When She Stops Complaining Quotes

He who becomes the slave of habit, who follows the same routes every day, who never changes pace, who does not risk and change the color of his clothes, who does not speak and does not experience, dies slowly. He or she who shuns passion, who prefers black on white, dotting ones "it’s" rather than a bundle of emotions, the kind that make your eyes glimmer, that turn a yawn into a smile, that make the heart pound in the face of mistakes and feelings, dies slowly. He or she who does not turn things topsy-turvy, who is unhappy at work, who does not risk certainty for uncertainty, to thus follow a dream, those who do not forego sound advice at least once in their lives, die slowly. He who does not travel, who does not read, who does not listen to music, who does not find grace in himself, she who does not find grace in herself, dies slowly. He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem, who does not allow himself to be helped, who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck, about the rain that never stops, dies slowly. He or she who abandon a project before starting it, who fail to ask questions on subjects he doesn't know, he or she who don't reply when they are asked something they do know, die slowly. Let's try and avoid death in small doses, reminding oneself that being alive requires an effort far greater than the simple fact of breathing. Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.

Annabelle’s eyes stung as she stared at him, while need and inexhaustible tenderness gathered like an ache in her body. “I realized something,” she said huskily, “when I was standing outside the foundry, watching it burn and knowing you were inside.” She swallowed hard against the thickness in her throat. “I would rather have died in your arms, Simon, than face a lifetime without you. All those endless years… all those winters, summers… a hundred seasons of wanting you and never having you. Growing old, while you stayed eternally young in my memories.” She bit her lip and shook her head, while her eyes flooded. “I was wrong when I told you that I didn’t know where I belonged. I do. With you, Simon. Nothing matters except being with you. You’re stuck with me forever, and I’ll never listen when you tell me to go.” She managed a tremulous smile. “So you may as well stop complaining and resign yourself to it.

Die slowly He who becomes the slave of habit, who follows the same routes every day, who never changes pace, who does not risk and change the color of his clothes, who does not speak and does not experience, dies slowly. He or she who shuns passion, who prefers black on white, dotting ones "it’s" rather than a bundle of emotions, the kind that make your eyes glimmer, that turn a yawn into a smile, that make the heart pound in the face of mistakes and feelings, dies slowly. He or she who does not turn things topsy-turvy, who is unhappy at work, who does not risk certainty for uncertainty, to thus follow a dream, those who do not forego sound advice at least once in their lives, die slowly. He who does not travel, who does not read, who does not listen to music, who does not find grace in himself, she who does not find grace in herself, dies slowly. He who slowly destroys his own self-esteem, who does not allow himself to be helped, who spends days on end complaining about his own bad luck, about the rain that never stops, dies slowly. He or she who abandon a project before starting it, who fail to ask questions on subjects he doesn't know, he or she who don't reply when they are asked something they do know, die slowly. Let's try and avoid death in small doses, reminding oneself that being alive requires an effort far greater than the simple fact of breathing. Only a burning patience will lead to the attainment of a splendid happiness.

This place is packed," Vee complained. "Where am I supposed to park?" She steered down an alley and slowed to a stop behind a bookstore. "This looks good. Lots of parking back here." "The sign says employee parking only." "How are they going to know that we aren't employees? The Neon blends right in. All these cars speak low class." "The sign says violators will be towed." "They just say that to scare people like you and me away. It's an empty threat. Nothing to worry about." ....... Vee came to a halt. "What is THAT?" We were standing in the parking lot behind the bookstore, a few feet from the Neon, and we were staring at a large piece of metal attached to the left rear tire. "I think it's a car boot," I said. "I can see that. What's it doing on my car?" "I guess when they say all violators will be towed, they mean it.

He watched Attolia out of the corner of his eye. She was still cool, like a breath of winter in the warm evening air, but in the last few days he had begun to sense a subtle humor in her chilly words. When Gen had complained earlier that evening that Petrus, the palace physician, should stop fussing over him like a worried old woman, Attolia had asked, archly,"And me as well?" "When you stop fussing," Gen had said, slipping to his knees beside her couch, "I will sleep with two knives under my pillow." Attolia had looked down at him and said sharply, "Don't be ridiculous." Only when Eugenides laughed had Sounis realized her implication: If she ever turned against Eugenides, a second knife wouldn't save him. He almost swallowed the olive in his mouth unchewed.

To exemplify that particular situation, we can look to a cool day in late June. Rudy, to put it mildly, was incensed. Who did Liesel Meminger think she was, telling him she had to take the washing and ironing alone today? Wasn’t he good enough to walk the streets with her? “Stop complaining, Saukerl,” she reprimanded him. “I just feel bad. You’re missing the game.” He looked over his shoulder. “Well, if you put it like that.” There was a Schmunzel. “You can stick your washing.” He ran off and wasted no time joining a team. When Liesel made it to the top of Himmel Street, she looked back just in time to see him standing in front of the nearest makeshift goals. He was waving. “Saukerl,” she laughed, and as she held up her hand, she knew completely that he was simultaneously calling her a Saumensch. I think that’s as close to love as eleven-year-olds can get.

I’d been stuck in one gender my whole life. It never bothered me. Now I wondered how that would feel for Alex. The only analogy I could come up with wasn’t a very good one. My second grade teacher, Miss Mengler (aka Miss Mangler), had forced me to write with my right hand even though I was left-handed. She’d actually taped my left hand to the desk. My mom had exploded when she found out, but I still remembered the panicky feeling of being restrained, forced to write in such an unnatural way because Miss Mengler had insisted, 'This is the normal way, Magnus. Stop complaining. You’ll get used to it.

On May 26th, 2003, Aaron Ralston was hiking, a boulder fell on his right hand, he waited four days, he then amputated his own arm with a pocketknife. On New Year’s Eve, a woman was bungee jumping, the cord broke, she fell into a river and had to swim back to land in crocodile-infested waters with a broken collarbone. Claire Champlin was smashed in the face by a five-pound watermelon being propelled by a slingshot. Mathew Brobst was hit by a javelin. David Striegl was actually punched in the mouth by a kangaroo. The most amazing part of these stories is when asked about the experience they all smiled, shrugged and said “I guess things could’ve been worse.” So go ahead, tell me you’re having a bad day. Tell me about the traffic. Tell me about your boss. Tell me about the job you’ve been trying to quit for the past four years. Tell me the morning is just a townhouse burning to the ground and the snooze button is a fire extinguisher. Tell me the alarm clock stole the keys to your smile, drove it into 7 am and the crash totaled your happiness. Tell me. Tell me how blessed are we to have tragedy so small it can fit on the tips of our tongues. When Evan lost his legs he was speechless. When my cousin was assaulted she didn’t speak for 48 hours. When my uncle was murdered, we had to send out a search party to find my father’s voice. Most people have no idea that tragedy and silence often have the exact same address. When your day is a museum of disappointments, hanging from events that were outside of your control, when you feel like your guardian angel put in his two weeks notice two months ago and just decided not to tell you, when it seems like God is just a babysitter that’s always on the phone, when you get punched in the esophagus by a fistful of life. Remember, every year two million people die of dehydration. So it doesn’t matter if the glass is half full or half empty. There’s water in the cup. Drink it and stop complaining. Muscle is created by lifting things that are designed to weigh us down. When your shoulders are heavy stand up straight and call it exercise. Life is a gym membership with a really complicated cancellation policy. Remember, you will survive, things could be worse, and we are never given anything we can’t handle. When the whole world crumbles, you have to build a new one out of all the pieces that are still here. Remember, you are still here. The human heart beats approximately 4,000 times per hour and each pulse, each throb, each palpitation is a trophy, engraved with the words “You are still alive.” You are still alive. So act like it.

It was like wanting ice cream instead of meat loaf, and being told that children in refugee camps would be grateful for the meat loaf. Yes, of course she had nothing to complain about, compared to so many people, but when had that ever stopped anyone from complaining? Happiness was a balloon that always hovered just out of arm's reach.

When I open the door, Baz is wheeling an old-fashioned chalkboard in front of our beds. “Where did that come from?” I ask. “A classroom.” “Yeah, but how did it get up here?” “It flew.” “No,” I say, “seriously.” He rolls his eyes. “I Up, up and away-ed it. It wasn’t much work.” “Why?” “Because we’re solving a mystery, Snow. I like to organize my thoughts.” “Is this how you normally plot my downfall?” “Yes. With multicoloured pieces of chalk. Stop complaining.” He opens up his book bag and takes out a few apples and things wrapped in greaseproof paper. “Eat,” he says, throwing one at me. It’s a bacon roll. He’s also got a pot of tea. “What’s all this?” I say. “Tea, obviously. I know you can’t function unless you’re stuffing yourself.” I unwrap the roll and decide to take a bite. “Thanks.” “Don’t thank me,” he says. “It sounds wrong.” “Not as wrong as you bringing me bacon butties.” “Fine, you’re welcome—when’s Bunce getting here?” “Why would she?” “Because you do everything together, don’t you? When you said you’d help, I was counting on you bringing your smarter half.

Closer, druskelle," she crooned, taunting. He threw an arm over her, hooking her back against his chest. She let out a startled oof and shifted uneasily. "Stop moving," he muttered. He'd been close to girls- not many, it was true- but none of them had been like her. She was indecently round. "You're cold and clammy," she complained with a shiver. "It's like lying next to a burly squid." "You told me to get closer!" "Ease up a bit," she instructed and when he did, she flipped over to face him. "What are you doing?" he asked, pulling back in a panic. "Relax, druskelle. This isn't where I have my way with you." His blue eyes narrowed. "I hate the way you talk.

When she says margarita she means daiquiri. When she says quixotic she means mercurial. And when she says, "I'll never speak to you again," she means, "Put your arms around me from behind as I stand disconsolate at the window." He's supposed to know that. When a man loves a woman he is in New York and she is in Virginia or he is in Boston, writing, and she is in New York, reading, or she is wearing a sweater and sunglasses in Balboa Park and he is raking leaves in Ithaca or he is driving to East Hampton and she is standing disconsolate at the window overlooking the bay where a regatta of many-colored sails is going on while he is stuck in traffic on the Long Island Expressway. When a woman loves a man it is one ten in the morning she is asleep he is watching the ball scores and eating pretzels drinking lemonade and two hours later he wakes up and staggers into bed where she remains asleep and very warm. When she says tomorrow she means in three or four weeks. When she says, "We're talking about me now," he stops talking. Her best friend comes over and says, "Did somebody die?" When a woman loves a man, they have gone to swim naked in the stream on a glorious July day with the sound of the waterfall like a chuckle of water rushing over smooth rocks, and there is nothing alien in the universe. Ripe apples fall about them. What else can they do but eat? When he says, "Ours is a transitional era," "that's very original of you," she replies, dry as the martini he is sipping. They fight all the time It's fun What do I owe you? Let's start with an apology Ok, I'm sorry, you dickhead. A sign is held up saying "Laughter." It's a silent picture. "I've been fucked without a kiss," she says, "and you can quote me on that," which sounds great in an English accent. One year they broke up seven times and threatened to do it another nine times. When a woman loves a man, she wants him to meet her at the airport in a foreign country with a jeep. When a man loves a woman he's there. He doesn't complain that she's two hours late and there's nothing in the refrigerator. When a woman loves a man, she wants to stay awake. She's like a child crying at nightfall because she didn't want the day to end. When a man loves a woman, he watches her sleep, thinking: as midnight to the moon is sleep to the beloved. A thousand fireflies wink at him. The frogs sound like the string section of the orchestra warming up. The stars dangle down like earrings the shape of grapes.

