Labor Day Weekend Quotes

If all the cars in the United States were placed end to end, it would probably be Labor Day Weekend

I feel like a blind man searching a dark room. (Old Man Alone on Labor Day Weekend -- blog post)

When do you leave?” she asked. His fingers paused. “Labor Day weekend.” So soon. Only two and a half weeks away. She nodded, going for a joke. “Good. That’s about when I was planning on getting sick of you, anyway.” “Pfft. I’m already counting down the minutes until I can make my escape from this room.” “It’s your room.

California, Labor Day weekend...early, with ocean fog still in the streets, outlaw motorcyclists wearing chains, shades and greasy Levis roll out from damp garages, all-night diners and cast-off one-night pads in Fricso, Hollywood, Berdoo and East Oakland, heading for the Monterey peninsula, north of Big Sur...The Menace is loose again, the Hell's Angels, the hundred-carat headline, running fast and loud on the early morning freeway, low in the saddle, nobody smiles, jamming crazy through traffic and ninety miles an hour down the center stripe, missing by inches...like Genghis Khan on an iron horse, a monster steed with a fiery anus, flat out through the eye of a beer can and up your daughter's leg with no quarter asked and non given; show the squares some class, give em a whiff of those kicks they'll never know...Ah, these righteous dudes, they love to screw it on...Little Jesus, the Gimp, Chocolate George, Buzzard, Zorro, Hambone, Clean Cut, Tiny, Terry the Tramp, Frenchy, Mouldy Marvin, Mother Miles, Dirty Ed, Chuck the Duck, Fat Freddy, Filthy Phil, Charger Charley the Child Molester, Crazy Cross, Puff, Magoo, Animal and at least a hundred more...tense for the action, long hair in the wind, beards and bandanas flapping, earrings, armpits, chain whips, swastikas and stripped-down Harleys flashing chrome as traffic on 101 moves over, nervous, to let the formation pass like a burst of dirty thunder...

It was August; the city was empty. Malcolm was in Sweden on holiday with Sophie; Richard was in Capri; Rhodes was in Maine; Andy was on Shelter Island (“Remember,” he’d said before he left, as he always said before a long vacation, “I’m just two hours away; you need me, and I catch the next ferry back”). He couldn’t bear to be around Harold, whom he couldn’t see without being reminded of his debasement; he called and told him he had too much work to go to Truro. Instead he spontaneously bought a ticket to Paris and spent the long, lonely Labor Day weekend there, wandering the streets by himself. He didn’t contact anyone he knew there—not Citizen, who was working for a French bank, or Isidore, his upstairs neighbor from Hereford Street, who was teaching there, or Phaedra, who had taken a job as the director of a satellite of a New York gallery—they wouldn’t have been in the city anyway

It’s not for the weak or faint of heart. It will take a toll on you. Your body will hurt. Your soul will ache. Your family life will suffer. No one will understand what you do or why you do it, but you do it. You will work nights. You will work weekends. Holidays. You will bathe the elderly, the weak. You will clean their body, their bodily fluids. You will have to know every medication, what it does, when to stop it, when to give it, and how to get it into people. You will have to know how to interpret blood tests, when the doctor must know. You will have thirty seconds to start an IV, how to hook up an EKG machine. You will need to know how to interpret tracing or when you should give or take away oxygen. You will experience joy, grief, and sorrow in a day, sometimes within the same hour. You are the glue between the patient, the family, the doctor. It’s you who will keep everyone happy, as comfortable as possible. Code blue. Trauma evaluation. Labor. Delivery. Surgery. Babies. Postpartum. Psychology. These and more will all need to be learned. And when you think you know everything, you don’t. You’re just starting. I was asked to write this essay on why

As Anatole France once wrote, “Man is so made that he can only find relaxation from one kind of labor by taking up another.

The company,” he says, “doesn’t need a reason to fire you. The company can do whatever it wants.” A week later, on September 2, the Tuesday after the Labor Day weekend, Trotsky forwards me an email that Cranium has sent around to everyone in the marketing department. We’re

