Photo Calendars With Quotes

One of her female professor held up a photo of an antler bone with 28 markings on it. ‘This’, she said, ‘was alleged to be mans first attempt at a calendar. Tell me’, she continued, ‘what man needs to know when 28 days have passed? I suspect that this is woman’s first attempt at a calendar’.

Sue stepped into a haven that smelled of candles and lemon-scented dish soap, a cabinet of curiosities, one of which was the bathtub smack dab in the middle of the small kitchen. Bob Roy’s railroad flat was four tight, connected rooms, each stuffed with koombies, knickknacks, doodads, furniture pieces of any style, shelves, books, photos in frames, trophies bought from flea markets, old records, small lamps, and calendars from decades before. “I know,” he said. “It looks like I sell magic potions in here, like I’m an animated badger from a Disney cartoon.” He lit a burner on the stove with a huge kitchen match, then filled a shiny, Olde English–style kettle with water from the tap. As he prepared cups on a tray he said, “Tea in minutes, titmouse. Make a home for yourself.

For those who live in Kashmir, the expectations of justice, rarely fulfilled in the Indian subcontinent, are more than optimistic; they belong to fantasy. It makes it all the more difficult for the victims to bear their human losses. At Dalal's house, the once carefully tended plants and hedges were already running wild just a few weeks after his murder, the fish in the pond were mostly dead, and few men sat slumped on the floor in a bare hall under the Islamic calendar of mourning. His mother, persuaded by her male relatives to emerge from the dark room where she had taken to since her son's death, broke down as soon as she noticed the photos of Dalal I had been studying. The pictures showed a young man in dark glasses and trendy clothes, a happy, contented man, someone who had managed to find, amid the relentless violence of the insurgency, a new style and identity for himself, and when Dalal's mother, still crying, while her mother, Dalal's grandmother, sat beside her, quietly wiping her tears with the frayed end of her headscarf, asked what was the point of talking to the press, of speaking about her son to me- he was gone and wouldn't come back; the people who had killed him were too powerful- it was hard not to feel pierced by the truth of what she was saying, hard not to be moved by her grief, and the pain, amid the great human waste of Kashmir, of her helplessness.

How much longer can I get away with being so fucking cute? Not much longer. The shoes with bows, the cunning underwear with slogans on the crotch — Knock Here, and so forth — will have to go, along with the cat suit. After a while you forget what you really look like. You think your mouth is the size it was. You pretend not to care. When I was young I went with my hair hiding one eye, thinking myself daring; off to the movies in my jaunty pencil skirt and elastic cinch-belt, chewed gum, left lipstick imprints the shape of grateful, rubbery sighs on the cigarettes of men I hardly knew and didn’t want to. Men were a skill, you had to have good hands, breathe into their nostrils, as for horses. It was something I did well, like playing the flute, although I don’t. In the forests of grey stems there are standing pools, tarn-coloured, choked with brown leaves. Through them you can see an arm, a shoulder, when the light is right, with the sky clouded. The train goes past silos, through meadows, the winter wheat on the fields like scanty fur. I still get letters, although not many. A man writes me, requesting true-life stories about bad sex. He’s doing an anthology. He got my name off an old calendar, the photo that’s mostly bum and daisies, back when my skin had the golden slick of fresh-spread margarine. Not rape, he says, but disappointment, more like a defeat of expectations. Dear Sir, I reply, I never had any. Bad sex, that is. It was never the sex, it was the other things, the absence of flowers, the death threats, the eating habits at breakfast. I notice I’m using the past tense. Though the vaporous cloud of chemicals that enveloped you like a glowing eggshell, an incense, doesn’t disappear: it just gets larger and takes in more. You grow out of sex like a shrunk dress into your common senses, those you share with whatever’s listening. The way the sun moves through the hours becomes important, the smeared raindrops on the window, buds on the roadside weeds, the sheen of spilled oil on a raw ditch filling with muddy water. Don’t get me wrong: with the lights out I’d still take on anyone, if I had the energy to spare. But after a while these flesh arpeggios get boring, like Bach over and over; too much of one kind of glory. When I was all body I was lazy. I had an easy life, and was not grateful. Now there are more of me. Don’t confuse me with my hen-leg elbows: what you get is no longer what you see.

Guns a-Blazin’ Ladd and the kids were shipping cattle one morning when a big thunderstorm moved in. Sometimes, if it’s just a standard morning of working cattle, they can stop and take a break as they wait for the rain to stop. But because the road was lined with cattle trucks, the show had to go on…so they just worked through the rain and were drenched from head to toe all morning. I know this is a family-friendly cookbook and everything, but if there’s ever such a thing as a cowboy calendar, I’d like to enter my husband for the months of January through December. I love the smile on his face, even more so because he was soaked, had a big morning of work ahead, and on this day of all days, had every reason not to be smiling. But his smile is definitely not the first thing I’m looking at in these photos.

