’t turned out as she’d hoped. Had it only been a week ago she’d been standing on a dock in Turbo, Colombia, a disreputable port town rife with violence on the coast of Colombia and in the horseshoe of the Gulf of Urabá to fulfill her mom’s wish. It was just before dawn, the sun nothing but a glimmer on the horizon. She’d waited for a boat that would take her and her crew into the Darién Gap, a place that

The chicken's great," says Grace on the TV screen as she gnaws on a chicken bone, much to Will's disgust. I've always felt a kinship with Grace Adler's character. Maybe it's the red hair or the fact that she's Jewish, or the way in one episode she pretended to be an alcoholic so that she could get free Krispy Kreme doughnuts and hot cocoa at AA meetings. I can relate to all of those things. There's very little I wouldn't do for a free Krispy Kreme doughnut.

Growing up outside of Philadelphia, I never wanted for diner food, whether it was from Bob's Diner in Roxborough or the Trolley Car Diner in Mount Airy. The food wasn't anything special- eggs and toast, meat loaf and gravy, the omnipresent glass case of pies- but I always found the food comforting and satisfying, served as it was in those old-fashioned, prefabricated stainless steel trolley cars. Whenever we would visit my mom's parents in Canterbury, New Jersey, we'd stop at the Claremont Diner in East Windsor on the way home, and I'd order a fat, fluffy slice of coconut cream pie, which I'd nibble on the whole car ride back to Philly. I'm not sure why I've always found diner food so comforting. Maybe it's the abundance of grease or the utter lack of pretense. Diner food is basic, stick-to-your-ribs fare- carbs, eggs, and meat, all cooked up in plenty of hot fat- served up in an environment dripping with kitsch and nostalgia. Where else are a jug of syrup and a bottomless cup of coffee de rigueur? The point of diner cuisine isn't to astound or impress; it's to fill you up cheaply with basic, down-home food. My menu, however, should astound and impress, which is why I've decided to take up some of the diner foods I remember from my youth and put my own twist on them. So far, this is what I've come up with: Sloe gin fizz cocktails/chocolate egg creams Grilled cheese squares: grappa-soaked grapes and Taleggio/ Asian pears and smoked Gouda "Eggs, Bacon, and Toast": crostini topped with wilted spinach, pancetta, poached egg, and chive pesto Smoky meat loaf with slow-roasted onions and prune ketchup Whipped celery root puree Braised green beans with fire-roasted tomatoes Mini root beer floats Triple coconut cream pie

I stood and made circles around his hanging body, humming before bursting out into song. “I’ve got a lovely bunch of coconuts,

I used to be so angry and disgusted with how some things in my life turned out until one day, I grew tired of beating myself up about it all. So, I started journaling, speaking life into myself, and congratulating myself for the small things I’ve accomplished. I could no longer allow my negative thoughts to control me, so I reprogrammed my thinking, and it’s been up ever since.

I have a very strict set of rules that I abide by. I never stray from those rules…ever. I’m confident that’s the reason I’ve never been caught. I’ve never even been suspected. It all comes down to consistency. The day I break the rules will be the day I’m caught.

Desire pulses through my entire body like I’ve been struck by lightning. There’s something so erotic about what I think he’s done for me. The possessive tone of his voice causes gooseflesh to break out across my entire body.

I’ve never felt more wanted or protected in my life.