Sunny Weekend Quotes

It's that quirky kind of weekend feeling they write ridiculous sunny-day songs about. You know the ones--I'm sure they're on your iPod even though you'd never admit it.

Sunny, in fact, had the master-servant mentality common among an older generation of Indian businessmen. Employees were his minions. He expected them to be at his disposal at all hours of the day or night and on weekends.

Spend sunny afternoons writing. Take weekends in the country. Dream. Drink good wine, eat fabulous cheese and great bread. Make the kind of love that destroys the bed.

Life, liberty and the pursuit of happy hour, the long weekend, the all-inclusive island resort, the sunny beach vacation. Happiness is somewhere else, someplace with boat drinks, some secret, distant state of bliss which if they were given would bore them in minutes.

Fred had first come to Fire Island Pines when he was thirty. He wasn’t ready for such beauty, such potential, such unlimited choice. The place scared him half to death. It was a warm and sunny weekend and there were one thousand bathing-suited handsomenesses on The Botel deck at Tea Dance. They all seemed to know each other and to touch and greet and smile at each other. And there he was, alone. Though he had acquired his 150-pound body for the first time (of his so-far three: the first for himself, the second for Feffer, number three, with muscles, for Dinky), he still felt like Mrs. Shelley’s monster, pale, and with a touch of leprosy thrown in. Not only had he no one to talk to, not only did the overwhelmingness of being confronted by so much Grade A male flesh, most of which seemed superior to his, which would make it difficult to talk to, even if he could utter, which he could not, floor him, but everyone else seemed so secure, not only with their bodies (all thin and no doubt well-defined since birth), tans, personalities, their smiles and chat, but also with that ability to use their eyes, much like early prospectors must have looked for gold, darting them hither and yon, seeking out the sparkling flecks, separating the valued from the less so, meaning, he automatically assumed, him. Their glances his way seemed like disposable bottles, no deposit, no return. He felt like Mr. Not Wanted On The Voyage, even though it was, so be it, his birthday. Many years would pass before he would discover that everybody else felt exactly the same, but came out every weekend so to feel, thus over the years developing more flexible feelings in so feeling.

The pursuit of meaning shifted from a epic journey to a scavenger hunt. It's not enough to try and locate purpose in love, family, work or religion (although readers beware, those areas hold their own traps). Now we are being asked to find meaning in everything we do. From our morning coffee to our weekend laundry load, each event or chore needs to be optimized and elevated into a clear-eyed statement about existence.

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.

Even after the funeral, the trips to Kensington Palace, and the consolation of friends, I still couldn’t accept Diana’s death. Then, Mr. Jeffrey Ling, the British consul general in New York, invited me to speak at the memorial service for Diana in Central Park the weekend after the funeral. I was grateful for the chance to speak about Diana in my own words and at my own pace. Pat and I rewrote my three-minute speech over and over. I practiced it several times the night before. On Sunday afternoon I visited backstage with Mr. Ling and Mayor Giuliani before the service began. The mayor was engaging and down to earth. Mr. Ling was gracious and reassuring, a true gentleman. We watched the North Meadow fill up with more than ten thousand people and were grateful to see such a big turnout on a hot, sunny day. As I sat on the stage, I grew more nervous by the minute. I delivered my heartfelt speech, trembling with emotion as I spoke about “the Diana we knew.” As I looked out at the crowded meadow, I pondered the incredible path I’d traveled, all because I’d needed a part-time nanny in London seventeen years ago. I’d enjoyed a remarkable friendship, attended the most famous ceremonies of my lifetime, dined and danced in palaces, visited with royalty--extraordinary experiences for me and my family. Now, tragically, it was all ending here, as I spoke from my heart in memory and praise of my friend Diana.