To avoid beautiful thoughts turning into suffering, she developed a method: when something positive to do with Ralf Hart came into her head - and this could be the fire and the wine, an idea she would like to discuss with him, or simply the pleasurable longing involved in wanting to know when he would come back - Maria would stop what she was doing, smile up at the sky and give thanks for being alive and to be expecting nothing from the man she loved. On the other hand, if her heart began to complain about his absence or about things she shouldn't have said while they were together, she would say to herself: 'Oh, so you want to think about that, do you? All right, then, you do what you like, while I get on with more important things.' She would continue to read or, if she was out, she would focus her attention on everything around her: colours, people, sounds - especially sounds, the sound of her own footsteps, of the pages turning, of cars, of fragments of conversations, and the unfortunate thought would eventually go away.

So what? You act all mysterious to seem more interesting?” “What’s that supposed to mean?” “You’re always wandering off or running away,” he said. “But you’re a lot more interesting when you’re just being yourself you know. When you’re actually here.” “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Emma said coldly. “Where else would I be?” “You know what I mean,” he said, a rough edge to his voice. “It’s like you’re so busy trying not to act like your family that you’ve never even stopped to consider that it might not be such a bad thing.” “Well what about you?” she shot back, aware of the bitterness in her words. “You complain about your dad not wanting you around, and then you complain when he wants you to stay home for school. You can’t have it both wars.” “Well neither can you,” he said. “ You can’t keep everyone at arms length and then expect them to be there for you when you need them.

-and this could be the fire and the wine, an idea she would like to discuss with him, or simply the pleasurable longing involved in wanting to know when he would come back - Maria would stop what she was doing, smile up at the sky and give thanks for being alive and to be expecting nothing from the man she loved. On the other hand, if her heart began to complain about his absence or about things she shouldn't have said while they were together, she would say to herself: 'Oh, so you want to think about that, do you? All right, then, you do what you like, while I get on with more important things.

There are various theories about why the years seem to pass faster as you get older. The most popular is also the most obvious. As you get older, each year is a smaller percentage of your life. If you are ten years old, a year is ten percent. If you are fifty years old, a year is two percent. But she read a theory that spurned that explanation. The theory states that time passes faster when we are in a set routine, when we aren't learning anything new, when we stay stuck in a life pattern. They key to making time slow down is to have new experiences. You may joke that the week you went on vacation flew by far too quickly, but if you stop and think about it, that week actually seemed to last much longer than one involving the drudgery of your day job. You are complaining about it going away so fast because you loved it, not because it felt as though time was passing faster. If you want to slow down time, this theory holds: If you want to make the days last, do something different. Travel to exotic locales. Take a class.

So here is what I see when we reclaim the church ladies: a woman loved and free is beautiful. She is laughing with her sisters, and together they are telling their stories, revealing their scars and their wounds, the places where they don't have it figured out. They are nurturers, creating a haven where the young, the broken, the tenderhearted, and the at-risk can flourish. These women are dancing and worshiping, hands high, faces tipped toward heaven, tears streaming. They are celebrating all shapes and sizes, talking frankly and respectfully about sexuality and body image, promising to stop calling themselves fat. They are saving babies tossed in rubbish heaps, rescuing child soldiers, supporting mamas trying to make ends meet halfway around the world, thinking of justice when they buy their daily coffee. They are fighting sex trafficking. They are pastoring and counseling. They are choosing life consistently, building hope, doing the hard work of transformation in themselves. They are shaking off the silence of shame and throwing open the prison doors of physical and sexual abuse, addictions, eating disorders, and suicidal depression. Poverty and despair are being unlocked - these women know there are many hands helping turn that key. There isn't much complaining about husbands and chores, cattiness, or jealousy when a woman knows she is loved for her true self. She is lit up with something bigger than what the world offers, refusing to be intimidated into silence or despair.

So. Which of our troubles torments you most this evening?” Althea surrendered. “They all nip at my heels like a pack of yapping feists, ship. I don’t know which to worry about first.” The figurehead gave a snort of disdain. “Then kick them away as if they were truly a pack of curs and fix your gaze instead on your destiny.” … “Don’t think about the obstacles” … The ship spoke in a low, soft voice. “Long or short, if you worry about every step of a journey, you will divide it endlessly into pieces, any one of which may defeat you. Look only to the end.” “I think we will succeed only if we prepare ourselves,” Althea objected. Paragon shook his head. “Teach yourself to believe you will succeed. … Be now what you must be to succeed at the end of your journey, and when the end comes, you will find it is just another beginning.” Althea sighed. “Now you sound like Amber,” she complained. “No.” He contradicted her flatly. “Now I sound like myself. The self I put aside and hid, the self I intended to be again someday, when I was ready. I have stopped intending. I am, now.” p. 86: Paragon to Althea

Women are like goats. It's like . . . Well, reasoning with a woman is like sitting down to a friendly game of dice. Only the woman refuses to acknowledge the basic bloody rules of the game. A man, he'll cheat you - but he'll do it honestly. He'll use loaded dice, so that you think you're losing by chance. And if you aren't clever enough to spot what he's doing, then maybe he deserves to take your coin. And that's that. A woman, though, she'll sit down to that same game and she'll smile, and act like she's going to play. Only when it's her turn to throw, she'll toss a pair of her own dice that are blank on all six sides. Not a single pip showing. She'll inspect the throw, then she'll look up at you and say, 'clearly I just won.' Now, you'll scratch your head and look at the dice. Then you'll look up at her, then down at the dice again 'But there aren't any pips on these dice' you'll say." 'Yes there are,' she'll say. 'And both dice rolled a one.' 'That's exactly the number you need to win,' you'll say. 'What a coincidence,' she'll reply, then begin to scoop up your coins. And you'll sit there, trying to wrap your head 'bout what just happened. And you'll realise something. A pair of ones isn't the winning throw! Not when you threw a six on your turn. That means she needed a pair of twos instead! Excitedly you'll explain what you've discovered. Only then do you know what she'll do?" "No idea, Mat." "Then she'll reach over and rub the blank faces of her dice. And then, with a perfectly straight face, she'll say, 'I'm sorry. There was a spot of dirt on the dice. Clearly you'll see they actually came up as twos!' And she'll believe it. She'll bloody believe it!" "Incredible." "Only that's not the end of it!" "I had presumed it wouldn't be Mat." "She scoops up all of your coins. And then every other wonam in the room will come over and congratulate her on throwing that pair of twos! The more you complain, the more those bloody women will join in the argument. You'll be outnumbered in a moment, and each of those women will explain to you how those dice clearly read twos, and how you really need to stop behaving like a child. Every single flaming one of them will see the twos! even the prudish woman who has hated your woman from birth - since your woman's granny stole the other woman's granny's honeycake recipe when they were both maids - that woman will side against you." "They're nefarious creatures indeed." "By the time they're done, you'll be left with no coin, several lists worth of errands to run and what clothing to wear and a splitting headache. You'll sit there and stare at the table and begin to wonder, just maybe, if those dice didn't read twos after all. If only to preserve what's left of your sanity. That's what it's like to reason with a woman, I tell you.

are starting to lock them up inside the death camps. This is beyond imagining. “My uncle is right,” Aliza said. “Quotas and blockades will not stop us. And the truth is, the English have always preferred the Arabs to the Jews. In fact, they are anti-Semites, though there are exceptions, of course,” she said. “Like our little commandant here in Atlit. “But enough politics for today,” she said, getting to her feet. “I’m going over to the kitchen and see if I can get a lemon or an orange so I can show you how to give an injection.” She put her hand under Leonie’s chin and smiled. “I suppose you’ll get married right away. But it’s always good to have a trade, just in case.” Leonie watched her go, overwhelmed by affection. Aliza seemed happiest when she was taking care of others, or telling them what to do. She never complained and seemed content with her life. Leonie wondered about the heavy gold earrings that she wore every day—her only adornment. Maybe they were a gift from her husband, or perhaps they had belonged to her mother. Aliza never mentioned

Jay insisted on carrying her up the back steps and into the kitchen, and this time Violet didn’t complain when he lifted her. He set her down gently on the kitchen counter, and then he rummaged through the cupboard while Violet told him where the Band-Aids were. He came with bandages, gauze, cotton balls, antibacterial wash, and two tubes of ointment. It seemed like overkill to Violet, but she didn’t say anything. She wanted to see what he planned to do. “Okay, this is probably gonna sting,” he warned as he leaned over and began cleaning her wounds. It did sting, more than Violet let on, and she had to bite her lip as the tears came back all over again. But she let him keep working without even flinching, which was no small feat as he stripped away the layers of dirt from her skin. The wounds were big, and round, and raw. She thought she looked like a little kid with the giant scrapes on her knees, and she imagined that they were going to scab over and possibly even scar. She felt like such an idiot for falling over her own two clumsy feet. But Jay was gentle, and he took his time, being careful not to hurt her. She admired his patience and took perverse pleasure in his touch. He didn’t look up to see how she was doing; he just kept working until he was satisfied that her scrapes were cleaned out. And then he picked up the antibacterial wash and some cotton balls. Violet sucked in her breath when he brushed the soaked cotton ball against the angry red abrasions. Jay looked up at her but didn’t stop dabbing at them. Instead he blew on her knees as he labored over them, just like her mother used to do when Violet was a little girl. She thought it was sweet, and she swore that she was even more attracted to him than ever in that tender moment. When he finished with the wash, he gingerly patted an antibiotic ointment on her knees before covering them with bandages. “There,” he said, admiring his own handiwork. “Good as new.” Violent glanced at the ridiculously huge Band-Aids on her knees and looking at him doubtfully. “You really think so? ‘Good as new’?” He smiled. “I think I did pretty good. It’s not my fault you can’t walk.

He didn't like causing her discomfort. "How are your hands?" He held his out, palm up. Rounding the bed slowly, she placed hers in them. Stanislav sat up straighter and examined them closely, then swore. Raw, open blisters marred the skin at the crooks of her thumbs and the base of every finger. She had gripped that shovel for so long that the blisters had all popped and the flap of loose skin on each had torn away. It looked painful. And she had said nothing, not even complaining when she had held one hand over the steaming pot of pasta while stirring it, something that must have made her hand hurt even more. "Stop beating yourself up about it," she ordered softly. He raised his head, on a level with hers though he sat and she stood. "I wasn't intentionally listening to your thoughts," she told him. "You were sort of broadcasting them. And it wasn't your fault." "I beg to differ. Had I not compelled you to dig me up—" "You would probably be dead right now," she finished for him. Withdrawing one hand, she drew it over his hair. "It was worth it." His pulse raced at her touch. His gaze dropped to her lips. He heard her heartbeat pick up.

