Life Turns On A Dime Quotes

Life turns on a dime. Sometimes towards us, but more often it spins away, flirting and flashing as it goes: so long, honey, it was good while it lasted, wasn’t it?

You are only as invincible as your smallest weakness, and those are tiny indeed - the length of a sleeping baby's eyelash, the span of a child's hand. Life turns on a dime, and - it turns out - so does one's conscience.

Life turns on a dime.

Life turns on a dime. have no idea what tomorrow will bring... sure life would be a lot easier if we knew what was going to happen. You've got to live by faith one day at a time.

There were no violins or warning bells when I pulled the janitor’s theme off the top of the stack and set it before me, no sense that my little life was about to change. But we never know, do we? Life turns on a dime.

Christianity is a religion in a rush. Look at the world created in seven days. Even on a symbolic level, that's creation in a frenzy. To one born in a religion where the battle for a single soul can be a relay race run over many centuries, with innumerable generations passing along the baton, the quick resolution of Christianity has a dizzying effect. If Hinduism flows placidly like the Ganges, then Christianity bustles like Toronto at rush hour. It is religion as swift as a swallow, as urgent as an ambulance. It turns on a dime, expresses itself in the instant. In a moment you are lost or saved. Christianity stretches back through the ages, but in essence it exists only at one time: right now.

Life turns on a dime. Sometimes toward us, but more often it spins away, flirting and flashing as it goes: so long, honey, it was good while it lasted, wasn’t it?

Life changes. It’s usually in the blink of an eye. One minute everything’s fine, if not stagnant; then, it’s not. But your character’s not defined by what happens to you but by how you respond to those emotionally significant events. Who will you become when your life turns on a dime?

I leaf through more pages, wondering, remembering, thinking about this watershed year. Life can turn on a dime. The appointment book reinforces my new awareness of this. We plan our days, but we don’t control them.

Life can turn on a dime, and sometimes the turn has already come and gone before we even see it coming.

Life turns on a dime, and when it does, it turns fast.

On the one hand I think he's a stupid,conceited prick, unrelenting in his disdain for anyone who dares to challenge him. Completely and totally selfish. But on the other hand he does seem to care about some things. He seems to be somewhat understanding, out to make sure that everyone's having a good time. He's confident, not cocky, and there's a difference. It seems like he has these masks he puts on, then changes them in an instant. Part of me thinks it's just maybe who he is, this sociopath who can turn on a dime. But then another part of me wonders if maybe it's all just a game, like a real-life play where he changes his part whenever he sees fit. Some big-time plan to keep people from ever getting too close, or wanting to get close. That everything in front of him is just one big fucking game.

Fictional Characters" Do they ever want to escape? Climb out of the white pages and enter our world? Holden Caulfield slipping in the movie theater to catch the two o'clock Anna Karenina sitting in a diner, reading the paper as the waitress serves up a cheeseburger. Even Hector, on break from the Iliad, takes a stroll through the park, admires the tulips. Maybe they grew tired of the author's mind, all its twists and turns. Or were finally weary of stumbling around Pamplona, a bottle in each fist, eating lotuses on the banks of the Nile. For others, it was just too hot in the small California town where they'd been written into a lifetime of plowing fields. Whatever the reason, here they are, roaming the city streets rain falling on their phantasmal shoulders. Wouldn't you, if you could? Step out of your own story, to lean against a doorway of the Five & Dime, sipping your coffee, your life, somewhere far behind you, all its heat and toil nothing but a tale resting in the hands of a stranger, the sidewalk ahead wet and glistening. "Fictional Characters" by Danusha Laméris from The Moons of August. © Autumn House Press, 2014. Reprinted with permission

The important thing is to keep getting up each day knowing that everything can turn on a dime. For better or for worse. Sometimes bad things happen, and people will always make mistakes, but isn’t that how we learn and grow stronger? That’s why we need to treasure each moment of every day, learn how to accept and forgive, and never fear what might be over the horizon, even if it looks dark and cloudy. Because it just might turn out to be the best day of your life.

