Nice Arrangement Quotes

Sister Mary chose that moment to come in with the tea. Satanist or not, she'd also found a plate and arranged some iced biscuits on it.

His dark blue shirt was plastered to his chest, covered with werewolf goop and tears. "Now we both need a bath," I said. "That can be arranged." "Please, Jean-Claude, no sexual innuendo until after I'm clean." "Of course, MA PETITE. It was crude of me tonight. My apologies." I stared at him. He was being far too nice. Jean-Claude was a lot of things, but nice wasn't one of them. "If you're up to something, I don't want to know about it. I can't handle any deep, dark plots tonight, okay?" He smiled and gave a low, sweeping bow, never taking his eyes off me. The way you bow on the judo mat when you're afraid the person may pound you if you look away. I shook my head. He WAS up to something. Nice to know that not everyone had suddenly become something else. One thing I could always depend on what Jean-Claude. Pain in the ass that he was, he always seemed to be there. Dependable in his own twisted way. Jean-Claude dependable? I must have been more tired than I thought.

...yourself into an information-overload-fueled frenzy, convinced that you could arrange the whole wedding yourself, and eventually killed one of your loved ones in a glue-gun-related mishap

I'm sorry, Max." She made a dismissive sound. "Yeah, well, the next time someone tries to shoot you, you're going to have buy me something really nice to make it up to me. Like Australia." "You want me to buy you a trip to Australia?" I asked, thinking that could probably be arranged. "No." Her reply was pert. "I want you to buy me Australia. You can afford it." I snorted. "I don't think it's for sale." "Then I guess that you have no choice but to avoid getting shot at." "I'll be careful," I promised.

The Arrangement was very simple, so simple in fact that it didn’t really deserve the capital letter, which it had got for simply being in existence for so long.

I don't hold to the idea that God causes suffering and crisis. I just know that those things come along and God uses them. We think life should be a nice, clean ascending line. But inevitably something wanders onto the scene and creates havoc with the nice way we've arranged life to fall in place.

But looking at this closet, so nice and arranged with their crazy lives at rest among these carefully placed clothes and footwear, she felt good about where they were. "Normal" was not a bad things in this lunatic world; it really was. No matter how it happened to be defined.

Oh, good grief," said Vimes. "Look, it's quite simple, man. I was expected to go "At last, alcohol!", and chugalug the lot without thinking. Then some respectable pillars of the community" - he removed the cigar from his mouth and spat - "were going to find me, in your presence, too - which was a nice touch - with the evidence of my crime neatly hidden but not so well hidden that they couldn't find it." He shook his head sadly. "The trouble is, you know, that once the taste's got you it never lets go." "But you've been very good, sir," said Carrot. "I've not seen you touch a drop for -" "Oh, that," said Vimes. "I was talking about policing, not alcohol. There's lots of people will help you with the alcohol business, but there's no one out there arranging little meetings where you can stand up and say, "My name is Sam and I'm a really suspicious bastard.

I was obviously born to draw better than most people, just as the widow Berman and Paul Slazinger were obviously born to tell stories better than most people can. Other people are obviously born to sing and dance or explain the stars in the sky or do magic tricks or be great leaders or athletes, and so on. I think that could go back to the time when people had to live in small groups of relatives -- maybe fifty or a hundred people at the most. And evolution or God or whatever arranged things genetically to keep the little families going, to cheer them up, so that they could all have somebody to tell stories around the campfire at night, and somebody else to paint pictures on the walls of the caves, and somebody else who wasn't afraid of anything and so on. That's what I think. And of course a scheme like that doesn't make sense anymore, because simply moderate giftedness has been made worthless by the printing press and radio and television and satellites and all that. A moderately gifted person who would have been a community treasure a thousand years ago has to give up, has to go into some other line of work, since modern communications put him or her into daily competition with nothing but the world's champions. The entire planet can get along nicely now with maybe a dozen champion performers in each area of human giftedness. A moderately gifted person has to keep his or her gifts all bottled up until, in a manner of speaking, he or she gets drunk at a wedding and tapdances on the coffee table like Fred Astair or Ginger Rogers. We have a name for him or her. We call him or her an 'exhibitionist.' How do we reward such an exhibitionist? We say to him or her the next morning, 'Wow! Were you ever _drunk_ last night!

I like doing my hair.” Matthias gave Nina a meaningful look. She scowled. “Why do you assume I know how to arrange hair?” “Because yours always looks so nice.” “Wait,” said Jesper. “Is he being charming?” He peered at Matthias. “How do we know this isn’t an impostor?

The hemulen woke up slowly and recognised himself and wished he had been someone he didn't know. He felt even tireder than when he went to bed, and here it was -- another day which would go on until evening and then there would be another one and another one which would be the same as all days are when they are lived by a hemulen. He crept under the bedcover and buried his nose in the pillow, then he shifted his stomach to the edge of the bed where the sheets were cool. He took possession of the whole bed with outstretched arms and legs he was waiting for a nice dream that wouldn't come. He curled up and made himself small but it didn't help a bit. He tried being the hemulen that everybody like, he tried being the hemulen that no one liked. But however hard he tried he remained a hemulen doing his best without anything really coming off. In the end he got up and pulled on his trousers. The Hemulen didn't like getting dressed and undressed, it gave him a feeling that the days passed without anything of importance happening. Even so, he spent the whole day arranging, organising and directing things from morning till night! All around him there were people living slipshod and aimless lives, wherever he looked there was something to be put to rights and he worked his fingers to the bone trying to get them to see how they ought to live. It's as though they don't want to live well, the Hemulen thought sadly as he brushed his teeth. He looked at the photograph of himself with his boat which was been taken when the boat was launched. It was a beautiful picture but it made him feel even sadder. I ought to learn how to sail, the Hemulen thought. But I've never got enough time... Moominvalley in November Chapter 5, THE HEMULEN

Then welcome, you poor things! I'm so gald you're here! I never get to talk to anyone except when I'm working, and then I'm supposed to say things like, 'Woe is me' and 'Beware' and 'Uncle Rupert is going to die.' And then they look at me like I have two heads, which I don't because I'm not a troll , and they always say, 'Oh, no, the banshee is here!' Do you know how that makes me feel? Every time I show up, people run screaming and warn everybody else that I'm around. Believe me, I've thought about staying home and sleeping late, but I can't because I care about people. Without me to warn them, people would die unexpectedly, and then where would their relatives be? When I tell them, they have time to make arrangments, say good-bye...you know-important things. I'm actually a very nice person; it's just that no one gives me a chance to prove it.

I taught how to be sociable with ink on paper. I told my students that when they were writing they should be good dates on blind dates, should show strangers good times. Alternatively, they should run really nice whorehouses, come one, come all, although they were in fact working in perfect solitude. I said I expected them to do this with nothing but idiosyncratic arrangements in horizontal lines of twenty-six phonetic symbols, ten numbers, and maybe eight punctuation marks, because it wasn't anything that hadn't been done before. In 1996, with movies and TV doing such good jobs of holding the attention of literates and illiterates alike, I have to question the value of my very strange, when you think about it, charm school. There is this: Attempted seductions with nothing but words on paper are so cheap for would-be ink-stained Don Juans or Cleopatras!They don't have to get a bankable actor or actress to commit to the project, and then a bankable director, and so on, and then raise millions and millions of buckareenies from manic-depressive experts on what most people want. Still and all, why bother? Here's my answer: Many people need desperately to receive this message: "I feel and think much as you do, care about many of the things you care about, although most people don't care about them. You are not alone.

My mother was, for the most part, delighted with my brother and regarded him with the bemused curiosity of a brood hen discovering she has hatched a completely different species. 'I think it was very nice of Paul to give me this vase,' she once said, arranging a bouquet of wildflowers into the skull-shaped bong my brother had left on the kitchen table. 'It's nontraditional, but that's the Rooster's way. He's a free spirit, and we're lucky to have him.

Jung has said that to be in a situation where there is no way out, or to be in a conflict where there is no solution, is the classical beginning of the process of individuation. It is meant to be a situation without solution: the unconscious wants the hopeless conflict in order to put ego-consciousness up against the wall, so that the man has to realise that whatever he does is wrong, whichever way he decides will be wrong. This is meant to knock out the superiority of the ego, which always acts from the illusion that it has the responsibility of decision. Naturally, if a man says, "Oh well, then I shall just let everything go and make no decision, but just protract and wriggle out of [it]," the whole thing is equally wrong, for then naturally nothing happens. But if he is ethical enough to suffer to the core of his personality, then generally because of the insolubility of the conscious situation, the Self manifests. In religious language you could say that the situation without issue is meant to force the man to rely on an act of God. In psychological language the situation without issue, which the anima arranges with great skill in a man's life, is meant to drive him into a condition in which he is capable of experiencing the Self. When thinking of the anima as the soul guide, we are apt to think of Beatrice leading Dante up to Paradise, but we should not forget that he experienced that only after he had gone through Hell. Normally, the anima does not take a man by the hand and lead him right up to Paradise; she puts him first into a hot cauldron where he is nicely roasted for a while.

Miss Edi: My brother Bertrand is the laziest person in the world. David: Oh yeah? And how lazy is that? Miss Edi: When he was three and saw all his gifts under the Christmas tree, he said, 'Who's going to open them for me?' David: I've heard worse. Miss Edi: When he was six, my father bought him a bicycle and took him out to teach him to ride it. David: And? Miss Edi: Bertrand did very well. My father ran along behind him, holding on, and my brother balanced perfectly. But when my father let go and the bicycle stopped, Bertrand asked why. When my father said he had to push on the pedals, my brother left it lying there in the street, and he never got on a bicycle again. David: Not bad, but I've heard worse. Miss Edi: When he was twelve, my parents took us out to a restaurant, the first one we'd ever been to, and my father ordered steaks for each of us. When my brother's came, he looked at it and asked how he was to eat it. My father showed him how to cut the steak, then how to chew it. My brother called the waiter back and ordered a bowl of mashed potatoes. David: Okay, that's getting up there, but I have heard a few worse. Miss Edi: When he was sixteen, my mother arranged for her beloved son to go to a dance with a very nice young girl. He was to pick her up at six pm. At six-thirty Bertrand was sitting in the living room and my father asked him why he hadn't gone on his date. My brother said, 'Because she hasn't come to get me yet.

He was a nice fellow,” Williams says. “He could be charming. He had his girlfriend, I had mine. But to me, sex is just a natural thing. We’d had sex a few times. Didn’t bother me. Didn’t bother him. I had my girlfriend, and he had his. It was just an occasional, natural thing that happened.” The expressions on the jurors’ faces suggest they do not find this arrangement natural at all.

You expect me to marry him." "Yes,of course," Finn said, almost wearily. "You're not even gonna try to..." I swallowed back tears and looked away from him. "When Elora told me, I fought with her. I fought for you." "I am sorry,Wendy." His voice had gotten low and thick. He stepped closer and raised his hand as if he meant to touch me,but dropped it instead. "But you will be happy with Tove. He can protect you." "I wish everyone would stop talking about him that way!" I sat back on the bed, exasperated. "Tove is a person! This is his life! Doesn't he deserve better than being somebody's watchdog?" "I can imagine worse things in life than being married to you," Finn said quietly. "Don't." I shook my head. "Don't joke. Don't be nice." I glared up at him. "You kept this from me. But worse still, you didn't fight for me." "You know why I can't,Wendy." His dark eyes smoldered, and his fists clenched at his side. "Now you know who you are and what you mean to the kingdom. I can't fight for something that isn't mine. Especially not when you mean so much to our people." "You're right,Finn,I'm not yours." I nodded, looking down at the floor. "I'm not anybody's. I have a choice in all of this, and so do you.But you have no right to take my choice away from me,to tell me who I should marry." "I didn't arrange this marriage," Finn said incredulously. "But you think I should marry him, and you've done nothing to stop it." I shrugged. "You might as well have arranged it yourself." I wiped at my eyes, and he didn't say anything. I lay down on my bed and rolled over so my back was to him. After a few mintues, I heard him walk away and the door shut behind him.