Christmas is a special time of year. The beauty and magic spread throughout every aspect of our lives, from the sights, smells, and sounds to things we touch and taste. I hope to capture this immersive experience in my novel. Which means I’ve included all sorts of extra goodies for you! For the full reading experience, be sure to explore the book page on my website. I’ve added a playlist with a corresponding song for each chapter. You can also download your very own copy of the Christmas Calendar to follow along with Cassie! For a visual treat, follow me on Pinterest where you’ll find photos showcasing everything from

Fear ye not, stand still.… —Exodus 14:13 (KJV) Help, God! I’m overwhelmed! In the middle of creating a real estate brochure, my computer paused for what seemed an eternity each time I dropped in a new photo. “Hmm,” said the technician when my computer reacted to his touch like a really slow-moving snail, “let’s check your apps.” The technician tapped my home screen twice, and a stream of intriguing icons appeared at the bottom of the page. He swiped them with his finger. There were my mailbox, weather, news, Google, Mapquest, calendar, contacts, two word games, solitaire, a poetry book. On he swiped, past real estate, camera, some magazines, alarm clock, dictionary, Bible. “You haven’t turned off your apps in a while,” he said. “I didn’t know I was supposed to,” I answered. “If you leave them on, there’s too much information vying for space,” he explained. “Then everything slows down. A computer is like a person…can’t handle everything at once.” Hey, God, have You brought me here to tell me something? The tech showed me how to turn off the apps I didn’t need. Now my computer was brochure-ready and humming at full speed. As I left the store, I was humming too. Standing still, I turned off all the extra programs in my head and focused on the task at hand! Father, in a complicated world, You bring me back to what’s always true: “Be still” and know…one thing at a time! —Pam Kidd Digging Deeper: Prv 3:5–6; Is 40:28–31

It is an illusion that photos are made with the camera…they are made with the eye, heart, and head.

He stood to the side, arms crossed over his chest as he watched Ashanti pose in an airy, soft peach dress with a crown of colorful flowers propped on her head. Duchess looked as if she had been made for the camera in her matching peach tutu. Even a non-dog lover like him couldn't deny that she was cute with her flower crown askew on her head and her stubby tail wagging like a flag in a windstorm.

wasted the first hour driving around aimlessly until I ended up at the mall. Why were stores full of such worthless shit? I poked through a display of calendars, and grabbed one full of photos of puppies. As soon as I got out of the store, I tore the calendar up and threw it in the trash. How would a calendar make him happy? How would any of this crap make him happy?

When you've got your devices down to the ideal number, use these tips to minimize them and prevent distractions: - Remove as many icons from your desktop as possible. - Uninstall software you don't need. - Delete unneeded files from your Documents folder. (If you don't want to delete them completely, at least move them to an archive folder so they don't clutter your most-used folder anymore.) - Develop a simple but logical folder structure so that you can find documents you want easily. - Unsubscribe to blogs, email newsletters, and advertisements that no longer serve your interests. - Delete internet bookmarks, cookies, and temporary internet files you no longer need. - Delete apps you don't need, remembering that if you need them later, you can always download them again. Put only your most crucial apps (such as your calendar and your phone) on your home screen. Put the rest in folders on your second screen. - Turn off notifications, including social media push notifications and email audio alerts. - Make sure your spam filters are working. - Delete photos that are of poor quality or that you don't need. - Delete unused music and movies. - Subscribe to a password manager so that you don't have to keep track of a bunch of passwords.

If you have an iPhone, Apple could have your address book, your calendar, your photos, your texts, all the music you listen to, all the places you go—and even how many steps it took to get there, since phones have a little gyroscope in them. Don’t have an iPhone? Then replace “Apple” with Google or Samsung or Verizon. Wear a FuelBand? Nike knows how well you sleep. An Xbox One? Microsoft knows your heart rate.1 A credit card? Buy something at a retailer, and your PII (personally identifiable information) attaches the UPC to your Guest ID in the CRM (customer relations management) software, which then starts working on what you’ll want next.

On one side of Ruben Mistral’s weekly engagement calendar there was an astronomer’s photo of the Horseshoe Nebula, a billion pinpoints of light making a haze in the blackness of space. Under the picture, Mistral had written: “This scene represents the number of meetings I attend per year!

Their special scent is a part of many of our perfumes. Photos or paintings of roses grace calendars, cards and advertisements. Poets and songwriters frequently use the romantic symbolism