On our last day, a few hours before we were to leave for Munnar, I hurried up the hill on the left. It strikes me now as a typically Christian scene. Christianity is a religion in a rush. Look at the world created in seven days. Even on a symbolic level, that’s creation in a frenzy. To one born in a religion where the battle for a single soul can be a relay race run over many centuries, with innumerable generations passing along the baton, the quick resolution of Christianity has a dizzying effect. If Hinduism flows placidly like the Ganges, then Christianity bustles like Toronto at rush hour. It turns on a dime, expresses itself in an instant. In a moment you are lost or saved. Christianity stretches back through the ages, but in essence it exists only at one time: right now.

Onions! Fresh, hot, sweet onions,” Sam called as Mary Lou pulled the cart down Main Street. “Eight cents a dozen.” It was a beautiful spring morning. The sky was painted pale blue and pink—the same color as the lake and the peach trees along its shore. Mrs. Gladys Tennyson was wearing just her nightgown and robe as she came running down the street after Sam. Mrs. Tennyson was normally a very proper woman who never went out in public without dressing up in fine clothes and a hat. So it was quite surprising to the people of Green Lake to see her running past them. “Sam!” she shouted. “Whoa, Mary Lou,” said Sam, stopping his mule and cart. “G’morning, Mrs. Tennyson,” he said. “How’s little Becca doing?” Gladys Tennyson was all smiles. “I think she’s going to be all right. The fever broke about an hour ago. Thanks to you.” “I’m sure the good Lord and Doc Hawthorn deserve most of the credit.” “The Good Lord, yes,” agreed Mrs. Tennyson, “but not Dr. Hawthorn. That quack wanted to put leeches on her stomach! Leeches! My word! He said they would suck out the bad blood. Now you tell me. How would a leech know good blood from bad blood?” “I wouldn’t know,” said Sam. “It was your onion tonic,” said Mrs. Tennyson. “That’s what saved her.” Other townspeople made their way to the cart. “Good morning, Gladys,” said Hattie Parker. “Don’t you look lovely this morning.” Several people snickered. “Good morning, Hattie,” Mrs. Tennyson replied. “Does your husband know you’re parading about in your bed clothes?” Hattie asked. There were more snickers. “My husband knows exactly where I am and how I am dressed, thank you,” said Mrs. Tennyson. “We have both been up all night and half the morning with Rebecca. She almost died from stomach sickness. It seems she ate some bad meat.” Hattie’s face flushed. Her husband, Jim Parker, was the butcher. “It made my husband and me sick as well,” said Mrs. Tennyson, “but it nearly killed Becca, what with her being so young. Sam saved her life.” “It wasn’t me,” said Sam. “It was the onions.” “I’m glad Becca’s all right,” Hattie said contritely. “I keep telling Jim he needs to wash his knives,” said Mr. Pike, who owned the general store. Hattie Parker excused herself, then turned and quickly walked away. “Tell Becca that when she feels up to it to come by the store for a piece of candy,” said Mr. Pike. “Thank you, I’ll do that.” Before returning home, Mrs. Tennyson bought a dozen onions from Sam. She gave him a dime and told him to keep the change. “I don’t take charity,” Sam told her. “But if you want to buy a few extra onions for Mary Lou, I’m sure she’d appreciate it.” “All right then,” said Mrs. Tennyson, “give me my change in onions.” Sam gave Mrs. Tennyson an additional three onions, and she fed them one at a time to Mary Lou. She laughed as the old donkey ate them out of her hand.

Concealing himself from his father's wrath, behind the barn with wick turned low and his face two inches from the rough sawtooth page, Young Crawford had read of these atrocities in Beadle's Dime Library and fantasized about "calling out" the brutal old man who had sired him, "throwing down" on him with the "hogleg" he wore high on his hip, and blasting him into hell; after which he would go "on the scout," separating high-interest banks and arrogant railroad barons from their soiled coin and distributing it among their victims, or failing that into his own pockets and saddle pouches and living the "high Life" in saloons and "dance halls" where beautiful women in brief costumes admired his straight legs and square jaw and told him of the men who had "ruined" them (he knew not just how, only that the act was disgraceful and its effects permanent), whereupon he sought the blackguards out and deprived them of their lives. There was usually profit involved; invariably the men were thieves who lived in close proximity to their "ill-gotten booty," and didn't it say somewhere in Scripture that robbing a thief was no sin? If it didn't, it should have.