Mother is a humble woman. Very, very humble. She toils at a small café one hour distance from our home. She presents food and drink to customers there, and says to me, "I mount the autobus for an hour to work all day doing things I hate. You want to know why? It is for you, Alexi-stop-spleening-me! One day you will do things for me that you hate. That is what it means to be a family." What she does not clutch is that I already do things for her that I hate. I listen to her when she talks to me. I resist complaining about my pygmy allowance. And did I mention that I do not spleen her nearly so much as I desire to? But I do not do these things because we are a family. I do them because they are common decencies. That is an idiom that the hero taught me. I do them because I am not a big fucking asshole. That is another idiom that the hero taught me.

Kelly’s grades aren’t bad, which always amazes me when I see how much time she wastes. They’re so good, in fact, that I can’t get myself to complain about the nonsense she finds to do. Ronnie goes right to the bottom line, as he does with everything else, if I mention her distractions. ‘She’s doing well. Why complain?’ he replies, and I stop. Loneliness has all sorts of ways of showing itself. It’s perhaps the most inventive feeling of all.

Anyway, as I was saying, marriage sucks.  It sucks the life and soul out of you.  There are days I want to kill him, and there are days I want to torture him before I kill him.”  Lizzy is working so hard at containing her laughter that she almost falls out of her chair.  “There are days I wish he’d never been born.  There are days I wish I’d never been born.  But, listen to this carefully.  They are just thoughts.  Random fleeting thoughts that cross my mind when I’m upset about accidentally burning supper.  Did he make me burn supper?  No, he didn’t, but I heaped that blame on him.  Or when I forgot about a load of his underpants in the washer and they soured.  He bore the brunt of that blame, too.  What about the abuse he got when I gave birth to our child?  Twelve hours of non-stop name calling during labor, and that man took every last bit of it and fed me words of love and encouragement to boot!” Lizzy and I are now captivated by her speech. “When and if you get married, those thoughts will come to you.  You’re going to fight.  You’re going to have resentful moments.  You’re going to wonder if it’s worth it all.  My Stanley is eighty-six years old, and he was diagnosed with terminal cancer four weeks ago.  If we’re lucky, I might have another couple of months with him the doctors say.  All that complaining I did earlier… all that truth I gave you… you’d think I regretted marrying him, wouldn’t you?  Well, I don’t.  I’d give anything to have sixty-eight more years with him. 

Her endless complaining was finally too much for Sara to take. "Oh, good Lord, that's enough," she exclaimed impatiently. "I'm going to die," Joyce moaned. "Unfortunately that's not the case. The bullet passed cleanly through your shoulder, the bleeding's stopped, and whatever discomfort you feel isn't nearly enough to make up for all you've done," Sara continued with growing exasperation. "The first time I met Derek was on the night you had his face slashed, and ever since then you've harassed and tormented us both. You brought this on yourself!" "You're enjoying my suffering," Joyce whined. "Somehow I can't dredge up much sympathy for a woman who's just tried to kill me! And when I think of the cruel, callous way you destroyed Derek's club..." "He'll always hate me for that," Joyce whispered in satisfaction. "I'll always have that part of him, at least." "No," Sara said firmly. "I'm going to fill his life with such happiness that he'll have no room to hate anyone. He won't spare you a thought. You'll be nothing to him.

One of the big problems in North Korea was a fertilizer shortage. When the economy collapsed in the 1990s, the Soviet Union stopped sending fertilizer to us and our own factories stopped producing it. Whatever was donated from other countries couldn’t get to the farms because the transportation system had also broken down. This led to crop failures that made the famine even worse. So the government came up with a campaign to fill the fertilizer gap with a local and renewable source: human and animal waste. Every worker and schoolchild had a quota to fill. You can imagine what kind of problems this created for our families. Every member of the household had a daily assignment, so when we got up in the morning, it was like a war. My aunts were the most competitive. “Remember not to poop in school!” my aunt in Kowon told me every day. “Wait to do it here!” Whenever my aunt in Songnam-ri traveled away from home and had to poop somewhere else, she loudly complained that she didn’t have a plastic bag with her to save it. “Next time I’ll remember!” she would say. Thankfully, she never actually did this. The big effort to collect waste peaked in January, so it could be ready for growing season. Our bathrooms in North Korea were usually far away from the house, so you had to be careful that the neighbors didn’t steal from you at night. Some people would lock up their outhouses to keep the poop thieves away. At school the teachers would send us out into the streets to find poop and carry it back to class. So if we saw a dog pooping in the street, it was like gold. My uncle in Kowon had a big dog who made a big poop—and everyone in the family would fight over it. This is not something you see every day in the West.

She merely wiped the floor with paper towels and said nothing, brushing her free hand against my shoulder blade—my shoulder blade!—as she carried the soaked paper to the trash can, never holding me fast, refraining not out of lack of humanity but out of fear of being drawn into a request for further tenderness, a request that could only bring her face-to-face with some central revulsion, a revulsion of her husband or herself or both, a revulsion that had come from nowhere, or from her, or perhaps from something I’d done or failed to do, who knew, she didn’t want to know, it was too great a disappointment, far better to get on with the chores, with the baby, with the work, far better to leave me to my own devices, as they say, to leave me to resign myself to certain motifs, to leave me to disappear guiltily into a hole of my own digging. When the time came to stop her from leaving, I did not know what to think or wish for, her husband who was now an abandoner, a hole-dweller, a leaver who had left her to fend for herself, as she said, who’d failed to provide her with the support and intimacy she needed, she complained, who was lacking some fundamental wherewithal, who no longer wanted her, who beneath his scrupulous marital motions was angry, whose sentiments had decayed into a mere sense of responsibility, a husband who, when she shouted, “I don’t need to be provided for! I’m a lawyer! I make two hundred and fifty thousand dollars a year! I need to be loved!” had silently picked up the baby and smelled the baby’s sweet hair, and had taken the baby for a crawl in the hotel corridor, and afterward washed the baby’s filthy hands and soft filthy knees, and thought about what his wife had said, and saw the truth in her words and an opening, and decided to make another attempt at kindness, and at nine o’clock, with the baby finally drowsy in his cot, came with a full heart back to his wife to find her asleep, as usual, and beyond waking. In short, I fought off the impulse to tell Rachel to go fuck herself.

She was especially taken with Matt. Until he said, “It’s time to fess up, hon. Tell Trace how much you care. You’ll feel better when you do.” Climbing up the ladder, Chris said, “Better sooner than later.” He nodded at the hillside behind them. “Because here comes Trace, and he doesn’t look happy.” Both Priss and Matt turned, Priss with anticipation, Matt with tempered dread. Dressed in jeans and a snowy-white T-shirt, Trace stalked down the hill. Priss shielded her eyes to better see him. When he’d left, being so guarded about his mission, she’d half wondered if he’d return before dinner. Trace wore reflective sunglasses, so she couldn’t see his eyes, but his entire demeanor—heavy stride, rigid shoulders, tight jaw—bespoke annoyance. As soon as he was close enough, Priss called out, “What’s wrong?” Without answering her, Trace continued onto the dock. He didn’t stop until he stood right in front of . . . Matt. Backing up to the edge of the dock, Matt said, “Uh . . . Hello?” Trace didn’t say a thing; he just pushed Matt into the water. Arms and legs flailing out, Matt hit the surface with a cannonball effect. Stunned, Priss shoved his shoulder. “What the hell, Trace! Why did you do that?” Trace took off his sunglasses and looked at her, all of her, from her hair to her body and down to her bare toes. After working his jaw a second, he said, “If you need sunscreen, ask me.” Her mouth fell open. Of all the nerve! He left her at Dare’s, took off without telling her a damn thing and then had the audacity to complain when a friend tried to keep her from getting sunburned. “Maybe I would have, if you’d been here!” “I’m here now.” Emotions bubbled over. “So you are.” With a slow smile, Priss put both hands on his chest. The shirt was damp with sweat, the cotton so soft that she could feel every muscle beneath. “And you look a little . . . heated.” Trace’s beautiful eyes darkened, and he reached for her. “A dip will cool you down.” Priss shoved him as hard as she could. Taken by surprise, fully dressed, Trace went floundering backward off the end of the dock. Priss caught a glimpse of the priceless expression of disbelief on Trace’s face before he went under the water. Excited by the activity, the dogs leaped in after him. Liger roused himself enough to move out of the line of splashing. Chris climbed up the ladder. “So that’s the new game, huh?” He laughed as he scooped Priss up into his arms. “Chris!” She made a grab for his shoulders. “Put me down!” “Afraid not, doll.” Just as Trace resurfaced, Chris jumped in with her. They landed between the swimming dogs. Sputtering, her hair in her face and her skin chilled from the shock of the cold water, Priss cursed. Trace had already waded toward the shallower water off the side of the dock. His fair hair was flattened to his head and his T-shirt stuck to his body. “Wait!” Priss shouted at him. He was still waist-deep as he turned to glare at her. Kicking and splashing, Priss doggy-paddled over to him, grabbed his shoulders and wrapped her legs around his waist. “Oh, no, you don’t!” Startled, Trace scooped her bottom in his hands and struggled for balance on the squishy mud bottom of the lake. “What the hell?” And then lower, “You look naked in this damn suit.” Matt and Chris found that hilarious. Priss looked at Trace’s handsome face, a face she loved, and kissed him. Hard. For only a second, he allowed the sensual assault. He even kissed her back. Then he levered away from her. “You ruined my clothes, damn it.” “Only because you were being a jealous jerk.” His expression dark, he glared toward Matt. Christ started humming, but poor Matt said, “Yeah,” and shrugged. “If you think about it, you’ll agree that you sort of were—and we both know there’s no reason.

Once upon a time, there were four girls, who had enough to eat and drink and wear, a good many comforts and pleasures, kind friends and parents who loved them dearly, and yet they were not contented." (Here the listeners stole sly looks at one another, and began to sew diligently.) "These girls were anxious to be good and made many excellent resolutions, but they did not keep them very well, and were constantly saying, 'If only we had this,' or 'If we could only do that,' quite forgetting how much they already had, and how many things they actually could do. So they asked an old woman what spell they could use to make them happy, and she said, 'When you feel discontented, think over your blessings, and be grateful.'" (Here Jo looked up quickly, as if about to speak, but changed her mind, seeing that the story was not done yet.) "Being sensible girls, they decided to try her advice, and soon were surprised to see how well off they were. One discovered that money couldn't keep shame and sorrow out of rich people's houses, another that, though she was poor, she was a great deal happier, with her youth, health, and good spirits, than a certain fretful, feeble old lady who couldn't enjoy her comforts, a third that, disagreeable as it was to help get dinner, it was harder still to go begging for it and the fourth, that even carnelian rings were not so valuable as good behavior. So they agreed to stop complaining, to enjoy the blessings already possessed, and try to deserve them, lest they should be taken away entirely, instead of increased, and I believe they were never disappointed or sorry that they took the old woman's advice.