Young men for various reasons wanted their harder women, and women began to desire softer men. It seemed like a nice arrangement for a while, but we’ve lived with it long enough now to see that it isn’t working out.

Life is a cracked surface at best. Fiction is a nice edifice. / every word/sentence/paragraph gives a writer an opportunity to reinforce or deliberately crack the edifice by screwing with meaning, structure, grammar, the fourth wall, etc. / different types and degrees of cracking produce different arrangements of order and chaos.

She goes off to see a shrink, to see if she can improve herself, make herself over into a new woman, one who no longer gives a shit. She would like that. The shrink is a nice person; Roz likes her. Together the two of them labor over Roz's life as if it's a jigsaw puzzle, a mystery story with a solution at the end. They arrange and rearrange the pieces, trying to get them to come out better. They are hopeful: if Roz can figure out what story she's in, then they will be able to spot the erroneous turns she took, they can retrace her steps, they can change the ending. They work out a tentative plot.

Class, I'd like us all to give a warm mayflower elementary welcome to your new friend and classmate Jing Jang!" "Jin Wang" "Jin wang!" "He and his family recently moved to our neighborhood all the way from China!" "San Francisco." "San Francisco!" "Yes, Timmy." "My momma says Chinese people eat dogs." "Now be nice, Timmy!" -km sure Jin doesn't do that! In fact, Jin's family probably stopped that sort of thing as soon as they came to the united states!" The only other asian in my class was Suzy Nakamura. When the class finally figured out that we weren't related, rumors began to circulate that suzy and I were arranged to be married on her thirteenth birthday. We avoided each other as much as possible. (30-31)

Gunner shook his head; he wasn't in the mood. He stared down at his bottle as he spoke. "Yeah, and what if I do go after it and what if I find no one, and I'm alone for the next sixty years? What then? Huh? Friends and family will get married. I'll be stuck buying gifts. Years pass: children, birthday parties. At dinner parties, I'll be odd man out, forcing people to arrange five chairs around a table instead of four or six. Or, okay, let's say maybe twenty years down the line I meet someone nice and I've already given up on ever finding true love. Let's say the girl is a few pounds overweight, has fizzy hair and an annoying laugh, but at this point, I'm also a few pounds overweight and my hair is thinning and my laughter is annoying. Maybe then the two of us get married, and both our groups of friends will say, 'See I told you that you'd find true love. It just took a while.' And we'll smile, but we'll both know it's a lie--

Lee finished his third drink and turned to Allerton. “I figure to go down to South America soon,” he said. “Why don’t you come along? Won’t cost you a cent.” “Perhaps not in money.” “I’m not a difficult man to get along with,” said Lee. “We could reach a satisfactory arrangement. What you got to lose?” “Independence.” “So who’s going to cut in on your independence? You can lay all the women in South America if you want to. All I ask is be nice to Papa, say twice a week.

We both know the kandra wanted him on this mission, and they arranged the meeting with me to try to hook him. At the precinct, when I accomplish something, everyone assumes I had Waxillium’s help. Sometimes it’s like I’m no more than an appendage.” “You’re not that at all, Marasi,” Wayne said. “You’re important. You help out a lot. Plus you smell nice, and not all bloody and stuff.” “Great. I have no idea what you just said.” “Appendages don’t smell nice,” Wayne said. “And they’re kinda gross. I cut one outta a fellow once.” “You mean an appendix?” “Sure.” He hesitated. “So…” “Not the same thing.” “Right. Thought you was makin’ a metaphor, since people don’t need one of those and all.

Oh, Mrs. Kim’s nephew is gay too! He’s a nice boy. I’ll call her and arrange a coffee date, Jang-Wan.

I know better than most men that she is a conglomerate of skin, blood, tissue, bones, muscles and nerves, but only look how nicely arranged.

And I told Father Flood that since I would already be getting my reward in heaven, I have that nicely arranged, thank you, he owes me a favour that I would like repaid on this earth.

These places tend to have row upon row of neat bookshelves, arranged nicely. They are presented attractively for the same reason that kittens are cute—so that they can draw you in, then pounce on you for the kill. Seriously. Stay away from kittens. Public libraries exist to entice. The Librarians want everyone to read their books—whether those books are deep and poignant works about dead puppies or nonfiction books about made-up topics, like the Pilgrims, penicillin, and France. In fact, the only book they don’t want you to read is the one you’re holding right now.

once there was a beautiful young panther who had a co-wife and a husband. Her name was Lara and she was unhappy because her husband and her co-wife were really in love; being nice to her was merely a duty panther society imposed on them. They had not even wanted to take her into their marriage as co-wife, since there were already perfectly happy. But she was an "extra" female in the group and that would not do. Her husband sometimes sniffed her breath and other emanations. He even, sometimes, made love to her. but whenever this happened, the co-wife, whose name was Lala, became upset. She and the husband, Baba, would argue, then fight, snarling and biting and whipping at each other's eyes with their tails. Pretty soon they'd become sick of this and would lie clutched in each other's paws, weeping. I am supposed to make love to her, Baba would say to Lala, his heartchosen mate. She is my wife just as you are. I did not plan things this way. This is the arrangement that came down to me. I know it, dearest, said Lala, through her tears. And this pain that I feel is what has come down to me. Surely it can't be right? These two sat on a rock in the forest and were miserable enough. But Lara, the unwanted, pregnant by now and ill, was devastated. Everyone knew she was unloved, and no other female panther wanted to share her own husband with her. Days went by when the only voice she heard was her inner one. Soon, she began to listen to it. Lara, it said, sit here, where the sun may kiss you. And she did. Lara, it said, lie here, where the moon can make love to you all night long. and she did. Lara, it said, one bright morning when she knew herself to have been well kissed and well loved: sit here on this stone and look at your beautiful self in the still waters of this stream. Calmed by the guidance offered by her inner voice, Lara sat down on the stone and leaned over the water. She took in her smooth, aubergine little snout, her delicate, pointed ears, her sleek, gleeming black fur. She was beautiful! And she was well kissed by the sun and well made love to by the moon. For one whole day, Lara was content. When her co-wife asked her fearfully why she was smiling, Lara only opened her mouth wider, in a grin. The poor co-wife ran trembling off and found their husband, Baba, and dragged him back to look at Lara. When Baba saw the smiling, well kissed, well made love to Lara, of course he could hardly wait to get his paws on her! He could tell she was in love with someone else, and this aroused all his passion. While Lala wept, Baba possessed Lara, who was looking over his shoulder at the moon. Each day it seemed to Lara that the Lara in the stream was the only Lara worth having - so beautiful, so well kissed, and so well made love to. And her inner voice assured her this was true. So, one hot day when she could not tolerate the shrieks and groans of Baba and Lala as they tried to tear each other's ears off because of her, Lara, who by now was quite indifferent to them both, leaned over and kissed her own serene reflection in the water, and held the kiss all the way to the bottom of the stream.

I stand. "The Council wants Locke to arrange some amusement to please Grimsen. If it's nice, perhaps the smith will make you a cup that never runs out of wine." Carden gives me a look up through his lashes that I find hard to interpret and rises too. He takes my hand. "Nothing is sweeter," he says, kissing the back of it, "but that which is scarce." My skin flushes, hot and uncomfortable.

Is there one in particular, Tennyson?” Henry said, ducking out from under her arm. “I could arrange a meeting.” “Yeah, the one from Texas…what’s his name?” “That would be Dylan. But he’s a nice guy and you’d break his heart. He dropped out of Texas A&M to come up here and saddle bum around with my horses year-round. Knowing your dad, I think you’d better be looking for a pre-med honors student.” “Leave my dad out of this.

IF anybody had been there to observe the gentle-looking elderly lady who stood meditatively on the loggia outside her bungalow, they would have thought she had nothing more on her mind than deliberation on how to arrange her time that day. An expedition, perhaps, to Castle Cliff; a visit to Jamestown; a nice drive and lunch at Pelican Point_ or just a quiet morning on the beach. But the gentle old lady was deliberating quite other matters. She was in a militant mood.

He admired her surety. She knew her own worth and did not pretend otherwise for those who judged her on her parentage. But by refusing to tolerate fools and play nice, she'd condemned herself to a solitary path, both in defeat and in victory.

These places tend to have row upon row of neat bookshelves, arranged nicely. They are presented attractively for the same reason that kittens are cute—so that they can draw you in, then pounce on you for the kill. Seriously. Stay away from kittens.

When I was much younger and lived in Claybourne’s residence, Luke’s grandfather arranged an afternoon tea in the garden with a few of the girls my age. They arrived in coaches and carriages and they were so beautiful. Their laughter was soft and sweet, so very different from the harsh laugher in the rookeries. I thought, ‘Oh my goodness, I’m going to be like them.’ “They hurt me that day without touching me. They taught me that words can slice like a knife. They wanted to know about life in the rookeries, and I made the mistake of telling them that I slept with Luke and Jack and Jim. And sometimes at night, I still slept with Luke. They made it into something ugly. It was really rather innocent. To lie in the circle of someone’s arms while you sleep can be very, very nice. But I never slept with them again. Never told them why. Those girls took that from me. And I let them.

The angel had never really come to grips with the twentieth century, and didn't realize that it is perfectly possible to do ninety miles an hour down Oxford Street. You just arranged matters so that no one was in the way. And since everyone knew that it was impossible to do ninety miles an hour down Oxford Street, no one noticed.

The Memoirs became the most celebrated unfinished, unpublished, unread book in history. But Chateaubriand was still broke. So Madame Récamier came up with a new scheme, and this one worked - or sort of worked. A stock company was formed, and people bought shares in the manuscript. Word futures, I guess you could call them, in the same way that people from Wall Street gamble on the price of soybeans and corn. In effect, Chateaubriand mortgaged his autobiography to finance his old age. They gave him a nice chunk of money up front, which allowed him to pay off his creditors, and a guaranteed annuity for the rest of his life. It was a brilliant arrangement. The only problem was that Chateaubriand kept on living.

Is it always this awkward?" Sara asked. Her voice was hushed. Derek turned to look at her, his gaze falling to the white rose in her hands. She had taken it from the arrangement of hothouse flowers. Nervously her fingers ruffled the fragile petals. Self-consciously Sara sniffed the pale blossom and began to insert it back into the huge vase. "It's nice to have roses in January," she murmured. "Nothing in the world has such a lovely scent." She was so innocently beautiful, with the disordered waves of her hair falling around her face. His muscles tightened in response. He would like to have her painted this way, standing by the table with her head turned toward him, the white flower caught in her fingers. "Bring it here," he said. She obeyed, coming to him and handing him the rose. He closed his fingers around the plump head of the flower and pulled gently, freeing the petals from their tenuous moorings. Tossing aside the desecrated stem, he opened his hand over the bed. The petals scattered in a fragrant shower. Sara drew in a quick breath, staring at him as if mesmerized.