I look at all the little children’s faces going by. And I sometimes think, What a shame, what a shame, that all these flowers have to be cut, all these bright fires have to be put out. What a shame these, all of these you see in schools or running by, have to get tall and unsightly and wrinkle and turn gray or get bald, and finally, all bone and wheeze, be dead and buried off away. When I hear them laugh I can’t believe they’ll ever go the road I’m going. Yet here they Come! I still remember Wordsworth’s poem: ‘When all at once I saw a crowd, A host of golden daffodils; Beside the lake, beneath the trees, Fluttering and dancing in the breeze.’ That’s how I think of children, cruel as they sometimes are, mean as I know they can be, but not yet showing the meanness around their eyes or in their eyes, not yet full of tiredness. They’re so eager for everything! I guess that’s what I miss most in older folks, the eagerness gone nine times out of ten, the freshness gone, so much of the drive and life down the drain. I like to watch school let out each day. It’s like someone threw a bunch of flowers out the school front doors. How does it feel, Willie? How does it feel to be young forever? To look like a silver dime new from the mint? Are you happy? Are you as fine as you seem?” ***

March 12 Dear Stargirl, Hey, you're a big girl now. Stop being such a baby. You think you're the only one who's ever lost a boyfriend? Boyfriends are a dime a dozen. You want to talk loss, look at all the loss around you. How about the man in the red and yellow plaid scarf? He lost Grace. BELOVED WIFE. I'll bet they were married over 50 years. You barely had 50 days with Leo. And you have the gall to be sad in the same world as that man. Betty Lou. She's lost the confidence to leave her house. Look at you. Have you ever stopped to appreciate the simple ability to open your front door and step outside? And Alvina the floor sweeper-she hates herself, and it seems she's got plenty of company. All she's losing is her childhood, her future, a worldful of people who will never be her friends. How would you like to trade places with her? Oh yes, lets not forget the footshuffling guy at the stone piles. Moss-green pom-pom. What did he say to you? "Are you looking for me?" It seems like he hasn't lost much, has he? Only...HIMSELF! Now look at you, sniveling like a baby over some immature kid in Arizona who didn't know what a prize he had, who tried to remake you into somebody else, who turned his back to you and left you to the wolves, who hijacked your heart and didn't even ask you to the Ocotillo Ball. What don't you understand about the message? Hel-loooo? Anybody home in there? You have your whole life ahead of you, and all your doing is looking back. Grow up, girl. There are some things they don't teach you in homeschool. Your Birth Certificate Self, Susan Caraway

Convinced that struggle was the crucible of character, Rockefeller faced a delicate task in raising his children. He wanted to accumulate wealth while inculcating in them the values of his threadbare boyhood. The first step in saving them from extravagance was keeping them ignorant of their father’s affluence. Until they were adults, Rockefeller’s children never visited his office or refineries, and even then they were accompanied by company officials, never Father. At home, Rockefeller created a make-believe market economy, calling Cettie the “general manager” and requiring the children to keep careful account books.16They earned pocket money by performing chores and received two cents for killing flies, ten cents for sharpening pencils, five cents per hour for practicing their musical instruments, and a dollar for repairing vases. They were given two cents per day for abstaining from candy and a dime bonus for each consecutive day of abstinence. Each toiled in a separate patch of the vegetable garden, earning a penny for every ten weeds they pulled up. John Jr. got fifteen cents an hour for chopping wood and ten cents per day for superintending paths. Rockefeller took pride in training his children as miniature household workers. Years later, riding on a train with his thirteen-year-old daughter, he told a traveling companion, “This little girl is earning money already. You never could imagine how she does it. I have learned what my gas bills should average when the gas is managed with care, and I have told her that she can have for pin money all that she will save every month on this amount, so she goes around every night and keeps the gas turned down where it is not needed.”17 Rockefeller never tired of preaching economy and whenever a package arrived at home, he made a point of saving the paper and string. Cettie was equally vigilant. When the children clamored for bicycles, John suggested buying one for each child. “No,” said Cettie, “we will buy just one for all of them.” “But, my dear,” John protested, “tricycles do not cost much.” “That is true,” she replied. “It is not the cost. But if they have just one they will learn to give up to one another.”18 So the children shared a single bicycle. Amazingly enough, the four children probably grew up with a level of creature comforts not that far above what Rockefeller had known as a boy.

