H Birthday Quotes

So I wish you first a Sense of theatre; only Those who love illusion And know it will go far: Otherwise we spend our Lives in a confusion Of what we say and do with Who we really are.

Birthdays, like weddings, anniversaries, baptisms, bar mitzvahs, wakes, are occasions to retie family ties, renew family feuds, restore family feeling, add to family lore, tribalize the psyche, generate guilt, exercise power, wave a foreign flag, talk in tongues, exchange lies, remember dates and the old days, to be fond of how it was, be angry at what it should be, and weep at why it isn't.

Yet Irina had once tucked away, she wasn't sure when or why, that happiness is almost definitionally a condition of which you are not aware at the time. To inhabit your own contentment is to be wholly present, with no orbiting satellite to take clinical readings of the state of the planet. Conventionally, you grow conscious of happiness at the very point that it begins to elude you. When not misused to talk yourself into something - when not a lie - the h-word is a classification applied in retrospect. It is a bracketing assessment, a label only decisively pasted onto an era once it is over.

I tip my head back, a deep laugh pouring from my throat. “My birthday is September 7th,” I tell her. “Doesn’t surprise me that you’re a Virgo. Next,” she prompts sassily,

HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU NANAY I am forever grateful to you, my dearest Nanay, You are the most precious being in my life. You have given us, your children so much, raised us, nurtured us and loved us unconditionally.. I can't imagine life without you. We love you Nanay.

Real people have trouble with long division if they don’t have a calculator, sometimes forget their spouse’s birthday, and have a hangover on New Year’s Day.

Why are you doing this to me?” “Because you are not forgettable.” His voice deepened and sounded gruff with frustration. “I can’t have you believing that. I haven’t been able to stop thinking about you since Will’s birthday party, and trust me, I’ve tried. I have a spider plant at home that is very much alive as proof.

The day she realized they were never meant to be, is the day she now calls her - Birthday.

It is a curious thing that at my age — fifty-five last birthday — I should find myself taking up a pen to try to write a history. I wonder what sort of a history it will be when I have finished it, if ever I come to the end of the trip! I have done a good many things in my life, which seems a long one to me, owing to my having begun work so young, perhaps. At an age when other boys are at school I was earning my living as a trader in the old Colony. I have been trading, hunting, fighting, or mining ever since. And yet it is only eight months ago that I made my pile. It is a big pile now that I have got it — I don't yet know how big — but I do not think I would go through the last fifteen or sixteen months again for it; no, not if I knew that I should come out safe at the end, pile and all. But then I am a timid man, and dislike violence; moreover, I am almost sick of adventure. I wonder why I am going to write this book: it is not in my line. I am not a literary man, though very devoted to the Old Testament and also to the "Ingoldsby Legends." Let me try to set down my reasons, just to see if I have any.

If you look at economics textbooks, you will learn that homo economicus can think like Albert Einstein, store as much memory as IBM’s Big Blue, and exercise the willpower of Mahatma Gandhi. Really. But the folks that we know are not like that. Real people have trouble with long division if they don’t have a calculator, sometimes forget their spouse’s birthday, and have a hangover on New Year’s Day. They are not homo economicus; they are homo sapiens.

I was Pittsburgh Young, Black, and Successful. Pittsburgh Young, Black, and Successful meant Friday evenings downstairs at Savoy in the Strip District, and perhaps a table upstairs if it was your birthday. It meant Alpha and Que boat rides, NEED Scholarship dinners, and Ronald H. Brown Leadership Awards galas. It meant a stint on the Urban League Young Professionals executive board. It meant brunches at the LeMont on Mother’s Day and the Grand Concourse when you wanted to stunt. It meant frequent pictures in the Post-Gazette and the City Paper

Child psychologists Betty Hart and Todd Risley learned the same thing when they recorded hundreds of hours of interactions between children and adults in forty-two families from across a wide socioeconomic spectrum and assessed the children’s development from nine months to three years. Children in well-to-do families, whose parents were typically college-educated professionals, heard an average of 2,153 words an hour spoken to them. In contrast, the children of low-income families heard an average only 616 words per hour. By their third birthday, the children in well-to-do families heard 30 million more words than economically deprived children and the amount of conversation parents had with their infants was directly proportional to IQ test scores assessed at three years of age and the performance in school of these children at ages nine and ten. (Hart and Risley 2003) The exciting part is that Hart and Risley’s research has spawned conscious parenting initiatives thanks to technology in the form of LENA (Language Environment Analysis) devices. LENA devices work like pedometers except they keep track of words rather than steps. The Thirty Million Words Initiative in Chicago is making LENA devices available to parents so they can track the numbers of words they expose their children to. After six weeks, researchers in Chicago found a 32 percent increase in the number of words the children heard. Says Dr. Dana Suskind, Director of the Thirty Million Words Initiative: “Every parent has the ability to grow their children’s brain and impact their future.” (Suskind 2013)