Let’s go get dressed.” I looked down at him and saw that he was in his underwear still. I couldn’t help but smile, but then we heard a door open. Gran came out of her room, stopping dead in her tracks at seeing her grandson in his skivvies. I waited for her to blush, or something, anything, but she just stood there. Caleb coughed uncomfortably and pulled me in front of him. It was the first time he’d ever put me in front of him. Usually it was the other way around. And then Gran’s cackle started. She laughed so hard and pointed, even doubling over as she did so. “Gran, come on,” Caleb complained to her and then bent his head to look at me when I started laughing too. “I’m sorry,” I said,”but its funny!” “Caleb,” Gran laughed and gasped for breath, “just tell me you didn’t walk all the way from your cell that way and I’ll be fine.

Willow gazed up at him, her silly grin still in place. "You know wha'? You're kinda cute when you crook your eyebrows down like tha'." Rider muttered a curse, lifted her off the floor, and tossed her over his shoulder. "Juan, you and Hicks help Mrs. Brigham to her room. I'll take care of this little hellion." Willow lifted her head from where she dangled over Rider's shoulder. "See yuh later, Mrs. B." Miriam smiled and waved. "i think Mrs. B is pickled," Rider's passenger said in a loud whisper as he hauled her out the door. "No thanks to you,hellion," he growled, and smacked her bottom. "Ow!" As he carried Willow into the house, Rider was hard pressed to quell a sudden urge to laugh. In her bedroom, he unceremoniously dumped her on her bed, but when he turned to leave, her pitiful sounding voice halted his exit. "Rider,come here a min-it." "Oh,hell, I suppose you're going to be sick." Grabbing a basin off her dresser, he shoved it under her chin. "It serves you right, you know." He watched nervously as she knocked the bowl aside. "Dun...don't be mad." She held her arms out to him. "Come closer. Gimme a kiss and we'll make up. I like your kisses so-o-o-o much." This time Rider couldn't stall his grin and inadvertently leaned closer. She was on him like a duck on a June bug. With two hearty handfuls of his shirt, she yanked him down on top of her and plastered her mouth against his. Talking against his lips, the tipsy girl had the audacity to complain, "Not like this. Do it like before. You know, with your tongue." Rider squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. This isn't fair, he bemoaned silently. He tried to rise but Willow held tight, squirming her voluptuous little body against his. Sweat broke out on his forehead. If he didn't put a stop to this soon...He lifted his mouth from hers. "If I promise to kiss you with my tongue, will you let go of me and go to sleep?" "Uh-huh." Willow's eyes drooped, but the affect appeared more seductive than drunken. Lifting her shoulders slightly off the bed, he wound his arms around her and covered her mouth with his. His tongue explored hers in a long, liquid kiss, tasting of wine and desire. Rider savored its promise, wishing just this once, he could be less a gentleman. Willow wrapped one of her legs over his and shifted her hips, innocently aligning his swelling heat with hers. He started and bolted off the bed. "Holy hell! You did it again!" "What?" Her voice was sluggish and sleepy now. Disgusted with himself, Rider stomped to the door. "Sleep it off, Freckles." Outside Willow's door, Rider slumped against the wall and shook his head. Willow Vaughn was a constant surprise, and he loved the girl so bad it hurt.

Two mathematicians were having dinner. One was complaining: ‘The average person is a mathematical idiot. People cannot do arithmetic correctly, cannot balance a checkbook, cannot calculate a tip, cannot do percents, …’ The other mathematician disagreed: ‘You’re exaggerating. People know all the math they need to know.’ Later in the dinner the complainer went to the men’s room. The other mathematician beckoned the waitress to his table and said, ‘The next time you come past our table, I am going to stop you and ask you a question. No matter what I say, I want you to answer by saying “x squared.”‘ She agreed. When the other mathematician returned, his companion said, ‘I’m tired of your complaining. I’m going to stop the next person who passes our table and ask him or her an elementary calculus question, and I bet the person can solve it.’ Soon the waitress came by and he asked: ‘Excuse me, Miss, but can you tell me what the integral of 2x with respect to x is?’ The waitress replied: ‘x squared.’ The mathematician said, ‘See!’ His friend said, ‘Oh … I guess you were right.’ And the waitress said, ‘Plus a constant.

She submitted to walk slowly on, with downcast eyes. He put her hand to his lips, and she quietly drew it away. ‘Will you walk beside me, Mr Wrayburn, and not touch me?’ For, his arm was already stealing round her waist. She stopped again, and gave him an earnest supplicating look. ‘Well, Lizzie, well!’ said he, in an easy way though ill at ease with himself ‘don’t be unhappy, don’t be reproachful.’ ‘I cannot help being unhappy, but I do not mean to be reproachful. Mr Wrayburn, I implore you to go away from this neighbourhood, to-morrow morning.’ ‘Lizzie, Lizzie, Lizzie!’ he remonstrated. ‘As well be reproachful as wholly unreasonable. I can’t go away.’ ‘Why not?’ ‘Faith!’ said Eugene in his airily candid manner. ‘Because you won’t let me. Mind! I don’t mean to be reproachful either. I don’t complain that you design to keep me here. But you do it, you do it.’ ‘Will you walk beside me, and not touch me;’ for, his arm was coming about her again; ‘while I speak to you very seriously, Mr Wrayburn?’ ‘I will do anything within the limits of possibility, for you, Lizzie,’ he answered with pleasant gaiety as he folded his arms. ‘See here! Napoleon Buonaparte at St Helena.’ ‘When you spoke to me as I came from the Mill the night before last,’ said Lizzie, fixing her eyes upon him with the look of supplication which troubled his better nature, ‘you told me that you were much surprised to see me, and that you were on a solitary fishing excursion. Was it true?’ ‘It was not,’ replied Eugene composedly, ‘in the least true. I came here, because I had information that I should find you here.’ ‘Can you imagine why I left London, Mr Wrayburn?’ ‘I am afraid, Lizzie,’ he openly answered, ‘that you left London to get rid of me. It is not flattering to my self-love, but I am afraid you did.’ ‘I did.’ ‘How could you be so cruel?’ ‘O Mr Wrayburn,’ she answered, suddenly breaking into tears, ‘is the cruelty on my side! O Mr Wrayburn, Mr Wrayburn, is there no cruelty in your being here to-night!’ ‘In the name of all that’s good—and that is not conjuring you in my own name, for Heaven knows I am not good’—said Eugene, ‘don’t be distressed!’ ‘What else can I be, when I know the distance and the difference between us? What else can I be, when to tell me why you came here, is to put me to shame!’ said Lizzie, covering her face. He looked at her with a real sentiment of remorseful tenderness and pity. It was not strong enough to impell him to sacrifice himself and spare her, but it was a strong emotion. ‘Lizzie! I never thought before, that there was a woman in the world who could affect me so much by saying so little. But don’t be hard in your construction of me. You don’t know what my state of mind towards you is. You don’t know how you haunt me and bewilder me. You don’t know how the cursed carelessness that is over-officious in helping me at every other turning of my life, won’t help me here. You have struck it dead, I think, and I sometimes almost wish you had struck me dead along with it.

That man,” she announced huffily, referring to their host, “can’t put two words together without losing his meaning!” Obviously she’d expected better of the quality during the time she was allowed to mix with them. “He’s afraid of us, I think,” Elizabeth replied, climbing out of bed. “Do you know the time? He desired me to accompany him fishing this morning at seven.” “Half past ten,” Berta replied, opening drawers and turning toward Elizabeth for her decision as to which gown to wear. “He waited until a few minutes ago, then went of without you. He was carrying two poles. Said you could join him when you arose.” “In that case, I think I’ll wear the pink muslin,” she decided with a mischievous smile. The Earl of Marchman could scarcely believe his eyes when he finally saw his intended making her way toward him. Decked out in a frothy pink gown with an equally frothy pink parasol and a delicate pink bonnet, she came tripping across the bank. Amazed at the vagaries of the female mind, he quickly turned his attention back to the grandfather trout he’d been trying to catch for five years. Ever so gently he jiggled his pole, trying to entice or else annoy the wily old fish into taking his fly. The giant fish swam around his hook as if he knew it might be a trick and then he suddenly charged it, nearly jerking the pole out of John’s hands. The fish hurtled out of the water, breaking the surface in a tremendous, thrilling arch at the same moment John’s intended bride deliberately chose to let out a piercing shriek: “Snake!” Startled, John jerked his head in her direction and saw her charging at him as if Lucifer himself was on her heels, screaming, “Snake! Snake! Snnnaaaake!” And in that instant his connection was broken; he let his line go slack, and the fish dislodged the hook, exactly as Elizabeth had hoped. “I saw a snake,” she lied, panting and stopping just short of the arms he’d stretched out to catch her-or strangle her, Elizabeth thought, smothering a smile. She stole a quick searching glance at the water, hoping for a glimpse of the magnificent trout he’d nearly caught, her hands itching to hold the pole and try her own luck. Lord Marchman’s disgruntled question snapped her attention back to him. “Would you like to fish, or would you rather sit and watch for a bit, until you recover from your flight from the serpent?” Elizabeth looked around in feigned shock. “Goodness, sir, I don’t fish!” “Do you sit?” he asked with what might have been sarcasm. Elizabeth lowered her lashes to hide her smile at the mounting impatience in his voice. “Of course I sit,” she proudly told him. “Sitting is an excessively ladylike occupation, but fishing, in my opinion, is not. I shall adore watching you do it, however.” For the next two hours she sat on the boulder beside him, complaining about its hardness, the brightness of the sun and the dampness of the air, and when she ran out of matters to complain about she proceeded to completely spoil his morning by chattering his ears off about every inane topic she could think of while occasionally tossing rocks into the stream to scare off his fish.

