Special Weekend Quotes

Thank you. What is it?" "Our weekend special, " Atlas says. "It's called why are you avoiding me pasta.

Every day is a gift. But some days are packaged better.

She smiled at him. It was her special smile. Her please go away you piece of sub-proletarian turd smile.

Dan reached out, his hand rested on the other's abs, under the blankets. Felt heat creep from the skin, feeding it back again. "How long did they have you? You look like a fair few beatings at least." Vadim looked down at his body, tensed the muscle to keep that weight there, nice and snug. "Two days. Like weekend with in-laws, eh?" Tried a smile. "Bad food, and they hate you." Nodding, Dan's eyes narrowed, could just about imagine what it had been like. "I don't take kindly to those who try to take away from me what is mine.

Our weekend special,” Atlas says. “It’s called why are you avoiding me pasta.

She's no-one special. England's full of wounded people. Quietly choking. Shrieking softly so the neighbours won't hear. You must have seen them. You've probably passed them. You've certainly stepped on them. Too many people have had enough. It's nothing new.

Life gets busy, with so many things that aren’t actually important but feel important. And there are plenty of weekend days where I could decide to forget my to-do list, spend a few hours at the beach instead, but I’ve only ever done that if there’s a special occasion.

As the black of night transformed into the distinct deep blue of morning twilight, Trevor traded the well-worn accoutrements of a humble adult life for the highly specialized gear of a weekend warrior, giddily exchanging the daily grind for the enthrallment of the almighty Saturday.  Almost enough to make a grown man weep in gratitude.

She discovered that underneath the aspect of the Rumpled Porcupine, a tortured Marxist was at war with an impossible, incurable Romantic - who forgot the candles, who broke the wine glasses, who forgot the ring. Who made love to her with a passion that took her breath away. She had always thought of herself as a somewhat uninteresting, thick-waisted, thick ankled girl. Not bad-looking. Not special. But when she was with Chacko, old limits were pushed back. Horizons expanded. She had never before met a man who spoke of the workd - of what it was, and how it came to be, or what he thought would become of it - in the way in which other men she knew discussed their jobs, their friends or their weekends at the beach. Being with Chacko made Margaret Kochamma feel as though her soul had escaped from the narrow confines of her island country, into the vast extravagant spaces of his. He made her feel as though the world belonged to them - as though it lay before thm like an opened frog on a dissecting table, begging to be examined.

I didn't grow up feeling smart and special, the world my oyster, born with a silver shucker in my hand. No one works harder than you, that's the way Zell and Juwon liked to put it. Everything I have is because I was the dutiful worker bee or because I have no other things to distract me, like girlfriends or wives, like mewling kids or family dogs or a love of weekend brunches and fantasy football, or a single, sad hobby, like solitaire or the Sunday jumble. I have this.

...he worked hardest at forgetting that weekend, at forgetting the special shame of allowing himself to believe that he might be someone he knew he wasn’t.

All in all, my body and I were like coworkers. I appreciated when it performed well, I got annoyed about all the skills it lacked, and I didn't want to have to see it on nights and weekends.

If I dismiss the ordinary — waiting for the special, the extreme, the extraordinary to happen — I may just miss my life… To allow ourselves to spend afternoons watching dancers rehearse, or sit on a stone wall and watch the sunset, or spend the whole weekend rereading Chekhov stories—to know that we are doing what we’re supposed to be doing — is the deepest form of permission in our creative lives. The British author and psychologist Adam Phillips has noted, 'When we are inspired, rather like when we are in love, we can feel both unintelligible to ourselves and most truly ourselves.' This is the feeling I think we all yearn for, a kind of hyperreal dream state. We read Emily Dickinson. We watch the dancers. We research a little known piece of history obsessively. We fall in love. We don’t know why, and yet these moments form the source from which all our words will spring.

She’d been given gifts before. Earrings, necklaces, bracelets. Weekend trips to the Bahamas or a day at the spa. Expensive—but meaningless—trinkets that showed Dax didn’t have a clue what to give her, that he didn’t listen to her. Things that could be meant for any woman. Nothing that said she was special, that what she thought and wanted mattered. A set of aluminum bleachers full of teenage boys meant more than any of those things combined.

The bartender is Irish. Jumped a student visa about ten years ago but nothing for him to worry about. The cook, though, is Mexican. Some poor bastard at ten dollars an hour—and probably has to wash the dishes, too. La Migra take notice of his immigration status—they catch sight of his bowl cut on the way home to Queens and he’ll have a problem. He looks different than the Irish and the Canadians—and he’s got Lou Dobbs calling specifically for his head every night on the radio. (You notice, by the way, that you never hear Dobbs wringing his hands over our border to the North. Maybe the “white” in Great White North makes that particular “alien superhighway” more palatable.) The cook at the Irish bar, meanwhile, has the added difficulty of predators waiting by the subway exit for him (and any other Mexican cooks or dishwashers) when he comes home on Friday payday. He’s invariably cashed his check at a check-cashing store; he’s relatively small—and is unlikely to call the cops. The perfect victim. The guy serving my drinks, on the other hand, as most English-speaking illegal aliens, has been smartly gaming the system for years, a time-honored process everybody at the INS is fully familiar with: a couple of continuing education classes now and again (while working off the books) to get those student visas. Extensions. A work visa. A “farm” visa. Weekend across the border and repeat. Articulate, well-connected friends—the type of guys who own, for instance, lots of Irish bars—who can write letters of support lauding your invaluable and “specialized” skills, unavailable from homegrown bartenders. And nobody’s looking anyway. But I digress…

Most hotels offer a free buffet breakfast. Finns tend to eat their biggest meal of the day at lunchtime, so many cafes and restaurants put on a lounas special (of buffet) from Monday to Friday. Weekend brunssi (brunch) has become a big deal in the cities. Finns have dinner as early as 5pm. It's often just a light meal, but will eat much later if it’s an organised, ‘going out for dinner’ affair.

Careful in what and how you are learning. Professors specialize in “teaching” knowledge – They do not specialize in organization and application of knowledge. This is often why modern education includes “job placement” for real-world understanding and immersion of what you learn. Listen, you can grow up in Saudi Arabia, or in Kenya, or Bolivia – and study every book available on-line about hockey. But that will NEVER, by itself, lead you to become an adept hockey player or Hockey Coach. Yet, this is exactly the kind of thing going on all across the Fitness Industry, with ‘weekend certifications’ and the like. Knowledge is more than information gathering– and knowledge is NOT power in and of itself. Knowledge and access to it, is merely the “potential for proper and expert application.

But we have a problem, which is why we are here today. You may know we work shifts and weekends and all hours. We don’t mind that if it gets the job done. But our littl’n’s, our children who are with us today, need looking after. We know Mr. Churchill’s Government is setting up special nurseries for war workers. But we don’t have them yet, even though we need them badly. The fact is, we need them NOW.

He would never, never know what he had done wrong that weekend at the Leary's. He would never know if it had been something he could control, or something he couldn't. And of all the things from the monastery, from the home, that he worked to scrub over, he worked hardest at forgetting that weekend, at forgetting the special shame of allowing himself to believe that he might be someone he knew he wasn't.

We journeyed from different corners of the country to be there. We came together for her. Because we loved her. In a hundred different ways we adored her. We wanted her light to shine on us. We wanted to make it special for her, so she’d see how much we loved her. At a hen party, the bride-to-be takes on an almost celestial, golden status. That weekend, she was the celebrity, and we were her fans and paparazzi.

Going beyond cliche phrases: •How was your summer? Excellent.What special things did you do? •How were your holidays? Pretty good.How did you celebrate? •How was your weekend? Good.What did you do? I went to see that new play down at the Civic Center.Really? You’re interested in ______? I never knew that.Tell me more about that. •Did you do anything relaxing? •Is that something you usually do on the weekend?

This may be the final note and closure of a very special part of my coaching career. The last piece of the puzzle that I wanted to see complete from our first meeting has been delivered. I gained incredible satisfaction from your race at the weekend. No, not from the race performance--that didn't interest me--- but to see you in full happiness in the arms of your man, looking up with all the admiration one can summon in a most happy and fulfilling time.

I need friends who understand my limitations and have lowered their expectations. They get that although I said I’d be willing to go to an art opening on Saturday night, by the time the weekend rolls around I can only muster up enough energy to watch The Voice and eat a bowl of cereal. I need friends who understand that my version of dressing up is putting on special-occasion flip-flops. Yeah, bitch, they’re sparkly and fabulous, yet they can be worn to wash the car!

I had brought my schoolbooks along with me and I’d fully intended to start my weekend homework, but I couldn’t concentrate. All I could think about was Emily and how she’d been adopted. Emily was lucky. Sure, she was having a few problems, but every day, her mother and father told her about her adoption, even though she was too little to understand. I knew this because Kristy had told me. Every day, Watson or Mrs. Brewer would say to Emily that she wasn’t just adopted, she was chosen. And she was very, very special. I wished Mom and Dad had told me that so I wouldn’t have had to find out on my own when I was 13 and completely shocked by the news.

Roxy was bi, and in my opinion she was—and still is—a total badass. Of all my childhood friends, this girl’s my bestie. Even when we were young, I knew deep down that Roxy was going to conquer the world. Her brilliance, coupled with her unwavering commitment to feminism and human rights, made her truly exceptional. And she cared, really cared, about animals and the pressing issues in our world. She wasn’t just one of these people that wore shirts and posted awareness videos online. She dedicated her weekends to protests and taking action. And I loved that she was hooking up with Amren, or whoever this girl was, if she made Roxy happy. I loved her. I loved all of her. Hopefully Amren would see how awesome Roxy was and make her feel special.