Each episode began and ended in trouble,” wrote Erik Barnouw. “Sunny stretches were in the middle. A Friday ending was expected to be especially gripping, to hold interest over the weekend. A serial was not conceived in terms of beginning or end; such terms had no meaning. It ended when sponsorship ended.

young women accusing him of ruining their lives. He’d walked to work along sunny, tree-lined streets, remembering the crowded, silent tubes of London, the snarl of rainy-day rush-hour traffic, and he’d swum in the clear blue sea at weekends, eyeing the elegant caramel-skinned Italian sunbathers. For the first few months

There’s a possibility she’s been spending time over in San Ignacio, at a place called the Maybe Club.” “Ah,” said Hagopian. “Joanna’s hitting a better-class rotten and rundown dive these days. The Maybe Club is a high-class sewer.” He trotted off, still in sweatsocks and no shoes, to a new row of files. “Here. A write-up from the San Ignacio Pilot weekend section a couple months back.” He unfolded a full tabloid page and gave it to Easy. “ ‘Controversial Club’s Owner Defends Liberal Views,’ ” Easy read the headline. “Is he in politics, too?” “He thinks it’s okay to screw other peoples’ mates,” explained Hagopian. “In San Ignacio that’s a pretty liberal view.” Easy looked at the photo of the Maybe proprietor leaning against the bar in his club. “This is Sunny Boy Sadler. …” “Right, onetime singing cowboy of the B movies,” said Hagopian. “I spent many happy afternoons in the Forties with his films. Little did I realize then that Sunny Boy was usually so juiced they had to practically glue him to his horse.

At the weekends,’ Christopher says, ‘when I’m out for a walk with my wife, along the cliff tops near here, on a sunny day, I know our bodies are wide-meshed nets, and that the cliffs we’re walking on are nets too, and sometimes it seems, yes, as miraculous as if in our everyday world we suddenly found ourselves walking on water, or air. And I wonder what it must be like, sometimes, not to know that.’ He pauses, and it is clear that he is thinking now beyond the confines of the salt cavern, beyond even the known limits of the universe. ‘But mostly, and in several ways, I’m amazed I’m able to hold the hand of the person I love.

They told me that they would send the cat social workers round the next weekend to check out the house and see if we were appropriate adopters. I was terrified! What if I wasn’t approved for more cats? It would be like telling Piers Morgan that he wasn’t allowed to be a wanker.

I knew that nothing would ever tear us apart. Life is Great… Have you ever had an older person say to you – “Don’t say that, you’ll jinx yourself.” Well, listen to that advice! Maddi and I planned to arrive at school half an hour early to spend some time together. Yes it was all going along like a perfect dream. I had fallen head over heels in love with this girl, just the thought of her brought a smile to my face and a warm feeling to my heart. There we were…it was a beautiful sunny day, not a cloud in the sky. We were walking towards each other, smiling happily. Our bodies were only yards apart. Then from out of the blue, Linda appeared! She stood between us and we both bumped into her. “Easy on guys,” she said, smiling. Maddi wasn’t smiling, in fact she looked like she wanted to rip Linda’s head off! “So glad I caught you before class Richie, I have some great news!” she said with a huge smile on her face. I didn’t want to be rude, but I knew Maddi was about to explode. “Hey Linda, can you tell me later, Maddi and I have something we urgently need to talk about,” I said, telling a white lie. “Cool! So you are breaking up with her! I could never see what you saw in her anyway,” she said this right in front of my girlfriend, the girl I was eventually going to marry, the girl who held my heart! “WHAT!” yelled Maddi. I tried to get the words out, but I was so flabbergasted I became tongue-tied! Then eventually (it seemed like hours later, but I’m sure it was only a couple of seconds) the word, “NO!” came out. Linda pretended she was upset, “Oh my goodness, Richie, I’m so sorry, you haven’t told her yet. How insensitive of me! Maddi now that you know and I’m sorry for blurting out the news, you might want to toddle off so Richie and I can talk about our weekend away.” Maddi and Linda stood face to face. The rage coming from Maddi’s body was enough to light a fire. Linda relayed the same intensity of hatred.