Twice On Sundays Quotes

This time I wouldn't forget him, because I couldn't ever forgive him - for breaking my heart twice.

Occasionally, very occasionally, say at four o’clock in the afternoon on a wet Sunday, she feels panic-stricken and almost breathless with loneliness. Once or twice she has been known to pick up the phone to check that it isn’t broken. Sometimes she thinks how nice it would be to be woken by a call in the night: ‘get in a taxi now’ or ‘I need to see you, we need to talk’. But at the best of times she feels like a character in a Muriel Spark novel – independent, bookish, sharp-minded, secretly romantic.

Ow do you knock out a Denizen?" asked Suzy. "I tried it myself once or twice, but just hitting them never works." "It is not the force of the blow, but the authority with which it is delivered," quoth the raven.

That’s a fucking, blood covenant promise that you can take that to the bank every day of the week and twice on Sunday

Once Pastor Keith hit a crescendo, Sister Gertrude would rise and jump, scream, kick, dance, and pass the hell out. Obviously, she required physical restraints to minimize damage to other parishioners and a cleanup crew for the broken pews, discarded clothing,mangled jewelry, and loose items strewn about. Yes, it took an army of ushers to physically restrain her. She was twice as big as a man. No one smaller than Shaquille O’Neal could take her down. Well, I became her parasite and First Responder. Whenever I saw aglare in her eyes, twitch in her neck, or frown on her face, I knew to move into position. But for me, getting injured was a badge of honor. I just had to be a part of her fiascos. Yet, on one Easter Sunday, I got more than I bargained for. When our youth choir created a stir, Sister Gertrude went haywire. First, she reverse dunked her grandbaby into my breadbasket. Once again, she knew I would be there for the airborne toddler. Second, a whole orchard of mixed fruits flew over my head. Third, a scarf, blouse, wig, and shoe were diverted my way. Finally, a bevy of oversized Ushers and Deacons twisted, pulled, and sacrificed themselves before Sister Gertrude went lax. It was the most outrageous display Zion Gate Union had ever seen. Mind you, she was never a disappointment for a would-be reverend like me.

I'd serve him any day of the week and twice on Sundays. Because, fuck me, that’s why.

Not going back is fine. Not going back but occasionally visiting might be best. Not going back but remembering so you don’t see the same view twice. Not going back so you can turn a new page, write a new chapter, develop an entire new list. Not going back so you can stretch and grow and see yourself in a light that you never knew existed. Not going back so that you can fly. Fly.

I think you're beautiful," an old man at the counter - one of our Sunday night fixtures - says. ... "You passed the Earl test," she says as she pours him a fresh cup. "Ma, he says that to anyone who still has their own teeth. No offense, Earl." "None taken," he says. "But you got your own hair too, so you're twice as pretty.

THE MOON AND THE YEW TREE This is the light of the mind, cold and planetary. The trees of the mind are black. The light is blue. The grasses unload their griefs on my feet as if I were God, Prickling my ankles and murmuring of their humility. Fumy, spiritous mists inhabit this place Separated from my house by a row of headstones. I simply cannot see where there is to get to. The moon is no door. It is a face in its own right, White as a knuckle and terribly upset. It drags the sea after it like a dark crime; it is quiet With the O-gape of complete despair. I live here. Twice on Sunday, the bells startle the sky Eight great tongues affirming the Resurrection. At the end, they soberly bong out their names. The yew tree points up. It has a Gothic shape. The eyes lift after it and find the moon. The moon is my mother. She is not sweet like Mary. Her blue garments unloose small bats and owls. How I would like to believe in tenderness The face of the effigy, gentled by candles, Bending, on me in particular, its mild eyes. I have fallen a long way. Clouds are flowering Blue and mystical over the face of the stars. Inside the church, the saints will be all blue, Floating on their delicate feet over the cold pews, Their hands and faces stiff with holiness. The moon sees nothing of this. She is bald and wild. And the message of the yew tree is blackness -- blackness and silence. --written 22 October 1961

People believe things they know ain't true every day of the week and twice on Sunday.

It's called Sunday school, but we are required to attend twice weekly: on Sunday before regular service and again on Wednesday evenings. There are two separate classes: one for children under ten, held in the classroom down the hall, to teach them basic prayers and the tenets of the Brotherhood's beliefs, and one for girls aged eleven to seventeen, to teach us about how wicked we are.

Irene spread out her skirts and turned to watch the room, a smile pinned to her face. 'No, nothing going on here, absolutely normal. My friend here likes to stare into locks and wiggle bits of metal round in them; he does it every day and twice on Sundays...