He had a point. The planet was being destroyed by manufacturing processes, and what was being manufactured was lousy, by and large. Then Trout made a good point, too. 'Well,' he said, 'I used to be a conservationist. I used to weep and wail about people shooting bald eagles with automatic shotguns from helicopters and all that, but I gave it up. There's a river in Cleveland which is so polluted that it catches fire about once a year. That used to make me sick, but I laugh about it now. When some tanker accidentally dumps its load in the ocean and kills millions of birds and billions of fish, I say, 'More power to Standard Oil' or whoever it was that dumped it.' Trout raised his arms in celebration. 'Up your ass with Mobil gas,' he said... 'I realized,' said Trout, 'that God wasn't any conservationist, so for anybody else to be one was sacrilegious and a waste of time. You ever see one of His volcanoes or tornadoes or tidal waves? Anybody ever tell you about the Ice Ages he arranges for every half-million years? How about Dutch Elm disease? There's a nice conservation measure for you. That's God, not man. Just about the time we got our rivers cleaned up, he'd probably have the whole galaxy go up like a celluloid collar...

I looked sadly at my final note on the page: July. Five whole months. An eternity. But what did it matter? Holmes and I would go ahead as we were - as we had been before I stood on a London pier and, seeing him resurrected from a fiery death, literally embraced an unexpected future. Patience, Russelll. And yet, I was afraid. That real life would intervene. That doubts would chew at our feet, causing one or both of us to edge away from the brink. That neither of us had really meant it, and the memory of those dockside sensations would turn to threat. That my gift to him was nothing but selfish impulse of an uncertain young girl. I felt his gaze on me, and put on a look of good cheer before raising my face. "Of course. July will do nicely-and will give us plenty of time to arrange a distraction to get your cousin and his shot-guns away from the house." He did not reply. Under his gaze, my smile faltered a bit. "It's fine, Holmes. You have commitments in Europe next month. I have much to do in Oxford. I will be here when you get back." Abruptly, he jumped to his feet and swept across the room to the door. I watched him thrust his long arms into the sleeves of his overcoat. "Thursday, Russell," he said, clapping his hat onto his head. "Be ready on Thursday." "For what?" I asked, but he was gone. For anything, knowing him.

...[W]hen's it all going to f***ing stop? I’m going to jump from rock to rock for the rest of my life until there aren’t any rocks left? I’m going to run each time I get itchy feet? Because I get them about once a quarter, along with the utilities bills. More than that, even… I’ve been thinking with my guts since I was fourteen years old, and frankly speaking, between you and me, I have come to the conclusion that my guts have s*** for brains. I know what's wrong with Laura. What's wrong with Laura is that I'll never see her for the first or second or third time again. I'll never spend two or three days in a sweat trying to remember what she looks like, never again will I get to a pub half an hour early to meet her staring at the same article in a magazine and looking at my watch every thirty seconds, never again will thinking about her set something off in me like "Let's Get it On" sets something off in me. And sure, I love her and like her and have good conversations, nice sex and intense rows with her, and she looks after me and worries about me and arranges the Groucho for me, but what does all that count for, when someone with bare arms, a nice smile, and a pair of Doc Martens comes into the shop and says she wants to interview me? Nothing, that's what, but maybe it should count for a bit more.

I felt a numb shock as I drove home anxious to get my chocolate flowers and wondering how my mother arranged to get them delivered to me at the exact time of her passing as promised. I arrived home to a note on my door to go to the neighbor on the right. I knocked at the door and the grouchy older man answered. Without saying a word, he went to his refrigerator, opened it and said, "I think these are for you." He handed me the large bouquet of fruits all cut out like flowers and dipped in chocolate."It looks like chocolate flowers." he said with a grin, adding "I had a few, and they were great!" I held my delivery. I opened the small envelope and read the card: Dear Jori, We appreciate you showing us homes and although it has been months, we thought of you and wanted to do something nice for you today. I hope you remember us. The Johnsons This was a previous client who was a pastor. He never knew I had a mother who had cancer nor did I ever mention the conversation about the chocolate flowers. It had been several months since I had heard from this couple who were considering purchasing a home. I called the client, whom I haven't spoken to in such a long time. I was confused and wanted to know what made them decide to send me chocolate flowers, and why that day, of all days? He said it was his wife's idea to do something nice for someone and they agreed it on it being me. Mrs. Johnson thought of the chocolate flowers.

I'm discussing how thought would properly work—and does in fact work in many areas—first, to show that thought is not all bad; and second, because to understand what has gone wrong we should have some understanding of how it would work when it is right. Q: Is this the difference between thinking and thought as you described earlier? Bohm: Thought just works automatically. But when you're thinking, you are ready to see when it doesn't work and you're ready to start changing it. 'Thinking' means that when the thing isn't working, something more is coming in—which is ready to look at the situation and change the thought if necessary. Q: Is thinking an element that's outside of thought? Bohm: It's a bit beyond thought. Let's put it that thinking is not purely the past; it's not purely a set of reflexes in the past. Q: Would thinking be more 'of the moment', more energized, and thought more passive in the past? Bohm: The past is active. That's the trouble. The past is not really the past—it's the effect of the past in the present. The past has left a trace in the present. Q: Then the thinking would be even more energized? Bohm: Yes. The thinking will be more energized because thinking is more directly in the present, because it includes the incoherence that thought is actually making. It may also include allowing new reflexes to form, new arrangements, new ideas. If the reflexes are all somewhat open and flexible and changeable, then it will work nicely.

Rayna beamed as she hugged everyone good-bye and accepted their wishes for a long and happy relationship. Sage looked dazed. “How did it go?” I asked. “I think your mother just arranged peace in the Middle East while brokering a marriage deal for Rayna and me.” “I’m not surprised. How many kids are you having?” “Four. But we can’t start until she’s twenty-six, three years after the wedding. Oh, and we’re honeymooning at the minister’s beach house in Tel Aviv.” “That’s nice. I’ll have to pop in for a visit.” Sage just shook his head, still shell-shocked. “Piri forgive you yet?” Ben grinned. “I don’t think so. She put an inch of garlic on everything she served me.” “Don’t take it personally. There’s lots of garlic in Hungarian food,” I assured him. “Including my chocolate torte,” Sage added. “Okay, you can take that personally,” I admitted.

It [the charcuterie] was almost on the corner of the Rue Pirouette and was a joy to behold. It was bright and inviting, with touches of brilliant colour standing out amidst white marble. The signboard, on which the name QUENU-GRADELLE glittered in fat gilt letter encircled by leaves and branches painted on a soft-hued background, was protected by a sheet of glass. On the two side panels of the shop front, similarly painted and under glass, were chubby little Cupids playing in the midst of boars' heads, pork chops, and strings of sausages; and these still lifes, adorned with scrolls and rosettes, had been designed in so pretty and tender a style that the raw meat lying there assumed the reddish tint of raspberry jam. Within this delightful frame, the window display was arranged. It was set out on a bed of fine shavings of blue paper; a few cleverly positioned fern leaves transformed some of the plates into bouquets of flowers fringed with foliage. There were vast quantities of rich, succulent things, things that melted in the mouth. Down below, quite close to the window, jars of rillettes were interspersed with pots of mustard. Above these were some boned hams, nicely rounded, golden with breadcrumbs, and adorned at the knuckles with green rosettes. Then came the larger dishes--stuffed Strasbourg tongues, with their red, varnished look, the colour of blood next to the pallor of the sausages and pigs' trotters; strings of black pudding coiled like harmless snakes; andouilles piled up in twos and bursting with health; saucissons in little silver copes that made them look like choristers; pies, hot from the oven, with little banner-like tickets stuck in them; big hams, and great cuts of veal and pork, whose jelly was as limpid as crystallized sugar. Towards the back were large tureens in which the meats and minces lay asleep in lakes of solidified fat. Strewn between the various plates and sishes, on the bed of blue shavings, were bottles of relish, sauce, and preserved truffles, pots of foie gras, and tins of sardines and tuna fish. A box of creamy cheeses and one full of snails stuffed with butter and parsley had been dropped in each corner. Finally, at the very top of the display, falling from a bar with sharp prongs, strings of sausages and saveloys hung down symmetrically like the cords and tassels of some opulent tapestry, while behind, threads of caul were stretched out like white lacework. There, on the highest tier of this temple of gluttony, amid the caul and between two bunches of purple gladioli, the alter display was crowned by a small, square fish tank with a little ornamental rockery, in which two goldfish swam in endless circles.

My Christmas present? That’s nice. But I’m not really in the mood to—” “Open the goddamn thing or I’ll kill you where you stand.” “Sir! Opening it.” She ripped the paper, stuffed it hurriedly in her pocket, and pulled off the lid. “It’s a key code.” “That’s right. It’s to the ground transpo that’ll be at the airport over in that foreign country. Air transpo’s been arranged, for two, on one of Roarke’s private shuttles. Round trip. Merry fricking Christmas. Do what you want with it.” “I—you—one of the shuttles? Free?” Peabody’s cheeks went pink as a summer rose. “And—and—and—a vehicle when we get there? It’s so… It’s so seriously mag.” “Great. Can we go now?” “Dallas!” “No. No. No hugs. No hugs. No. Oh, shit,” she muttered as Peabody threw her arms around her and squeezed. “We’re on duty, we’re in public. Let me go or I swear I’ll kick your ass so hard that extra five pounds you’re whining about will end up in Trenton.

I hope you don’t mind that we’re crashing,” Wes says. “I’m trying to escape a hunting expedition. No joke. Dad thinks I’ll be more of a man if I can blow a rabbit’s head off. And my response? ‘Sorry, Dad, but as tempting as it is to obliterate Peter Cottontail first thing on a Sunday morning, I promised Camelia I’d swing by her house, because she’s been begging to abuse my body for weeks.’” “And speaking of being delusional,” Kimmie segues, “did I mention that my plan to reunite my parents was totally dumb?” She leads us into my bedroom and then closes the door behind her. “They could smell the setup before their water glasses were even filled.” “How’s that?” I ask, taking a seat on my bed. “The violinist I arranged to serenade them at the table might have been a tip-off,” she begins. “Either that, or the wrist corsage I ordered for my mom. I handpicked the begonias and had the florist deliver it right to the table.” “Don’t forget about the oyster appetizer you preordered for the occasion,” Wes adds. “Because, you know what they say about oysters, right?” An evil grin breaks out across her face. ‘I know, I know.” She sighs, before I can even say anything. “I may have gone a little overboard, but what can I say? I’m a dorkus extremus. Hence my outit du jour.” She’s wearing a Catholic schoolgirl’s uniform, a pair of clunky black glasses (with the requisite amount of tape on the bridge), and a cone-shaped dunce cap. “Yes, but you’re a dorkus extremus with a nice set of begonias,” Wes teases.

I wanted to be Feinberg's student, but I didn't know how to go about it. Since it was premature for formal arrangements and since I was naturally reticent and shy, I simply began to greet him very politely whenever our paths crossed. Graduate school was a small community. In corridors and elevators and on campus, I was soon running into Feinberg several times a day, always giving him a polite hello and a nice smile. He would reciprocate similarly with a sort of nervous curling of the lips. As time passed, this limbo of flirtatious foreplay continued unabated. I could never find the courage to broach the question of being his student; I supposed I must have hoped it would just happen wordlessly. Every time I saw him I smiled; every time I smiled he bared his lips back at me with greater awkwardness. Our facial manipulations bore increasingly less resemblance to anything like a real smile; each of our reciprocated gestures was a caricature, a Greek theatrical mask signaling friendliness. One day, on about the fifth intersection of our paths on that particular day, I could stand it no longer. I saw him heading towards me down one of the long dark, old-fashioned Pupin corridors, and immediately turned towards the nearest stairwell and went up one floor to avoid him. Having succeeded at this once, I was compelled to do it repeatedly. Soon I was moving upstairs or downstairs to another floor as soon as I saw him approaching, like the protagonist in some ghastly version of the video game Lode Runner.