People work, not me. I look out the window, look out the window, out the window. Outside it's winter, and it's sunny. The doors don't shut properly, they don't shut, they're old. A phone rings through the wall. How come it takes such daunting effort to do what one likes? It's daunting, daunting to begin. I find it daunting to get started, and that seems not to be a fixable thing. The road to success, the road to success. Who knows? I get tired of myself. As pleasant as I find it here, as pleasant as a I find it. Did anyone pick up? In any case, the phone stopped ringing. What works better in fiction? Past or present tense? Weekends make me cranky, I don't like them, that imperative to have a good time, do things, do something special, the notion of free time. I prefer to seek out those things while other people work. People relaxing tend to look ridiculous, like out of place, grotesque. I'm unmotivated, a little, I realize, bored, overly calm, almost comfortable. I don't like where I live anymore, I'm fed up, I'm fed up with where I live. I want, somehow, to live differently. I'd take care of it, I'd take care of that baby if he gave it to me, if he wanted to give it to me, if he wanted.

I always had trouble with the feet of Jón the First, or Pre-Jón, as I called him later. He would frequently put them in front of me in the evening and tell me to take off his socks and rub his toes, soles, heels and calves. It was quite impossible for me to love these Icelandic men's feet that were shaped like birch stumps, hard and chunky, and screaming white as the wood when the bark is stripped from it. Yes, and as cold and damp, too. The toes had horny nails that resembled dead buds in a frosty spring. Nor can I forget the smell, for malodorous feet were very common in the post-war years when men wore nylon socks and practically slept in their shoes. How was it possible to love these Icelandic men? Who belched at the meal table and farted constantly. After four Icelandic husbands and a whole load of casual lovers I had become a vrai connaisseur of flatulence, could describe its species and varieties in the way that a wine-taster knows his wines. The howling backfire, the load, the gas bomb and the Luftwaffe were names I used most. The coffee belch and the silencer were also well-known quantities, but the worst were the date farts, a speciality of Bæring of Westfjord. Icelandic men don’t know how to behave: they never have and never will, but they are generally good fun. At least, Icelandic women think so. They seem to come with this inner emergency box, filled with humour and irony, which they always carry around with them and can open for useful items if things get too rough, and it must be a hereditary gift of the generations. Anyone who loses their way in the mountains and gets snowed in or spends the whole weekend stuck in a lift can always open this special Icelandic emergency box and get out of the situation with a good story. After wandering the world and living on the Continent I had long tired of well-behaved, fart-free gentlemen who opened the door and paid the bills but never had a story to tell and were either completely asexual or demanded skin-burning action until the morning light. Swiss watch salesmen who only knew of “sechs” as their wake-up hour, or hairy French apes who always required their twelve rounds of screwing after the six-course meal. I suppose I liked German men the best. They were a suitable mixture of belching northerner and cultivated southerner, of orderly westerner and crazy easterner, but in the post-war years they were of course broken men. There was little you could do with them except try to put them right first. And who had the time for that? Londoners are positive and jolly, but their famous irony struck me as mechanical and wearisome in the long run. As if that irony machine had eaten away their real essence. The French machine, on the other hand, is fuelled by seriousness alone, and the Frogs can drive you beyond the limit when they get going with their philosophical noun-dropping. The Italian worships every woman like a queen until he gets her home, when she suddenly turns into a slut. The Yank is one hell of a guy who thinks big: he always wants to take you the moon. At the same time, however, he is as smug and petty as the meanest seamstress, and has a fit if someone eats his peanut butter sandwich aboard the space shuttle. I found Russians interesting. In fact they were the most Icelandic of all: drank every glass to the bottom and threw themselves into any jollity, knew countless stories and never talked seriously unless at the bottom of the bottle, when they began to wail for their mother who lived a thousand miles away but came on foot to bring them their clean laundry once a month. They were completely crazy and were better athletes in bed than my dear countrymen, but in the end I had enough of all their pommel-horse routines. Nordic men are all as tactless as Icelanders. They get drunk over dinner, laugh loudly and fart, eventually start “singing” even in public restaurants where people have paid to escape the tumult of

It is the purpose of both God and the devil to provide you with the answers to these key questions.  If Satan is able to establish his images of identity and destiny in your life, he then has set up a system of governing your life that more or less runs itself and requires very little maintenance or service on his part. It is an effective scheme of destruction in your life. I believe that it has always been God’s intention to impart, especially at specific junctures in life, His message of identity and destiny.  He has appointed special agents on this earth to ensure that His message of identity and destiny is revealed.  These agents are called PARENTS.  Their primary job is to make sure that children receive God’s message of identity and destiny throughout their growing-up years. Satan’s purpose is to access these very agents of God, the parents, and to impart his message of identity and destiny.  Many times parents are unwittingly used to impart the devil’s message rather than God’s. SATAN’S MESSAGE VS. GOD’S MESSAGE What type of message does the devil want to reveal regarding identity and destiny?  His message is something along these lines.  IDENTITY: “You are worthless.  You aren’t even supposed to be here.  You are a mistake.  Something is drastically wrong with you.  You are a ‘nobody.’” DESTINY: “You have no purpose.  You are a total failure.  You’ll never be a success.  You are inadequate.  You are not equipped to accomplish the job.  Nothing ever works out for you, etc..” I once heard a woman say, “It’s as if someone dropped me off on the planet forty some years ago, and I’ve been trying to make my way the best I could ever since.  But deep inside, I don’t feel as though I belong here, and I’ve been waiting for that someone to come back and pick me up.”  God never intended for anyone to feel that he doesn’t belong.  That is Satan’s message. God's message of identity and destiny is something like this:  IDENTITY:  “To Me you are very valuable and are worth the life of Jesus Christ.  You are a `somebody.’  You do belong here.  Before the foundation of the earth, I planned for you.  You were no mistake.” DESTINY:  “You are destined to a great purpose on this earth.  I placed you here for a purpose.  You are a success as a person and are completely adequate and suited to carry out My purpose.  Set your vision high, and allow Me to complete great accomplishments in your life.” JOE’S STORY Joe was a well dressed, successful business man in his late thirties when I first met him.  He had come to a weekend “FROM CURSE TO BLESSING” seminar.  As we moved into the small-group ministry time, Joe began to share, somewhat sheepishly, about the tremendous problem that anger had caused him in his life.  “Anger causes me to embarrass myself, and

As the Princess performs the impossible balancing act which her life requires, she drifts inexorably into obsession, continually discussing her problems. Her friend Carolyn Bartholomew argues it is difficult not to be self-absorbed when the world watches everything she does. “How can you not be self-obsessed when half the world is watching everything you do; the high-pitched laugh when someone is talking to somebody famous must make you very very cynical.” She endlessly debates the problems she faces in dealing with her husband, the royal family, and their system. They remain tantalizingly unresolved, the gulf between thought and action achingly great. Whether she stays or goes, the example of the Duchess of York is a potent source of instability. James Gilbey sums up Diana’s dilemma: “She can never be happy unless she breaks away but she won’t break away unless Prince Charles does it. He won’t do it because of his mother so they are never going to be happy. They will continue under the farcical umbrella of the royal family yet they will both lead completely separate lives.” Her friend Carolyn Bartholomew, a sensible sounding-board throughout Diana’s adult life, sees how that fundamental issue has clouded her character. “She is kind, generous, sad and in some ways rather desperate. Yet she has maintained her self-deprecating sense of humour. A very shrewd but immensely sorrowful lady.” Her royal future is by no means well-defined. If she could write her own script the Princess would like to see her husband go off with his Highgrove friends and attempt to discover the happiness he has not found with her, leaving Diana free to groom Prince William for his eventual destiny as the Sovereign. It is an idle pipe-dream as impossible as Prince Charles’s wish to relinquish his regal position and run a farm in Italy. She has other more modest ambitions; to spend a weekend in Paris, take a course in psychology, learn the piano to concert grade and to start painting again. The current pace of her life makes even these hopes seem grandiose, never mind her oft-repeated vision of the future where she see herself one day settling abroad, probably in Italy or France. A more likely avenue is the unfolding vista of charity, community and social work which has given her a sense of self-worth and fulfillment. As her brother says: “She has got a strong character. She does know what she wants and I think that after ten years she has got to a plateau now which she will continue to occupy for many years.” As a child she sensed her special destiny, as an adult she has remained true to her instincts. Diana has continued to carry the burden of public expectations while enduring considerable personal problems. Her achievement has been to find her true self in the face of overwhelming odds. She will continue to tread a different path from her husband, the royal family and their system and yet still conform to their traditions. As she says: “When I go home and turn my light off at night, I know I did my best.