Before I knew it, my daily schedule had started to look a lot like this: Monday: Woke up, thought of Ryder; went to school, stared at Ryder; had lunch with J, gaped at Ryder; went to PE, brooded over Ryder's absence; went home, thought of Ryder; took a drive "accidentally" passing by Dave's Garage, spied on Ryder; came home, thought of Ryder; had dinner, no appetite due to lack-of Ryder; went to bed, tossed and turned thinking about Ryder. Tuesday: See above, with minor adjustments. Wednesday: Ryder wasn't in school, my world collapsed Thursday: Same as Monday and Tuesday Friday: See above. Saturday: Nightmarishly long, boring. Drove by Dave's Garage twice, hoping to see Ryder. Sunday: See above, minus the drive-by. But, yay, tomorrow I'll see Ryder in school! God bless Mondays.

I get that. For you, it’s more than following a bunch of rules—no sex, no booze, no swear words, pray every night and twice on Sunday.

Texas Kinda' Love [10w] My love shines for y'all everyday and twice on Sunday.

I harbor deep distaste for scientists. Give me a worldly cultured priest any day, and twice on Sunday… and not some timorous old beastie, cowering in the eternal lavatory of a dead universe.

The Christian faith has become a cheap faith because we too often live as if it has no value. We complain when the preacher runs over a few minutes on the Sunday sermon and consider it a great inconvenience to return to services once or twice more in the same week. No wonder so much of the world does not consider our faith relevant when we are not even willing to give of our time, much less our freedom or lives, for what we say we believe in.

The dude feels right fatherly. Takes her down to the crick to wash the underground off of her. Just can't bring himself to shoot her while she's filthy and starving. There's time. Offers her a cake of French-milled soap he brought all the way out from Chicago. Smells like gardenias if you know your flowers, and the dude does. Snow White knows something's skewed but she grabs it, strips off like it's nothing and climbs in the water. She don't shiver even though that stream has to be as cold as a wagon tire. The miner's crud comes off her in black ribbons. The duded watches another girl come out of the blind mole-skin she was walking around it. This one has muscles like a mountain cat and a kind of pretty he doesn't know what to do with. For fairness he'd take her stepmother six days and twice on Sunday. The beauty Snow White's got has nothing to do with him. She's scarred up and suspicious an shameless. Her pretty's not for him. It's like saying the moon's got a fine figure on her. Maybe true, but what good is that to a man?

Goddess, they should build an altar to the man’s mouth and worship it daily and twice on Sunday. Candles should be lit. And maybe those goats of Meshaq’s should be sacrificed after all. Anything to honor the gift that was Draco’s mouth and tongue and lips and….

I do not know that I should be fond of preaching often; now and then, perhaps, once or twice in the spring, after being anxiously expected for half-a-dozen Sundays together; but not for a constancy; it would not do for a constancy.

Sunday night is my personal weekly Halloween. I walk along slowly and drag my fingertips along the bars of chocolate. Goddamn, you sexy little squares. Dark, milk, white, I do not discriminate. I eat it all. Those fluorescent sour candies that only obnoxious little boys like. I suck candy apples clean. If an envelope seal is sweet, I’ll lick it twice. Growing up, I was that kid who would easily get lured into a van with the promise of a lollipop. Sometimes, I let the retail seduction last for twenty minutes, ignoring Marco and feeling up the merchandise, but I’m so tired of male voices. “Five bags of marshmallows,” Marco says in a resigned tone. “Wine. And a can of cat food.” “Cat food is low carb.” He makes no move to scan anything, so I scan each item myself and unroll a few notes from my tips. “Your job involves selling things. Sell them. Change, please.” “I just don’t know why you do this to yourself.” Marco looks at the register with a moral dilemma in his eyes. “Every week you come and do this.” He hesitates and looks over his shoulder where his sugar book sits under a layer of dust. He knows not to try to slip it into my bag with my purchases. “I don’t know why you care, dude. Just serve me. I don’t need your help.” He’s not entirely wrong about my being an addict. I would lick a line of icing sugar off this counter right now if no one were around. I would walk into a cane plantation and bite right in... “Give me my change or I swear to God …” I squeeze my eyes shut and try to tamp down my temper. “Just treat me like any other customer.” He gives me a few coins’ change and bags my sweet, spongy drugs.

The stranger did not go to church, and indeed made no difference between Sunday and the irreligious days, even in costume. He worked, as Mrs. Hall thought, very fitfully. Some days he would come down early and be continuously busy. On others he would rise late, pace his room, fretting audibly for hours together, smoke, sleep in the armchair by the fire. Communication with the world beyond the village he had none. His temper continued very uncertain; for the most part his manner was that of a man suffering under almost unendurable provocation, and once or twice things were snapped, torn, crushed, or broken in spasmodic gusts of violence. He seemed under a chronic irritation of the greatest intensity. His habit of talking to himself in a low voice grew steadily upon him, but though Mrs. Hall listened conscientiously she could make neither head nor tail of what she heard.