1. ‘ I hate people who collect things and classify things and give them names and then forget all about them. That’s what people are always doing in art.They call a painter an impressionist or a cubist or something and then they put him in a drawer and don’t see him as a living individual painter any more. But I can see they’re beautiful arranged.’ 2. ’ Do you know that every great thing in the history of art and every beautiful thing in life is actually what you call nasty or has been caused by feelings that you would call nasty? By passion, by love, by hatred, by truth. Do you know that?... Why do you keep on using these stupid words-nasty, nice, proper, right? Why are you so worried about what’s proper?...why do you take all the life out of life? Why do you kill all the beauty?’ 3. ‘ Because I can’t marry a man to whom I don’t feel I belong in all ways. My mind must be his, my heart must be his, my body must be his. Just as I must feel he belongs to me. ‘ 4.’ The only thing that really matters is feeling and living what you believe-so long as it’s something more than belief in your own comfort.’ 5. 'It’s weird. Uncanny. But there is a sort of relationship between us. I make fun of him, I attack him all the time, but he senses when I’m ‘soft’. When he can dig back and not make me angry. So we slip into teasing states that are almost friendly. It’s partly because I’m so lonely, it’s partly deliberate (I want make him relax, both for his own good and so that one dat he may make a mistake), so it’s part weakness, and part cunning, and part charity. But there’s a mysterious fourth part I can’t define. It can’t be friendship, I loathe him. Perhaps it’s just knowledge. Just knowing a lot about him. And knowing someone automatically makes you feel close to him. Even when you wish he was on another planet.’ 6.’ You must MAKE, always. You must act, if you believe something. Talking about acting is like boasting about pictures you’re going to paint. The most terrible form. If you feel something deeply, you’re not ashamed to show your feeling.’ 7. ‘ The women I’ve loved have always told me I’m selfish. It’s what makes them love me. And then be disgusted with me...But what they can’t stand is that I hate them when they don’t behave in their own way. ‘ 8. ‘ I love honesty and freedom and giving. I love making , I love doing, I love being to the full, I love everything which is not sitting and watching and copying and dead at heart. ‘ 9. ‘ I don’t know what love is...love is something that comes in different clothes, with a different way and different face, and perhaps it takes a long time for you to accept it, to be able to call it love.’ 10. ‘ All this business, it’s bound up with my bossy attitude to life. I’ve always known where I’m going, how I want things to happen. And they have happened as I have wanted, and I have taken it for granted that they have because I know where I’m going. But I have been lucky in all sorts of things. I’ve always tried to happen to life; but it’s time I let life happen to me. ‘ 11. ‘I said, what you love is your own love. It’s not love, it’s selfishness. It’s not me you think of, but what you feel about me.’ 12. ‘ The power of women! I’ve never felt so full of mysterious power. Men are a joke. We’re so weak physically, so helpless with things. Still, even today. But we’re stronger then they are. We can stand their cruelty. They can’t stand ours.

In case you haven't noticed,rodeos are a serious business.Careless cowboys tend to break bones,or even their skulls,as hard as that may be to believe." She stared down at the hand holding her wrist. Despite his smile,she could feel the strength in his grip. If he wanted to,he could no doubt break her bone with a single snap. But she wasn't concerned with his strength,only with the heat his touch was generating. She felt the tingle of warmth all the way up her arm.It alarmed her more than she cared to admit. "My job is to minimize damage to anyone who is actually hurt." "I'm grateful." He sat up so his laughing blue eyes were even with hers. If possible,his were even bluer than the perfect Montana sky above them. "What do you think? Any damage from that fall?" Her instinct was to move back,but his fingers were still around her wrist,holding her close. "I'm beginning to wonder if you were actually tossed from that bull or deliberately fell." "I'd have to be a little bit crazy to deliberately fell." "I'd have to be a little bit crazy to deliberately jump from the back of a raging bull just to get your attention, wouldn't I?" "Yeah." She felt the pull of that magnetic smile that had so many of the local females lusting after Wyatt McCord. Now she knew why he'd gained such a reputation in such a short time. "I'm beginning to think maybe you are. In fact,more than a little.A whole lot crazy." "I figured it was the best possible way to get you to actually talk to me. You couldn't ignore me as long as there was even the slightest chance that I might be hurt." There was enough romance in her nature to feel flattered that he'd go to so much trouble to arrange to meet her. At least,she thought,it was original. And just dangerous enough to appeal to a certain wild-and-free spirit that dominated her own life. Then her practical side kicked in, and she felt an irrational sense of annoyance that he'd wasted so much of her time and energy on his weird idea of a joke. "Oh,brother." She scrambled to her feet and dusted off her backside. "Want me to do that for you?" She paused and shot him a look guaranteed to freeze most men. He merely kept that charming smile in place. "Mind if we start over?" He held out his hand. "Wyatt McCord." "I know who you are." "Okay.I'll handle both introductions. Nice to meet you,Marilee Trainor. Now that we have that out of the way,when do you get off work?" "Not until the last bull rider has finished." "Want to grab a bite to eat? When the last rider is done,of course." "Sorry.I'll be heading home." "Why,thanks for the invitation.I'd be happy to join you.We could take along some pizza from one of the vendors." She looked him up and down. "I go home alone." "Sorry to hear that." There was that grin again,doing strange things to her heart. "You're missing out on a really fun evening." "You have a high opinion of yourself, McCord." He chuckled.Without warning he touched a finger to her lips. "Trust me.I'd do my best to turn that pretty little frown into an even prettier smile." Marilee couldn't believe the feelings that collided along her spine. Splinters of fire and ice had her fighting to keep from shivering despite the broiling sun. Because she didn't trust her voice, she merely turned on her heel and walked away from him. It was harder to do than she'd expected. And though she kept her spine rigid and her head high, she swore she could feel the heat of that gaze burning right through her flesh. It sent one more furnace blast rushing through her system. A system already overheated by her encounter with the bold, brash,irritatingly charming Wyatt McCord.

We say “universe” and the word makes us think of a possible unification of things. One can be a spiritualist, a materialist, a pantheist, just as one can be indifferent to philosophy and satisfied with common sense: the fact remains that one always conceives of one or several simple principles by which the whole of material and moral things might be explained. This is because our intelligence loves simplicity. It seeks to reduce effort, and insists that nature was arranged in such a way as to demand of us, in order to be thought, the least possible labor. It therefore provides itself with the exact minimum of elements and principles with which to recompose the indefinite series of objects and events. But if instead of reconstructing things ideally for the greater satisfaction of our reason we confine ourselves purely and simply to what is given us by experience, we should think and express ourselves in quite another way. While our intelligence with its habits of economy imagines effects as strictly proportioned to their causes, nature, in its extravagance, puts into the cause much more than is required to produce the effect. While our motto is Exactly what is necessary, nature’s motto is More than is necessary,—too much of this, too much of that, too much of everything. Reality, as James sees it, is redundant and superabundant. Between this reality and the one constructed by the philosophers, I believe he would have established the same relation as between the life we live every day and the life which actors portray in the evening on the stage. On the stage, each actor says and does only what has to be said and done; the scenes are clear-cut; the play has a beginning, a middle and an end; and everything is worked out as economically as possible with a view to an ending which will be happy or tragic. But in life, a multitude of useless things are said, many superfluous gestures made, there are no sharply-drawn situations; nothing happens as simply or as completely or as nicely as we should like; the scenes overlap; things neither begin nor end; there is no perfectly satisfying ending, nor absolutely decisive gesture, none of those telling words which give us pause: all the effects are spoiled. Such is human life.

Dilly Onion Rings This is Ellie Kuehn’s recipe. She tried serving it on a sausage pizza out at Bertanelli’s and it was really good!   One large mild or sweet onion (a red onion is nice—more colorful) 1/3 cup white (granulated) sugar 2 teaspoons salt 1 teaspoon fresh baby dill (it’s not as good with dried dill weed) ½ cup white vinegar ¼ cup water   4 large ripe tomatoes as an accompaniment (optional)   Cut the onion in thin slices. Separate the slices into rings and put them in a bowl. Combine the sugar, salt, dill, white vinegar, and water. Pour the liquid over the onion rings. Cover the bowl and refrigerate for at least 5 hours, stirring every hour or so. Serving suggestions: Slice large ripe tomatoes and arrange on a platter. Lift the onion rings out of the brine and sprinkle them on top of the tomato slices. Garnish with fresh, chopped

I'm Tamara, and I'll be overseeing your induction into the pack,” the pretty young brunette said. She was smiling at Craven, but seemed not to notice me. Craven was head and shoulders taller than Tamara, and he could see me scowling. That only seemed to encourage him. “How very nice to meet you Tamara.” Craven took her hand and held it to his lips. She giggled uncontrollably. “This way,” she said. “I'll cut your balls off,” I whispered to him as we followed. He blew me a kiss which I brushed away.   “These are your papers. You shouldn't need them, but just in case. We wouldn't want any misunderstandings.” She handed an ID card to each of us. “We have arranged a small apartment on the west side of the city. It isn't anything special I'm afraid, but it should meet your needs.” “Does it have room for children?” Craven asked. “You have children?” “Not yet, but we plan to.” Craven put an arm around me. Tamara's smile evaporated. “We may have to relocate you when and if that happens. She glanced at me, and then back to Craven. “It's good to have you in the pack.” “Thank you,” I said. Tamara scowled.

You're like, a kick ass ninja of niceness.

She leaned forward and placed her chin on her fist. 'So. Can you tell me in a sentence or two how I can fix my life using vaastu shastra techniques?' He smiled. 'You'll be surprised to hear that I can. These things may be complex on the surface, but they are built on very simple truths.' He leaned back and joined his fingertips together, looking up and thinking for a few seconds. 'Let me put it like this. Consider your desk, whether it is an office desk, or a table at home where you receive and write letters. What happens at that desk? Answer: every day, a number of letters are received. Or faxes. Or advertisements. These are all items with potential energy applications. They are all bits of paper urging you to react in some way—to buy a product, or respond with a phone call, or change the way you do something. Now what we should do is to react to that potential energy transaction in some way—and thus burn up the energy in it. We should either fulfill it, by doing what it says, or we should make a decision that we are not going to fulfill it, but instead throw the paper away. But, instead, we take that piece of paper and we balance it on our desk, unwilling to make an immediate decision. This happens to a number of pieces of paper every day, and then before we know it, there is a huge pile of pieces of paper on the desk. When it gets too high, we take the pile of paper and we tuck it into a drawer. When the drawer gets so full it cannot close, we tuck the paper into a cardboard box and stick it under the desk. Soon our desks are jammed with paper—underneath, inside & on top.' 'Good God! You've been spying on me!' 'Alas, it is what most people's desks look like.' 'What's the effect of all these unfulfilled bits of paper? What did you call it—potential energy transactions?' 'I shall tell you. The day comes when you arrive at your desk, and you have lots of work to do, but you can't do it. You feel an incredible amount of inertia. You can't get started. And you have no idea why.' 'You peeping Tom! You've been staring at me through my office window.' 'The reason why you can't get started is that your desk is swamped with frozen energy. It is lying there, waiting to be handled. But the inertia infects everything you do, so that you end up unable to do anything.' She shook her head. 'It's awful, but it all rings true. What about computers? I use mostly email these days.' 'They're just the same. The only difference is that instead of physical letters arriving at your desk, emails arrive in your inbox. Again, each of them is a potential energy transaction. And again, the right thing to do would be to delete each one, or reply to each one—and then delete it. But that's not what we do, is it?' 'It is not.' 'We leave them there in our inboxes.' She nodded guiltily. 'And soon there are 600 emails in our inboxes.' '800.' 'And eventually, we select them all and stick them in a file called "archive"—which is simply the computer equivalent of the cardboard box under the desk. And the result is the same. Our email systems become full of frozen energy, & inertia spreads out of it. We find ourselves unable to do any useful work.' 'I've often wondered why I feel like I am walking in treacle. So what should one do about all this?' Sinha waved a bony index finger at her. 'This is what I recommend. Divide all your paperwork into 2 piles. One of stuff that is useless and should be thrown away. And one of stuff which you think may be of use one day. Then you throw both piles away.' 'Both piles?' 'Both piles. By that stage, you will have started to feel the benefits that clarity can bring.' 'And I suppose one should delete all one's emails as well.' 'Exactly. Even if you don’t, that nice Mr. Gates has arranged for the computer to crash every few years, so that all your stuff gets wiped out anyway.