Anna Chapman was born Anna Vasil’yevna Kushchyenko, in Volgograd, formally Stalingrad, Russia, an important Russian industrial city. During the Battle of Stalingrad in World War II, the city became famous for its resistance against the German Army. As a matter of personal history, I had an uncle, by marriage that was killed in this battle. Many historians consider the battle of Stalingrad the largest and bloodiest battle in the history of warfare. Anna earned her master's degree in economics in Moscow. Her father at the time was employed by the Soviet embassy in Nairobi, Kenya, where he allegedly was a senior KGB agent. After her marriage to Alex Chapman, Anna became a British subject and held a British passport. For a time Alex and Anna lived in London where among other places, she worked for Barclays Bank. In 2009 Anna Chapman left her husband and London, and moved to New York City, living at 20 Exchange Place, in the Wall Street area of downtown Manhattan. In 2009, after a slow start, she enlarged her real-estate business, having as many as 50 employees. Chapman, using her real name worked in the Russian “Illegals Program,” a group of sleeper agents, when an undercover FBI agent, in a New York coffee shop, offered to get her a fake passport, which she accepted. On her father’s advice she handed the passport over to the NYPD, however it still led to her arrest. Ten Russian agents including Anna Chapman were arrested, after having been observed for years, on charges which included money laundering and suspicion of spying for Russia. This led to the largest prisoner swap between the United States and Russia since 1986. On July 8, 2010 the swap was completed at the Vienna International Airport. Five days later the British Home Office revoked Anna’s citizenship preventing her return to England. In December of 2010 Anna Chapman reappeared when she was appointed to the public council of the Young Guard of United Russia, where she was involved in the education of young people. The following month Chapman began hosting a weekly TV show in Russia called Secrets of the World and in June of 2011 she was appointed as editor of Venture Business News magazine. In 2012, the FBI released information that Anna Chapman attempted to snare a senior member of President Barack Obama's cabinet, in what was termed a “Honey Trap.” After the 2008 financial meltdown, sources suggest that Anna may have targeted the dapper Peter Orzag, who was divorced in 2006 and served as Special Assistant to the President, for Economic Policy. Between 2007 and 2010 he was involved in the drafting of the federal budget for the Obama Administration and may have been an appealing target to the FSB, the Russian Intelligence Agency. During Orzag’s time as a federal employee, he frequently came to New York City, where associating with Anna could have been a natural fit, considering her financial and economics background. Coincidently, Orzag resigned from his federal position the same month that Chapman was arrested. Following this, Orzag took a job at Citigroup as Vice President of Global Banking. In 2009, he fathered a child with his former girlfriend, Claire Milonas, the daughter of Greek shipping executive, Spiros Milonas, chairman and President of Ionian Management Inc. In September of 2010, Orzag married Bianna Golodryga, the popular news and finance anchor at Yahoo and a contributor to MSNBC's Morning Joe. She also had co-anchored the weekend edition of ABC's Good Morning America. Not surprisingly Bianna was born in in Moldova, Soviet Union, and in 1980, her family moved to Houston, Texas. She graduated from the University of Texas at Austin, with a degree in Russian/East European & Eurasian studies and has a minor in economics. They have two children. Yes, she is fluent in Russian! Presently Orszag is a banker and economist, and a Vice Chairman of investment banking and Managing Director at Lazard.

Not that I don't treat myself to a Papaya King hotdog sometimes, or maybe a falafel sandwich from a street vendor. And occasionally Gus will take me somewhere nice to "develop my palate," but that's rare. Though I can't afford anything sold at them, I do love wandering through the fancy gourmet markets, especially the one at Bloomingdale's. That place is so amazing, Meemaw. You have never seen so much good stuff in one place. I looked for Schrafft's when I first got here- wanting to eat a butterscotch sundae like the one you told me about- but I think they've all shut down. Mostly I shop at this really cheap grocery store I found in Spanish Harlem. They sell cheap cuts of meat- oxtail, trotters, and pigs' ears- as well as all varieties of offal. (I always think of you, Meemaw, when eating livers, think of you eating them every Sunday after church at The Colonnade.) I like to poke around the Asian markets, too, bringing home gingerroot, lemongrass, fish sauce, dehydrated shrimp, wonton wrappers, dozens of different chilies, and soft little candies wrapped in rice paper that dissolves in your mouth. As a special treat I go to the green market in Union Square on the weekends- which is a farmer's market smack-dab in the middle of downtown. Even though I really can't afford the produce, I'll often splurge anyway, arriving home with one or two perfect things- carrots the color of rubies with bright springy tops, or a little bag of fingerling potatoes, their skins delicate and golden.

We've been knocking out the basics all morning.... Asian chicken salad, fruit medley with mint, wheat berry pilaf with dried cherries and almonds. Kai roasted six chickens and a turkey breast, and grilled a whole flank steak, which he sliced thin across the grain. We have green beans in a spicy garlic marinade, braised black kale with smoked turkey, and roasted brussels sprouts. Our signature Morning Energy muffins, bursting with golden raisins and walnuts, sunflower seeds, millet, flax, and sweet with honey are cooling on a rack. We have thawed today's soup specials, which we cook over the weekends and freeze for the week, a golden butternut squash, smooth as velvet, and a chunky pasta fagioli, with whole wheat pasta, white beans, and loads of veggies.

having specific things to look forward to massively increases your enjoyment of them. “It extends the experience,” says Cassie Mogilner, a professor of marketing at the University of Pennsylvania’s Wharton School, who specializes in happiness research. “The whole time you’re looking forward to it and anticipating it, you’re getting some of the benefits of the experience itself.” This is one of the reasons why people love vacation travel. You generally have to figure it out at least a few days ahead of time. Indeed, research published in the journal Applied Research in Quality of Life in 2010 found that vacation anticipation boosted happiness levels for eight weeks—an argument for planning more shorter trips rather than a few longer ones. Plan a four-day weekend every other month and the happiness boost could last all year. I know this anticipation factor is why I always have great birthday weeks. Not only do I think ahead of time about what I’d like to do—meeting up with friends, taking the kids somewhere fun, getting a massage—I plan these activities in advance and then enjoy seeing them on my calendar, knowing that tickets are purchased and babysitters are booked.

It had been often commented upon that Vibe offspring tended to be crazy as bedbugs. ‘Fax’s brother Cragmont had run away with a trapeze girl, then brought her back to New York to get married, the wedding being actually performed on trapezes, groom and best man, dressed in tails and silk opera hats held on with elastic, swinging upside down by their knees in perfect synchrony across the perilous Æther to meet the bride and her father, a carnival “jointee” or concessionaire, in matched excursion from their own side of the ring, bridesmaids observed at every hand up twirling by their chins in billows of spangling, forty feet above the faces of the guests, feathers dyed a deep acid green sweeping and stirring the cigar smoke rising from the crowd. Cragmont Vibe was but thirteen that circus summer he became a husband and began what would become, even for the day, an enormous family. The third brother, Fleetwood, best man at this ceremony, had also got out of the house early, fast-talking his way onto an expedition heading for Africa. He kept as clear of political games as of any real scientific inquiry, preferring to take the title of “Explorer” literally, and do nothing but explore. It did not hurt Fleetwood’s chances that a hefty Vibe trust fund was there to pick up the bills for bespoke pith helmets and meat lozenges and so forth. Kit met him one spring weekend out at the Vibe manor on Long Island. “Say, but you’ve never seen our cottage,” ‘Fax said one day after classes. “What are you doing this weekend? Unless there’s another factory girl or pizza princess or something in the works.” “Do I use that tone of voice about the Seven Sisters material you specialize in?” “I’ve nothing against the newer races,” ‘Fax protested. “But you might like to meet Cousin Dittany anyway.” “The one at Smith.” “Mount Holyoke, actually.” “Can’t wait.” They arrived under a dourly overcast sky. Even in cheerier illumination, the Vibe mansion would have registered as a place best kept clear of—four stories tall, square, unadorned, dark stone facing looking much older than the known date of construction. Despite its aspect of abandonment, an uneasy tenancy was still pursued within, perhaps by some collateral branch of Vibes . . . it was unclear. There was the matter of the second floor. Only the servants were allowed there. It “belonged,” in some way nobody was eager to specify, to previous occupants. “Someone’s living there?” “Someone’s there.” . . . from time to time, a door swinging shut on a glimpse of back stairway, a muffled footfall . . . an ambiguous movement across a distant doorframe . . . a threat of somehow being obliged to perform a daily search through the forbidden level, just at dusk, so detailed that contact with the unseen occupants, in some form, at some unannounced moment, would be inevitable . . . all dustless and tidy, shadows in permanent possession, window-drapes and upholstery in deep hues of green, claret, and indigo, servants who did not speak, who would or could not meet one’s gaze . . . and in the next room, the next instant, waiting . . . “Real nice of you to have me here, folks,” chirped Kit at breakfast. “Fellow sleeps like a top. Well, except . . .” Pause in the orderly gobbling and scarfing. Interest from all around the table. “I mean, who came in the room in the middle of the night like that?” “You’re sure,” said Scarsdale, “it wasn’t just the wind, or the place settling.” “They were walking around, like they were looking for something.” Glances were exchanged, failed to be exchanged, were sent out but not returned. “Kit, you haven’t seen the stables yet,” Cousin Dittany offered at last. “Wouldn’t you like to go riding?

Once Akash set me up with invisibility and taught me some basic killing skills, I deleted StealthViper999—who, I had to admit, was neither stealthy nor viper-like—and created a new avatar, who I called InvisibleDeath. For obvious reasons. At this point, it was Friday afternoon, and most weekends, Reese spends every waking minute (when he’s not at a soccer game) on MetaWorld. So I was all amped up to get my revenge ASAP. But that particular Friday, Reese got a 57 on his math test. Even by my brother’s incredibly low standards, it was such a bad grade that Ms. Santiago made him take the test home to get it signed by a parent. REESE I don’t know what the big deal was. A 57’s still “Very Good.” CLAUDIA I should explain about the Culvert Prep grading system. A few years ago, a bunch of parents complained that letter grades were hurting their kids’ self-esteem. So now, instead of A, B, C, D, and F, our grading scale is “Amazing,” “Spectacular,” “Excellent,” “Very Good,” and “Okay.” Which is totally stupid. Because nothing changed except the names, so if you get a “Very Good” on your report card, your parents have to come in for a special conference with your teacher. And if you get more than one “Okay,” they basically tell you to start looking for another school. Also, I know which parents did the complaining—and I don’t want to be catty or name names, but I can tell you the one thing their kids ABSOLUTELY DO NOT NEED is more self-esteem. Anyway, when Reese brought home his 57 that Friday, Mom and Dad reacted in their usual way, which

Rogues aren’t nice people, son. And if they don’t get their ransom, they might snip off one of your fingers or toes as an inducement.” Maurice is horrified. He flexes his pale soft hand. “Which finger?” “They’d start with the little one just to get warmed up. After that, it depends on how close it is to the weekend.” “What does the weekend have to do with anything?” “For a weekend special they might cut off your whole hand.” Maurice swallows hard and yanks his hood down over his messy hair.

