Ladder Safety Quotes

Subject: Get back to work Missy, You're distracting me from the very important topic of workplace safety. How would you feel if I improperly climbed a ladder due to not learning the proper procedure and then fell to my death? Always, The Boy You Dream About P.S. I'm also a lost prince from a faraway land. Want to do me now?

I’m beginning to believe that the depths to which a woman could fall for Cain are endless. To a deep, dark, infinite pit with no ladders to get away, no cushions to soften the impact. No safety net. No escape.

She worried that maybe they'd been dating too long to end up together. It was like when you tried to jump off the high dive and if you did it right away, you were fine. But if you stood there looking down, thinking of all the bad things that could happen, you were doomed. You would just climb back down the ladder to the safety of the ground.

Scholars talk about the endless cycle of poverty and racism and classism and crime. But I don't see it as a cycle, as a circle. I see it as a locked room filled with the people who share my DNA. This room has recently been set afire and there's only one escape hatch, ten feet off the ground. And I know I have to build a ladder out of the bones of my fallen family in order to climb to safety.

By destroying traditional safety nets and undermining old coping mechanisms, the atomisation modern life carries with it can sometimes make the struggle feel even more arduous. Freedom, if it is to mean anything at all, must mean the freedom for everyone to live decently rather than the freedom of a growing consumer class to order another class around, even if extra ladders are occasionally sent down to raise up a fortunate few and turn them into Eloi.

As far as Mab was concerned, love stories were for novels. Love wasn’t the point—even marriage wasn’t the point, not really. A good husband might have been the fastest way up the ladder toward safety and prosperity, but it wasn’t the only way. Better to live an old maid with a shiny desk and a salary in the bank, proudly achieved through the sweat of her own efforts, than end up disappointed and old before her time thanks to long factory hours and too much childbirth.

You remind me of the man that lived by the river. He heard a radio report that the river was going to rush up and flood the town, and that the all the residents should evacuate their homes. But the man said, "I'm religious. I pray. God loves me. God will save me." The waters rose up. A guy in a rowboat came along and he shouted, "Hey, hey you, you in there. The town is flooding. Let me take you to safety." But the man shouted back, "I'm religious. I pray. God loves me. God will save me." A helicopter was hovering overhead and a guy with a megaphone shouted, "Hey you, you down there. The town is flooding. Let me drop this ladder and I'll take you to safety." But the man shouted back that he was religious, that he prayed, that God loved him and that God will take him to safety. Well... the man drowned. And standing at the gates of St. Peter he demanded an audience with God. "Lord," he said, "I'm a religious man, I pray, I thought you loved me. Why did this happen?" God said, "I sent you a radio report, a helicopter and a guy in a rowboat. What the hell are you doing here? He sent you a priest, a rabbi and a Quaker. Not to mention his son, Jesus Christ. What do you want from him?

Trump is a populist who understands the frustrations of the American people. Illegal immigration affects the least fortunate Americans more than it does anyone else. Those at the bottom of the ladder should not be undercut by cheap, illegal labor. Nor should illegal immigrants be released into the community after committing crimes against American citizens. The president understands that immigration into our country should be based on fairness, the needs of the American economy, and the safety of both American citizens and legal immigrants rather than family unification or proximity to our borders.