We’d gone about five kilometers when we rounded a bend to see a tiny roadside store with a gas bar. “Yes!” Corey said, pumping the air. “We are now, officially, rescued.” “You think?” Hayley said. “I’m not seeing any vehicles.” “Because it’s out in the middle of freaking nowhere. They’re probably lucky if they get three cars a day.” “No, I mean transportation for the person running the place.” Corey peered at the empty lot surrounding the small building. “Oh.” The shack had one gas pump out front, and a diesel one around the side. The lack of a vehicle meant that unless there was a house nearby, no one was manning the place. “But it should have a phone,” I said. “Or maps to show us where we are. Also, there must be cottages nearby if there’s a gas bar.” “Ha!” Corey said, spinning and pointing at Hayley. “Ha!” He took off at a lope. We followed. Corey stopped a few feet from the door. “Open weekends after Labor Day,” he called. “What’s today?” “Not the weekend,” I called back. Corey walked to the barred window, then turned to us. “The window’s filthy. I can’t see anything.” “How about we try the door?” Sam said. She was walking toward it when Hayley grabbed her arm and pointed to a window sign warning that the place was armed with security alarms and cameras. “Um, yeah,” Corey said. “Which will bring the local cops. If we’re lucky.” “At this point, I’ll take any ride out of here,” I said. “Even handcuffed in the back of a police cruiser.

But it should have a phone,” I said. “Or maps to show us where we are. Also, there must be cottages nearby if there’s a gas bar.” “Ha!” Corey said, spinning and pointing at Hayley. “Ha!” He took off at a lope. We followed. Corey stopped a few feet from the door. “Open weekends after Labor Day,” he called. “What’s today?” “Not the weekend,” I called back.

But while Pets.com was undergoing its meteoric rise and equally rapid fall, another dot-com company was launching its own, very different story. On Labor Day weekend in 1995, a computer programmer sat down to write code for his new website. Called Auction Web, the website was designed to be a digital marketplace where people could buy and sell anything over the Internet. The creator wanted to create a “perfect market” that could be used by everyone.

It is a fact that consumers worldwide have benefited financially from faster fashion. In countries like the UK and US, the proportion of the household budget spent on clothing has dropped from about 15 percent at the dawn of the twentieth century to 5 percent or less today. According to the US Bureau of Labor Statistics, we've used the savings mainly to pay for rising housing costs and for what they call 'non-necessities', everything from weekend getaways to all the just-plain-stuff that fills homes and storage units.

Why doesn’t summer vacation last until the twenty-first of September? After all, the season doesn’t come to its conclusion on Labor Day weekend. The season of summer lasts until the autumnal equinox—just as surely as the season of spring lasts until the summer solstice.

Okay, now you’re finally sounding crazy. Of course not. I’m forwarding you a new email from a bride named Amy.” I keep Jay on the line and check my email. Dear Jen, Let me preface this by saying that I have never been a bridesmaid. I am one of the first of my friends to be getting married and am 25 years old. I am getting married this September, weekend after Labor Day, and it has been quite a learning experience at that. I had to let my maid of honor go, due to her issues of not being able to be part of the big day and rearrange. That was a stressful part of planning. :/ I knock the pizza box off my bed and put my brother on speakerphone, tapping the reply button as my eyes begin to flutter shut. My body clearly isn’t on the same page with my brain, which is screaming that professional bridesmaids don’t get to nap. Dear Amy, Thanks so much for taking the time to write to me. Congratulations on your upcoming wedding! It’s great to hear about your interest in having me as a professional bridesmaid at your wedding, especially since you’ve had some problems with your maid of honor. I’m very sorry about that, by the way. I’d be happy to see what I can do to help between now and September. I would love to jump on a call with you to chat more about this. Please let me know when is best for you. All my love, Jen Glantz “I really hope she says yes, Jay. I think I could really be there for her. I think I could really help.

I suppose the most important memory is of Mr. Electrico. On Labor Day weekend, 1932, when I was twelve years old, he came to my hometown with the Dill Brothers…. He was a performer sitting in an electric chair and a stagehand pulled a switch and he was charged with fifty thousand volts of pure electricity. Lightning flashed in his eyes and his hair stood on end. I sat below, in the front row, and he reached down with a flaming sword full of electricity and he tapped me on both shoulders and then the tip of my nose and he cried, 'Live, forever!' And I thought, 'God, that’s wonderful. How do you do that?'...So when I left the carnival that day I stood by the carousel and I watched the horses running around and around to the music of 'Beautiful Ohio' and I cried. Tears streamed down my cheeks because I knew something important had happened to me that day because of Mr. Electrico. I felt changed. And so I went home and within days I started to write. And I’ve never stopped.

This is Labor Day weekend!" I shriek, throwing it away from me again. "I know," Miles says. "They couldn't stop at simply ruining our lives. They had to ruin a perfectly good holiday too. Probably won't even decorate this year." "I mean, this Labor Day," I say. "Like, only a month after our wedding." Miles looks up at me, genuine concern contorting his face. "Daphne," he says. "I think that ship sailed when he fucked my girlfriend, then took her to Italy for a week so he didn't have to help you pack.