If you are all set for an enjoyable weekend then simply head towards the magnificent Her Majesty’s Theatre! The popular London Westend theatre is running the award winning London show, The Phantom of the Opera with packed houses. The show has already made its remarkable entry into its third decade. The blockbuster London show by Andrew Lloyd Webber is a complete treat for music lovers. The popular show has won several prestigious awards. The show is set against the backdrop of gothic Paris Opera House. The show revolves around soprano Christine Daae who is enticed by the voice of Phantom. The show features some of the heart touching and spell binding musical numbers such as 'The Music of the Night', 'All I Ask of You' and the infamous title track, The Phantom of the Opera. The Phantom of the Opera is a complete audio visual treat for theatre lovers. In the year 1986, the original production made its debut at the Her Majesty's Theatre featuring Michael Crawford and Sarah Brightman. Sarah was then wife of composer Andrew Lloyd Webber. The popular London musical, The Phantom of the Opera went on becoming a popular show and still London's hottest ticket. The award winning show is a brilliant amalgamation of outstanding design, special effects and memorable score. The show has earned critical acclamation from both the critics and audiences. The show has been transferred to Broadway and is currently the longest running musical. The show is running at the Majestic Theatre and enjoyed brilliant performance across the globe. For Instance, the Las Vegas production was designed specifically with a real lake. In order to celebrate its silver jubilee, there was a glorious concert production at the Royal Albert Hall. The phenomenal production featured Ramin Karimloo and Sierra Boggess as Phantom and Christine. If you are looking for some heart touching love musical the Phantom of the Opera is a must watch. With its wonderfully designed sets, costumes and special effects, the show is a must watch for theatre lovers. The show is recommended for 10+ kids and run for two hours and thirty minutes.

A total of 779 prisoners have been held at Guantánamo since the facility was opened on January 11, 2002. Of those, 8 have died and 637 have been released or transferred. This left 134 inmates at Guantánamo at the end of 2014, however the number is constantly changing and as of January 2015 the official number of inmates remaining at the Guantánamo detention center was 127. Of these 127 detainees, 55 have been cleared for repatriation and are listed as being eligible to be transferred out. Some of the restrictions regarding the transferring of these prisoners have now been lifted, so they may be sent back to their home countries, provided those countries agree and are able to keep an eye on them. There are still problems regarding some of the more aggressive prisoners from countries that do not want them back. However, recently five of them were sent to the countries of Georgia and Slovakia. Another six detainees were flown to Uruguay over the weekend of December 6, 2014. There still remains a hard core of prisoners left incarcerated at the prison, for whom no release date or destination is scheduled. It is speculated that eventually some of them will come to the United States to face a federal court. Clifford Sloan, the U.S. State Department’s special envoy was tasked with closing the prison, said, “We are very grateful to Uruguay for this important humanitarian action, and to President José “Pepe” Mujica, for his strong leadership in providing a home for individuals who cannot return to their own countries.” Sloan added, “This transfer is a major milestone in our efforts to close the facility.” The question now is what will happen next under the Trump Administration? Presently there are still 41 men left, 15 of which are considered high value detainees. Five were to be moved out to cooperating countries during the Obama Administration but things happened too slowly and unfortunately they remained at Guantánamo. As of now the Trump plans are unclear, other than him saying that he wants to keep the detention center open and “load it up with some bad dudes.” Assuming that this happens, it is certain to bring on international protests!

Getting together Social gatherings are popular with Italians, and it is common to invite relatives and friends for a meal, even if there is no special occasion. On the weekend, many people visit their relatives or go to a soccer match. Some families like to have Sunday lunch in a restaurant, such as these people in Tuscany.

Many believe that the law enforcement response is what ended the violence that accompanied the crack era. New research suggests the availability of guns was a more salient variable. Economists Geoffrey Williams and W. Alan Bartley compiled handgun price and production data from the late eighties and early nineties from advertisements in Gun Digest. Comparing that data to crime rates revealed a “supply shock” of low-priced pistols, corresponding to higher levels of gun homicide among young Black men. It turns out, just as crack was exploding, the federal government eased its oversight of the gun industry, and manufacturers kicked up production of cheap firearms, dubbed “Saturday night specials” by law enforcement due to the rate at which they showed up at weekend crime scenes. According to the analysis by Williams and Bartley, production of these guns peaked in 1993, the same year the murder rate peaked nationally. It was product-liability lawsuits, more funding for the Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives, and the Brady Bill that forced a decline in the production of cheap guns, and subsequently in the murder rate.

All right, I thought you specialized in Labradors.’ ‘You spaniel men think that when God had created the springer and its near relatives he should have knocked off for a dirty weekend.

Joy Reminiscing 15 MIN 1. Think of a joyful memory with your spouse from the previous year. 2 MIN 2. Before telling your story, write a few notes on the following details: 1 MIN My body: What was I feeling in my body? My emotions: What emotions were present? 3. While holding hands and gazing into each other’s eyes, briefly tell your stories and include the above details. 6 MIN 4. When finished, take turns highlighting and validating the emotional content from the story your partner shared. 3 MIN EXAMPLE: Our weekend getaway to the beach was a special time for you as you were feeling encouraged. Our time together helped you rest and relax so your body felt peaceful and your shoulders were no longer tense. 5. Discuss what you noticed from this exercise, then close with quiet cuddling and resting together. 3 MIN

I’m not bitter about that but it would be quite nice to go and do things like a weekend in Paris, but it’s not for me at the moment. But I know one day if I play the rules of life – the game of life – I will be able to have those things I’ve always pined for and they will be that much more special because I will be that much older and I’ll be able to appreciate them that much more.

What’s your unique angle in thirty seconds or less?” In other words, why would anyone care to read his newsletter? I know that sounds harsh, but that’s the first question you have to answer before you put yourself into the public sphere. Pressed into defining his unique angle, Ben paused. He rumpled his face up, laughed nervously, and shrugged. This is hard! Finally he spoke, slowly, and then with confidence. Listen to how Ben defined his angle, his sauce: “I’ve been a performance coach for the last fourteen years, working with the best athletes in the world. Helping people perform better is my groove. I want to help anybody who wants to have a great day and shift them into the mentality to dominate their life. I have information to share when it comes to dealing with the best.” That is beautiful! Both in its heartfelt honesty and authenticity, but also in its clarity. Let’s pick it apart and look at what he did in those four sentences: He defines who he is, Why you should trust him, What he is passionate about, and What unique thing this prepares him to do for you. It is clear, approachable, direct, and short. The first three sentences define what makes him special (fourteen years helping the best athletes in the world perform better!), and the fourth (how he’s solving his customers’ problems, teaching mindsets needed to dominate life) defines the kind of love and attention he’ll generously dispense to cultivate a community. Take a minute, and as Ben has done, write out a pitch in your journal describing your special sauce. CHALLENGE Write out your unique angle. There are no right answers here. You can change these any time you’d like. Who are you? Why should people listen? What are you passionate about? What will you do for people?

There will be ribbons in a range of colors with placings noted and records kept. Ribbons aren’t worth much more than that; they’re only a symbol. It’s your partnership that mattered. That the two of you spent weekends challenging yourselves to improve, always competing against your last show, and balancing winning and losing into a place of faith and trust. That the two of you built a special relationship that made a difference, if not in the huge world, certainly in your own hearts. You persevered through joy and pain, thrill and dread, and in the end, there was a place that the two of your shared. Ribbons say it was worth celebrating. In a world where horses struggle, suffer, and die for the whims of humans, it says that you saw past the surface and shared breath and heart with another soul. You lifted your eyes higher.

I feel as if I have been set adrift without a paddle. Tossed into a boat on a raging ocean without so much as a life jacket to keep me from drowning; no means to reach the nearest shore, even if I can see it. I am weary of this spiritual path. The world does not seem to understand this new perspective and frankly I don’t either. I question the choices I have made. I plead with my guides to show me that the last nine years I have been on this journey haven’t been for naught. I am no longer sure that my path is the right one; that the events and programs I create are what I am to do. Once I was so sure of my vision, now I am sure of nothing. Perhaps I am the crazy one. Am I imagining all this woo-woo spiritual stuff? Why does it not make sense? Where is it all going? Or more importantly, where am I going? Am I a fool? I am pretty sure my family thinks I am. I have just returned from spending the weekend with my family—the successful business people who seem to have it all figured out. I am sure they all think I am crazy. Maybe I am. None of this seems to make sense any more. This global shift we are supposedly in, maybe it’s just one of those cycles humanity goes through, nothing special or spiritual about it. I know nothing any more. At times I feel so alone. The large circle of friends I once had has gotten smaller and smaller, and though I am supported by a group of amazing souls who understand this spiritual arena, I feel lost at times. Alone once again—why am I surprised? Why me? Why did this have to happen to me? Why did Kristi have to die? What is the purpose? I have asked these questions a million times and though my heart knows the answer, my brain still struggles to wrap itself around it. The concept that I chose this existence is at times still difficult to accept. Why would I choose to lose my daughter? Why would I choose this life and all the challenges? I am so weary. I surrender, God. Show me the way.

On her way toward the shore, she kept coming across weekend tourists. Every cluster of them presented the same pattern: the man was pushing a stroller with a baby in it, the woman was walking beside him; the man's expression was meek, solicitous, smiling, a bit embarrassed, and endlessly willing to bend over the child, wipe its nose, soothe its cries; the woman’s expression was blasé, distant, smug, sometimes even (inexplicably) spiteful. This pattern Chantal saw repeated in several variants: the man alongside a woman was pushing the stroller and also carrying another baby on his hack, in a specially made sack: the man alongside a woman was pushing the stroller, carrying one baby on his shoulders and another in a belly carrier: the man alongside a woman had no stroller but was holding one child by the hand and carrying three others, on his back, his belly, and his shoulders. Then, finally, with no man. a woman was pushing the stroller: she was doing it with a force unseen in the men, such that Chantal, walking on the same sidewalk, had to leap out of her way at the last moment. Chantal thinks: men have daddified themselves. They aren't fathers, they're just daddies, which means: fathers without a father's authority.