I believe that if, like me, you have privilege and are equipped with the resources and knowledge to have these conversations, it is your job to educate those who have no idea how to navigate this information, define these resources, and to challenge their own preconceived ideas. It is not solely the responsibility of marginalised people to advocate for their own rights, to explain their own oppression, or to hold hands with the very people undermining them. This is a reminder that each and every one of us has arrived at our current worldview because of people who took the time to explain things, who performed labour to educate us. We need to pay that forward, not sit on high horses. I know I am the product of the people closest to me, and that our debates and occasional conflicts are at the crux of my self-development, reflection, and empowerment. It isn’t your job to engage in harmful conversations with those committed to misunderstanding you but it isn’t helpful to demonise people whose views do not mirror your own or whose progress is slower. It isn’t effective to shut down and to turn your back on those with other worldviews once you believe you know better. We shouldn’t pull the ladder up behind us when we decided we’re in the right place. We shouldn’t be shutting up shop. This is the ultimate opportunity to use what we have learned to ensure marginalised people do not have to have these conversations. We don’t need to speak on behalf of anyone but we can direct people to resources, we can push back on problematic language and views, and we can use our knowledge and privilege for change-making. If you hold the privileges that I do, a White woman claiming to be a feminist, your fear is not enough of a barrier. I know that is a confronting statement but it is something we must interrogate. It is vital to note that there are many circumstances where breaking your silence, challenging the status quo, and speaking out pose a threat. I want to be clear that this is not a call to subject yourself to devastating outcomes, or dangerous conversations, or situations that pose a threat to your safety or security. But if the only thing standing between you and change is fear of causing your friends discomfort, or lowering the mood by calling out something that may be considered taboo, you must walk through that fear. History depends on it. Change is contingent on your voice. If you want to identify as a feminist. If you want to claim this space and that you are #doingthework, this is exactly what that work looks like. Having difficult conversations, being brave, and challenging widely held assumptions. Turning up to the protest. Putting your money toward causes you claim to stand for. Buying the book and using what you’ve learned to ensure this work does not remain the sole responsibility of the impacted, marginalised communities, but becomes something that those without lied experiences understand and advocate for. Doing all this, is more than half the battle. The next time you bookend a conversation with “it is not my job to educate you”, I think it is really important to remember that, actually, it kind of is. Your privilege means you have access to people and influence over them. You are considered by society to be more palatable in your anger, and your advocacy, and people are more willing to hear you speak to difficult topics. It is your job to educate yourself, and to use that inherent privilege to educate others, or to at least have a go. It is your job, as the feminist you claim to be, to act as a barricade for people experiencing compounding marginalisations. It is your job to educate yourself and others. It is as simple as that.

Getting It Right" Your ankles make me want to party, want to sit and beg and roll over under a pair of riding boots with your ankles hidden inside, sweating beneath the black tooled leather; they make me wish it was my birthday so I could blow out their candles, have them hung over my shoulders like two bags full of money. Your ankles are two monster-truck engines but smaller and lighter and sexier than a saucer with warm milk licking the outside edge; they make me want to sing, make me want to take them home and feed them pasta, I want to punish them for being bad and then hold them all night long and say I’m sorry, sugar, darling, it will never happen again, not in a million years. Your thighs make me quiet. Make me want to be hurled into the air like a cannonball and pulled down again like someone being pulled into a van. Your thighs are two boats burned out of redwood trees. I want to go sailing. Your thighs, the long breath of them under the blue denim of your high-end jeans, could starve me to death, could make me cry and cry. Your ass is a shopping mall at Christmas, a holy place, a hill I fell in love with once when I was falling in love with hills. Your ass is a string quartet, the northern lights tucked tightly into bed between a high-count-of-cotton sheets. Your back is the back of a river full of fish; I have my tackle and tackle box. You only have to say the word. Your back, a letter I have been writing for fifteen years, a smooth stone, a moan someone makes when his hair is pulled, your back like a warm tongue at rest, a tongue with a tab of acid on top; your spine is an alphabet, a ladder of celestial proportions. I am navigating the North and South of it. Your armpits are beehives, they make me want to spin wool, want to pour a glass of whiskey, your armpits dripping their honey, their heat, their inexhaustible love-making dark. I am bright yellow for them. I am always thinking about them, resting at your side or high in the air when I’m pulling off your shirt. Your arms of blue and ice with the blood running to make them believe in God. Your shoulders make me want to raise an arm and burn down the Capitol. They sing to each other underneath your turquoise slope-neck blouse. Each is a separate bowl of rice steaming and covered in soy sauce. Your neck is a skyscraper of erotic adult videos, a swan and a ballet and a throaty elevator made of light. Your neck is a scrim of wet silk that guides the dead into the hours of Heaven. It makes me want to die, your mouth, which is the mouth of everything worth saying. It’s abalone and coral reef. Your mouth, which opens like the legs of astronauts who disconnect their safety lines and ride their stars into the billion and one voting districts of the Milky Way. Darling, you’re my President; I want to get this right! Matthew Dickman, The New Yorker: Poems | August 29, 2011 Issue