I know what's wrong with Laura. What's wrong with Laura is that I'll never see her for the first or second or third time again. I'll never spend two or three days in a sweat trying to remember what she looks like, never again will I get to a pub half an hour early to meet her, staring at the same article in a magazine and looking at my watch every thirty seconds, never again will thinking about her set something off in me like 'Let's Get It On' sets something off in me. And sure, I love her and like her and have good conversations, nice sex and intense rows with her, and she looks after me and worries about me and arranges the Groucho for me, but what does all that count for, when someone with bare arms, a nice smile, and a pair of Doc Martens comes into the shop and says she wants to interview me? Nothing, that's what, but maybe it should count for a bit more.

Wait, are we dating now?” “Don't be silly. I haven't asked you out yet.” “So what is this?” “Really fucking nice,” he said. Then he frowned. “Or is it really nice fucking? Fuck it, who cares? I bet it's both.” He kissed me again. And then he rolled into me and there were more than kisses, and you know what? He was right. It was both.

The New Dog I. “I’m intensely afraid of almost everything. Grocery bags, potted poinsettias, bunches of uprooted weeds wilting on a hot sidewalk, clothes hangers, deflated rubber balls, being looked in the eye, crutches, an overcoat tossed across the back of a chair (everybody knows empty overcoats house ghosts), children, doorways, music, human hands and the newspaper rustling as my owner, in striped pajamas, drinks coffee and turns its pages. He wants to find out where there’ll be war in the mid-east this week. Afraid even of eating, if someone burps or clinks a glass with a fork, or if my owner turns the kitchen faucet on to wash his hands during my meal I go rigid with fear, my legs buckle, then I slink from the room. I pee copiously if my food bowl is placed on the floor before the other dogs’. I have to be served last or the natural order of things - in which every moment I am about to be sacrificed - (have my heart ripped from my chest by the priest wielding his stone knife or get run out of the pack by snarling, snapping alphas) - the most sacred hierarchy, that fated arrangement, the glue of the universe, will unstick. The evolution will never itself, and life as we know it will subside entirely, until only the simplest animal form remain - jellyfish headless globs of cells, with only microscopic whips for legs and tails. Great swirling arms of gas will arm wrestle for eons to win cosmic dominance. Starless, undifferentiated chaos will reign. II. I alone of little escaped a hell of beating, neglect, and snuffling dumpsters for sustenance before this gullible man adopted me. Now my new owner would like me to walk nicely by his side on a leash (without cowering or pulling) and to lie down on a towel when he asks, regardless of whether he has a piece of bologna in his pocket or not. I’m growing fond of that optimistic young man in spite of myself. If only he would heed my warnings I’d pour out my thoughts to him: When panic strikes you like a squall wind and disaster falls on you like a gale, when you are hunted and scorned, wisdom shouts aloud in the streets: What is consciousness? What is sensation? What is mind? What is pain? What about the sorrows of unwatered houseplants? What indoor cloudburst will slake their thirst? What of my littler brothers and sisters, dead at the hands of dirty two legged brutes? Who’s the ghost in the universe behind its existence, necessary to everything that happens? Is it the pajama-clad man offering a strip of bacon in his frightening hand (who’ll take me to the park to play ball if he ever gets dressed)? Is it his quiet, wet-eyed, egg-frying wife? Dear Lord, Is it me?

My dear Countess,” a fluting voice said at my right ear, and Lady Tamara’s soft hand slid along my arm, guiding me toward the lowest tier near the fireplace. Several people moved away, and we sank down onto the cushions there. Tamara gestured to one of the hovering foot-servants, and two glasses of wine were instantly brought. “Did I not predict that you would show us the way at the races as well?” “I won only once,” I said, fighting against embarrassment. Deric was grinning. “Beat me,” he said. “Nearly beat Renna.” “I had the best horse,” I countered. For a moment the conversation turned from me to the races the week before. It had been a sudden thing, arranged on the first really nice day we’d had, and though the course was purported to be rough, I had found it much easier than riding mountain trails. As Deric described the last obstacles of the race in which I had beaten him, I saw the shy red-haired Lord Geral listening with a kind of ardent expression in his eyes. He was another who often sought me out for dances but rarely spoke otherwise. Might my rose and ring have come from him? Tamara’s voice recalled my attention “…the way with swords as well, dear Countess?” I glanced at her, sipping at my wine as I mentally reached for the subject. “It transpires,” Tamara said with a glinting smile, “that our sharpest wits are also experts at the duel. Almost am I willing to rise at dawn, just to observe you at the cut and the thrust.” I opened my mouth to disclaim any great prowess with the sword, then realized that I’d walk right into her little verbal trap if I did so. Now, maybe I’m not any kind of a sharp wit, but I wasn’t going to hand myself over for trimming so easily. So I just smiled and sipped at my wine. Fialma’s faint, die-away voice was just audible on Tamara’s other side. “Tamara, my love, that is not dueling, but mere swordplay.” Tamara’s blue eyes rounded with perplexity. “True, true, I had forgotten.” She smiled suddenly, her fan waving slowly in query mode. “An academic question: Is it a real duel when one is favored by the opponent?” Fialma said, “Is it a real contest, say, in a race when the better rider does not ride?” She turned her thin smile to Shevraeth. “Your grace?” The Marquis bowed slightly, his hands at an oblique angle. “If a stake is won,” he said, “it is a race. If the point draws blood, it is a duel.” A murmur of appreciative laughter met this, and Fialma sighed ever so slightly. “You honor us,” she murmured, sweeping her fan gracefully in the half circle of Intimate Confidence, “with your liberality…” She seated herself at the other side of the fireplace and began a low-voiced conversation with Lady Dara, the heir to a northern duchy. Just beyond Fialma’s waving fan, Lord Flauvic’s metal-gold eyes lifted from my face to Shevraeth’s to Tamara’s, then back to me. What had I missed? Nee’s cheeks were glowing, but that could have been her proximity to the fire. Branaric spoke then, saluting Shevraeth with his wineglass. “Duel or dabble, I’d hie me to those practices, except I just can’t stomach rough work at dawn. Now, make them at noon, and I’m your man!” More laughter greeted this, and Bran turned to Flauvic. “How about you? Join me in agitating for a decent time?” Lord Flauvic also had a fan, but he had not opened it. Holding it horizontally between his fingers in the mode of the neutral observer, he said, “Not at any time, Tlanth. You will forgive me if I am forced to admit that I am much too lazy?

In 2012, a series of studies compared men in more "modern" marriages (whose wives worked outside the home full-time) to men in more "traditional" marriages (whose wives worked at home). The researchers wanted to determine if a man's home arrangement affected his professional behavior. It did. Compared to men in modern marriages, men in more traditional marriages viewed the presence of women in the workforce less favorably. They also denied promotions to qualified female employees more often and were more likely to think that companies with a higher percentage of female employees ran less smoothly. The researchers speculated that men in traditional marriages are not overtly hostile toward women but instead are "benevolent sexists" ---holding positive yet outdated views about women (another term I have heard is "nice guy misogynists").

Very well. Since you won’t divulge her location, answer me this. Why would Miss Plum turn down a respectable offer of marriage from a gentleman such as my Bram?” “Why is it that ladies seem to believe I enjoy discussing these types of personal matters?” Mr. Skukman countered. Iris continued as if Mr. Skukman had not spoken. “Bram is a wealthy, eligible, and influential gentleman who owns his own castle—not to mention his stellar good looks.” “You’re his mother. Of course you’re going to believe he has stellar good looks.” “You don’t believe my Bram is handsome?” “Yet another topic I’m not comfortable discussing, but . . . I suppose if I really consider the matter, yes . . . Mr. Haverstein’s features are adequately arranged, but Miss Plum is not a lady who is impressed by a handsome face.” “She’s an actress.” Mr. Skukman let out a bit of a growl, which had Lucetta immediately stepping from behind the curtain. “Thank you, Mr. Skukman, but I think it might be for the best if I take it from here.” “Were you hiding behind the curtains?” Iris demanded. “Obviously,” Lucetta said as she headed across the room, stepping in between Iris, who was looking indignant, and Mr. Skukman, who’d adopted his most intimidating pose—a pose that didn’t appear to intimidate Iris in the least. “Now then,” Lucetta began, sending Mr. Skukman a frown when he cracked his knuckles, “from what I overheard, you’re here, Mrs. Haverstein, to learn why I rejected Bram’s offer.” Iris lifted her chin. “That’s one of the reasons I’ve sought you out.” “Lovely, and before we address those other reasons, allow me to say that the reason I refused Bram’s proposal was because your son was offering to marry a woman who doesn’t exist. He simply has yet to realize that.” Iris narrowed her eyes. “Bram could provide you with everything.” “I’m fairly good at providing for myself, Mrs. Haverstein.” Iris’s eyes narrowed to mere slits. “What are you really playing at? Are you, by chance, hoping that because you turned him down, he’ll make you a better offer?” Lucetta’s brows drew together. “What else could he possibly offer me that would be more appealing than his name?” For a second, Iris looked a little taken aback, but she rallied quickly. “You may be the type of woman who prefers the freedom spinsterhood provides, so I would imagine you’re holding out for a nice place in the city, replete with all the fashionable amenities.” Even though Lucetta was well aware of the reputation most actresses were assumed to enjoy, and even though such insinuations normally never bothered her, a sliver of hurt wormed its way into her heart. Before she could summon up a suitable response, though, Abigail suddenly breezed into the room. “Lucetta is like a granddaughter to me, Iris, and as such, you will treat her accordingly, as well as apologize for your serious lack of manners,” Abigail said as she plunked her hands on her hips and scowled at her daughter. At first, it seemed that Iris wanted to argue the point, but then she blew out a breath and nodded Lucetta’s way. “My mother is quite right. That was unkind of me, and unfair. Forgive me.” Lucetta

There,” Lucetta proclaimed. “You’re completely buttoned. Now all we have to do is fix your hair, and you’ll be perfect.” “I don’t know how you’re intending to fix my hair, especially since it’s still soaking wet, and . . . stiff with sea salt.” “I’m an actress. Fixing appearances is my specialty.” Lucetta looked a little smug as she adjusted the large hat she’d plopped over her head. “My hair is salt-soaked as well, but no one will notice since I’ve arranged my hat just so, lending me a rather mysterious air.” “You could plop a bowl of fruit on your head and you’d still look mysterious,” Millie said. “I wish I had one of my caps handy. That would solve my hair crisis nicely.” Everett caught Millie’s eye. “I never liked your caps.” “They’re practical.” “And ugly,” Lucetta added, smiling over Millie’s head at him. She pulled a hat from behind her on the seat that was a little squished, and stuck it on Millie’s head, pulling a pin out of the bodice of her dress and sticking it through the hat. “There—you’re adorable.” “I

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!  