Over een jaar zou Pieter met pensioen gaan. Wat zou hij dan gaan doen? [...] Nu de speciale peterselieschaar in zijn leven was gekomen zag hij zijn toekomst steeds helderder voor zich. Hij zou gaan handelen in voorgeknipte peterselie. Klein beginnen natuurlijk, thuis op het aanrecht. Afzet bij vrienden en buren. De zaak groeide, Pieter leverde een goed product. Al spoedig kon hij het niet meer alleen af. Hij huurde een grote hal en trok goedkope arbeidskrachten uit Oost-Europa aan. De faam van zijn voorgeknipte peterselie verspreidde zich over de wereld. De merknaam Pete’s Pre-Cut Parsley werd een begrip. Hij reisde naar verre landen in zijn privé-vliegtuig om contracten af te sluiten met supermarktconcerns. In het weekend viste en golfte hij met directeuren en presidenten.

The Invitational Church In the invitational church, the focus is on growth. The goal of the church is to reach out and gather people into the church. Therefore, the church is designed as a consumer-oriented place that takes special care to make sure the red carpet is rolled out for visitors and guests. A highly trained staff puts forth great effort to ensure the very best experience for everyone who comes to the church, with special attention paid to visitors. Invitational churches are often successful at growth because this is a large part of their goal and focus. There are many wonderful aspects of the invitational church. I believe God sovereignly birthed the church growth and seeker movements to help the institutional church get beyond itself and start caring about the millions of people trying to find God who were unable to fit into the institutional church. I deeply appreciate and value invitational churches, because they have come up with a way to re-create a modern day “Court Of The Gentiles” aspect of the temple, a place where God-seekers can come and find God. They have unselfishly set aside their desire for church to be about themselves, and they have designed church services for lost people and seekers. What a refreshing change when invitational churches hit the scene! They have really harvested many people for Jesus and helped thousands of churches become outward-focused. This is a good thing! The difficulty with the invitational church is that the individual is essentially irrelevant. What I mean is, when most people walk into an invitational church, it really doesn’t matter whether or not they show up. Why is this true? Because the invitational church has, by default, set the bar very low to make sure that whosoever will may come. However, the inadvertent message is that the individual is not really needed. Little is asked or required of people, and it is very clear that if they aren’t part of the overall goal to facilitate growth, their gifts may not be needed. To prove the point: where do many of the people who have left institutional churches go? They often sit in the back of invitational churches where they can go unnoticed and where they can have very little asked of them. The invitational church is a great place to recover from the institutional church. Some go on and become involved in meaningful ways. But often over time, two negative things happen to believers who have been in invitational churches. One, they become sedentary, consumer-oriented Christians. Those who joined the institutional church and who wanted to make a difference have all but lost their initial fire. Often they no longer burn with zeal for God and His purposes. Instead, they unwittingly adopt the culture of the invitational church into their Christianity, and they, too, lower the bar to the point where, for all intents and purposes, they are now just showing up at a weekend service. Or two, they begin to feel the need for a more personal, relational church, and they move on to something more personal and meaningful to them.

No beautiful, I’m not seeing anyone. I’ve been real focused myself. But I’m not foolish enough to let you get by. Even if I have to go through two over-protective dads,” Genesis answered. “So. I’ve got to get back on the road, but I’ll see you next weekend. Friday night eight o’clock sharp. And trust me, I won’t be late.” Genesis bent and kissed Curtis on his cheek. Curtis blushed terribly in front of everyone. This was so ridiculous, they had absolutely no privacy. Genesis gave him another wink before he released his hand and turned to walk up the stairs. His dads walked over to him and Ruxs handed him his suit jacket. He snatched it out his dad’s hand and turned to walk out the front door. “Have fun dads.” Curtis could hear Day’s laugh after his comment, along with the other men, as he walked angrily up the driveway to their car. His dads had made a circus act out of a very nice moment he’d shared with a really great guy.

Acknowledgements I would like to thank my children, Bindi and Robert, for patiently supporting me while I spent many evenings and weekends writing this book (or as Robert used to say, “Mum is doing her schoolwork.”). Thanks also to those who helped entertain, feed, bathe, and wrangle my kids while I wrote (it does take a village!): Barry and Shelley Lyon, Emma Schell, Jeanette Covacevich, John and Bonnie Marineau, Brian and Sherri Marineau, April Harvie, Brian and Kate Coulter, Thelma Engle. A special thank-you to my dear friend John Edward. If it wasn’t for you, this book would never have been written. Thanks to my precious friends and family, who were my sounding boards: Wes Mannion, Frank and Joy Muscillo, John Stainton, Judi Bailey, Craig Franklin, Bob Irwin. A huge thank-you to Kate Schell, who helped me assemble my first draft--there were 250,000 words of stories that made us laugh and cry. You took the journey with me. I would also like to thank Gil Reavill, for taking nine hundred pages and helping me choose which stories to keep for the final draft. Natasha Stoynoff, you were ready to help as a collaborator. I hope we actually get to work together one day.And to Ursula Cary, thank you for flying all the way to Australia to help me catch crocs for research and make those final edits. I’d like to extend a big thank-you to all the interesting people who helped to shape our lives and are included in the pages of this book. And finally, a huge thank-you to my husband, Steve. You are now the angel leaning over my shoulder, whispering in my ear that I can do anything--you always believed in me.

Daniel Galvin Sr., OBE Daniel Galvin Sr., OBE, is one of Britain’s biggest names in hairdressing. His specialization in hair coloring has revolutionized the field over the past four decades, and he continues to be in high demand by the rich and famous worldwide. For his contributions to the industry, he was honored with an OBE in 2006. I had the pleasure of knowing Diana and doing her hair color for ten years. She was truly a breath of fresh air each time she came into the salon. She was always happy, always full of life, and full of grace. We have a private room available in our salon, but Diana never requested to use it. She was happy to sit next to other clients and often chatted away merrily with them and staff members. In our business, confidentiality is so important. Anything she discussed with me will never go any further. She used to tell me off for my suntan--telling me it wasn’t good for me and to be careful. Her last words to me before that tragic weekend in France were “Daniel, I don’t believe it, but for the first time I’m browner than you!” She was incredibly down-to-earth, unaffected, and perfectly charming on all occasions. She was a tremendous asset to the monarchy and to this country. There was an amazing aura that glowed around her--she was as beautiful on the inside as she was on the outside. It was always an honor to be of service to her.

If you looking for Rafting Company in Rishikesh? Then we are the people to call because we have it all. If you are looking for camping in Rishikesh, adventure, fun, anticipation and family bonding then your one weekend with us is awaiting. As in this weekend we give you all kind of rafting in Rishikesh like river rafting, bungee jumping and trekking, if you are the daring kind. And you can dare to paint the town red then paintball is your thing. Diffidence prevents us from audacity, but we do have the best camps for hosting your family weekends. So what are you coming up for Pack your bags as Uttarakhand Adventure is calling. If adventure runs from side to side your veins and you dare to ride high on the wild waters of the Ganga then head to Rishikesh for a rejuvenate and exciting holiday journey. Revitalize your drained body and mind in the good-looking surroundings of this holy town and let the thrill of white water rafting take you absent from the rest of the world. Offering a synthesis of chilly conditions and gorgeous sand beaches with Garhwal Himalaya Mountains in the background, Rishikesh is one of the most important rafting destinations in India. It is a place that continues to strike the thoughts of city dwellers who want to escape from their work routine and droning lifestyle. The best element of river rafting company in Rishikesh is that it can be enjoyed by anyone; you don’t need to be a swimmer or a specialized rafter to enjoy this sport. The strong present of the Ganga flowing down from a very high height through the Himalayan Mountain Range makes it one of the best rivers in India to enjoy rafting adventure. Wash away your fears and go in front and sail crossways the river awash with demanding whirlpools and rapids. If you manage to successfully man oeuvre through the stretch with little help from the guide, you positively deserve a pat on your back for your skirmishing spirit. Most of river rafting packages in Rishikesh are incomplete without experiencing the rustic charm of beach camping under the open sky. The best instance for white water rafting in Rishikesh is from February to May and as of September to November. River Rafting is best enjoyed in the consecrated valley of Rishikesh which boasts of the Great Ganges River downward with an ultimate force and existing precisely as the originator intended her to be- Wild and Free. The attendance of numerous rapids and troughs along the make bigger of the river fortifies the stand of Rishikesh as the River Rafting capital of India. Once here; you will be given a crash course on the sport, its navigational technique, and how to make it safer. Following the briefing, the organizers will hand you gear like rafts, paddles, helmets and life jackets.