He had worked damn hard and prospered. Now it was time to live. He even thought he might get it up tonight and surprise his gorgeous Maggie; then it was Israel and the Pharaohs. Stopping at his front door he took a deep intake of the free English air and smiled contentedly; England was home and so was he, this time for good. He went in the front door and called out for her as he had done so many times before, 'Maggie . . . I'm home sweetheart!' He closed the door and hesitated for a moment, she was usually in his arms by now, planting a sweet little kiss on his expectant, eager lips. She had not been her best lately, complaining of headaches and spending a lot of time down at the library; but today was different, it was retirement day. Aha! This could be a surprise, he thought hanging up his coat. Calling out again, he rubbed his hands together and started to climb the stairs to wash up before tea. This is definitely a surprise . . . no smell of any grub! His whistling stopped abruptly half way up when he saw a darkened figure appear on the landing, pointing a gun at him. A finger tightened and the weapon jolted, sending screeching Belarusian memories echoing across his subconscious. The blast lifted him off his feet sending him to the floor below. The last image of Cedric Boban's life on earth was the flash of a sawn-off shotgun; which fired from a few feet, took his life and most of his upper torso away. The slate was clean, the screeching culled. His assailant moved halfway down before jumping over the banister to avoid the bloody mess on the stairs. Maggie walked steadily into the hall from the living room. She gave a little smile and took the small sawn-off shotgun from the gloved hands of the assassin,

While Mum was a busy working mother, helping my father in his constituency duties and beyond, Lara became my surrogate mum. She fed me almost every supper I ate--from when I was a baby up to about five years old. She changed my nappies, she taught me to speak, then to walk (which, with so much attention from her, of course happened ridiculously early). She taught me how to get dressed and to brush my teeth. In essence, she got me to do all the things that either she had been too scared to do herself or that just simply intrigued her, such as eating raw bacon or riding a tricycle down a steep hill with no brakes. I was the best rag doll of a baby brother that she could have ever dreamt of. It is why we have always been so close. To her, I am still her little baby brother. And I love her for that. But--and this is the big but--growing up with Lara, there was never a moment’s peace. Even from day one, as a newborn babe in the hospital’s maternity ward, I was paraded around, shown off to anyone and everyone--I was my sister’s new “toy.” And it never stopped. It makes me smile now, but I am sure it is why in later life I craved the peace and solitude that mountains and the sea bring. I didn’t want to perform for anyone, I just wanted space to grow and find myself among all the madness. It took a while to understand where this love of the wild came from, but in truth it probably developed from the intimacy found with my father on the shores of Northern Ireland and the will to escape a loving but bossy elder sister. (God bless her!) I can joke about this nowadays with Lara, and through it all she still remains my closest ally and friend; but she is always the extrovert, wishing she could be on the stage or on the chat show couch, where I tend just to long for quiet times with my friends and family. In short, Lara would be much better at being famous than me. She sums it up well, I think: Until Bear was born I hated being the only child--I complained to Mum and Dad that I was lonely. It felt weird not having a brother or sister when all my friends had them. Bear’s arrival was so exciting (once I’d got over the disappointment of him being a boy, because I’d always wanted a sister!). But the moment I set eyes on him, crying his eyes out in his crib, I thought: That’s my baby. I’m going to look after him. I picked him up, he stopped crying, and from then until he got too big, I dragged him around everywhere.

When someone goes to the doctor and says, “I hear a voice in my head,” he or she will most likely be sent to a psychiatrist. The fact is that, in a very similar way, virtually everyone hears a voice, or several voices, in their head all the time: the involuntary thought processes that you don’t realize you have the power to stop. Continuous monologues or dialogues. You have probably come across “mad” people in the street incessantly talking or muttering to themselves. Well, that’s not much different from what you and all other “normal” people do, except that you don’t do it out loud. The voice comments, speculates, judges, compares, complains, likes, dislikes, and so on. The voice isn’t necessarily relevant to the situation you find yourself in at the time; it may be reviving the recent or distant past or rehearsing or imagining possible future situations. Here it often imagines things going wrong and negative outcomes; this is called worry. Sometimes this soundtrack is accompanied by visual images or “mental movies.” Even if the voice is relevant to the situation at hand, it will interpret it in terms of the past. This is because the voice belongs to your conditioned mind, which is the result of all your past history as well as of the collective cultural mind-set you inherited. So you see and judge the present through the eyes of the past and get a totally distorted view of it. It is not uncommon for the voice to be a person’s own worst enemy. Many people live with a tormentor in their head that continuously attacks and punishes them and drains them of vital energy. It is the cause of untold misery and unhappiness, as well as of disease. The good news is that you can free yourself from your mind. This is the only true liberation. You can take the first step right now. Start listening to the voice in your head as often as you can. Pay particular attention to any repetitive thought patterns, those old gramophone records that have been playing in your head perhaps for many years. This is what I mean by “watching the thinker,” which is another way of saying: listen to the voice in your head, be there as the witnessing presence. When you listen to that voice, listen to it impartially. That is to say, do not judge. Do not judge or condemn what you hear, for doing so would mean that the same voice has come in again through the back door. You’ll soon realize: there is the voice, and here I am listening to it, watching it. This I am realization, this sense of your own presence, is not a thought. It arises from beyond the mind.

FREEING YOURSELF FROM YOUR MIND What exactly do you mean by “watching the thinker”? When someone goes to the doctor and says, “I hear a voice in my head,” he or she will most likely be sent to a psychiatrist. The fact is that, in a very similar way, virtually everyone hears a voice, or several voices, in their head all the time: the involuntary thought processes that you don’t realize you have the power to stop. Continuous monologues or dialogues. You have probably come across “mad” people in the street incessantly talking or muttering to themselves. Well, that’s not much different from what you and all other “normal” people do, except that you don’t do it out loud. The voice comments, speculates, judges, compares, complains, likes, dislikes, and so on. The voice isn’t necessarily relevant to the situation you find yourself in at the time; it may be reviving the recent or distant past or rehearsing or imagining possible future situations. Here it often imagines things going wrong and negative outcomes; this is called worry. Sometimes this soundtrack is accompanied by visual images or “mental movies.” Even if the voice is relevant to the situation at hand, it will interpret it in terms of the past. This is because the voice belongs to your conditioned mind, which is the result of all your past history as well as of the collective cultural mind-set you inherited. So you see and judge the present through the eyes of the past and get a totally distorted view of it. It is not uncommon for the voice to be a person’s own worst enemy. Many people live with a tormentor in their head that continuously attacks and punishes them and drains them of vital energy. It is the cause of untold misery and unhappiness, as well as of disease. The good news is that you can free yourself from your mind. This is the only true liberation. You can take the first step right now. Start listening to the voice in your head as often as you can. Pay particular attention to any repetitive thought patterns, those old gramophone records that have been playing in your head perhaps for many years. This is what I mean by “watching the thinker,” which is another way of saying: listen to the voice in your head, be there as the witnessing presence. When you listen to that voice, listen to it impartially. That is to say, do not judge. Do not judge or condemn what you hear, for doing so would mean that the same voice has come in again through the back door. You’ll soon realize: there is the voice, and here I am listening to it, watching it. This I am realization, this sense of your own presence, is not a thought. It arises from beyond the mind.

lived in the house. There were aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents, and friends. A grill was set up on the patio, and delicious smells wafted from platters of burgers on picnic tables in the yard. It was the perfect sort of day for Munchy to get her fill of people blood. Who would have thought that giving a person one tiny bite could result in such a delightful snack? Munchy was aware that most people thought she was a pest. They tried to swat her whenever she got near, but Munchy was fast and an expert at dodging humans’ flailing fingers. I don’t want to hurt anyone, Munchy thought. But a mosquito bite just takes a second, and then I fly off to find the next person. Satisfied at last, Munchy buzzed back to the garden where she lived with her best friends Wiggly Worm, Rattles Snake, and Snarky Snail. “I’m full!” she announced. “I don’t think I’ll eat for a week!” “There’s some kind of celebration going on over there,” remarked Wiggly, who was playing in the dirt. “I know!” smiled Munchy. “The family has so many guests over—so many guests with delicious blood.” Snarky made a face. “I think it’s the Fourth of July or something—but, Munchy, do you really have to do that to people? Mosquito bites make them awfully uncomfortable.” “Only for a second,” Munchy replied. “It’s just an itty-bitty sting.” “No, it isn’t,” protested Snarky, who ventured into the backyard more than any of his friends. “Mosquito bites are itchy and uncomfortable for a long time—sometimes several days. I’ve seen those two little kids scratching and complaining about bites you’ve given them.” “I think that’s true,” agreed Rattles, who also went into the yard more often, now that the humans knew he was a friendly rattlesnake. “Oh, no,” murmured Munchy. Mosquito bites hadn’t seemed like a big deal before—but they did now. She didn’t want to be responsible for making people feel itchy all the time! With a sigh, Munchy said, “I guess I’ve got to quit. From now on, I’ll stick to sugar-water shakes at the Garden Town soda fountain—but it isn’t going to be easy!” With some help from her friends, Munchy was able to stop biting people once and for all. And, when the other mosquitoes that lived in the garden heard about her new lifestyle, they decided to give it a shot, as well. In no time, the backyard was practically a mosquito-safe zone! The kids and their friends could now play in the yard for hours with no worries about being bitten. They had no more itchy skin and no more discomfort. Munchy felt like she had done a wonderful thing. And no one ever tried to swat her away again! Just for Fun Activity Make itty-bitty bugs using circles of Fun Foam for bodies, tissue paper cut-outs for wings, googly eyes (you can find them at craft stores), and shortened pipe cleaners for long, skinny noses and legs. Have fun!

I worry about you too,” I said softly as I caressed her head resting against my chest. “You look tired.” Lark didn’t speak for a minute. When she finally looked at me, I saw a lot of different emotions swirling in those bright green eyes. “I feel like shit. I’m tired and dizzy. I can’t eat ninety percent of the food I used to eat. I feel awful, but I’m afraid to complain.” “Why?” “Maddy just had her baby and she was so tough about the whole thing. I’m surprised she didn’t give birth in the middle of the grocery store then go back to picking up things for dinner. Next to her, I’m a weakling. Also, Farah is going to be all brave and awesome too. I don’t want to be the whiner.” “First of all, Maddy’s got that natural breeder look about her. Some chicks are like that and you can’t let the exception be your rule. Besides, you’re having twins. You have more baby cooking to do than she did, so screw comparisons.” “I just don’t want people to think less of me.” “By people, do you mean Aaron?” “We barely met and got married and now I’m getting fat and I’m tired all the time. I don’t want him to lose interest.” “Oh, Lark, you’re so fucking stupid sometimes.” “Yeah, I know,” she said, grinning. “We have that in common.” “So true.” “Mom said that I’m like her and she had a guy like Aaron and she suffocated him and he ditched her. I know Mom sucks, but what if she’s right and I wear down Aaron and he stops loving me?” “Any man who would want Mom must be shit. Aaron isn’t shit.” “I know, but I get scared of messing up everything I have.” Kissing her forehead, I stood up and walked to the bedroom door. “Hey, Mister Clean, get over here.” Laughing, Lark followed me into the hallway where Aaron appeared, clearly loving his new nickname. “Listen up, Yul Brynner,” I said, sending Lark into giggles. “My sister is cooking up two kids that you stuck inside her. She needs more damn love than you’re giving. If you don’t do a better job of babying her, I’m going to have to replace you. Hmm, I just saw this guy Jake that I knew from high school. He’s ripped and works at the gym. The gym, Aaron.” My brother-in-law stared unaffected until I finished then he gazed down at his wife. Lark must have known what was coming because she started giggling. “My sweet muse,” he murmured and she laughed harder, “do you need more love than I’m giving?” Aaron swept Lark into his arms and cradled her like a kid. “Poor thing. I’ll just need to pay more attention.” As he kissed all over her, Lark stopped giggling and began moaning affirmations. “Good thing you obeyed because I think Jake might be gay.” After giving me a wink, Aaron gestured for me to go away. I was the one to obey this time. Leaving them to cuddle and more in the bedroom, I watched television and finished the popcorn. Professor joined me, but Pollack was wary. I think it was because I was always barking at her. In my defense, she started it.