Next morning, when I got up, the inside temperature was 300 below zero. The new arrangement was working quite nicely indeed.

Onion Soup Gratinée YIELD: 4 SERVINGS ONE OF MY greatest treats when working in Paris was to go with my fellow chefs and commis to les Halles, the big market of Paris that spreads through many streets of the Châtelet neighborhood. The excitement in the streets and cafés started a little before 3:00 A.M. and ended around 7:00 or 8:00 A.M. Our nocturnal forays would, more often than not, finish at Le Pied de Cochon (The Pig’s Foot), the quintessential night brasserie of les Halles. There, large, vociferous butchers in bloody aprons would rub shoulders with tuxedoed and elegantly evening-gowned Parisians stopping by for late-night Champagne and a meal after the opera or the theater. The restaurant was famous for its onion-cheese gratinée; it was one of the best in Paris, and hundreds of bowls of it were served every night. For this recipe, you will need four onion soup bowls, each with a capacity of about 12 ounces and, preferably, with a lip or rim around the edge that the cheese topping will stick to as it melts to form a beautiful crust on top of the soup. 2 tablespoons unsalted butter 3 onions (about 12 ounces), cut into thin slices About 7 cups good-quality chicken stock, or a mixture of chicken and beef stock About ½ teaspoon salt, more or less, depending on the saltiness of the stock ½ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper 16 slices of baguette, each cut about ⅜ inch thick About 3 cups grated Swiss cheese, preferably Gruyère, Comté, or Emmenthaler (about 10 ounces) Melt the butter in a saucepan, and sauté the sliced onions in the butter over medium to high heat for about 8 minutes, or until lightly browned. Add the stock, salt, and pepper, and boil gently for 15 minutes. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 400 degrees. Arrange the bread slices in a single layer on a tray, and bake them for 8 to 10 minutes, or until they are nicely browned. Divide the toast among the bowls, and sprinkle ¼ cup of cheese into each bowl. When the stock and onions have cooked for 15 minutes, pour the soup into the bowls, filling each to the top. Sprinkle on the remainder of the cheese, dividing it among the bowls and taking care not to push it down into the liquid. Press the cheese around the rim or lip of the bowls, so it adheres there as it cooks and the crust does not fall into the liquid. Arrange the soup bowls on a baking sheet, and bake for 35 to 45 minutes, or until a glorious brown, rich crust has developed on top. Serve hot right out of the oven.

The dessert plates were arranged with delicate biscuits and pineapple cream served in cunning little glazed pots. Sir Ross introduced a new topic of conversation concerning some recently proposed amendments to the Poor Law, which both he and Gentry supported. Surprisingly, Sophia offered her own opinions on the subject, and the men listened attentively. Lottie tried to conceal her astonishment, for she had been taught for years that a proper woman should never express her opinions in mixed company. Certainly she should say nothing about politics, an inflammatory subject that only men were qualified to debate. And yet here was a man as distinguished as Sir Ross seeming to find nothing wrong in his wife's speaking her mind. Nor did Gentry seem displeased by his sister's outspokenness. Perhaps Gentry would allow her the same freedom. With that pleasant thought in her mind, Lottie consumed her pineapple cream, a rich, silky custard with a tangy flavor. Upon reaching the bottom of the pot, she thought longingly of how nice it would be to have another. However, good manners and the fear of appearing gluttonous made it unthinkable to request seconds. Noticing the wistful glance Lottie gave her empty dish, Gentry laughed softly and slid his own untouched dessert to her plate. "You have even more of a taste for sweets than little Amelia," he murmured in her ear. His warm breath caused the hair on the back of her neck to rise. "We didn't have desserts at school," she said with a sheepish smile. He took his napkin and dabbed gently at the corner of her mouth. "I can see that I'll have a devil of a time trying to compensate for all the things you were deprived of. I suppose you'll want sweets with every meal now." Pausing in the act of lifting her spoon, Lottie stared into the warm blue eyes so close to hers, and suddenly she felt wreathed in heat. Ridiculous, that all he had to do was speak with that caressing note in his voice, and she could be so thoroughly undone.

Come on,' said Peter suddenly to Edmund and Lucy. 'Our time's up.' 'What do you mean?' said Edmund. 'This way,' said Susan, who seemed to know all about it. 'Back into the trees. We've got to change.' 'Change what?' asked Lucy. "Our clothes, of course,' said Susan. 'Nice fools we'd look on the platform of an English station in these.' 'But our other things are at Caspian's castle,' said Edmund. 'No, they're not,' said Peter, still leading the way into the thickest wood. 'They're all here. They were brought down in bundles this morning. It's all arranged.' 'Was that what Aslan was talking to you and Susan about this morning?' asked Lucy. 'Yes - that and other things,' said Peter, his face very solemn. 'I can't tell it to you all. There were things he wanted to say to Su and me because we're not coming back to Narnia.' 'Never?' cried Edmund and Lucy in dismay. 'Oh, you two are,' answered Peter. 'At least, from what he said, I'm pretty sure he means you to get back some day. But not Su and me. He says we're getting too old.' 'Oh, Peter,' said Lucy. 'What awful bad luck. Can you bear it?' 'Well, I think I can,' said Peter. 'It's all rather different from what I thought. You'll understand when it comes to your last time. But, quick, here are our things.

The other major oil industry suppliers were similarly weary, trying to shore up earnings by slashing jobs, trimming project costs, and squeezing their own customers and suppliers wherever they could. (The wildcatters had it worse: many of the mom-and-pop operators of the American oil patch started to file for bankruptcy.) One year later, GE would merge its oil and gas unit into the oil-field giant Baker Hughes, keeping for itself a more than 50 percent stake in the company and spinning out a new public company to be run by Simonelli, under GE’s control. The transaction eased GE’s exposure to the ongoing oil rout and gave the new company, dubbed “Baker Hughes, a GE company,” vast new areas of redundant employees and operations to eliminate. With Baker Hughes, GE changed its tone a bit. The deal was transformational, but in which intended direction wasn’t made clear. GE execs like Bornstein would proclaim that the deal gave them “optionality,” but the reality was that investors were left in the dark on the strategy: Was GE doubling down on oil? Or was it preparing to exit the industry? The idea of holding such a long-term option was nice, but the game pieces in the positioning were people, and those who didn’t leave their job had no idea where the future of the company might be. The new arrangement didn’t spare Lufkin. The historic foundry was closed. The city’s annual financial report now just shows a blank line when listing the company’s employment tally, evidence of the more than four thousand jobs that evaporated after GE came to town. Between two Mondays—the day GE announced it was coming to Lufkin and the day the company said it would move on, leaving a shuttered foundry at the center of town—just 868 days had passed.

Pastry for double-crust, 9-inch pie ¾ cup sugar 1 teaspoon nutmeg Enough pared and sliced apples to fill a 9-inch pie generously 1 ½ tablespoons butter, cut into small pieces ½ cup liquid honey 1 tablespoon grated orange rind Confectioners’ sugar Preheat oven to 425° F. Prepare pastry sufficient for a double-crust, 9-inch pie. Roll out half the dough and line the pie plate. Combine sugar and nutmeg; pour over apples, lifting and tossing with two forks until well combined. Pile fruit into pie pan, heaping to make a nice fat pie, and dot with butter. Roll out remaining pastry and cut into ½-inch strips. Arrange strips lattice fashion over apples, pressing edges down firmly. Bake 10 minutes, then lower the oven temperature to 350°F. Bake 30–40 minutes more, or until apples are tender and crust is brown. Remove from oven. Combine honey and orange rind, and pour mixture through openings in lattice; return pie to oven and bake another 5 minutes. Cool to lukewarm and dredge with confectioners’ sugar. Serve warm or cold.

Besides." Finn had a little smirk on. "The last thing Aiden needs right now is another protector. What he should do is have a year alone to work out who he is: To learn to be his own man for a change. He doesn't want to go to your house and end up your boy instead." ... "I'm sure you'd be kinder as a master," Finn sneered, "but is that the arrangement you want? Even if it is, you can't have it until he's sufficiently his own man to be able to consent. I tell you this, if you take him in now as he is, it'll be abuse, no matter now nice you are about it." And of course the worse thing about them was that they were right.

Gnocchi à la Romaine (ROMAN GNOCCHI) YIELD: 4 SERVINGS ATHOUGH MOST PEOPLE associate gnocchi with the Italian kitchen, gnocchi à la parisienne (little dumplings made with choux paste) and gnocchi à la romaine, made from semoule des blé dur, called semolina in Italian, were standards on the menu of Le Plaza Athénée. I still love semolina gnocchi and make them a few times a year for family and friends. They make a great starter to a meal and are just as good as an accompaniment with poultry or veal. 2 cups whole milk ¾ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper Dash of grated nutmeg ½ cup semolina (granulated hard durum wheat flour) 2 large eggs 1 teaspoon good olive oil ¾ cup grated Comté or Gruyère cheese (2 ounces) ¼ teaspoon salt ¼ teaspoon freshly ground black pepper ½ cup heavy cream Bring 1¾ cups of the milk to a boil in a medium saucepan with the salt, pepper, and nutmeg. As soon as the milk boils, pour the semolina into it in a steady stream while mixing it in with a whisk. Reduce the heat to low, and cook for 1 to 2 minutes, stirring occasionally with the whisk. The mixture should be very thick and smooth. Meanwhile, break the eggs into a small bowl, add the remaining ¼ cup milk, and beat with a fork until smooth. Add to the semolina in the pan, and mix in well with a whisk. Cook and stir for about 30 seconds, until very thick. Set aside while you line a 9-×-6-inch baking dish with plastic wrap, so the ends overhang the sides of the dish. Pour the mixture into it, and using the plastic wrap liner, press on the dough so that it is about ¾ inch thick. Let cool. Preheat the oven to 425 degrees. Cut the cold gnocchi dough into 3-inch squares (you will have 6 squares), oil a gratin dish with the teaspoon of oil, and arrange the gnocchi in the dish, leaving a little space between them. Sprinkle the grated cheese, salt, and pepper on top, and bake for about 15 minutes, until lightly browned and hot. Remove from the oven, and move the oven shelf 6 to 8 inches from the heat source. Pour the cream over the gnocchi, and return the dish to the oven. Immediately switch the oven setting to broil, and broil the gnocchi for about 5 minutes, or until nicely browned on top. Serve.

Already thirty-six, and to have a younger sister married first? What ever happened to that nice boy Jesse? Did she scare him off? She is not too old yet, nah? My cousin’s nephew has a job now. I will make the arrangements!

Religion is reassurance. It is community. It is the conductor that helps orchestrate our lives. It allows you to discover who you are, why you’re here, and what you do best. Webster’s Dictionary defines orchestrate as “to arrange or combine so as to achieve a maximum effect.” Orchestration means harmonious organization. Wouldn’t it be nice to know that your life is harmoniously organized…not just what you do or when you do it, but how, where, and why as well? Discover these answers for yourself and you’ll be well on your way to a more meaningful life. Religion is not meant to punish us: it is meant to set us free from guilt, anxiety, and discord. This is what we teach our children in the South. We accommodate changing times through unchanging principles. We embrace the future, without forgetting the past. In the South, life is like a tree. The branches shelter us from the tragedies and sorrows of life, but ultimately we have to grow. Seeds are placed within us: the seeds of hope, love, and forgiveness. Hope never dies, always bringing back joy and keeping peace in our hearts. Grits know that religion is life itself--that quiet escape from the daily grind that has the power to set you free. It is the desire and wherewithal to change the world around you. Your denomination doesn’t matter. Your faith doesn’t matter. It’s the love in your heart that counts.