Tree House   This jungle tree house build is both fun and rewarding, especially once you get finished in the evening and can watch the sun set from the patio of your new house suspended a hundred feet in the air. Here’s how to get started.   Once you locate a jungle biome in your world, pick out a few tall trees that are close to each other:         Start by building a platform around one of the trees and adding columns at the corners to support a half-roof:           With the columns in place, begin adding on a roof, using stairs as the roof portions. Note that all of the wood I’m using for this build is jungle wood.             Add fencing between the columns to keep people from falling out, leaving a space on one side for your patio. Create the patio using bottom stone slabs for a lower portion where a fountain/waterfall will go, then using top stone slabs for the eating area.               Once the patio is completed, you can use pressure plates on top of fence posts for tables, stairs for chairs and then use a water bucket to create a nice flow of water through a hole in the patio. Fences around the perimeter keep people safe and a few torches keep things well-lit.   Next, find a nearby tree and construct a second platform:           Make sure the second platform is surrounded by fending as well, then connect both platforms with stairs and wood planks, adding in fencing on the sides for safety:           This new platform will be the sleeping area, and three sets of beds arranged around the tree in the middle look cozy and inviting. Top this platform off with a few torches and you’re set!         Adding some jungle leaves above the platform will protect sleepers below from getting wet when it rains, and will help keep things looking natural and open.         Go back to the main platform and construct an additional, smaller platform above it:         Cut a hole in both platforms and add a tall ladder going from the uppermost platform down to the ground, passing through the main platform on its way. At the bottom, add a landing with torches and stairs leading down to the beach:           Clear the upper platform of leaves and then add on fencing for safety, torches for light and use a staircase and wooden slab to create long chairs that people can sit on to watch the sunsets. A pair of stairs on the sides of the upper platform add additional seating for more guests:             Wow! This tree house looks amazing! You’ve got all of the basic set up, so now it’s up to you to take it to the next level! Add in more personal touches, expand the tree house with more connected platforms or build even higher into the jungle!  

This psychologist, Maslow, came up with this pyramid—well, more like a ladder. Give me a pen, I’ll draw it. Down here on the first level are the basics: food, water, shelter. On the second level are financial security and personal safety. Next level, here, you’ve got relationships: your friends and family, your wife or girlfriend. Then we come to level four, your esteem needs, when you feel good about your accomplishments and you’re satisfied with yourself. At the top, up here, the tip of the pyramid, is self-actualization. That’s where you realize your full potential as a human being. Now, the deal is, you start at the bottom of the pyramid and work your way up. You have to satisfy your needs at each level in order to free up the mental space that’ll allow you to advance to the next level, and if you skip any levels, you’ll never attain true self-actualization.

As was the Wintersvilla Warrior custom during times of relaxation, Myriam walked toward Shira fully nude, her large, unbound breasts bouncing freely with each of her steps, though Shira was in no shape for even scant arousal. It wasn’t seduction or sexuality that created the custom, but rather, a sign of a true warrior who had nothing to fear and could relax in her bare skin and ports without worrying about lacking in safety, let alone being concerned with trivialities like modesty. It was by this same logic that Wintersvilla Women did battle wearing nothing more than a thin chest-binder to stabilize their breasts, a light undergarment to avoid dirt or grime in their genitals, and a personal sidearm sheath and straps that were more like permanent fixtures of a warrior’s body. The rest of their body remained gloriously and pleasantly exposed. It was said by the greatest Wintersvilla Women, including Shira when she was younger, that anyone unable to sync thoroughly enough with their exo so that it didn’t protect them from every projectile or peril of the Earth was a liability, not an asset. A warrior’s bare and often deeply scarred skin was visible proof of her internal control of fear.