Sam was about to travel to Asia with her boyfriend and she was fretting about what her backers would think if she released some of her new songs while she was 'on vacation'. She was worried that posting pictures of herself sipping a Mai Tai was going to make her look like an asshole. What does it matter? I asked her, where you are whether you're drinking a coffee, a Mai Tai or a bottle of water? I mean, aren't they paying for your songs so that you can... live? Doesn't living include wandering and collecting emotions and drinking a Mai Tai, not just sitting in a room writing songs without ever leaving the house? I told Sam about another songwriter friend of mine, Kim Boekbinder, who runs her own direct support website through which her fans pay her monthly at levels from $5 to $1,000. She also has a running online wishlist of musical gear and costumes kindof like a wedding registry, to which her fans can contribute money anytime they want. Kim had told me a few days before that she doesn't mind charging her backers during what she calls her 'staring at the wall time'. She thinks this is essential before she can write a new batch of songs. And her fans don't complain, they trust her process. These are new forms of patronage, there are no rules and it's messy, the artists and the patrons they are making the rules as they go along, but whether these artists are using crowdfunding (which is basically, front me some money so I can make a thing) or subscription services (which is more like pay me some money every month so that I can make things) or Patreon, which is like pay per piece of content pledge service (that basically means pay me some money every time I make a thing). It doesn't matter, the fundamental building block of all of these relationships boils down to the same simple thing: trust. If you're asking your fans to support you, the artist, it shouldn't matter what your choices are, as long as you're delivering your side of the bargain. You may be spending the money on guitar picks, Mai Tais, baby formula, college loans, gas for the car or coffee to fuel your all-night writing sessions. As long as art is coming out the other side, and you're making your patrons happy, the money you need to live (and need to live is hard to define) is almost indistinguishable from the money you need to make art. ... (6:06:57) ... When she posts a photo of herself in a vintage dress that she just bought, no one scolds her for spending money on something other than effects pedals. It's not like her fan's money is an allowance with nosy and critical strings attached, it's a gift in the form of money in exchange for her gift, in the form of music. The relative values are... messy. But if we accept the messiness we're all okay. If Beck needs to moisturize his cuticles with truffle oil in order to play guitar tracks on his crowdfunded record, I don't care that the money I fronted him isn't going towards two turntables or a microphone; just as long as the art gets made, I get the album and Beck doesn't die in the process.

Gray burst into the galley. “Miss Turner is not eating.” The cramped, boxed-in nature of the space, the oppressive heat-it seemed an appropriate place to take this irrational surge of resentment. If only his emotion could dissipate through the ventilation slats as quickly as steam. “And good morning to you, too.” Gabriel wiped his hands on his apron without glancing up. “She’s not eating,” Gray repeated evenly. “She’s wasting away.” He didn’t even realize his knuckled cracked. He flexed his fingers impatiently. “Wasting away?” Gabriel’s face split in a grin as he picked up a mallet and attacked a hunk of salted pork. “Now what makes you say that?” “Her dress no longer fits properly. The neckline of her bodice is too loose.” Gabriel stopped pounding and looked up, meeting Gray’s eyes for the first time since he’d entered the galley. The mocking arch of the old man’s eyebrows had Gray clenching his teeth. They stared at each other for a second. Then Gray blew out his breath and looked away, and Gabriel broke into peals of laughter. “Never thought I’d live to see the day,” the old cook finally said, “when you would complain that a beautiful lady’s bodice was too loose.” “It’s not that she’s a beautiful lady-“ Gabriel looked up sharply. “It’s not merely that she’s a beautiful lady,” Gray amended. “She’s a passenger, and I have a duty to look out for her welfare.” “Wouldn’t that be the captain’s duty?” Gray narrowed his eyes. “And I know my duty well enough,” Gabriel continued. “It’s not as though I’m denying her food, now is it? I’m thinking Miss Turner just isn’t accustomed to the rough living aboard a ship. Used to finer fare, that one.” Gray scowled at the hunk of cured pork under Gabriel’s mallet and the shriveled, sprouted potatoes rolling back and forth with each tilt of the ship. “Is this the noon meal?” “This, and biscuit.” “I’ll order the men to trawl for a fish.” “Wouldn’t that be the captain’s duty?” Gabriel’s tone was sly. Gray wasn’t sure whether the plume of steam swirling through the galley originated for the stove or his ears. He didn’t care for Gabriel’s flippant tone. Neither did he care for the possibility of Miss Turner’s lush curves disappearing when he’d never had any chance to appreciate them. Frustrated beyond all reason, Gray turned to leave, wrenching open the galley door with such force, the hinges creaked in protest. He took a deep breath to compose himself, resolving not to slam the door shut behind him. Gabriel stopped pounding. “Sit down, Gray. Rest your bones.” With another rough sigh, Gray complied. He backed up two paces, slung himself onto a stool, and watched as the cook grabbed a tin cup from a hook on the wall and filled it, drawing a dipper of liquid from a small leather bucket. Then Gabriel set the cup on the table before him. Milk. Gabriel stared it. “For God’s sake, Gabriel. I’m not six years old anymore.” The old man raised his eyebrows. “Well, seeing as how you haven’t outgrown a visit to the kitchen when you’re in a sulk, I thought maybe you’d have a taste for milk yet, too. You did buy the goats.

What lesson is this?” she choked out. His wild gaze met hers. “That even a low bastard can be tempted above his station when a lady is as lovely as you.” “A lady? Not a tomboy?” “I wish you were a tomboy, sweeting,” he said bitterly. “Then you wouldn’t have viscounts and earls and dukes vying for your favors.” Was he jealous? Oh, how wonderful if he was! “And Bow Street Runners?” she prodded. He shot her a dark glance that was apparently supposed to serve as her answer, for he then bent to close his mouth over one linen-draped breast. Good. Heavens. What deliciousness what this? She shouldn’t allow it. But the man she’d been fascinated with for months was treating her as if he truly found her desirable, and she didn’t want it to stop. Clutching his head to her, she exulted in the hungry way he sucked her breast through her chemise, turning her knees to water and her blood to stream. He pleasured her breast with teeth and tongue as his hand found her other breast and teased the nipple to arousal. Her pulse leapt so high she feared she might faint. “Jackson…ohhh, Jackson…I thought you…despised me.” “Does this feel like I despise you?” he murmured against her breast, then tongued it silkily for good measure. A sensual tremor swept through her. “No.” But then, she’d been a fool before with men. She wasn’t good at understanding them when it came to this. “If you desired me all along, why didn’t you…say anything before?” “Like what? ‘My lady, I keep imagining you naked in my bed?’” He slid one hand down to her hip. “I’m not fool enough to risk being shot for impertinence.” Should she be thrilled or disappointed to hear that he imagined her in his bed? It was more than she’d expected, yet not enough. She dug her fingers into his shoulder. “How do you know I won’t try shooting you now?” He nuzzled her breast. “You left your pistol on the breakfast table.” A strange excitement coursed through her. It made no sense, considering what had happened the last time a man had got her alone and helpless. “Perhaps I have another hidden in this room.” He lifted his head to gaze steadily into her eyes. “Then I’d best keep you too busy to use it.” Suddenly he was kissing her again, hard, hungry kisses…each more intoxicating than the last. He filled his hands with her breasts and fondled them shamelessly, distracting her from anything but the taste and feel of him. A moan escaped her, and he tore his mouth from hers. “You shouldn’t let me touch you this way.” “Yet I am,” she gasped against his cheek. “And you aren’t stopping, either.” “Say the word, and I will.” Yet he dragged her skirts up and pressed forward between her legs. “This is mad. We’re both mad.” “Are we?” she asked, hardly conscious anymore of what she was aying. Because it felt utterly right to be in his arms, as if she’d waited ages to be there. Her heart had never clamored so for anyone else. “I don’t generally take advantage of my clients’ sisters,” he rasped as his hands slid to grip her thighs. “It’s unwise.” “I’m your client, too. Do I look as if I’m complaining?” she whispered and drew his head down to hers.

Any prize off this bottom row,” the guy tells us, walking away to a waiting customer. “You did it!” I jump down off the counter and wrap my arms around his neck. “You won me a prize!” “Thank fuck.” His arms wrap around me. “I was starting to worry for a moment there. Felt like I was losing my man card.” I reach up on my tiptoes and kiss his lips. “Never. And thank you.” I tip my head back to look into his face. His hands slide down my back to my ass, and he gives it a squeeze. “Go pick your prize, Boston.” Leaving Liam, I head back to the counter and lean over, looking at the bottom row of prizes. I see all kinds of crap here, including really cheap-looking stuffed animals and dolls. I definitely do not want a doll. They freak me out. Then, I spy this sad-looking odd toy. Reaching over, I grab it. Liam comes up behind me as I right myself. His chest is pressed to my back. “Is that a…fucking knitted jellyfish?” I turn my head to look up at him. He’s squinting at the toy I’ve picked up. I look back down at it in my hands, and I think he’s right. It is a knitted jellyfish toy. “I think so.” It’s white and pink and looks like a little princess jellyfish. And the more I look at it, the cuter it becomes…in a weird knitted jellyfish way. “She looks like a jellyfish princess,” I say. “It looks like a piece of shit.” “Hey! You’ll hurt her feelings.” I jab him in the arm. Then, I hug her. “I shall call her Squishy, and she shall be mine.” I laugh, meeting Liam’s blank expression. “Finding Nemo? No?” I say. Liam slowly shakes his head, looking at me like I’ve lost my mind. “Okay, makes sense. You were probably too old to watch it when it first came out—you know, when I was still in diapers and you were out serenading teenage girls with the Backstreet Boys—hey!” I squeal when he digs me in the ribs with his fingers. “We’ll watch Nemo later, and then you’ll get the reference.” I turn to the guy. “I’ll take Squishy,” I tell him, holding the stuffed animal up. “Okay, what’s next?” I hook my arm through Liam’s, holding Squishy to my chest. “Hook a Duck.” “Hook a what?” I give him a confused look. “Duck.” “And what’s Hook a Duck?” “You don’t know what Hook a Duck is?” Liam looks appalled. “No…but I feel like I should.” “You should.” “What’s so special about it?” “Well, nothing special per se, but it’s like a rite of passage. Every kid plays Hook a Duck when they come to the fair.” “Hate to break it to you, Hunter, but we’re not kids.” “Maybe not. But it’s your first time at a fair in England, and you have to play.” Liam grabs my hand and sets off, I assume, in search of this Hook a Duck game. We find one a few minutes later, and it’s closed. All shut up with the tarpaulin covering the booth. “It’s closed. Never mind,” I say to him. I start to walk away, but Liam tugs me back by the hand he’s holding. “Like a little thing like it being closed is going to stop us from playing.” He gives me a grin and drops my hand. I watch as he unhooks the tarpaulin at the bottom and lifts it just enough so that he can sneak in underneath it. “Hunter, what are you doing?” I hiss. He ducks his head back out. “Come on,” he whispers, holding the material up for me to go under. “I’m not going in there.” “Yes you are. Now hurry the fuck up, or you’ll get me arrested for breaking into a Hook a Duck tent,” he whispers. “Ugh,” I complain.

when she got out of her car. Faith hadn’t realized that something was wrong until well after the music stopped. Will let her run through the story—the torn-up house, the dead man she’d found and the two that she had killed herself. When she was finished, he played it all back in his head, seeing Faith standing in the carport by the shed, going back to her car. Despite her recent medical issues, her memory seemed crystal clear now. She had called dispatch, and then she had gotten her gun. Will felt this detail picking at a spot in his brain. Faith knew that Will was home today. They had talked about it yesterday afternoon. She was complaining about having to go do computer training, and he told her he was going to wash his car and take care of the yard. Will lived 2.3 miles away from where they were sitting. He could’ve gotten here in under five minutes. But Faith hadn’t called him.