You don’t have to be here,” William offered with his trademark quiet solemnity. I shook my head but kept my eyes fixed on the closed doors at the end of the hall. “No. I wouldn’t miss it.” Would rather be home in my slippers watching Judge Judy, sure, but duty calls. That was my style of party these days. Throw in a slice of Battenberg and some Werther’s Originals and I could go wild on a sugar high. But no, today was William’s birthday, so I was going to try and keep my grumpy old man behavior to a minimum. Try being the operative word. No promises. My teammate, and the guest of honor for this particular party, tugged on the sleeve of my suit jacket and brought us to a stop. “Hey. Seriously. You’re eighteen months sober.” “Has it been eighteen months already?” I stroked the stubble on my chin and cracked a grin. “Time flies when you’re killing house plants.

2007 Wall Street Journal profile also described how, at one of Schwarzman’s five houses, an “11,000-square-foot home in Palm Beach, Fla., he complained to Jean-Pierre Zeugin, his executive chef and estate manager, that an employee wasn’t wearing the proper black shoes with his uniform…[H]e found the squeak of the rubber soles distracting.” His own mother told the paper that money is “what drives him. Money is the measuring stick.” Schwarzman’s most serious self-inflicted wound, though, was the $3 million sixtieth birthday party he threw for himself in February 2007, at which he paid pop stars Rod Stewart and Patti LaBelle to serenade him. The media sensation stirred by the billionaire bacchanal led directly to congressional calls to close the carried-interest loophole.

I think I would have preferred to hug a saguaro in my birthday suit than push forward, but I’m not usually a poor sport. Now, I wish I was a poor sport. It would have spared me some pain.

Mr Xi worries about what h e calls “historical nihilism”: a tendency that was once evident among China’s liberals (though few dare raise their heads these days) to dwell on negative aspects of the party’s history, especially during Mao’s brutal rule. Study of the four histories is intended to ensure that no such nihilism mars the party’s birthday. Instead, the idea is that only one lesson can be drawn from the party’s past century, and that is an uplifting one. There is an app to help, called “Study the Great Nation”.

Yogurt is good for you. And it’s just one spoon,” Sharpcot had replied, but this stack summoned a billion voices, all of them saying in a chorus, “Just one spoon.” From kids’ lunches and store shelves and desk drawers and airline meal packs, in every country of the world: Canada and the United States and Nicaragua and Uruguay and Argentina and Ireland and Burkina Faso and Russia and Papua New Guinea and New Zealand and very probably the Antarctic. Where wasn’t there disposable cutlery? Plastic spoons in endless demand, in endless supply, from factory floors where they are manufactured and packaged in boxes of 10 or 20 or 100 or 1000 or individually in clear wrap, boxed on skids and trucked to trains freighting them to port cities and onto giant container ships plying the seas to international ports to intercity transport trucks to retail delivery docks for grocery stores and retail chains, supplying restaurants and homes, consumers moving them from shelf to cart to bag to car to house, where they are stuck in the lunches of the children of polluting parents, or used once each at a birthday party to serve ice cream to four-year-olds where only some are used but who knows which? So used and unused go together in the trash, or every day one crammed into a hipster’s backpack to eat instant pudding at his software job in an open-concept walkup in a gentrified neighbourhood, or handed out from food trucks by the harbour, or set in a paper cup at a Costco table for customers to sample just one bite of this exotic new flavour, and so they go into trash bins and dumpsters and garbage trucks and finally vast landfill sites or maybe just tossed from the window of a moving car or thrown over the rail of a cruise ship to sink in the ocean deep.