Can I ask you a question?” he asks as we complete our first loop on the train. “Okay,” I say, warily, not sure what to expect from him at this point. I mean, he arranged a date that I had no idea about. The possibilities here are endless. “You’re writing this big love story,” he says, his arm casually slung over my shoulder. “What do you think love is?” I can’t help the laugh that escapes. “What?” he asks. “That’s not a question, that’s thequestion,” I say, shaking my head at him. “Okay,” he starts again. “Can I ask you the question?” I look at him for a minute, trying to think if I’m ready to answer this question considering all the things that are happening right now. “Do you know who my favourite fictional character is?” I ask him instead. He shakes his head. “Mr. Darcy,” I answer. “He’s every girl’s favourite character,” Travis says. “And there is a reason why,” I say. “Mr. Darcy was a self-important man. He met Elizabeth Bennet and immediately dismissed her because she didn’t fit into the life that he was comfortable with. Once he got to know her, he discovered that what he should have wanted and what he actually wanted were two completely different things.” “That’s every chick flick I’ve ever watched,” Travis says as he we pass the bumper cars again. “Yes, but here’s the kicker. Hechanges. Not because Elizabeth wants him to, or tells him to. He changes because he wants to be a different person, a better person. Someone who is worthy of her. And in order to do that he has to act in a selfless way with absolutely no hope of reward,” I say, and I know my voice has taken on a slightly dreamy tone. “That’s what I think love is. Loving someone who makes you want to be a better person.” As we make the final turn and the train comes to a stop, Travis still hasn’t said anything. I lightly laugh. “At least I hope that’s what love is. I dart my eyes in Travis’s direction, expecting him to be a little uncomfortable with my declaration, but his face is soft and he seems pleased with my answer. As we stand in line waiting to get on the Merry-Go-Round I turn to him. “So, who is your favourite fictional couple?” I ask. Travis seems to think about it, scrunching up his mouth with the effort. “Mickey and Minnie,” he nods decisively. “As in Mouse?” I laugh. “They like each other, they’re nice to each other, and they always look like they’re having a fun time,” he says, shrugging at his explanation. And the more I think about it, it’s actually a pretty good choice. I mean, obviously it isn’t Elizabeth and Mr. Darcy, but it has some worth.

Hello, ladies, I’m your uncle Devlin. Has Westhaven scared you witless with his fuming and fretting?” This fellow looked to be great fun, with a nice smile and kind green eyes. “Mama and Papa didn’t say anything about getting uncles for Christmas,” Amanda observed, but she was smiling back at the big uncle. The biggest uncle—they were all as tall as Papa. “Well, that’s because we’re a surprise,” the other dark-haired fellow said. “I’m your uncle Valentine, and we have an entire gaggle of aunties waiting out in the coach to spoil you rotten. Westhaven here is just out of sorts because Father Christmas gave him a headache for being naughty yesterday.” “I was not naughty.” The other two uncles thought this was quite funny, judging by their smiles. “There’s your problem,” said Uncle Devlin. “I’m thinking it’s a fine day for a pair of ladies to join their aunts for a ride in the traveling coach.” Uncle Gayle—it didn’t seem fair to call him by the same name as Fleur’s puppy—appeared to consider this. “For what purpose?” “To keep the peace. Emmie and I never haul out our big guns around the children,” said Uncle Devlin, which made no sense. “Do you like to play soldiers?” Fleur asked. Amanda appeared intrigued by the notion. She was forever galloping up hills and charging down banisters in pursuit of the French. Uncle Devlin’s brows knitted—he had wonderful dark eyebrows, much like Papa’s. “As a matter of fact, on occasion, if I’ve been an exceedingly good fellow, my daughter lets me join her in a game of soldiers.” “I’m not exactly unfamiliar with the business myself,” said Uncle Valentine. “I excel at the lightning charge and have been known to take even the occasional doll prisoner.” “Missus Wolverhampton would not like being a prisoner,” Fleur said, though Uncle Valentine was teasing—wasn’t he?” “Perhaps you gentlemen can arrange an assignation to play soldiers with our nieces on some other day,” Westhaven said. He sounded like his teeth hurt, which Fleur knew might be from the seasonal hazard of eating too much candy. “You can play too,” Fleur allowed, because it was Christmas, and one ought to be kind to uncles who strayed into one’s nursery. “We’ll let you be Wellington,” Amanda added, getting into the spirit of the day. “Which leaves me to be Blucher’s mercenaries,” Uncle Devlin said, “saving the day as usual.” “Oh, that’s brilliant.” Uncle Valentine wasn’t smiling now. “Leave your baby brother to be the infernal French again, will you? See if I write a waltz for your daughter’s come out, St. Just.” Uncle Gayle wasn’t frowning quite so mightily. In fact, he looked like he wanted to smile but was too grown-up to allow it. “Perhaps you ladies will gather up a few soldiers and fetch a doll or two. We’re going on a short journey to find your mama and papa, so we can all share Christmas with them.” Fleur noticed his slip, and clearly, Amanda had too—but it was the same slip Amanda had made earlier, and one Fleur was perfectly happy to let everybody make. Uncle Gayle had referred to their papa’s new wife not as their stepmama, but as their mama. What a fine thing that would be, if for Christmas they got a mama again for really and truly. Amanda fetched their dolls, Fleur grabbed their favorite storybook, and the uncles herded them from the nursery, all three grown men arguing about whose turn it was to be the blasted French. ***

And let’s be clear about this. Every single thing you own is a decision you’ve made and so getting rid of clutter is not about sourcing bags and boxes and arranging sales and giveaways or even making a room look nice, it is about making decisions. Lots and lots of decisions. That can be very stressful. The average wedding requires around a thousand decisions to be made and we all know how stressful arranging a wedding can be. So how much more stressful are the many more you’ll have to make on your decluttering journey?

Cucumber Sandwiches • Mayonnaise • Cucumbers, thinly sliced • Salt and pepper • Parsley, chopped fine Spread each slice of your sandwich bread with the thinnest bit of mayonnaise you can spread. Pile 8 to 10 slices of cucumber on one side. Salt and pepper. Top with the other slice of bread. Trim off any cucumber sticking out over the edges. Then cut the sandwich into 4 triangles. Spread very thin mayo on one edge of each of the triangles and then dip that into your chopped parsley. Arrange on a plate, standing up like little sails with the parsley side showing. Pepper Jelly Triple-Decker Surprise Sandwiches • Pepper jelly • Cream cheese Spread pepper jelly on one slice of bread and cream cheese on the other. You know what to do—put them together. Now spread cream cheese on the top of that sandwich. Take another slice of bread and spread pepper jelly on that and put it on top. You should now have a triple-decker sandwich with pretty stripes. These get sliced into 4 long fingers. Pimento Cheese and Tomato Sandwiches • Pimento cheese (I know I put my pimento cheese recipe in here somewhere. Just look it up because I am not writing it down again.) • Cherry tomatoes This is a real pretty open-face sandwich. Spread your pimento cheese on a slice of bread all the way to the edges. Cut the bread into quarters. Slice 2 cherry tomatoes in half. Top each bread quarter with a tomato half, cut side up. If you have a wait before you start eating, cover the sandwiches with a wet paper towel that you’ve wrung out till it’s just damp. I like to arrange them all nice and fancy on my pressed-glass plate that I got from my mama. Then I call a girlfriend over for a chat and some sweet tea. What occasion could be more special than that? Serves 2.

They had left the buckets of stemmed flowers and now found themselves in the center of the indoor succulent section, an array of miniature plants with whimsical names such as burro's tail and flaming katy. Olive slowed her pace, taking her time perusing metal racks of each variety. She stooped down and plucked a container of a sweet, blossom-shaped plant. "What's that one?" Julia asked. She liked the look of its pink-edged tips, whose color reminded her of a radish. "This guy here is called roseum. It likes the sun, so I'd have to think of a spot near a window. But it's a nice touch of color among all the green. At different times of year, it develops clusters of light-pink star-shaped flowers. I like it because it adds texture next to something like, say, that jade plant, which is more like a stocky little tree. If I place them together, it adds interest." "Wow. That sounds great." Olive brightened. "Thanks. And then, see these here?" She pointed to a miniature plant with chubby, rosette-style leaves. "Yes?" Julia leaned closer and squinted to read the sign. "The one that says 'Sedum Golden Glow'?" "Yes. That one. I'm thinking of getting a few of those guys and placing them on the dining table in these cool little glass-and-gold terrariums I found online. They have delicate little panes of glass set against metal frames that catch your eye, and they're fancy enough for Mom's taste. She's okay if I do rustic, but she always wants a touch of something expensive mixed in. The terrariums do the trick, I think.

Evil genius is genius nonetheless. In the early 1970s, at the zenith of liberal-left influence, an improbable, quixotic, out-of-power economic right—intellectuals, capitalists, politicians—launched their crusade and then kept at it tenaciously. The unthinkable became the inevitable in a single decade. They envisioned a new American trajectory, then popularized and arranged it with remarkable success. How was that fundamentally different American future—that is, our present—designed and enacted? And how might it happen again in the other direction? There are lessons to be learned: having big ideas and strong convictions, keeping your eye on the ball, playing a long game. There are also some relevant cautionary tales from the last few decades—it’d be nice if in success the left could avoid some of the viciousness, lying, cynicism, nihilism, and insanity that overtook the right after victory.

The rest of our weekend sleeping arrangements, hand-done work, hand-prepared food was simple enough to please Thoreau, who I am convinced was a nice fellow who confused rustic vacations with life.

Next morning, when I got up, the inside temperature was 30° below zero. The new arrangement was working quite nicely indeed.

Taryn seemed well enough tonight,' he says. 'Roses in her cheeks and merriment on her lips.' 'Let's be sure she stays that way,' I say. His brows rise. 'Would you like me to seduce her away from Locke? I could certainly try. I promise nothing in the way of results, but you might find amusement in the attempt.' 'No, no absolutely not, do not do that,' I say, and do not examine the hot spike of panic his words induce. 'I just mean try to keep Locke from being his worst self when she's around, that's all.' He narrows his eyes. 'Shouldn't you encourage just the opposite?' Perhaps it would be better for Taryn to discover unhappiness with Locke as soon as possible. But she's my sister, and I never want to be the cause of her pain. I shake my head. He makes a vague gesture in the air. 'As you wish. Your sister will be wrapped in satin and sackcloth, as protected from herself as I can make her.' I stand. 'The council wants Locke to arrange some amusement to please Grimsen. If it's nice, perhaps the smith will make you a cup that never runs out of wine.' Cardan gives me a look up through his lashes that I find hard to interpret and then rises, too. He takes my hand. 'Nothing is sweeter,' he says, kissing the back of it, 'but that which is scarce.' My skin flushes, hot and uncomfortable.

Nice seeing you, Eddie. We must have lunch sometime.' I've always found it curious how many people, when they are clearly in an unrivalled physical and mental state to arrange a lunch or drink, don't do so, but merely say that they should.