Sorting Laundry" Folding clothes, I think of folding you into my life. Our king-sized sheets like tablecloths for the banquets of giants, pillowcases, despite so many washings, seems still holding our dreams. Towels patterned orange and green, flowered pink and lavender, gaudy, bought on sale, reserved, we said, for the beach, refusing, even after years, to bleach into respectability. So many shirts and skirts and pants recycling week after week, head over heels recapitulating themselves. All those wrinkles To be smoothed, or else ignored; they're in style. Myriad uncoupled socks which went paired into the foam like those creatures in the ark. And what's shrunk is tough to discard even for Goodwill. In pockets, surprises: forgotten matches, lost screws clinking the drain; well-washed dollars, legal tender for all debts public and private, intact despite agitation; and, gleaming in the maelstrom, one bright dime, broken necklace of good gold you brought from Kuwait, the strangely tailored shirt left by a former lover… If you were to leave me, if I were to fold only my own clothes, the convexes and concaves of my blouses, panties, stockings, bras turned upon themselves, a mountain of unsorted wash could not fill the empty side of the bed.

Defining moments. Intentional strategies. Adventurous living. Most of us spend our trips around the sun accumulating the wrong things. Possessions are a dime a dozen. Experiences are the currency of a life well lived.

At home, Rockefeller created a make-believe market economy, calling Cettie the “general manager” and requiring the children to keep careful account books.16They earned pocket money by performing chores and received two cents for killing flies, ten cents for sharpening pencils, five cents per hour for practicing their musical instruments, and a dollar for repairing vases. They were given two cents per day for abstaining from candy and a dime bonus for each consecutive day of abstinence. Each toiled in a separate patch of the vegetable garden, earning a penny for every ten weeds they pulled up. John Jr. got fifteen cents an hour for chopping wood and ten cents per day for superintending paths. Rockefeller took pride in training his children as miniature household workers. Years later, riding on a train with his thirteen-year-old daughter, he told a traveling companion, “This little girl is earning money already. You never could imagine how she does it. I have learned what my gas bills should average when the gas is managed with care, and I have told her that she can have for pin money all that she will save every month on this amount, so she goes around every night and keeps the gas turned down where it is not needed.

Nothing much changed in Walter Brennan’s domestic life even after he won his Academy Award and received rave reviews for both Come and Get It and Banjo on My Knee. He remembered hurrying home with his gold statuette, strutting in his borrowed tuxedo, and asking his wife how it felt to be married to an Academy Award winner. Ruth gave him a look and said, “Turn out the lights and go to bed. I lived with you when you didn’t have a dime.” His rare moment of bragging caught her off guard, and he had never spoke of stardom. It all seemed just work to him—or so Ruth supposed. Years later, she admitted she had not taken in the honor bestowed on her husband.

I don’t own a house, or a car, or even these clothes on my back. I haven’t purchased something for myself in over a decade. It took me a while to get the hang of it, I’ll admit that. Some nights I had no friends who’d let me sleep over or feed me. Or let me have one of their hoodies or coats on a cold night. So I’d give in and get a hotel room, order room service and buy some new clothes. But each time I failed, Senator, I’d spend the next week or two feeling guilty. And I’d try harder the next round. I’ve made it my mission in life not to spend a single dime of money on myself. My money wasn’t meant to better me, sir. It was meant to help others. So that’s what I do with it. I give it away.

Sadie began to sob, and I knew why. Life turns on a dime. Sometimes toward us, but more often it spins away, flirting and flashing as it goes: so long, honey, it was good while it lasted, wasn’t it?

You don’t just live your life one way for 19 years and turn on a dime.

For most of the jury selection, Arturo Hernandez had stopped coming to court. Daniel had hired a paralegal named Richard Salinas, who had wavy black hair, a pointed hatchet face, and dark eyes. Daniel would often confer with Salinas on important issues. Arturo had apparently become disillusioned with defending Richard. There was no big movie or book deal, and the case was costing him money. A television movie about the Night Stalker was in the works, but the Hernandezes hadn’t gotten a dime. As long as Richard refused to talk about his alleged crimes, nobody was willing to put up money. Daniel did his best, but the arduous task of being in court every day, staying in hotels away from his family in San Jose, and working without the benefit of co-counsel was taking its toll. He was tired, yet couldn’t sleep at night; he’d toss and turn and worry about the case, his two little girls, and his wife. He began eating excessively, and by the time the jury was finally sworn in, he’d gained twenty-five pounds.