Your microbiome looks perfect,” Google tells you. “Also, blood glucose levels are good, vitamin levels fine, but an increased core temperature and IgE levels…” “Google—in plain English?” “You’ve got a virus.” “A what?” “I ran through your last forty-eight hours of meetings. It seems like you picked it up Monday, at Jonah’s birthday party. I’d like to run additional diagnostics, would you mind using the…” Well, take your pick. Alphabet’s healthcare division, called Verily Life Sciences, is developing a full range of internal and external sensors that monitor everything from blood sugar to blood chemistry. And that’s just Alphabet. The list of once multimillion-dollar medical machines now being dematerialized, demonetized, democratized, and delocalized—that is, made into portable and even wearable sensors—could fill a textbook.

Marcel and Olivia didn't find this minor elimination fragmentary or dangerous the way I would hold. They scarcely noticed this at all. Characters always felt remarkably hostile at leisure with the Barn’s, around anxious for some purpose they couldn't justify to themselves. I implied a unique exemption to that precept. Seldom confused Marcel whence very satisfied I was withstanding adjacent to him. He deemed he was dangerous to my health-a feeling I rejected vehemently whenever he uttered that. The midday moved briskly. School completed, and Marcel walked me to my truck as he customarily prepared. Disregarding this time, he held the pilgrim entrance open for me. Olivia must have obtained it using his automobile home so that he could restrain me from making a charge for this. I wrapped my arms and performed no move to get out of the downpour. ‘It's my birthday, don't I get to drive?’ ‘I'm faking it's not your birthday, just as you yearned.’ ‘If it's not my birthday, then I don't have to proceed to your home later…’ ‘All right,’ He closed the passenger door and shuffled past me to open the driver's side. ‘Happy birthday.’ ‘Sh-h,’ I shushed him halfheartedly. I climbed through the opened door, begging he'd exercised the other suggestion. Marcel played with the radio while I drove, shaking his head in dissatisfaction. ‘Your radio has awful treatments.’ I scowled; I didn't like it when he picked on my truck. The truck was transcendent and it had nature. ‘You want a pleasant stereo? Drive your vehicle.’ I was so annoyed about Olivia's plans, on top of my already discouraged feeling, that the words came out sharper than I'd anticipated them. I was barely ever bad-tempered with Marcel, and my tone made him press his lips together to keep from smiling. When I parked in front of Mr. Anderson’s house, he stretched over to take my face in his hands. He handled me very thoroughly, touching just the tips of his fingers softly against my temples, my cheekbones, my jawline. Like I was exceptionally breakable.

Golden retrievers, especially rescued ones, have an uncanny understanding of the world. They know evil exists, but they treat each person, animal, and opportunity as if it is a birthday gift or a new ball. Until they are given a reason to believe otherwise, they embrace everything with a happy heart and an infectious smile. When they are in pain, they don’t show it. They simply plod along and look for the joy in the situation. If it is a bone on a doctor’s table, a scrap of food from a kind stranger, or a fetch session in the backyard, they find happiness in the simple things. Ernie Bert has mastered this. Instead of worrying

She was cheating on me,” he replies petulantly. Pouting like a child that didn’t get a birthday cake. “Did you cheat on her first?

I didn’t think it was going to be any different on my ninth birthday. Instead, she dropped me off at Basilica di San Giovanni and swore she would be right back. You want to know how long I waited?” She swallows and sits up, looking away instead of giving me an answer. One side of my lips tilts up the slightest bit, but there’s nothing funny about a mother abandoning her child. “That’s the thing, I’m still waiting,” I finish, never lifting my searing gaze from her.

According to United Nations data, a sixty-year-old American man can expect to live for another twenty-plus years; a sixty-year-old American woman will be around for another quarter of a century. In Japan, a sixty-year-old man can expect to live past his eighty-second birthday, a sixty-year-old woman to nearly eighty-eight.

My birthday is September 7th,” I tell her. “Doesn’t surprise me that you’re a Virgo. Next,” she prompts sassily, waiting for my next answer. I bite my lip, tempted to spank her ass and give her a reason to be sassy.