She drew in a deep breath, mastering herself. “Forgive me. My nerves are worked to pieces.” “And still you are one of the most composed women of my acquaintance,” I told her truthfully. “Composure that is hard won and the result of long practice,” she assured me. “I learnt long ago that when is only half-British, the other half will be blamed for every evil of temper or habit. I schooled myself in deportment, so that the part of me that is Egyptian may never be held up as a pattern for degradation or vice. I became more British than any Englishwoman I knew. And still, every syllable I speak, every gesture, every thought is examined by society. I could take tea with the Queen at Windsor everyday and twice on Sundays and I would still not be English enough for some.” She spoke without bitterness, but there was a fatigue to her resignation and I began to understand the weight she carried with her at all times.

Climate change is not a hot topic. As author Bill McKibben points out in a post on TomDispatch.com, in 2011, “ABC, CBS, NBC, and Fox spent twice as much time discussing Donald Trump as global warming.” He documents that over the last three years, a mere ninety-eight minutes of prime-time television news was devoted to covering this global challenge. In fact, in 2011, the Sunday talk shows spent exactly nine minutes of time on climate change— all of it given over to Republican politicians focused on denying it.

Tony Williams: You’ve often mentioned that Tales of Hoffmann (1951) has been a major influence on you. George Romero: It was the first film I got completely involved with. An aunt and uncle took me to see it in downtown Manhattan when it first played. And that was an event for me since I was about eleven at the time. The imagery just blew me away completely. I wanted to go and see a Tarzan movie but my aunt and uncle said, “No! Come and see a bit of culture here.” So I thought I was missing out. But I really fell in love with the film. There used to be a television show in New York called Million Dollar Movie. They would show the same film twice a day on weekdays, three times on Saturday, and three-to-four times on Sunday. Tales of Hoffmann appeared on it one week. I missed the first couple of days because I wasn’t aware that it was on. But the moment I found it was on, I watched virtually every telecast. This was before the days of video so, naturally, I couldn’t tape it. Those were the days you had to rent 16mm prints of any film. Most cities of any size had rental services and you could rent a surprising number of films. So once I started to look at Tales of Hoffmann I realized how much stuff Michael Powell did in the camera. Powell was so innovative in his technique. But it was also transparent so I could see how he achieved certain effects such as his use of an overprint in the scene of the ballet dancer on the lily ponds. I was beginning to understand how adept a director can be. But, aside from that, the imagery was superb. Robert Helpmann is the greatest Dracula that ever was. Those eyes were compelling. I was impressed by the way Powell shot Helpmann sweeping around in his cape and craning down over the balcony in the tavern. I felt the film was so unique compared to most of the things we were seeing in American cinema such as the westerns and other dreadful stuff I used to watch. Tales of Hoffmann just took me into another world in terms of its innovative cinematic technique. So it really got me going. Tony Williams: A really beautiful print exists on laserdisc with commentary by Martin Scorsese and others. George Romero: I was invited to collaborate on the commentary by Marty. Pat Buba (Tony’s brother) knew Thelma Schoonmaker and I got to meet Powell in later years. We had a wonderful dinner with him one evening. What an amazing guy! Eventually I got to see more of his movies that I’d never seen before such as I Know Where I’m Going and A Canterbury Tale. Anyway, I couldn’t do the commentary on Tales of Hoffmann with Marty. But, back in the old days in New York, Marty and I were the only two people who would rent a 16mm copy of the film. Every time I found it was out I knew that he had it and each time he wanted it he knew who had it! So that made us buddies.

And if it snowed and snow covered the drive he took a spade and tossed it to one side. And always tucked his daughter up at night And slippered her the one time that she lied. And every week he tipped up half his wage. And what he didn't spend each week he saved. And praised his wife for every meal she made. And once, for laughing, punched her in the face. And for his mum he hired a private nurse. And every Sunday taxied her to church. And he blubbed when she went from bad to worse. And twice he lifted ten quid from her purse. Here's how they rated him when they looked back: sometimes he did this, sometimes he did that.

Lucas tried to be as soft as he could be; it wasn’t his natural attitude. “Ambiguous . . . how? Was this a sexual relationship?” “Yes. Twice. I mean, we . . . yes, we slept together twice. When he went away, wherever he went, it’s hard to believe that he might be dead, because he was so upbeat when I last saw him. . . . Anyway, I thought maybe the police would ask me about him, but nobody did, and I didn’t know what to do about that. I was scared. . . . I didn’t know what happened to him, and when he didn’t call me Saturday or Sunday, I thought he wasn’t interested anymore.” “When was the last time you heard from him?” Lucas asked. “Friday night, about . . . nine o’clock,” she said.