He started to open his mouth to say something, but quickly shut it. "Let's go get dressed." I looked down at him and saw that he was in his underwear still. I couldn't help but smile, but then we heard a door open. Gran came out of her room, stopping dead in her tracks at seeing her grandson in his skivvies. I waited for her to blush, or something, anything, but she just stood there. Caleb coughed uncomfortably and pulled me in front of him. It was the first time he'd ever put me in front of him to shield him. Usually it was the other way around. Gran's cackle started. She laughed so hard and pointed, even doubling over as she did so. "Gran, come on," Caleb complained to her and then bent his head to look at me when I started laughing, too. "I'm sorry," I said, "but it's funny." "Caleb," Gran laughed and gasped for breath, "just tell me you didn't walk all the way from your cell that way and I'll be fine.

You know you said you used to wake up every morning in the lagoon when your father was alive and think, ‘Here I am, where I want to be.’ Well, that’s how I feel when I wake up on the Arabella.” Maia did not care whether they found the Xanti or not. It was not about arriving for her, it was about the journey. Even the sadness about Minty deserting her had gone. For Finn, who had almost kidnapped her, there were moments of anxiety. He should have told someone that Maia was safe, instead of taking her away without a word, but gradually he stopped worrying and gave himself up to the journey. And if Maia knew deep down that she would not be allowed to sail away forever up the rivers of the Amazon, she managed to forget it. She sang as she worked and when Finn whistled “Blow the Wind Southerly,” she smiled, because she had been wrong to be cross with the wind. The wind had brought him back, and she was content. And when Finn complained at the end of a day that they had not come very far, she said, “What does it matter? We’ve got all the time in the world.” Which is not always a clever thing to say.

To lovers out there... Don't remind your partner of all the good things he/she used to do for you before. To find out that you are not doing half of the things he/she did for you. You are not giving them the same treatment/ love they gave you .You are not sacrificing the same way they sacrificed themselves for you.Yet you are complaining why they stopped loving you the same as they did when they started. Love is always two way, No one is more important than the other. Always remember that. Is not always about how they make you feel, but is also about how you make them feel.

You’re stuck with me forever, and I’ll never listen when you tell me to go.” She managed a tremulous smile. “So you may as well stop complaining and resign yourself to it.

Ruth is in a meeting about Virtual Learning Environments. It’s very dull and rather depressing. Steven, the head of technical support, is telling them that soon they will be able to communicate remotely with their students via something called Zoom. ‘You won’t have to see your students at all,’ he says with a cheery smile, ‘except on the computer screen.’ It sounds like a nightmare to Ruth. She frequently complains about her students—though not aloud now that she’s department head—but, in truth, interacting with them is one of the best things about the job. No intake is ever the same, which is why teaching stays so interesting. She gets a lot of satisfaction when a student, so shy in the first term that they can’t speak, suddenly becomes obsessed with Iron Age burials in the third and won’t stop talking about them. How will this manifest itself via this Zoom thingy? A song of the same name by Fat Larry’s Band comes into her head and, unfortunately, stays there.

We don’t want your stupid birth right,” Roxy muttered bitterly before trying to jerk her hand out of my grip. But she was going to have to try harder than that if she expected to break free of a Dragon's strength and I smirked at her before tugging her right back. She gasped as I knocked her off balance in her towering heels and in the next moment, her ass landed in my lap and the beast in me raised its head in contentment as I claimed the treasure I'd been aching for. Mine. Caleb met my gaze with an irritated scowl and I gave him a taunting grin as I wound an arm around her waist and repositioned her so that her ass was firmly seated on my crotch and her side pressed to my chest. I laughed as she gripped my thigh in an attempt to balance herself better and her back arched against me at the sound, giving me even more ideas I shouldn't have been indulging in over her. But that was damn hard with her round ass currently grinding against my cock and giving it plenty of encouragement. “Drink with us,” I insisted, moving my mouth to her ear and feeling her shiver as my stubble grazed her neck. I waved at the bartender through the glass window beside us and the girl who had assigned herself as our personal bartender for the night nodded to show she'd seen me. “I swear we won’t lay a finger on you unless you want us to," I added to Roxy in a low voice, letting my mouth graze against her ear for the briefest moment and loving the way I felt her body react to that despite her trying to hide it. “Well I didn’t want you to drag me into your lap but that didn’t seem to stop you,” she muttered, but she wasn't going anywhere and I wasn't holding her tight enough to force her to stay if she didn't want to. I laughed again and she glanced up at me from beneath dark lashes like she wasn't sure what to make of me when I wasn't scowling and working to intimidate her. I could feel Caleb's attention still on us and I suppressed a growl as he moved closer to us, reaching out to brush his fingers against her arm, despite the fact that I'd clearly beat him to claiming her tonight. Asshole. “I’ll even promise not to bite you tonight if you want?” he offered and I scowled at him while he flipped me off behind her back where no one else could see. I was going to punch him for that later. Roxy looked across the table to her sister, the two of them entering into some kind of silent twin communication and I took the opportunity to slip my Atlas from my pocket and shoot Lance a quick message. Darius: The Vegas just showed up here looking terrified and saying something was chasing them. They said they heard a rattle too. Lance: Stay with them. Keep them safe and I'll scout the area with Francesca. I wasn't going to complain about staying as close as I needed to to the girl currently perched on my ever more solid cock, so I slipped my Atlas back in my pocket and turned my attention back to the girls. “I guess we could stay for one drink,” Gwen said hesitantly as Max stroked her arm, his gifts pushing against all of us as he worked to make them feel amenable to the idea. I shifted Roxy on my lap before she got a really clear idea about how much I wanted her to stay from the feeling of my cock trying to punch a hole in the ass of her jeans and she released a shaky breath as my skin brushed against hers. “One drink then,” she agreed finally and I relaxed as I got what I wanted just as easily as that. The bartender appeared with a smile and a notepad ready to take our order and Seth perked up with a look in his eyes which promised he would be getting utterly shit faced tonight. “Better make it a big one then if you’ll only stay for one,” Seth said as he ordered for all of us. I leaned back in my chair, pulling Roxy closer so that I could steal a moment with her for myself and brushing her hair away from her ear so that I could speak to her alone.(Darius POV)

First, I am thrilled that paramedics are finally getting the respect they deserve for being the professionals they can be. The scope of practice is expanding, and patient care modalities are improving, seemingly by the minute. Patient outcomes are also improving as a result, and EMS is passing through puberty and forging into adulthood. On the other hand, autonomy in the hands of the “lesser-motivated,” can be a very dangerous thing. You know as well as I do that there are still plenty of providers who operate from a subjective, complacent, and downright lazy place. Combined with the ever-expanding autonomy, that provider just became more dangerous than he or she ever has been – to the patients and to you. Autonomy in patient care places more pressure for excellence on the provider charged with delivering it, and also on the partner and crew members on scene. Since the base hospital is not involved like it once was, they are likewise less responsible for the errors and omissions of the medics on the scene. Now more than ever, crew members are being held to answer for the mistakes and follies of their coworkers; now more than ever, EMS providers are working without a net. What’s next? I predict (and hope) emergency medical Darwinism is going to force some painful and necessary changes. First, increasing autonomy is going to result in the better and best providing superior patient care. More personal ownership of the results is going to manifest in outcomes such as increased cardiac arrest survival rates, faster and more complete stroke recovery, and significantly better outcomes for STEMI patients, all leading to the brass ring: EMS as a profession, not just a job. On the flip side of that coin, you will see consequences for the not-so-good and completely awful providers. There will be higher instances of licensure action, internal discipline, and wash-out. Unfortunately, all those things will stem from generally preventable negative patient outcomes. The danger for the better provider will be in the penumbra; the murky, gray area of time when providers are self-categorizing. Specifically, the better provider who is aware of the dangerously poor provider but does nothing to fix or flush him or her, is almost certain to be caught up in a bad situation caused by sloppy, complacent, or ultimately negligent patient care that should have been corrected or stopped. The answer is as simple as it is difficult. If you are reading this, it is more likely because you are one of the better, more committed, more professional providers. This transition is up to you. You must dig deep and find the strength necessary to face the issue and force the change; you have to demand more from yourself and from those around you. You must have the willingness to help those providers who want it – and respond to those who need it, but don’t want it – with tough love by showing them the door. In the end, EMS will only ever be as good as you make it. If you lay silent through its evolution, you forfeit the right to complain when it crumbles around you.

In my experience, triggers are the prime reason that men and women end up retreating to gender silos, narrowing their experience and depriving themselves of useful connections. That’s what happened when Jen enlisted Chantal to commiserate with her after the meeting in which Mark received credit for her idea. Sharing her resentment with a female colleague may have temporarily relieved the emotional distress Jen felt at being disregarded. But venting her feelings only reinforced the story she was telling herself to explain what had happened: “Men just can’t listen to women!” This increased the likelihood of her remaining stuck in a negative groove. It’s the stories we tell ourselves when we feel triggered that keep us dug in and limit our ability to frame an effective response. Here’s how the process works: First, the trigger kicks off an emotional reaction that blindsides us. We feel a rush of adrenaline, a sinking in the pit of our stomach, a recoil, a blinding rage, or a snide “of course.” Or we may simply feel confusion. Our immediate impulse may be to lash out. But if we’re in a work situation, we fear what this could cost us, so we try to suppress our feelings and move on. When this doesn’t succeed, we may grab the first opportunity to complain to a sympathetic colleague, which is why so much time at work gets consumed in gripe sessions and unproductive gossip. In this way, our response to triggers plays a role in shaping toxic cultures that set us against one another, justify sniping, and waste everybody’s time. But whether we suffer in silence or indulge the urge to vent, the one thing we almost always do when triggered is try to put what happened in some kind of context. This is where storytelling enters the picture. We craft a narrative based on past experience or perceptions in a way that assigns blame, exonerates us, and magnifies impact. Because these stories make us feel better, we may not stop to question whether they are either accurate or useful. Yet the truth is that our go-to stories rarely serve us well. They are especially damaging when they operate across divides: gender, of course (“Men can’t, women just refuse”), but also race, ethnicity, sexual orientation, and age (“They always, they seem incapable of…”). Because these default stories rely on generalizations and stereotypes, they reinforce any biases we may have. This makes it difficult for us to see others in their particularity; instead, they appear to us as members of a group. In addition, because our go-to stories usually emphasize our own innocence (“I had no idea!” “I never guessed he would…”), they often reinforce our feelings of being aggrieved or victimized—an increasing hazard for men as well as women. Since we can’t control other people, our best path is to acknowledge the emotional and mental impact a trigger has on us. This necessary first step can then enable us to choose a response that enhances our dignity and serves our interests.