Genevieve…” He sat directly beside her, his flat abdomen exposed to the firelight, his expression suggesting he’d welcome eagles tearing at his flesh rather than endure her touch. “I wanted to sketch you without your shirt, but I was afraid to ask. I wanted to sketch you—” The look he gave her was rueful and tender. “You will be the death of me, woman.” He sounded resigned to his fate, and Jenny liked it when he called her woman in that exasperated, affectionate tone. She did not like it quite as well when he hoisted her bodily over his lap, so she sat facing him and his exposed, lacerated torso. “You will note the absence of any felines,” Elijah said, hands falling to his sides. “And yet, I must warn you, Genevieve, indulging your curiosity is still ill-advised.” He thought this was curiosity on her part, and some of it was, but not curiosity about what happened between women and men. Jenny’s curiosity was far more specific, and more dangerous than he knew: she wanted to know about Elijah Harrison, and about Elijah Harrison and Genevieve Windham. “My parents will be home in a few days, Elijah, possibly as soon as this weekend.” The notion made her lungs feel tight and the whisky roil in her belly. He trapped her hands and stopped her from tracing the muscles of his chest. “It’s all right. I understand. Explore to your heart’s content.” A pulse beat at the base of his throat. She touched two fingers to it. “It’s late, you don’t owe me—” He kissed her, a gentle, admonitory kiss, like Jock’s cautionary growl. She took his meaning: no more trying to coax enthusiasm from Elijah for her company, no more trying to inspire him to reassurances that he felt something special for her. He would permit her curiosity and nothing more. The

Yeah Dad. I’m in here.” Curtis laughed. He knew Ruxs could be a little blunt and heavy-tempered, but he was sure his dads trusted him. A few seconds later Ruxs came through the door, quickly taking in the scene in front of him. His dad wasn’t stupid – he was a detective – so surely he could put the pieces together. Curtis tried to give his dad a look that said “please for the love of god, don’t embarrass me.” Ruxs looked over at Genesis. “How’s it going, G-Man?” Curtis mouth dropped open. Oh hell. “Pretty good, Ruxs. Long time no see.” “Yeah it has been a while. It’s a big surprise to see you here with my boy,” Ruxs said eyeing him carefully. “Dad,” Curtis hissed. Boy? Really? Ruxs ignored him, maintaining his glaring eye contact with Genesis. “Your team’s off to a damn good start this season. That Florida game was close. Y’all got a tough schedule this year.” Genesis sat forward but didn’t stand. “I’m up for the challenge.” “I bet you are.” “Dad.” Curtis scowled again. “You just here for the weekend, Genesis? I would think the coach would have y’all on a pretty tight curfew.” “I got a weekend pass,” Genesis answered with an easy smile. “So you’ll be leaving soon, right?” “Dad. Genesis was at the funeral. Did you know that?” Ruxs tilted his head in question. “Really. No I didn’t realize. All I saw were a bunch of grown. Ass. Men. I must didn’t distinguish.” Curtis’ eyes bugged out of his head. When he looked at Genesis, he didn’t seem fazed. But he on the other hand was humiliated. “I will be leaving tonight. I just came down to show my support. But I’ll be back next week for Thanksgiving break and I’d like to take Curtis on a date, if it’s alright with —” “Hell no,” Ruxs said, not letting Genesis finish. Green walked in before Curtis could say a word. “There you are, Curtis. I was wondering where you’d disappeared…” Green stopped, noticing Ruxs and Genesis’ stare off. “Oh.” Curtis turned to Genesis. “You want to go out with me? I’d like that.” “You can like it all you want,” Ruxs butted in. Curtis gave his dad his most angry look. “I’m not some sixteen year old debutant. What the heck has gotten into you?” “Curtis your grandma is leaving, she wants to say goodbye to you. Why don’t you go on downstairs,” Green said, stepping aside. “We’re gonna talk to Genesis.” Curtis was reluctant to leave, but he did. This was beyond embarrassing. He was almost eighteen. Almost grown. About to graduate and go off to college. He wasn’t even a virgin. Why were they acting like this? Curtis had been on dates. He’d had a steady boyfriend his whole sophomore and junior year, now here they were behaving like they were protecting his untainted virtue.

Curtis said goodbye to Genesis, while his dads, God and Day, and half the men they worked with watched boldly. Genesis kept his eyes on him the entire time. He held Curtis’ hand in his as he leaned down to speak to him. “I’ll be back to take you to dinner next weekend. When you go home don’t be upset with your dads. I can understand their concern. You’ve just lost your mom. You’re about to graduate and choose a school. I’m twenty-two and you’re seventeen. I’m in the spotlight. I do a lot of traveling. They just don’t want you to have any major distractions right now. I get that.” “I’ve been an adult since I was twelve. I know how to stay focused. They know that,” Curtis said, looking up into Genesis’ sincere eyes. “I know that too. That’s why I like you. That’s why I want to get to know you better. You’re the first person I’ve talked to in a while that wasn’t worried about only saying things they thought would impress me.” Genesis turned Curtis’ hand in his and placed his palm against his lips and kissed it tenderly. Genesis never stopped watching only him, despite the grunts and whispers in the background. “You

We were pretty certain that the British wouldn’t be celebrating the 4th of July; it wouldn’t be one of their favorite days.  However, we were surprised to learn that the “Summer Ball” would be held on Saturday the 5th of July.  We’d jokingly said that it was nice of them to hold that ball on the 4th of July weekend and it seemed as if not only the whole squadron but damned near the whole base had picked up on our attempt at humor and received it very well.  Several of our friends and neighbors joked how nice it was of the Royal Navy to hold a ball for the Yanks on “Their Special Holiday Weekend.

One weekend we went to a concert at Buck Lake Ranch in Angola, Indiana, where Dolly Parton and Porter Wagoner were performing. That was something special!

She went water skiing while Prince Charles went windsurfing. Stories that she lightheartedly tipped him off his surfboard do not ring true of Diana who was totally in awe of him. Indeed she felt “fairly intimidated” by the atmosphere on board the royal yacht. Not only were his friends so much older than herself, but they seemed aware of Prince Charles’s strategy towards her. She found them too friendly and too knowing. “They were all over me like a bad rash,” she told her friends. For a girl who likes to be in control it was profoundly disconcerting. There was little time to reflect on the implications as Prince Charles had already asked her to Balmoral for the weekend of the Braemar Games early in September. The Queen’s Highland castle retreat, set in 40,000 acres of heather and grouse moor, is effectively the Windsors’ family seat. Ever since Queen Victoria bought the estate in 1848 it has had a special place in the affections of the royal family. However the very quirks and obscure family traditions which have accrued over the years can intimidate newcomers. “Don’t sit there” they chorus at an unfortunate guest foolish enough to try and sit in a chair in the drawing-room which was last used by Queen Victoria. Those who successfully navigate this social minefield, popularly known as “the Balmoral test,” are accepted by the royal family. The ones who fail vanish from royal favour as quickly as the Highland mists come and go.

On the third day, Sunday, we were guests of Mrs. Roosevelt, in Hyde Park. She gave us a conducted tour through the house, the Museum, which houses all the presents that the president had received, while in office, and to the garden and we stopped at the grave of F.D.R. That remained a very special week-end, a memorable highlight during my two years as a student. I still possess a snapshot, which a Greek student took of me in front of the Roosevelt Estate in Hyde Park, New York.

2014    Capture of Ahmed Abu Kahattala The Delta Force captured Ahmed Abu Kahattala on the weekend of 14 to 15 June 2014. The Delta Forces operators worked with contingent elite Intelligence Support Activity Operators who managed to track Ahmed Abu Khattala. The FBI agents made the arrest during this mission.

about something like that, Genevieve thought. “I see.” “Never mind then.” Theo picked up his egg. “Clearly, you have this covered. Forget I asked.” He walked back to his table. Genevieve peeked over at Chloe. “We don’t need Theo’s help, do we?” That evening, fourteen eggs arrived at her doorstep to receive proper care from Dr. Genevieve. She built a special carrier for them out of a milk crate and egg cartons, careful to label and note the condition of each egg upon arrival. All weekend long, she got the eggs plenty of exercise and fresh air by taking them to the park in a stroller. She talked to them for company and sang them songs to keep them entertained. She even read them bedtime stories before lights out. When Genevieve walked into homeroom on Monday, she felt like a hero. She carefully placed the crate of eggs on her desk and set Chloe

You know I hate tape recorders, Sis. I can’t be myself…. What? … This thing’s already on? … Um, well, here is how I read the situation…. Talk normally? … All right…. All right. This weekend was probably the worst of my life. I know that becoming stepsisters wasn’t easy, but when I thought I’d lost you, I felt like I’d lost me, too. I love you, Sis.

Values are faithfully applied to the facts before us, while ideology overrides whatever facts call theory into question. Nonpartisan districting, same-day registration, and weekend elections would all increase the competitiveness of races and might spur more participation from the electorate- and the more the electorate is paying attention, the more integrity is awarded. Public financing of campaigns or free television and radio time could drastically reduce the constant scourging for money and the influence of special interests. Changes in the rules in the House and the Senate might empower legislators in the minority, increase transparency in the process, and encourage more probing reporting.

As soon as a suitable location was found for a franchise, he was given two weeks to design the store, paint it, install coolers, shelves and counters and arrange merchandise. Nothing could get in the way of him attending opening day for each store, which always took place on a weekend. “I loved that moment. You could feel the excitement of everyone waiting outside before the doors opened.” The energy was that much higher when Perrette promised a complimentary milk jug to the first 500 clients and granted specials on other products, to promote the full range of their offerings.

I remember explaining explaining what I saw to one brother who couldn't see the sea. "I see an endless body of blue," I said, "with a soul that courses through the Atlantic Ocean, the Mediterranean, and the Suez Canal, all the way to the Red Sea and the western coast of Yemen, where in the seaside town of Hudaydah, my father is at the market buying fish for a special meal. And when the tide comes in and the air is heavy with salt, my mind takes me straight to the port city of Aden and weekends I spent there with friends after high school. We'd lie on the beach and imagine our lives and the wives and families we would one day have.