How old are you?” He gave her an odd look, almost as if the question embarrassed him. “Are you certain you wish to know?” “Of course.” Angelica frowned in confusion at his reluctance. She knew he was older than she was, but he couldn’t be much more than thirty. Avoiding her gaze, the duke replied, “I just had my two hundred and seventy-sixth birthday a few months back.” All the breath fled from her body. He was two hundred and seventy-six years old? “H-how long do vampires usually live?” He sat on the stone bench by the lilac bush and sighed. “We live for centuries. In fact, rumor has it that the oldest of us has been around since before Christ was born. Is this to be an interrogation?” He looked up at her sharply. Angelica was reeling from the information, so she almost didn’t notice the flicker of warmth in his eyes when she sat down next to him. “No—yes… perhaps. I am merely curious.” His

Watch everything she does. You can tell what a woman wants and needs by simply observing her. Even when you two are out spending time together, chillaxing at home, or getting ready for date night. The little things as I said mean a lot to a woman, so with that being stated; start by remembering things like her birthdays, anniversaries, or special events that’s significant to you both. Those things may be small to you, but means the world to her.

In 1891, Robert Louis Stevenson received a letter from a Vermont girl named Annie Ide. Her birthday fell on Christmas, she said, and she seldom received birthday presents. He replied with a document decreeing that “I, Robert Louis Stevenson, . . .in consideration that Miss Annie H. Ide, . . .was born, out of all reason, upon Christmas Day, and is therefore out of all justice denied the consolation and profit of a proper birthday; and considering that I, the said Robert Louis Stevenson, have attained an age when we never mention it, and that I have now no further use for a birthday of any description. . . . HAVE TRANSFERRED, and DO HEREBY TRANSFER, to the said Annie H. Ide, ALL AND WHOLE my rights and privileges in the thirteenth day of November, formerly my birthday, now, hereby, and henceforth, the birthday of the said Annie H. Ide, to have, hold, exercise, and enjoy the same in the customary manner, by the sporting of fine raiment, eating of rich meats, and receipt of gifts, compliments, and copies of verse, according to the manner of our ancestors.

Home Authors Topics Quote Of The Day Pictures  search Sign Up Login Authors: A B C D E F G H I J K L M N O P Q R S T U V W X Y Z | Follow Us: Women Quotes Any time women come together with a collective intention, it's a powerful thing. Whether it's sitting down making a quilt, in a kitchen preparing a meal, in a club reading the same book, or around the table playing cards, or planning a birthday party, when women come together with a collective intention, magic happens.

For weeks, in secret heresy, I whispered Dear Horus instead of Our Father when we recited the Lord's Prayer at school assemblies. It was a suitably formal address, I thought, having learned it from writing birthday thank-you notes.

scientists" as a class all the world over. What there is great of them is an annoyance to their fellow scientists and a mystery to the general public, and what is not is evident. There is no doubt about what is not great, no race of men have such obvious littlenesses. They live in a narrow world so far as their human intercourse goes; their researches involve infinite attention and an almost monastic seclusion; and what is left over is not very much. To witness some queer, shy, misshapen, grey-headed, self-important, little discoverer of great discoveries, ridiculously adorned with the wide ribbon of some order of chivalry and holding a reception of his fellow-men, or to read the anguish of Nature at the "neglect of science" when the angel of the birthday honours passes the Royal Society by, or to listen to one indefatigable lichenologist commenting on the work of another indefatigable lichenologist, such things force one to realise the unfaltering littleness of men.

Sometimes a man celebrates his birthday with a large party, girls, food, too much drink. And sometimes a man celebrates his birthday by thinking deep thoughts. Who's to say which one is right.

You said something I have always thought,” Bill said to me when I arrived on the set of Pocket Rockets, somewhere in the endless suburb that is greater Atlanta. “Sure, some movies don’t work. Some fail in their intent. But anyone who says they hated a movie is treating a voluntarily shared human experience like a bad Red-Eye out of LAX. The departure is delayed for hours, there’s turbulence that scares even the flight attendants, the guy across from you vomits, they can’t serve any food and the booze runs out, you’re seated next to twin babies with the colic, and you land too late for your meeting in the city. You can hate that. But hating a movie misses the damn point. Would you say you hated the seventh birthday party of your girlfriend’s niece or a ball game that went eleven innings and ended 1–0? You hate cake and extra baseball for your money? Hate should be saved for fascism and steamed broccoli that’s gone cold. The worst anyone—especially we who take Fountainfn1—should ever say about someone else’s movie is Well, it was not for me, but, actually, I found it quite good. Damn a film with faint praise, but never, ever say you hate a movie. Anyone who uses the h-word around me is done. Gone. Of course, I wrote and directed Albatross. I may be a bit sensitive.