Back on the island my parents come from, every one’s a little brujita. Everyone has the potential to unearth their powers and trap a lover, create a child, heal the sick, end their enemies, and even transform their life. Not everyone taps into that knowing, but it is always there at their disposal. People understand that while some are sprinkled with a little magic, others are born with the don, with the gift, with the full force. It is what it is. My people believe deeply, even if they wear their Catholic cloak on a daily basis for safety. But when shit hits the fan — and shit always hits the fan — they turn to the soil, to the skies, and the leaders of the other side. But this isn’t the island. This is not a place with an open vein of magic. This is a place where an entire race has oppressed and sat above the rest. On this land, the blood- spills always bubble back up to the surface, and instead of cleaning it, the oppressors constantly cover it up with cement. Entonces dime, who here would believe my vision?

Back on the island my parents come from, every one’s a little brujita. Everyone has the potential to unearth their powers and trap a lover, create a child, heal the sick, end their enemies, and even transform their life. Not everyone taps into that knowing, but it is always there at their disposal. People understand that while some are sprinkled with a little magic, others are born with the don, with the gift, with the full force. It is what it is. My people believe deeply, even if they wear their Catholic cloak on a daily basis for safety. But when shit hits the fan — and shit always hits the fan — they turn to the soil, to the skies, and the leaders of the other side. But this isn’t the island. This is not a place with an open vein of magic. This is a place where an entire race has oppressed and sat above the rest. On this land, the blood- spills always bubble back up to the surface, and instead of cleaning it, the oppressors constantly cover it up with cement. Entonces dime, who here would believe my vision?

Back on the island my parents come from, everyone’s a little brujita. Everyone has the potential to unearth their powers and trap a lover, create a child, heal the sick, end their enemies, and even transform their life. Not everyone taps into that knowing, but it is always there at their disposal. People understand that while some are sprinkled with a little magic, others are born with the don, with the gift, with the full force. It is what it is. My people believe deeply, even if they wear their Catholic cloak on a daily basis for safety. But when shit hits the fan — and shit always hits the fan — they turn to the soil, to the skies, and the leaders of the other side. But this isn’t the island. This is not a place with an open vein of magic. This is a place where an entire race has oppressed and sat above the rest. On this land, the blood- spills always bubble back up to the surface, and instead of cleaning it, the oppressors constantly cover it up with cement. Entonces dime, who here would believe my vision?

That was life though; it turned on a dime and the only thing she had control of was how she responded to what happened.

How fast, she thought, a person’s life can change. On a dime. In an instant. In literally a second. She’d seen this play out in over twenty-five years as a prosecutor, and she’d witnessed it in her own life. One decision. One wrong turn. One chest x-ray. Snap. The world flipped on its axis.

Things change so fast. Life turns on a dime.

I wish I could say I rushed back and confronted George to get his side of the story. I wish I could say I stood up to Vic and insisted that George be given a translator and allowed to defend himself or announced that I'd find a lawyer who'd handle the case pro bono. At the very least I should have testified as to the kid's honesty. The mystery to me is that there's not much worth stealing in the dry-storage room, at least not in any fenceable quantity: "Is Gyorgi here, and am having 200- maybe 250-catsup packets. What do you say?" My guess is that he had taken- if he had taken anything at all-some Saltines or a can of cherry pie mix and that the motive for taking it was hunger. So why didn't I intervene? Certainly not because I was held back by the kind of moral paralysis that can mask as journalistic objectivity. On the contrary, something new-something loathsome and servile-had infected me, along with the kitchen odors that I could still sniff on my bra when I finally undressed at night. In real life I am moderately brave, but plenty of brave people shed their courage in POW camps, and maybe something similar goes on in the infinitely more congenial milieu of the low-wage American workplace. Maybe, in a month or two more at Jerry's, I might have regained my crusading spirit. Then again, in a month or two I might have turned into a different person altogether - say, the kind of person who would have turned George in.

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