LITTLE LOST PUP He was lost! — Not a shade of doubt of that; For he never barked at a slinking cat. But stood in the square where the wind blew raw, With a drooping ear, and a trembling paw, And a mournful look in his pleading eye. And a plaintive sniff at the passer-by That begged as plain as a tongue could sue, " Oh, Mister, please may I follow you?" A lorn, wee waif of a tawny brown Adrift in the roar of a heedless town. Oh, the saddest of sights in a world of sin Is a little lost pup with his tail tucked inl Well, he won my heart (for I set great store On my own red Bute, who is here no more) So I whistled clear, and he trotted up. And who so glad as that small lost pup? Now he shares my board, and he owns my bed, And he fairly shouts when he hears my tread. Then if things go wrong, as they sometimes do. And the world is cold, and I'm feeling blue. He asserts his right to assuage my woes With a warm, red tongue and a nice, cold nose, And a silky head on my arm or knee, And a paw as soft as a paw can be. When we rove the woods for a league about He's as full of pranks as a school let out; For he romps and frisks like a three-months colt. And he runs me down like a thunder-bolt. Oh, the blithest of sights in the world so fair Is a gay little pup with his tail in air! - Anonymous

This would be good country,” a tourist says to me, “if only you had some water.” He’s from Cleveland, Ohio. “If we had water here,” I reply, “this country would not be what it is. It would be like Ohio, wet and humid and hydrological, and all covered with cabbage farms and golf courses. Instead of this lovely barren desert we would have only another blooming garden state, like New Jersey. You see what I mean?” “If you had more water more people could live here.” “Yes sire. And where then would people go when they wanted to see something besides people?” “I see what you mean. Still, I wouldn’t want to live here. So dry and desolate. Nice for pictures but my God I’m glad I don’t have to live here.” I’m glad too, sir. We’re in perfect agreement. You wouldn’t want to live here, I wouldn’t want to live in Cleveland. We’re both satisfied with the arrangement as it is. Why change it?” “Agreed” We shake hands and the tourist from Ohio goes away pleased, as I am pleased, each of us thinking he has taught the other something new.

We were divided into adoptive families, and there was always someone from the Kibbutz who accompanied us to immediately take care of any problem that might come up. The rooms we got were spacious wooden huts, and we were divided into two in each room. I adapted nicely after learning to switch on the boiler. I felt free in my room and the Kibbutz. I enjoyed my new place. Although I found it hard to work with the boiler, but with time I found a way to get used to the new situation. At Tiberias, heating water was done using electricity and solar panels installed on the roof, and here we heated water with a boiler, at least that is what they called the small device that operated on kerosene. In the tiny shower room there was a kind of boiler which, to me, looked like a threatening missile, and from it was an arrangement of dripping kerosene, that when it was burned, would heat the water. I loved hearing the noise the boiler made when it worked. The noise rose and fell  according to the pace of the kerosene drip. Sometimes, in my mind, I saw it taking off into the sky.

A pair of waiters brought a feast to the hotel room and arranged it in the sitting area. They unfolded the hot cart into a table, draped it in white linen, and brought out silver-domed plates. By the time the wine was poured and all the dishes were uncovered, I was trembling with hunger. Luke, however, became fractious after I changed his diaper, and he howled every time I tried to set him down. Holding him against one shoulder, I contemplated the steaming grilled steak in front of me and wondered how I was going to manage with only one hand. “Let me,” Jack murmured, and came to my side of the table. He cut the steak into small, neat bites with such adroitness that I gave him a look of mock-alarm. “You certainly know how to handle a knife.” “I hunt whenever I get the chance.” Finishing the task, Jack set down the utensils and tucked a napkin into the neckline of my shirt. His knuckles brushed my skin, eliciting a shiver. “I can field-dress a deer in fifteen minutes,” he told me. “That’s impressive. Disgusting, but impressive.” He gave me an unrepentant grin as he returned to his side of the table. “If it makes you feel better, I eat anything I catch or kill.” “Thanks, but that doesn’t make me feel better in the least. Oh, I’m aware that meat doesn’t magically appear all nicely packaged in foam and cellophane at the grocery store. But I have to stay several steps removed from the process. I don’t think I could eat meat if I had to hunt the animal and . . .” “Skin and gut it?” “Yes. Let’s not talk about that right now.” I took a bite of the steak. Either it was the long period of deprivation, or the quality of the beef, or the skill of the chef . . . but that succulent, lightly smoked, melting-hot steak was the best thing I had ever tasted. I closed my eyes for a moment, my tonsils quivering. He laughed quietly at my expression. “Admit it, Ella. It’s not so bad being a carnivore.” I reached for a chunk of bread and dabbed it in soft yellow butter. “I’m not a carnivore, I’m an opportunistic omnivore.” -Jack & Ella

how to make notes ========== Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny (Preeti Shenoy) - Your Highlight at location 1584-1589 | Added on Monday, 15 June 2015 11:21:47 wanted to share my ‘colour coded’ way of remembering things with everybody, so they too could benefit. I felt like I had stumbled upon a great secret and my discovery would be hailed. I pictured it being used in schools, colleges and everywhere else as a new memory technique. I wondered why nobody else had thought of such a simple but brilliant technique earlier. As I was waiting for him to finish making the photocopies, my eyes chanced upon small glittering stickers of cartoon characters like Tw eety bird, Fairies and Garfield and some Disney characters, which children use to decorate their books and other objects. I thought the stickers would make a nice finishing touch and I bought twenty sheets. I also came across some very beautiful printed stationery and could not resist buying about eight packets of writing sheets. They looked very beautiful and ========== Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny (Preeti Shenoy) - Your Note at location 1596 | Added on Monday, 15 June 2015 11:24:46 cont. how to make notes ========== Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny (Preeti Shenoy) - Your Highlight at location 1590-1596 | Added on Monday, 15 June 2015 11:24:46 I also looked around the shop and discovered some water colours. I had last painted with water colours only in school. On an impulse, I bought a set of water colours and a set of brushes as well. It was like an urgent impulse inside my head that was driving me to buy all this stuff. They seemed absolutely essential. I reached home armed with my large bag of purchases and unpacked them carefully and arranged them all on my desk. Then I sat down and decorated the corners of each set of notes with tiny stickers of cartoon characters. I used highlighter pens and highlighted each set of the notes in my colour coded way with green, purple and orange. There were seventy sets to finish and I was like a woman possessed. I stayed up the whole night doing just this. I was a reservoir of energy. I just couldn' t stop. Strangely I did not feel even a little tired. ========== Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny (Preeti Shenoy) - Your Highlight at location 1617-1617 | Added on Monday, 15 June 2015 11:55:29 uncannily ========== Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny (Preeti Shenoy) - Your Highlight at location 1650-1650 | Added on Monday, 15 June 2015 14:48:08 besotted ========== Life Is What You Make It A Story Of Love, Hope And How Determination Can Overcome Even Destiny (Preeti Shenoy) - Your Highlight at location

That would be nice. He is so sexy and handsome. I’ll bet he has a big one, don't you think?" I said mischievously. My lover laughed, "Yes! I’d like to see it too. I’ll call him to arrange something, during our time in Venice." By

Yo, time, where are you? When 'Sorry' used to be atonement 'Progress' meant development 'I do' meant commitment 'Brands' meant advertisement 'TV' meant refreshment 'People' meant government 'Trees' meant environment 'Looks' weren't requirement 'Talent' meant achievement 'Outdoor' meant excitement 'Movies' meant Entertainment And 'Nice' used to be the complement Yo time, today, 'Apology' is just statement 'Social Service' is just department 'Politics' is just argument 'Love' is just arrangement 'J/Bail' is just judgment 'Computer' is just another instrument 'Family' is Adjustment as After all We live in our small apartment Don't give a damn, man, But don't jump in the deep dam, To be good was 90s dream To be good now is just a meme - Nice Guy

Large crystals or arrangements of smaller crystals around your home can be nice, too.

Hey,” Andi says as we pass the Alilaguna stop on our way back to Piazza San Marco. “I just figured out what ‘Alilaguna’ means: ‘Wings of the Lagoon.’ I love that! Doesn’t it sound like a romance novel?” “Totally!” Paige agrees enthusiastically. “Wings of the Lagoon!” Andi continues. “A beautiful American girl comes to Venice in the nineteenth century and gets swept away by a handsome gondolier…” “Only her rich and powerful parents are way too snobby to allow them to date…,” Kendra chimes in. “So they run away together in the gondola,” Andi says, “but get caught up in a terrible storm…” “And her parents think they’re dead…,” Kendra adds. “So they send out a search party and find them floating in the gondola, arms wrapped around each other,” Kelly suggests. “Still alive, but barely…” “And the parents forgive her and say they can be together…,” Andi says. “And then it turns out he’s the son of a Venetian duke who was going to have an arranged marriage, but he ran away to be a gondolier ’cause he wanted to find a girl who loved him for himself…” Kelly’s voice is getting stronger and more confident. “And they both live happily ever after!” Paige carols happily. “I love this story!” She, Kelly, Andi, and Kendra exchange high fives. “It’s nice when a story has a happy ending,” Luca says softly in my ear. I hadn’t realized he was so close to me. “In real life, it’s not so easy…” I swallow hard at the sound of his voice, at his words. All I can do is shake my head vehemently. No. It’s not so easy. You come to Italy and meet the son of a Florentine prince and you don’t live happily ever after. Not at all.

Maybe the most amazing thing is how nice the fish smells. Not pongy at all: it’s like seawater, salty and clean and fresh. “It’s not exactly Birds Eye fish fingers, is it?” Kelly says, jolted out of her silence by the sight of a whole crate of squid, white and violet with purple tentacles, arranged in overlapping rows. “This is gross! But kind of interesting,” Paige comments, which is actually quite positive for Paige looking at a lot of raw fish.

In the international trade area, the language is almost always about how we must export, and what’s really good is an industry that produces exports, and if we buy from abroad and import, that’s bad. But surely that’s upside-down. What we send abroad, we can’t eat, we can’t wear, we can’t use for our houses. The goods and services we send abroad, are goods and services not available to us. On the other hand, the goods and services we import, they provide us with TV sets we can watch, with automobiles we can drive, with all sorts of nice things for us to use. The gain from foreign trade is what we import. What we export is a cost of getting those imports. And the proper objective for a nation as Adam Smith put it, is to arrange things so that we get as large a volume of imports as possible, for as small a volume of exports as possible. This carries over to the terminology we use. When people talk about a favorable balance of trade, what is that term taken to mean? It’s taken to mean that we export more than we import. But from the point of our well-being, that’s an unfavorable balance. That means we’re sending out more goods and getting fewer in. Each of you in your private household would know better than that. You don’t regard it as a favorable balance, when you have to send out more goods to get fewer coming in. It’s favorable when you can get more by sending out less.

naval power, with her long, graceful lines and nicely proportioned turret and superstructure arrangement—the epitome of the balanced capital ship. That she should be annihilated within seven minutes was far more shocking than the defeat of the new Prince of Wales. Admiral Holland, who went down with his ship, has been criticized since on several counts, mainly for his close 'line' tactics controlled from the flagship; these were appropriate for the great battle squadrons of the First War and the tactical games during the interwar years, indeed they were necessary to prevent confusion and the masking of friendly fire, but they were quite unnecessary for a squadron of only two vessels. In this case they were actually harmful for they forced both British ships to enter the action with rear turrets out of bearing, thus reducing an initial superiority in heavy guns to equality with the Bismarck; when the Hood mistook her target this equality became an actual inferiority so far as that ship was concerned.