The members of the board were very sage, deep, philosophical men; and when they came to turn their attention to the workhouse, they found out at once, what ordinary folk would never have discovered - the poor people like it! It was a regular place of public entertainment for the poorer classes; a tavern where there was nothing to pay; a public breakfast, dinner, tea, and supper all year round; a brick and mortar elysium where it was all play and no work. "Oho!" said the board, looking very knowing; "we are the fellows to set this to rights; we'll stop it all in no time." So, they established the rule, that all poor people should have the alternative (for they would compel nobody, not they) of being starved by a gradual process in the house, or a quick one out of it. With this view, they contracted with the waterworks to lay on an unlimited supply of water; and with a corn-factor to supply periodically small quantities of oatmeal; and issued three meals of thin gruel per day, with an onion twice a week, and half a roll on Sundays. They made a great many other wise and humane regulations, having reference to the ladies, which it is not necessary to repeat; undertook to divorce poor married people, in consequence of the great expense of a suit in Doctor's Commons; and, instead of compelling a man to support his family, as they had theretofore done, took his family away from him, and made him a bachelor! There is no saying how many applicants for relief under these two heads, might have started up in all classes of society, if it had not been coupled with the workhouse; but the board were long-headed men, and had provided for this difficulty. The relief was inseparable from the workhouse and the gruel; and that frightened people. For the first six months after Oliver Twist was removed, the system was in full operation. It was rather expensive at first, in consequence to the increase in the undertaker's bill, and the necessity of taking in the clothes of all the paupers, which fluttered loosely on their wasted, shrunken forms, after a week or two's gruel.

They fear that without compulsion the masses will not work. But during our own lifetime, have we not heard the same fears expressed twice? Once, by the anti-abolitionists in America before the emancipation of the Negroes, and, for a second time, by the Russian nobility before the liberation of the serfs? 'Without the whip the Negro will not work,' said the anti- abolitionist. 'Free from their master's supervision the serfs will leave the fields uncultivated,' said the Russian serf-owners. It was the refrain of the French noblemen in 1789, the refrain of the Middle Ages, a refrain as old as the world, and we shall hear it every time there is a question of sweeping away an injustice. And each time actual facts give it the lie. The liberated peasant of 1792 ploughed with an eager energy, unknown to his ancestor so, the emancipated Negro works more than his fathers; and the Russian peasant, after having honoured the honeymoon of his emancipation by celebrating Fridays as well as Sundays, has taken up work with an eagerness proportionate to the completeness of his liberation. There, where the soil is his, he works desperately; that is the exact word for it. The anti-abolitionist refrain can be of value to slave-owners; as to the slaves them- selves, they know what it is worth, as they know its motive.

I became expert at making myself invisible. I could linger two hours over a coffee, four over a meal, and hardly be noticed by the waitress. Though the janitors in Commons rousted me every night at closing time, I doubt they ever realized they spoke to the same boy twice. Sunday afternoons, my cloak of invisibility around my shoulders, I would sit in the infirmary for sometimes six hours at a time, placidly reading copies of Yankee magazine ('Clamming on Cuttyhunk') or Reader's Digest (Ten Ways to Help That Aching Back!'), my presence unremarked by receptionist, physician, and fellow sufferer alike. But, like the Invisible Man in H. G. Wells, I discovered that my gift had its price, which took the form of, in my case as in his, a sort of mental darkness. It seemed that people failed to meet my eye, made as if to walk through me; my superstitions began to transform themselves into something like mania. I became convinced that it was only a matter of time before one of the rickety iron steps that led to my room gave and I would fall and break my neck or, worse, a leg; I'd freeze or starve before Leo would assist me. Because one day, when I'd climbed the stairs successfully and without fear, I'd had an old Brian Eno song running through my head ('In New Delhi, 'And Hong Kong,' They all know that it won't be long...'), I now had to sing it to myself each trip up or down the stairs. And each time I crossed the footbridge over the river, twice a day, I had to stop and scoop around in the coffee-colored snow at the road's edge until I found a decent-sized rock. I would then lean over the icy railing and drop it into the rapid current that bubbled over the speckled dinosaur eggs of granite which made up its bed - a gift to the river-god, maybe, for safe crossing, or perhaps some attempt to prove to it that I, though invisible, did exist. The water ran so shallow and clear in places that sometimes I heard the dropped stone click as it hit the bed. Both hands on the icy rail, staring down at the water as it dashed white against the boulders, boiled thinly over the polished stones, I wondered what it would be like to fall and break my head open on one of those bright rocks: a wicked crack, a sudden limpness, then veins of red marbling the glassy water. If I threw myself off, I thought, who would find me in all that white silence? Might the river beat me downstream over the rocks until it spat me out in the quiet waters, down behind the dye factory, where some lady would catch me in the beam of her headlights when she pulled out of the parking lot at five in the afternoon? Or would I, like the pieces of Leo's mandolin, lodge stubbornly in some quiet place behind a boulder and wait, my clothes washing about me, for spring?