Companies don't want anyone telling them how to deal with their workers  -- they never have; they never will. Stores don't want anyone telling them how to design their entrances; how many steps they can have (or can't have); how heavy their doors can be. Yet they accept their city's building and fire codes, dictating to them how many people they can have in their restaurants, based on square footage, so that the place will not be a fire hazard. They accept that the city can inspect their electrical wiring to ensure that it "meets code" before they open for business. Yet they chafe if an individual wants an accommodation. Because, it seems, it is seen as "special for the handicapped," most of whom likely don't deserve it. Accommodation is fought doubly hard when it is seen to be a way of letting "the disabled" have a part of what we believe is for "normal" people. Although no access code, anywhere, requires them, automatic doors remain the one thing, besides flat or ramped entrances, that one hears about most from people with mobility problems: they need automatic doors as well as flat entrances. Yet no code, anywhere, includes them; mandating them would be "going too far"; giving the disabled more than they have a right to. A ramp is OK. An automatic door? That isn't reasonable. At least that's what the building lobby says. Few disability rights groups, anywhere, have tried to push for that accommodation. Some wheelchair activists are now pressing for "basic, minimal access" in all new single-family housing, so, they say, they can visit friends and attend gatherings in others' homes. This means at least one flat entrance and a bathroom they can get into. De-medicalization No large grocery or hotel firm, no home-and-garden discount supply center would consider designing an entrance that did not include automatic doors. They are standard in hotels and discount warehouses. Not, of course, for the people who literally can not open doors by themselves  -- for such people are "the disabled": them, not us. Firms that operate hotels, groceries and building supply stores fight regulations that require they accommodate "the disabled." Automatic doors that go in uncomplainingly are meant for us, the fit, the nondisabled, to ensure that we will continue to shop at the grocery or building supply center; to make it easy for us to get our grocery carts out, our lumber dollies to our truck loaded with Sheetrock for the weekend project. So the bellhops can get the luggage in and out of the hotel easily. When it is for "them," it is resisted; when it is for "us," however, it is seen as a design improvement. Same item; different purpose

Maybe you are familiar with the experience of returning to your daily routines, following an unusually satisfying weekend in nature or with old friends, and being struck by the thought that more of life should feel that way -- that it wouldn't be unreasonable to expect that deeply engrossing parts to be more than rare exceptions. The modern world is specially lacking in good responses to such feelings. Religion no longer provides the universal ready-made sense of purpose it once did, while consumerism mislead us into seeking meaning where it can't be found. But the sentiment itself is an acient one, the writer of the book of Ecclesiastes, among many others, would instantly have recognized the suffering of Hollis's patient: "Then I considered all that my hands had done, and the toil I had spent in doing it, and behold, all was vanity and a striving after wind and there was nothing to be gained under the sun.

Life gets busy, with so many things that aren’t actually important but feel important. And there are plenty of weekend days where I could decide to forget my to-do list, spend a few hours at the beach instead, but I’ve only ever done that if there’s a special occasion.” She looked at him and smiled again. “Life is short. I need to stop waiting for special

Thank you. What is it?” “Our weekend special,” Atlas says. “It’s called why are you avoiding me pasta.

Other nations have special flowers, of course. But who could imagine virtually the entire population of Britain or Germany or America visiting parks on one particular weekend to view a flower, no matter how lovely?

Sitting with Christine, thinking about the chaos in her eyes, his emotional chaos, plotting to lure her out for a weekend of love, he wished in a chaotic, physical logic," I wish I could count the number of causes and their probabilities that affect your feelings about me and that will determine what kind of answer I get if I ask you out for a date." -What? What is that you just said? (An internal voice). By knowing the causes and the probabilities of the order in which they occur, you predict emotions Is that possible? Can we treat human emotions like the weather? Are there sensors to measure our emotions across time points in our history from which we can predict our future actions and their impact on us and others? Is there a computer with enormous capacity that can collect, analyze, and predict them? Do human emotions fall within this randomness? Throughout their history, physicists have rejected the idea of a relationship between human emotions and the surrounding world. Emotions are incomprehensible, they cannot be expected, what cannot be expected cannot be measured, what cannot be measured cannot be formulated into equations, and what cannot be formulated into equations, screw it, reject it, get rid of it, it is not part of this world. These ideas were acceptable to physicists in the past before we knew that we can control the effect of randomness to some extent through control sciences, and predict it by collecting a huge amount of data through special sensors and analyzing it.

chaos in her eyes Sitting with Christine, thinking about the chaos in her eyes, his emotional chaos, plotting to lure her out for a weekend of love, he wished in a chaotic, physical logic,” I wish I could count the number of causes and their probabilities that affect your feelings about me and that will determine what kind of answer I get if I ask you out for a date.” -What? What is that you just said? (An internal voice). By knowing the causes and the probabilities of the order in which they occur, you predict emotions Is that possible? Can we treat human emotions like the weather? Are there sensors to measure our emotions across time points in our history from which we can predict our future actions and their impact on us and others? Is there a computer with enormous capacity that can collect, analyze, and predict them? Do human emotions fall within this randomness? Throughout their history, physicists have rejected the idea of a relationship between human emotions and the surrounding world. Emotions are incomprehensible, they cannot be expected, what cannot be expected cannot be measured, what cannot be measured cannot be formulated into equations, and what cannot be formulated into equations, screw it, reject it, get rid of it, it is not part of this world. These ideas were acceptable to physicists in the past before we knew that we can control the effect of randomness to some extent through control sciences, and predict it by collecting a huge amount of data through special sensors and analyzing it. What affects when a plane arrives? Wind speed and direction? Our motors compensate for this unwanted turbulence. A lightning strike could destroy it? Our lightning rods control this disturbance and neutralize its danger. Running out of fuel? We have fuel meter indicators. Engine failure? We have alternative solutions for an emergency landing. All fall under the category of control sciences, But what about the basic building blocks of an airplane model during its flight? Humans themselves! A passenger suddenly felt dizzy, and felt ill, did the pilot decide to change his destination to the nearest airport? Another angry person caused a commotion, did he cause the flight to be canceled? Our emotions are part of this world, affect it, and can be affected by, interact with. Since we can predict chaos if we have the tools to collect, measure, and analyze it, and since we can neutralize its harmful effects through control science, thus, we can certainly do the same to human emotions as we do with weather and everything else that we have been able to predict and neutralize its undesirable effect. But would we get the desired results? nobody knows… -“Not today, not today, Robert”, he spoke to himself. – If you can’t do it today, you can’t do it for a lifetime, all you have to do now is simply to ask her out and let her chaos of feelings take you wherever she wants. Unconsciously, about to make the request, his phone rang, the caller being his mother and the destination being Tel Aviv. Standing next to Sheikh Ruslan at the building door, this wall fascinated him. -The universe worked in some parts of its paint even to the point of entropy, which it broke, so it painted a very beautiful painting, signed by its greatest law, randomness. If Van Gogh was here, he would not have a nicer one. Sheikh Ruslan knocked on the door, they heard the sound of footsteps behind him, someone opened a small window from it, as soon as he saw the Sheikh until he closed it immediately, then there was a rattle in the stillness of the alley, iron locks opening. Here Robert booked a front-row seat for the night with the absurd, illogic and subconscious.

She’d need to find room in her compact kitchen for a high chair. Her second bedroom, which she now used as an office and craft room, would become the baby’s. A sense of excitement filled her, unlike anything she’d ever experienced. This was her baby, her very own child. This time she’d do everything right. This time there wasn’t a man standing in the way. High on enthusiasm, she reached for the phone and dialed her sister’s number. She felt closer to Kelly than she had in years. The weekend getaway had brought them together again, all three of them. How wise her mother had been to arrange it. “I didn’t get you up, did I?” she asked when her sister answered. Tyler bellowed in the background. “That’s a joke, right?” Maryellen smiled. “You doing anything special for lunch?” “Nothing in particular. What do you have in mind?” “Can you meet me at the Pot Belly Deli?” “Sure.” Kelly had the luxury of being a stay-at-home mother. Paul and Kelly had waited years for this baby and were determined to make whatever sacrifices were necessary. That option—staying with her baby—wasn’t available to Maryellen. She’d have to find quality day care and wasn’t sure where to even start. Just before noon, Kelly arrived at the gallery, pushing Tyler in his stroller. At nine months, the little boy sat upright, waving his chubby hands, cooing happily and directing the world from his seat. “Let’s grab some soup from the deli and eat down by the waterfront,” Kelly suggested. It was a lovely spring day after a week of rain, and the fresh air would do them all good. “Sounds like a great idea,” Maryellen told her. Practical, too, since it would be easier to amuse Tyler at the park than in a crowded restaurant. Maryellen phoned in their order and her sister trekked down to grab a picnic table. Several other people had the same idea, but she’d secured a table for them by the time Maryellen got there. Sitting across from her sister, Maryellen opened her container of chicken rice soup and stirred it with a plastic spoon. Cantankerous seagulls circled overhead, squawking for a handout, but Maryellen and Kelly ignored them. “I

Whenever you begin a dialogue with a question, get ready to dig deeper so that the other person knows you are interested in hearing more. Digging in deeper indicates you truly desire a response and are prepared to invest time in hearing the response. Here are some suggestions: •How was your summer? Excellent. What special things did you do? •How were your holidays? Pretty good. How did you celebrate? •How was your weekend? Good. What did you do? I went to see that new play down at the Civic Center. Really? You’re interested in ______? I never knew that. Tell me more about that. •Did you do anything relaxing? •Is that something you usually do on the weekend?

When people at school looked online for party outfits and looks, she was genuinely confused. There were people who seemed not only to understand these things, but to accomplish them. A striped top, a wide-brimmed hat, shorts for that “special beach weekend.” Lipsticks for fall, jeans that were perfect for a hayride, pendant earrings for that holiday party and snowball fight. Who lived these lives?

Historians, theorists, and critics of contemporary art do not directly study the proliferation of non-art images and things in contemporary society, nor do they examine from a sociological or anthropological point of view the interactions of modern people with art. They do not need to because advertising, fashion, celebrities, television, tattoos, toys, comics, pornography, politics, iPhones, and stuff in general, as well as all the many modes of beholding and possessing are already the content of so much elite contemporary art. The images, thing, and practices have already been filtered and framed by art, absorbed into artworks whose autonomy - unlike the autonomy of the premodern works - remains unchallenged. The main task of the art historian of the modern and the contemporary is to justify the value of those works. The paradoxical result is that the art history of the present has nothing to say about mass culture that art itself doesn't already tell us. So-called mass or popular culture ought to be art history's topic, but it proves too difficult to grasp. The image-surfaces enfolding us will not take on density; they melt or disintegrate too quickly, such that art is everywhere but nowhere. How should art history, with its specialized conceptual toolbox, solve the puzzle of entertainment, when society itself has two or more minds about everything, admiring, for example, Hollywood movies that break box-office records on their first weekend and at the same time revering Vincent van Gogh because he was unappreciated in his own time - and yet not knowing exactly what, if anything, differentiates a painting by van Gogh from a well-crafted movie.