I wrote about the resilience born from having no safety net at all, having to climb ladders with no stable ground beneath you. On top of it, all our ladders were faulty, born climbing a ladder before we could walk, and better climb fast lest it snap beneath your feet! I told people to keep climbing, for the love of it, whatever the craft, not because of financial profit, or safety. What is "safety"? I wrote that such circumstances can leave you feeling destined for defeat, or it could do something else; it could breed a determination, a relentless pursuit of one's dreams that no safe man could ever replicate. I changed the narrative, twisting it in my favor.

The misfit doesn't climb in pursuit of safety, or profit; she climbs to tell stories. She gets off the ladder and onto the swings; swinging back and forth, sometimes aggressively, sometimes standing up on the swing, back and forth, in pursuit of only transparency, observing the changes, but wonders if these changes are taking place within a faulty system.

To clean gutters, you will need to climb a ladder. Please review the ladder safety rules in Chapter 2. They’re important. If your gutters are higher than you can reach with a stepladder, you’ll need to use an extension ladder. If you are not afraid of heights, fine. Just follow these rules: * Make sure that the base of the ladder is firm and level. * The bottom of the ladder should be one foot away from the wall of your house for every four feet of its length. If the ladder is extended 12 feet up, for example, you’ll need to place the base of the ladder 3 feet from the wall of the house. * Do not stand on the top three steps of the ladder. * Keep your hips between the vertical rails of the ladder. Climb down and move the ladder; don’t extend your body beyond safety range. * Have a friend hold the ladder at its base.

Woke is a career as much as a cult. By advertising their virtue, redundant graduates hope to gain a foothold on the crumbling ladder that leads to safety as one of society’s guardians.

Gravity Play Events rents the best Dunk Tanks available in Denver, Fort Collins, Colorado Springs, Aurora and more. All of our Dunk Tanks have no climb aluminum safety cage to protect the person in the Dunk Tank, a window to see the people get Dunked and have a 350 Gallon tank. Our Dunk Tanks feature large colorful backdrops, easy lock & release latch on the seat and easy climb non slip ladder to get in the Dunk Tank and built in steps to get out. Our Dunk Tanks come standard with a 6" target.

It’s troubling to see how privilege accumulates over generations, particularly white privilege in the US, and, when people reach a certain level of safety, to see how they pull the ladder up after themselves.

There is something about a good nurse. Having a nursing license and job doesn’t make you a good nurse. Working for 30 years doesn’t make you a good nurse. It’s not about being good at starting IV’s or being best friends with all of the physicians. It’s not about having a commanding presence or knowing all of the answers to the 900 questions you get asked each shift. While all of these things are important, it’s not all there is. Being a good nurse is so much less defined and measurable than that. It isn’t measured in letters after your name, certifications, professional affiliations, or by climbing the clinical ladder. It’s something you feel when you see a good nurse care for their patients. It’s that security you see in their patient’s eyes when they walk in the room to provide care. It’s that sense of safety and security felt by the patient’s family that is so reassuring, they can finally head home for a shower and some sleep, knowing their loved one is being well cared for. Good nurses breathe instinct. They breathe discernment. Good nurses can pick out seemingly insignificant things about a patient, interpret an intricate clinical picture, somehow predict a poor outcome, and bring it to the provider’s attention, literally saving someone’s life. Did you read that? Save someone’s life. I have seen the lives of patients spared because of something that their nurse, their good nurse, first noticed. And then there’s that heart knowledge good nurses have that blows me away even more. They are those nurses who always know the right thing to say. They know how to calm an apprehensive and scared mother enough to let them take care of her son. They know how to re-explain the worst news a husband is ever going to hear because it didn’t quite make sense when the doctor said it 15 minutes ago. And they know how to comfort him when they see it click in his mind that his wife is forever gone.