Every Sunday he arrived in his wine-dark Buick, a tall, prune-faced, sad-seeming man with an incongruously vital head of wavy hair. He was not interested in children. A proponent of the Great Books series—which he had read twice—Uncle Pete was engaged with serious thought and Italian opera. He had a passion, in history, for Edward Gibbon, and, in literature, for the journals of Madame de Staël. He liked to quote that witty lady’s opinion on the German language, which held that German wasn’t good for conversation because you had to wait to the end of the sentence for the verb, and so couldn’t interrupt. Uncle Pete had wanted to become a doctor, but the “catastrophe” had ended that dream. In the United States, he’d put himself through two years of chiropractic school, and now ran a small office in Birmingham with a human skeleton he was still paying for in installments. In those days, chiropractors had a somewhat dubious reputation. People didn’t come to Uncle Pete to free up their kundalini. He cracked necks, straightened spines, and made custom arch supports out of foam rubber. Still, he was the closest thing to a doctor we had in the house on those Sunday afternoons. As a young man he’d had half his stomach surgically removed, and now after dinner always drank a Pepsi-Cola to help digest his meal. The soft drink had been named for the digestive enzyme pepsin, he sagely told us, and so was suited to the task.

Never treat your launch team like a core group. It’s not. Your launch team is a time-limited, purpose-driven team. It ends with the debriefing session following your launch. At that meeting, release the launch team members to join a ministry team of their choice. Your launch team will not stay with you over the long haul. Many church planters make the mistake of thinking that the people from their launch team (whom they have grown to love) will be the same people who will grow the church with them in the long term. That is seldom, if ever, the case. While it’s sad to see people go, it’s part of God’s process in growing your church. So, expect it, be prepared for it, and be thankful that you have the opportunity to serve with so many different people at different points along the journey. Preparing a launch team to maximize your first service is first and foremost a spiritual enterprise. Pray and fast—a lot. Don’t be fooled into thinking that being a solid leader undermines the spirit of teamwork. You can lead a team, hold people accountable and ensure that things get done in a way that fosters teamwork and gives glory to God. So get ready. show people your heart before you ask for their hand. People want to know that you care, and they want to be part of something bigger than themselves. If you can articulate your vision in a way that excites people, they’ll want to be on your team. The launch team is not a democracy. Don’t vote. You are the leader. Lead. While it’s true that you want to share the gospel with as many people as possible, you will need to develop a clear picture of the specific demographic your new church is targeting in order to effectively reach the greatest number of people. Diffused light has little impact, but focused light has the ability to cut through steel. Take time to focus so that you are able to reach the specific people God has called you to. 1. Who Are the Key Population Groups Living in My Area? 2. What Population Group Is Not Being Reached Effectively? 3. What Population Group Do I Best Relate To? Healthy organisms grow, and that includes your church. If you feel stagnation setting in, your job is not to push growth any way you can but to identify the barriers that are hindering you and remove them. The only people who like full rooms are preachers and worship leaders. If you ignore this barrier, your church will stop growing. Early on, it’s best to remain flexible. The last thing you want to do is get in a position in which God can’t grow you because you aren’t logistically prepared. What if twice as many people showed up this Sunday? Would you be ready? When a lead pastor isn’t growing: The church stops growing, the sermons are stale, The staff and volunteers stop growing, The passion for ministry wanes. Keeping your church outwardly focused is just as important now as it was during your prelaunch stage. Make sure that you are continually working to expand God’s kingdom, not building your own. A healthy launch is the single greatest indicator of future church health.

has approached me and Aksel was nearby, Aksel practically chased him away. This happened even before Aksel and I were together. And Aksel happens to be our last stop on the tour. Because it’s Sunday and it’s the evening, I know just where to find him. He’s in the living room, in his usual chair, drinking brandy. I had told him twice already that Amelie was coming, hence why I was actually using my day off. I normally would just march right over to him, but since I’m supposed to be the mere nanny and he is a King and this is my supervisor of sorts, formality rules. I clear my throat loud enough for Aksel to hear it. “Pardon me, sir,” I say, and he turns in his seat to look at me, brows raised. “But I have a guest here to meet you.” I look to Amelie but her cool French façade is cracking and she’s frozen in her tracks. “Amelie, this is His Majesty

The most effective pastor wants people to believe they can erase all the ills of their lives while here and even more importantly be welcomed past the pearly gates when they die—but he does not want them merrily strolling away thinking they can do that without him, without returning to church every Sunday and twice on Easter, without tithing.