Although making decisions by testing God with fleeces is generally a bad idea, sometimes it can look similar to setting reasonable goals. For example, suppose you are considering running a marathon. But you decide that you won’t sign up for the 26.2 mile race unless you first lose fifteen pounds and finish a half-marathon. In a way this sounds like laying out a fleece, but it is really just prudence and good goal setting. Humble goals and loosely held plans are good. Expecting God to do tricks for us is bad. Don’t pray: “God, if You want me to go out on this date, then make my professors cancel all their assignments for the weekend. If You don’t do that, I’ll just tell Josh that it wasn’t the Lord’s will that we go out.” The whole fleece approach to life is dangerously close to violating Jesus’ admonition, “You shall not put the Lord your God to the test” (Matthew 4:7). Now, I know Gideon asked God for some special dew. But there are good reasons to think Gideon’s request is not a normative example. For starters, Gideon didn’t have a Bible. More than likely, he didn’t have a single page of God’s inspired Word of his own. More importantly, the book of Judges generally does not provide a good example of much of anything. When the theme of the book is “everyone did what was right in his own eyes” (Judges 21:25), we should think twice before copying whatever practices or attitudes we find in its chapters. Gideon’s request was probably an indication of cowardice and unbelief more than faithful, wise decision making.

Sharing Each week, we will take time to share what is happening in our lives. At first this sharing will include some planned “sharing questions.” After the first few weeks, it will become more informal and personal as our group feels safer and more comfortable. Study Each week we’ll study a portion of God’s Word that relates to the previous weekend’s sermon. Our goal is to learn how to apply and live out our Christianity in our day-to-day experiences and relationships. Support Each week, we’ll learn how to take care of one another as Christ commanded (see John 15:9–13). This care will take many forms, such as praying, listening, meeting needs, and encouraging and even challenging one another as needed. Five Marks of a Healthy Group For our group to be healthy, we need to 1. focus on spiritual growth as a top priority (Romans 8:29); 2. accept one another in love just as Christ has accepted us (Romans 15:7); 3. take care of one another in love without crossing over the line into parenting or taking inappropriate responsibility for solving the problems of others (John 13:34); 4. treat one another with respect in both speech and action (Ephesians 4:25–5:2); 5. keep our commitments to the group—including attending regularly, doing the homework, and keeping confidences whenever requested (Psalm 15:1–2, 4b). Guidelines and Covenant 1. Dates We’ll meet on ____________ nights for ____________ weeks. Our final meeting of the quarter will be on. 2. Time We’ll arrive between ____________ and ____________ and begin the meeting at ____________. We’ll spend approximately ____________ minutes in singing (optional),____________ minutes in study/ discussion, and ____________ minutes in prayer/sharing. 3. Children Group members are responsible to arrange childcare for their children. Nursing newborns are welcome, provided they are not a distraction to the group. 4. Study Each week, we’ll study the same topic(s) covered in the previous weekend’s sermon. 5. Prayer Our group will be praying each week for one another and specific missions requests. 6. Homework and Attendance Joining a growth group requires a commitment to attend each week and to do the homework ahead of time. Obviously, allowances are made for sickness, vacation, work conflicts, and other special events—but not much more! This commitment is the key to a healthy group. Most weeks, the homework will require from twenty to thirty minutes to adequately prepare for the group study and discussion. If we cannot come to a meeting, we will ________________________________ 7. Refreshments 8. Social(s) 9.

The men know there’s no leave this first week-end. But there’s a chap here wants to make a special application for leave. Personal grounds, he says. I told him no show, but he has asked to see you. Determined sort of beggar.’ ‘All right,’ the Colonel said. ‘The sooner I get to know them the better. Send him in. Who is he, anyway?’ ‘His name’s Upham. In A Company. I’ll get him.’ Charles Upham was brought in, uneasy at the formality of his intrusion. ‘All right, stand at ease, Upham,’ Kippenberger said. ‘The R.S.M. tells me you are asking for leave. There’s no leave being granted, you know, except in special circumstances. What’s your trouble?’ ‘Well,’ Upham replied hesitantly, ‘it’s not exactly trouble. I just want to get leave for personal reasons.’ And he looked straight ahead at the wall behind Kippenberger’s head. Adjutant Davis studied the man as he stood there. Rather an unkempt individual, he thought. Hardly the usual product of Christ’s College. A rugged-looking face. He noticed the eyes too—intense, rather chilling eyes. The C.O. said: ‘Well, I’m sorry, Upham, but you’ll have to tell me the personal reasons before I can consider it. What’s the matter?’ Upham hesitated again; then spoke suddenly: ‘I want to give a chap a hiding; that’s all.’ There was a short, rather surprised pause. Kippenberger found it necessary to adopt a more than usually solemn tone to control his startled amusement. ‘I think that’s the first time I’ve heard that one,’ he said. ‘But go on, Upham. Tell me more about it.’ Upham turned his eyes on the Colonel. ‘I sold a man a car,’ he said. ‘He owes me £12 10s. on it and he says he’s not going to pay it. If I don’t get my money I’m going to take it out of his hide.’ The Colonel looked interested. ‘Do you know where he is?’ Yes, at the Grosvenor Hotel in Timaru.’ Kippenberger looked hard at Upham. Then he decided. ‘Yes, Upham,’ he said, ‘you can have your leave. There’ll be only one tag to it—when you get back I want you to report personally to me. Understand?’ Upham nodded shortly. ‘Yes, sir. And thank you, sir.’ R.S.M. Steele marched him out. Kippenberger chuckled, then thumbed through the cards again till he found Upham’s. He re-read the details on it. ‘You know,’ he said to Davis, ‘that chap’s got something. But he’s not a bit like his father. Old Johnny Upham is a very respectable sort of family lawyer. This chap looks as if he’d be happier in the mountains than a lawyer’s office.

Eventually, he decided to stay in his house where there were fewer things to hate. This was okay for a while but then some noisy neighbours moved in. Guess what? He hated them. In fact, he hated everyone he ever met, so he packed his things and moved far way to a house on a cliff by the seaside where there were hardly any other people to hate. Every day he sat on the cliff, watching the ocean and trying not to hate it. A little girl lived nearby and saw the man sitting by himself every day. She thought he must be lonely and felt sorry for him so she decided to make him a special present. She planted a geranium seed in a pot and watered it and loved it every day for six weeks. As the geranium plant grew, she spoke to it in a kind voice. She told it all about the lonely man who sat everyday on the cliff. When the geranium plant grew a beautiful pink flower, the girl carefully wrapped the pot in soft pink tissue paper. She carried it up to the cliff-top and, smiling shyly, gave it to the man. He hated it and threw it off the cliff. The girl ran home, crying. The end (Well, what did you expect? I told you at the start that he wasn’t

Don’t know.” Milo crumpled the schedule and tossed it in the trash. Then he bent down to pet a passing poodle that promptly bared his pointy white teeth and growled. “Sorry,” said the owner—a hipster in skinny jeans with a tattoo of a dragon on his neck and a bowler hat on his head. “He’s kind of a jerk sometimes. Don’t take it personally.” “I won’t,” Milo replied, standing up straight again. The jerky poodle reminded me of something, but I couldn’t remember what. Oh, wait—that’s it. Dog walking! “I’ve got to walk Nofarm this afternoon!” I said. “But it’s Saturday,” said Milo. “Don’t you take weekends off?” “Usually, but Nofarm’s family just moved, so they asked me for this special favor.

Meals are occasions to share with family and friends. The ingredients are often simple, but the art lies in orchestrating the sun-warmed flavors. Courses follow in artful and traditional succession, but the showpiece of the meal is tender, juicy meat; this often means lamb or goat grilled or roasted on a spit for hours. Souvlaki--melting pieces of chicken or pork tenderloin on skewers, marinated in lemon, olive oil, and a blend of seasonings--are grilled to mouthwatering perfection. Meze, the Greek version of smorgasbord, is a feast of Mediterranean delicacies. The cooks of the Greek Isles excel at classic Greek fare, such as spanakopita--delicate phyllo dough brushed with butter and filled with layers of feta cheese, spinach, and herbs. Cheeses made from goat’s milk, including the famous feta, are nearly ubiquitous. The fruits of the sun--olive oil and lemon--are characteristic flavors, reworked in myriad wonderful combinations. The fresh, simple cuisine celebrates the waters, olive groves, and citrus trees, as well as the herbs that grow wild all over the islands--marjoram, thyme, and rosemary--scenting the warm air with their sensuous aromas. Not surprisingly, of course, seafood holds pride of place. Sardines, octopus, and squid, marinated in olive oil and lemon juice, are always popular. Tiny, toothsome fried fish are piled high on painted ceramic dishes and served up at the local tavernas and in homes everywhere. Sea urchins are considered special delicacies. Every island has its own specialties, from sardines to pistachios to sesame cakes. Lésvos is well-known for its sardines and ouzo. Zakinthos is famous for its nougat. The Cycladic island of Astypalaia was called the “paradise of the gods” by the ancient Greeks because of the quality of its honey. On weekends, Athenians flock to the nearby islands of Aegina, Angistri, and Evia by the ferryful to sample the daily catch in local restaurants scattered among coastal villages. The array of culinary treats is matched by a similar breadth of local wins. Tended by generation after generation of the same families, vineyards carpet the hillsides of many islands. Grapevines have been cultivated in the Greek Isles for some four thousand years. Wines from Rhodes and Crete were already renowned in antiquity, and traders shipped them throughout the Greek Isles and beyond. The light reds and gently sweet whites complement the diverse, multiflavored Greek seafood, grilled meats, and fresh, ripe fruits and vegetables. Sitting at a seaside tavern enjoying music and conversation over a midday meze and glass of retsina, all the cares in the world seem to evaporate in the sparkling sunshine reflected off the brightly hued boats and glistening blue waters.