Seafarers of yore were superstitious lot and paid a great deal of attention not to invoke the ire of the Gods. Walking under a ladder aboard ship insured bad luck! Breaking a mirror guaranteed 7 years of bad luck and whistling was verboten! When Ursula came aboard the QSMV Dominion Monarch, she was taught this lesson in a most emphatic way! “What could best be described as an “old-salt,” was in charge when they were on the open deck of the ship. Apparently his job was to look out for the passengers’ safety, and he was a friendly sort. Talking about the lure of the sea, he explained to the children that they were never to whistle aboard any ship, for to do so would invoke the Gods and cause a terrible storm to toss them around. Being only 6 years old, Ursula hung on to his every word and explained that she didn’t know how to whistle. Laughing, he said that he would teach her, which he did. She became convinced that she could indeed “whistle up a storm,” one which never came!” To this day Ursula believes this and throws a little salt over her shoulder if she spills any…. Yes, seafarers are still a superstitious lot!

I ventured up onto the domes of the world's largest telescopes a few times. The view was impressive! The curvature of the domes means that you can only walk around on about twenty feet of the domes before developing a fear of sliding off them on the rapidly sloping surface. What amazes me today was that I was not required to wear a safety harness during the fun activity while breathing very high altitude air that was 40% deficient of oxygen that was known to make people faint. A strenuous climb up ladders was required to get to the top of the domes and a fall from that height would likely be fatal.

A key difference between probability-based and safety-first approaches is that the probability-based approach is more comfortable with accepting greater volatility for higher return potential and an improved chance for success, while the safety-first approach looks for alternatives that do not expose core retirement spending goals to market volatility. The question is ultimately about which is the best way to be able to spend more than a bond ladder can support: to rely on the excess returns expected to be provided by the stock market, or to rely on the power of risk pooling to bring additional spending power to those facing a higher cost retirement.

She transferred the baby and his Tupperware into the playpen for safety, stormed into the well-equipped garage, and searched frantically for a screwdriver. With an exultant cry of victory, she punched the button to the garage door opener and waited impatiently for it to rise. Resolutely, Aggie charged out of the gaping hole left by the door only to return moments later for a ladder. This posed a bigger problem than she’d anticipated. There wasn’t a ladder in sight. She searched corners and behind cabinets. In sheer exasperation, she threw her hands into the air and looked up as if to say, “I can’t take much more, Lord,” but the sight of a ladder hanging horizontally from the rafters halted her internal ranting. Now, she spoke aloud, her voice tinged with disgust. “Who would put a ladder up so high that you need a ladder to get the ladder down in the first place?” After a moment’s pause, she dashed into the kitchen and banged around the room, searching for the step stool. Ian squealed his slobbery encouragement as Aggie dragged the stool through the room, ruffling the few ruddy curls atop his bald little baby head. She teetered on the step stool, barely avoiding a collapse, and finally managed to jerk the ladder from its hooks. Hauling her prize out the garage door, Aggie surveyed the tattered basketball net she had remembered hanging deserted over the garage. The uncooperative ladder fought her at every step. After several frustrating minutes, where every swear word she’d ever heard filled her brain and threatened to overtake her self-control, Aggie realized that the ladder was upside down. Righting it, she climbed to the mounting bracket, the ladder teetering with every step. She eventually managed to unscrew one side of the apparatus and then the other. With a few jerky movements, the backboard lay on the ground beneath the swaying ladder, hardly worse for the fall. Aggie felt like a housekeeping genius as she wobbled through the house carrying her conquest upstairs to the wall above the hamper at the end of the hallway. The backboard was heavy and cumbersome; she found it difficult to hold in place and screw it into the wall at the same time, but several minutes later, she stood back and surveyed the results of her efforts. Though nearly satisfied, the lid on the hamper mocked her brilliant idea. Undaunted, she gave a swift jerk and ripped the cover off the offending hamper. “There. That’ll work,” she muttered as she trudged back downstairs, fighting the compulsion to pick up all the dirty laundry herself.