I'd rather have a pedophile in office rather than a democrat any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Pedophiles only screw kids while democrats screw everyone /carrollbryant/status/928963150820642816

I'll manipulate her every day and twice on Sunday if it keeps her alive." - Jesse

Trust me, I can handle each bit of you every day of the week and twice on Sundays.

I didn’t know who or what I was supposed to be. My moral compass was fucked seven ways to Sunday and twice on Tuesday, all without lube. It’s

Am I always this vulgar? Yes. Every day. And twice on Sundays.

Maybe the American husband would give her the marriage she had always dreamed of. From all the sitcoms she had seen, Americans seemed to like sex. Maybe this man would do as he had promised 'Baby, I will do you once a day and twice on Sunday!

Excerpted From Chapter One “Rock of Ages” floated lightly down the first floor corridor of the Hollywood Hotel’s west wing. It was Sunday morning, and Hattie Mae couldn’t go to church because she had to work, so she praised the Lord in her own way, but she praised Him softly out of consideration for the “Do Not Disturb” placards hanging from the doors she passed with her wooden cart full of fresh linens and towels. Actually Sundays were Hattie Mae’s favorite of the six days she worked each week. For one thing, her shift ended at noon on Sundays. For another, this was the day Miss Lillian always left a “little something” in her room to thank Hattie Mae for such good maid service. Most of the hotel’s long-term guests left a little change for their room maids, but in Miss Lillian’s case, the tip was usually three crinkly new one dollar bills. It seemed like an awful lot of money to Hattie Mae, whose weekly pay was only nineteen dollars. Still, Miss Lillian Lawrence could afford to be generous because she was a famous actress in the movies. She was also, Hattie Mae thought, a very fine lady. When Hattie Mae reached the end of the corridor, she knocked quietly on Miss Lillian’s door. It was still too early for most guests to be out of their rooms, but Miss Lillian was always up with the sun, not like some lazy folks who laid around in their beds ‘til noon, often making Hattie Mae late for Sunday dinner because she couldn’t leave until all the rooms along her corridor were made up. After knocking twice, Hattie Mae tried Miss Lillian’s door. It opened, so after selecting the softest towels from the stacks on her cart, she walked in. With the curtains drawn the room was dark, but Hattie Mae didn’t stop to switch on the overheard light because her arms were full of towels. The maid’s eyes were on the chest of drawers to her right where Miss Lillian always left her tip, so she didn’t see the handbag on the floor just inside the door. Hattie Mae tripped over the bag and fell headlong to the floor, landing inches from the dead body of Lillian Lawrence. In the dim light Hattie Mae stared into a pale face with a gaping mouth and a trickle of blood from a small red dot above one vacant green eye. Hattie Mae screamed at the top of her lungs and kept on screaming.

I'd rather have a pedophile in office rather than a democrat any day of the week and twice on Sunday. Pedophiles only screw kids while democrats screw everyone.

Once, ten years ago, at a Sunday-afternoon party in some apartment that she remembered now as being labyrinthine, although it probably had only four bedrooms, as opposed to the place she shared with her brother and her father that had two, Mike Shea had seized her by the wrist and pulled her into a dim room and plastered his mouth against hers before she could catch her breath. She had known him since high school, he was part of the crowd she went with then, and he had kissed her once or twice before—she remembered specifically the train station at Fishkill, on a snowy night when they were all coming back from a sledding party—but this was passionate and desperate, he was very drunk, and rough enough to make her push him off if he had not, in the first moment she had come up for air, gently taken off his glasses and placed them on a doilied dresser beside them, and then, in what seemed the same movement, reached behind her to lock the door. It was the odd, drunken gentleness of it, not to mention the snapping hint of danger from the lock, that changed her mind. And after two or three rebukes when he tried to get at the buttons that ran up the back of her dress, she thought, Why not, and although her acquiescence seemed to slow him down a bit, as if he was uncertain of the next step, she was enjoying herself enough by then to undo the last button without prompting and then to pull her bare shoulder and arm up out of the dress—first one then the other—and to pull dress and slip (she didn’t wear a bra, no need) down to her waist in a single gesture. And then—was it just the pleasure of the material against her bare flesh, his shirt front, her wool?—she slowly pushed dress and slip and garter belt and stockings down over her narrow hips until they fell to her feet. And then she stepped out of her shoes. (“Even the shoes?” the priest had whispered in the confessional the following Saturday, as if it was more than he could bear, or imagine—as if, she thought later, he was ready to send her to perdition or ask her for a date.)

Part of living in the present means not worrying about the future, which will kill your happiness every day of the week and twice on Sunday. Worrying may be second nature to many, but most of us are not aware of how much we dwell on fearful thoughts. Research shows that happy people worry far less often than unhappy people do.

