Slip N Slide Quotes

This is an ode to all of those that have never asked for one. A thank you in words to all of those that do not do what they do so well for the thanking. This is to the mothers. This is to the ones who match our first scream with their loudest scream; who harmonize in our shared pain and joy and terrified wonder when life begins. This is to the mothers. To the ones who stay up late and wake up early and always know the distance between their soft humming song and our tired ears. To the lips that find their way to our foreheads and know, somehow always know, if too much heat is living in our skin. To the hands that spread the jam on the bread and the mesmerizing patient removal of the crust we just cannot stomach. This is to the mothers. To the ones who shout the loudest and fight the hardest and sacrifice the most to keep the smiles glued to our faces and the magic spinning through our days. To the pride they have for us that cannot fit inside after all they have endured. To the leaking of it out their eyes and onto the backs of their hands, to the trails of makeup left behind as they smile through those tears and somehow always manage a laugh. This is to the patience and perseverance and unyielding promise that at any moment they would give up their lives to protect ours. This is to the mothers. To the single mom’s working four jobs to put the cheese in the mac and the apple back into the juice so their children, like birds in a nest, can find food in their mouths and pillows under their heads. To the dreams put on hold and the complete and total rearrangement of all priority. This is to the stay-at-home moms and those that find the energy to go to work every day; to the widows and the happily married. To the young mothers and those that deal with the unexpected announcement of a new arrival far later than they ever anticipated. This is to the mothers. This is to the sack lunches and sleepover parties, to the soccer games and oranges slices at halftime. This is to the hot chocolate after snowy walks and the arguing with the umpire at the little league game. To the frosting ofbirthday cakes and the candles that are always lit on time; to the Easter egg hunts, the slip-n-slides and the iced tea on summer days. This is to the ones that show us the way to finding our own way. To the cutting of the cord, quite literally the first time and even more painfully and metaphorically the second time around. To the mothers who become grandmothers and great-grandmothers and if time is gentle enough, live to see the children of their children have children of their own. To the love. My goodness to the love that never stops and comes from somewhere only mothers have seen and know the secret location of. To the love that grows stronger as their hands grow weaker and the spread of jam becomes slower and the Easter eggs get easier to find and sack lunches no longer need making. This is to the way the tears look falling from the smile lines around their eyes and the mascara that just might always be smeared with the remains of their pride for all they have created. This is to the mothers.

Never mind that it’s wetter than a Slip’N Slide in my panties right now.

Here's the problem: when every sin is seen as the same, we are less likely to fight any sins at all. Why should I stop sleeping with my girlfriend when there will still be lust in my heart? Why pursue holiness when even one sin in my life means I'm Osama bin Hitler in God's eyes? Again, it seems humble to act as if no sin is worse than another, but we lose the impetus for striving and the ability to hold each other accountable when we tumble down the slip-n-slide of moral equivalence. All of a sudden the elder who battles the temptation to take a second look at the racy section of the Lands End catalog shouldn't dare exercise church discipline ont he young man fornicating with reckless abandon. When we can no longer see the different gradations among sins and sinners and sinful nations, we have not succeeded in respecting our own badness; we've cheapened God's goodness.

Some rules have existed since the creation of the Earth. They do not need to come out of my mouth. They have always existed. There has always been a rule against using a Slip n’ Slide indoors. There has always been a rule against lying down in the mouth of a dead relative.

screaming as they squeal down a Slip’n Slide

On that note, would you like to come inside and ride my Slip ‘n’ Slide, Henny?

it also helped that they were amazing at butt sex. Seriously. The first time had been a bit of a disaster waaaay too much lube, so much so that it'd been like a human Slip 'N Slide but every time after? Holy shit, they should've gotten awards for some of the stuff they did. Seth could be very imaginative. Nick felt bad for the people who couldn't have sex while flying. It was really somethinq else.

It didn’t matter that I swept up clouds of brindle fur in my apartment and scraped dried dog drool off my walls every night, or once went to work with slobber in my hair. It didn’t matter that her number twos were so large someone once told me they needed their own zip code, that my apartment turned into a Slip’n Slide every time she drank water, or that she wasn’t the neatest eater, so sometimes I’d step on half-chewed food and it felt like mashed potatoes in between my toes.

I never been to New York, but it must be a heavenly place for a vacation, if a feller c'n judge by what some of my present boarders have to say about it. It's a sort of play-actor's paradise, ain't it?" "It is paradise to every actor who happens to be on the road, Mr. Jones," said Barnes, slipping his big pack from his shoulders and letting it slide to the floor.

I’m slick as a Slip ’N Slide down there. And should he feel so inclined to eat ass, nary a hair survived that Brutal Brunhilda wax-a-thon I endured on all fours at the spa. I’m ready for anything. I’ve practically been

Everything here was larger than life. Forty-foot walls, human pyramids with no training, slip n’ slides that rocketed down an entire hill into a lake. Nothing was halfway. Maybe that was part of their lesson. Don’t live halfway. -Andy and the Extroverts

Here in Texas, that’s not how it works. When we threw ourselves on Slip’N Slides, we were met with a bone-crushingly hard ground that was sparsely covered by grass that had the consistency of old hay. As we slid down the yellow tarp for our three seconds of fun, we’d experience the familiar explosions of pain when previously undiscovered rocks or sticks jabbed into our internal organs. Then we’d slide off the end into fire ants.

But who can live looking such grim truths straight in the face every day for eternity? Not me. Not anymore. And so I’ve created, in this school, a kind of greenhouse: a lovely, if artificial, place of perennial bloom and beauty where I can live in peace, unheeding of the blowing winter storms outside. For a long time, I troubled myself with all the pain and suffering in the world. I struggled too long against the riptide of reality to the point of exhaustion, to drowning. What did it gain me or anyone? Nothing. Swim with the tide, not against, they say. Busy yourself in your greenhouse, remain untroubled, avoid becoming attached to any one blossom because the day comes when every flower fades, and then it must be cut off, tossed outside, and forgotten. For this kind of lovely but detached existence, a preschool is really ideal. After all, can anything be more explicitly transient than early childhood? “Preschool is a line drive, a Slip ’N Slide, a mad dash to something else. Enjoy, but do not get attached. Eat, drink, and be merry, for tomorrow it all slips away to puberty and acne and angst. Once it’s gone, forget it. New students are at the door, and we begin again.