You’re the one who said I have to choose one or the other, Devney, and I choose you. Each time. Every day and twice on Sundays.

Of course there’s still no boyfriend, but she doesn’t mind. Occasionally, very occasionally, say at four o’clock in the afternoon on a wet Sunday, she feels panic-stricken and almost breathless with loneliness. Once or twice she has been known to pick up the phone to check that it isn’t broken. Sometimes she thinks how nice it would be to be woken by a call in the night: ‘get in a taxi now’ or ‘I need to see you, we need to talk’. But at the best of times she feels like a character in a Muriel Spark novel – independent, bookish, sharp-minded, secretly romantic.

Down under, it was already Sunday, December 7, and to the Australian government the possibility of keeping the lid on tensions seemed remote. A United Press story, datelined Melbourne, confirmed the southward movement of the Japanese navy and reported that the Australian cabinet had “met twice in Melbourne instead of at Canberra in order to maintain closest contact with the armed forces.” The cabinet had cancelled its normal weekend adjournment due to late information that seemed “to indicate an immediate break in Japanese-American relations.”10 Given

We'll start with oysters on the half shell and homemade salt-and-pepper potato chips, just to whet the appetites. Then a wedge salad with homemade ranch dressing and crumbled peppered bacon. For the main course, a slow-roasted prime rib, twice-baked potatoes, creamed spinach, tomato pudding baked into tomato halves, and fresh popovers instead of bread. For dessert, the world's most perfect chocolate cream pie. Marcy and I went on a Sunday boondoggle to Milwaukee last year and had lunch at this terrific gastropub called Palomino, and while the whole meal was spectacular, notably the fried chicken, the chocolate cream pie was life changing for us both. Marcy used her pastry-chef wiles to get the recipe, and we both love any excuse to make it. It's serious comfort food, and I can't think of a better way to ring in the New Year.

Planning and Prepping MONDAY, DAY 8 ♦After 24 hours, drain and rinse the wild rice and green lentils. Sprout in colanders and continue to rinse twice a day. Wild rice will take 3 to 5 days to sprout. ♦Quinoa should be finished sprouting after 24 hours. Store in the refrigerator in a lidded glass container. ♦Make Guacamole and Cashew Sour Cream. WEDNESDAY, DAY 10 ♦Lentils should be sprouted. Store in the refrigerator. ♦Make Coconut Yogurt and leave in a warm place overnight to ferment for 12 to 24 hours. THURSDAY, DAY 11 ♦Place the yogurt in a lidded glass container in the refrigerator. ♦If you have a dehydrator, make Caramelized Onions. FRIDAY, DAY 12 ♦Soak 1½ cups of cashews to make the cheese sauce for Raw Vegan Mac ’n’ Cheese and Cheesy Kale Chips. ♦The wild rice should be sprouted. Make two servings of Dragon Bowls for lunch on Day 13 and dinner on Day 14. ♦Make Jicama Fries and Ketchup for your snack on Day 13 and lunch Day 14. SUNDAY, DAY 14

I’m telling you that man wants to hit it seven days a week and twice on Sunday.

Don’t look at any kind of screen for the first hour you’re awake and the last hour before you go to sleep. ▪ Turn off your phone before you achieve flow. There is nothing more important than the task you have chosen to do during this time. If this seems too extreme, enable the “do not disturb” function so only the people closest to you can contact you in case of emergency. ▪ Designate one day of the week, perhaps a Saturday or Sunday, a day of technological “fasting,” making exceptions only for e-readers (without Wi-Fi) or MP3 players. ▪ Go to a café that doesn’t have Wi-Fi. ▪ Read and respond to e-mail only once or twice per day. Define those times clearly and stick to them. ▪ Try the Pomodoro Technique: Get yourself a kitchen timer (some are made to look like a pomodoro, or tomato) and commit to working on a single task as long as it’s running. The Pomodoro Technique recommends 25 minutes of work and 5 minutes of rest for each cycle, but you can also do 50 minutes of work and 10 minutes of rest. Find the pace that’s best for

Anaheim. One story, possibly an attic, with those thick columns on either side of the front porch. We’re not in front, which is good. I don’t need any nosy neighbors seeing me here with him. We’re in the back where he’s got a huge five-car garage. I’m not kidding, five cars. That garage has to be twice the size of the house. “What’s with the massive garage?” I ask. “Cars,” he says. OK, asshole. Remind me again why I’m with him and not Sunday? I follow him up the back steps and he holds the door open for me, waving me forward. He grabs my

FIORELLO H. LA GUARDIA, mayor of New York, who conducted a colorful radio commentary on the city’s station, WNYC, from 1941–46, and on ABC for six months, Jan. 6–June 30, 1946, Sundays at 9:30 for Liberty magazine. La Guardia’s New York show was called Talk to the People. It was described by Time as “the most unorthodox chatter on the air.” He “left sentences dangling, mispronounced words, skipped syllables when he tantrum-well felt like it; he growled at chiselers, sang sarcastically at enemies, squeaked angrily at hecklers; he read the comics with expression and told housewives how to prepare oxtail ragout.” La Guardia reviewed the war news, discussed its implications for New Yorkers, warned loansharks (sometimes by name) to get out of town, and lobbied shamelessly for public support in his efforts to get his favored bits of legislation passed. His city show ran from 1 to 1:30 on Sundays. As he left office, ABC took him on in a quarter-hour, which was a condensed version of the old show. Liberty magazine paid him $1,000 a week, more than twice what he had earned as mayor.

Son of a bitch. Blake probably knew something like this would happen. He set me up. He did it on purpose. “I don’t have to negotiate in good faith,” I tell his father. “You brought money into this in the first place. That was a dick move. Why should I play fair?” “You’ve admitted that you’d sell him out,” he snaps. “That at some point, money is more important than he is.” “You’ve admitted the same thing. If I’m a faithless whore because I’ll take a check to break up with Blake, you’re the asshole who values his company and lifestyle more than your son.” “That’s not just my company. That’s my life. It’s his life. It’s—” “Oh, and you think it’s just money for me?” I glare at him. “You think that you’d give me fifty thousand dollars and I’d spend it all on shoes and diamond-studded cat collars? Fifty thousand dollars would pay for the rest of my college tuition. It would buy my dad a lawyer so that the next time his knee acted up, he could finally get disability instead of scrambling to find some job he can manage. It would make it so I didn’t have to work for the next year and could concentrate on my schoolwork. That’s a really ugly double standard, Mr. Reynolds. When money exists to make your life more pleasant, it’s not just money. But when it’s my family and my dreams at stake, it’s just pieces of green paper.” Blake smiles softly. His father reaches across the table and flicks Blake’s forehead. “Stop grinning.” “No way.” Blake is smiling harder. “She’s kicking your ass. This is the best day ever.” His father grunts. “The day I first went to lunch with Blake, I had less than twenty dollars in my possession. Total,” I tell his father. “I would completely sell Blake out for fifty thousand dollars. Some days I’d do it for ten. Dollars. Not thousands. None of this makes me a gold digger. It just means that I’m poor. When times get desperate, I’ll pawn anything of value to survive. I might cry when I do it, but I’m going to be realistic about it. So take your stupid does-she-love-Blake test and shove it.” Mr. Reynolds looks at me. He looks at Blake. And then, very slowly, he holds out his hands, palms up. “Well. Fuck me twice on Sundays,” he says. From the expression on his face, I take it that this is intended to be a good thing. “First time I talked to her,” Blake says with a nod that could only be described as prideful. “Before I asked her out. I knew I had to introduce her to you.” “Shit,” Mr. Reynolds says. He holds up a fist, and Blake fist bumps him in return. Now they’re both being dicks. “Smile,” Blake’s dad says to me. “You pass the test.” “Oh, thank goodness.” I put on a brilliant smile. “Do you really mean it? Do you mean that you, the one, the only, the incomparable Adam Reynolds, has deigned to recognize me as a human being? My life is changed forever.” Mr. Reynolds’s expression goes completely blank. “Why is she being sarcastic, Blake?” “Why is he talking to you like I’m not here, Blake?” Mr. Reynolds turns to me. “Fine. Why are you being sarcastic?” “You don’t get to test me,” I tell him. “You’re not my teacher. You don’t get to act like you’re the only one with a choice, and I have to be grateful if you accept me. I don’t have any illusions about me and Blake. Fitting our lives together is like trying to finish a thousand-piece puzzle with Lego bricks. But you know what? Bullshit like this is what’s going to break us up. You had a test, too. You could have treated me like a human being. You failed.” Blake reaches out and twines his fingers with mine.

Don’t look at any kind of screen for the first hour you’re awake and the last hour before you go to sleep. ▪ Turn off your phone before you achieve flow. There is nothing more important than the task you have chosen to do during this time. If this seems too extreme, enable the “do not disturb” function so only the people closest to you can contact you in case of emergency. ▪ Designate one day of the week, perhaps a Saturday or Sunday, a day of technological “fasting,” making exceptions only for e-readers (without Wi-Fi) or MP3 players. ▪ Go to a café that doesn’t have Wi-Fi. ▪ Read and respond to e-mail only once or twice per day. Define those times clearly and stick to them.

      •   Tweet at least four times daily Monday through Friday, and space your tweets throughout the day. On weekends, however, twice a day on both Saturday and Sunday is sufficient. Fewer people tweet on weekends, and it’s best not to flood your followers’ news feeds with your messages.