Your five-year-old son wanders around his kindergarten classroom distracting other kids. The teacher complains: he can’t sit through her scintillating lessons on the two sounds made by the letter e. When the teacher invites all the kids to sit with her on the rug for a song, he stares out the window, watching a squirrel dance along a branch. She’d like you to take him to be evaluated. And so you do. It’s a good school, and you want the teacher and the administration to like you. You take him to a pediatrician, who tells you it sounds like ADHD. You feel relief. At least you finally know what’s wrong. Commence the interventions, which will transform your son into the attentive student the teacher wants him to be. But obtaining a diagnosis for your kid is not a neutral act. It’s not nothing for a kid to grow up believing there’s something wrong with his brain. Even mental health professionals are more likely to interpret ordinary patient behavior as pathological if they are briefed on the patient’s diagnosis.[15] “A diagnosis is saying that a person does not only have a problem, but is sick,” Dr. Linden said. “One of the side effects that we see is that people learn how difficult their situation is. They didn’t think that before. It’s demoralization.” Nor does our noble societal quest to destigmatize mental illness inoculate an adolescent against the determinism that befalls him—the awareness of a limitation—once the diagnosis is made. Even if Mom has dressed it in happy talk, he gets the gist. He’s been pronounced learning disabled by an occupational therapist and neurodivergent by a neuropsychologist. He no longer has the option to stop being lazy. His sense of efficacy, diminished. A doctor’s official pronouncement means he cannot improve his circumstances on his own. Only science can fix him.[16] Identifying a significant problem is often the right thing to do. Friends who suffered with dyslexia for years have told me that discovering the name for their problem (and the corollary: that no, they weren’t stupid) delivered cascading relief. But I’ve also talked to parents who went diagnosis shopping—in one case, for a perfectly normal preschooler who wouldn’t listen to his mother. Sometimes, the boy would lash out or hit her. It took him forever to put on his shoes. Several neuropsychologists conducted evaluations and decided he was “within normal range.” But the parents kept searching, believing there must be some name for the child’s recalcitrance. They never suspected that, by purchasing a diagnosis, they might also be saddling their son with a new, negative understanding of himself. Bad

Bailey sat on the edge of the couch and fed Maddy grapes. The very swollen mommy-to-be initially complained about being fed like a pet. Eventually, she gave in and enjoyed the attention. Not to be outdone, Sawyer turned a fan towards Maddy and was painting her nails. I watched them baby her and wondered about when I would be that big and uncomfortable. “I’m in no hurry to have a baby,” Tawny said, maybe for the tenth time since arriving. “Not in any hurry at all.” Farah grinned from where she was cutting carrots into little perfect sticks for dipping. “Coop is obsessed with getting me pregnant. First, his little brother is about to have a baby then his best friend. I swear whenever we’re alone, he’s inside me,” she said then her smile grew. “It’s awesome.” “Huh,” Tawny muttered. “Judd is in me all the time too and not because he’s trying to plant his flag or lay his seed or whatever.” “Jealous?” Farah asked and Tawny fake glared at her. “Sometimes, my sister irritates me too,” I said and they both laughed. “I’m going to brush the baby’s hair,” Bailey announced to no one in particular. “When she’s old enough, I’m going to put those little barrettes in her hair and make her wear headbands and turn her into a doll. Then when she cries, I’m giving her back to Maddy.” “Yeah for me,” Maddy whispered with her eyes closed. “Are you suffering?” Bailey asked. “Like should I do more for you to ease away the horror of how huge you’ve become?” Opening her eyes a crack, Maddy muttered, “Stop charming me.” Bailey grinned. “Seriously, you look pretty miserable today.” “I’ve been having those Braxton Hicks contractions since yesterday.” “Is that bad?” Sawyer asked, looking up from her meticulous work on Maddy’s toes. “Is it like hemorrhoids?” When we laughed, Sawyer beamed, even though she likely had no idea what was funny. “They’re like practice contractions,” Maddy explained. “They don’t hurt much, but they’re uncomfortable.” Bailey frowned. “How do you know all this stuff?” “I read a book.” “Yeah, I did that once. Not a fan.” “You guys don’t have to hang out here,” Maddy said. “The guys are out having fun and you’re pampering me. You could go to the movies if you want.” “No,” Bailey said quickly. “I need to be super nice because I had a dream that being nice will lead to a handsome awesome guy who is the fucker. I want that guy. He belongs to me and I’m sick of waiting, so shut up and let me be nice to you.” “Sure,” Maddy said, sighing. “This is nice, but I’m going to have to pee soon.” “Do you need me to carry you?” Bailey asked. “Maybe. Ask me in a few minutes.

It is a long time,' repeated his wife; 'and when is it not a long time? Vengeance and retribution require a long time; it is the rule. 'It does not take a long time to strike a man with lightning,' said Defarge. 'How long,' demanded madame, composedly, 'does it take to make and store the lightning? Tell me?' Defarge raised his forehead thoughtfully, as if there were something in that, too. 'It does not take a long time,' said madame, 'for an earthquake to swallow a town. Eh well! Tell me how long it takes to prepare the earthquake?' 'A long time, I suppose,' said Defarge. 'But when it is ready, it takes place, and grinds to pieces everything before it. In the mean time, it is always preparing, thought it is not seen or heard. That is your consolation. Keep it.' She tied a knot with flashing eyes, as if it throttled a foe. 'I tell thee,' said madame, extending her right hand, for emphasis, 'that although it is a long time on the road, it is on the road and coming. I tell thee it never retreats, and never stops. I tell thee it is always advancing. Look around and consider the lives of all the world that we know, consider the faces of all the world that we know, consider the rage and discontent to which the Jacquerie addresses itself with more and more of certainty every hour. Can such things last? Bah! I mock you.' 'My brave wife,' returned Defarge, standing before her with his head a little bent, and his hands clasped at his back, like a docile and attentive pupil before his catechist, 'I do not question all this. But it has lasted a long time, and it is possible - you now well, my wife, it is possible - that is may not come, during out lives,' 'Eh well! How then? demanded madame, tying another knot, as if there were another enemy strangled. 'Well' said Defarge, with a half complaining and half apologetic shrug. 'We shall not see the triumph.' 'We shall have helped it,' returned madame, with her extended hand in strong action. "Nothing that we do, is done in vain. I believe, with all my soul, that we shall see the triumph. But even if not, even if I knew certainly not, show me the neck of an aristocrat and tyrant, and still I would -' There madame, with her teeth set, tied a very terrible knot indeed. 'Hold!' cried Defarge, reddening a little as if he felt charged with cowardice; 'I too, my dear, will stop at nothing.' 'Yes! But it is your weakness that you sometimes need to see your victims and your opportunity, to sustain you. Sustain yourself without that. When the time comes, let loose a tiger and a devil; but wait for the time with the tiger and the devil chained - not shown -yet always ready.

He caught her hand, his thumb feathering across the inside of her wrist. I am not a vampire. I have not turned. “I don’t understand.” He closed his eyes, smiled in his mind. She was back to using her professional, scientific voice. You were worried that I had turned. Earlier, in the woods, you were afraid I was a vampire. Just now you thought our people might be vampire. We are Carpathian, not the undead. Unless we turn. “Would you stay out of my head? Wait until you’re invited.” If I waited for an invitation from you, little red hair, I would be centuries old before it ever came about. The smile in his mind was just a little too sexy for her peace of mind. I was merely attempting to ease your fears. Now he sounded innocent. She laughed softly. “Do I have naïve stamped on my forehead?” Has anyone ever complained about your bedside manner? Shea raised her eyebrows. “I’m a surgeon. I don’t need a bedside manner. And in any case, I’ve never had such an outrageous patient before. Stop calling me red hair. And little red hair. And all the other things you call me. Dr. O’Halloran is appropriate.” For the first time his sensuous mouth softened, curved into a grin. The effect on her was shattering. It wasn’t right for a male to look that sexy. He should be banned from all female company. Handsome and sexy. I must be getting somewhere after all. His tone was lazy, teasing, a little bit husky. Shea laughed softly. It was impossible to be annoyed with him when he was in this mood. “You are handsome and sexy, but don’t let it go to your head. You’re also arrogant, dominating, and too ruthless for my taste.” She squashed him without a qualm. Jacques tugged on her hand, drew her close to the bed so that he could bring her palm to the warmth of his mouth. I am exactly to your taste.

As the years have gone by, I’ve realized how Mia has helped me to grow spiritually. I have seen firsthand how she lives out Romans 5:3-5. The physical suffering Mia has experienced has produced in her incredible perseverance, character, and hope. In Romans 5:6-8, the apostle Paul reveals the person who has suffered the most for all of us--Jesus Christ. “While we were still sinners, Christ died for us” (verse 8, emphasis added). It is the ultimate expression of God’s love, a gift freely offered to you and to me. Mia has handled her challenges much better than the rest of us. I believe it is difficult to live with circumstances that you have very little control over, but she seems to do it with lots of laughs and a zesty personality that people are drawn to. When innocent people suffer, it motivates the rest of us to stop complaining and start living unselfishly. Those who display courage inspire us to live life to the fullest. May you be encouraged through Mia’s journey. Thank you, Missy, for all you do for our family and also for writing this book. Without you I could not be me--but God knew that, didn’t He? I love you. Jase.

He looked over the counter to see Christopher standing at the bottom of the stairs, stark naked, book under one arm, Bear under the other. Preacher lifted one bushy brow. “Forget something there, pardner?” he asked. Chris picked at his left butt cheek while hanging on to the bear. “You read to me now?” “Um... Have you had your bath?” Preacher asked. The boy shook his head. “You look like you’re ready for your bath.” He listened upward to the running water. Chris nodded, then said again, “You read it?” “C’mere,” Preacher said. Chris ran around the counter, happy, raising his arms to be lifted up. “Wait a second,” Preacher said. “I don’t want little boy butt on my clean counter. Just a sec.” He pulled a clean dish towel out of the drawer, spread it on the counter, then lifted him up, sitting him on it. He looked down at the little boy, frowned slightly, then pulled another dish towel out of the drawer. He shook it out and draped it across Chris’s naked lap. “There. Better. Now, what you got here?” “Horton,” he said, presenting the book. “There’s a good chance your mother isn’t going to go for this idea,” he said. But he opened the book and began to read. They hadn’t gotten far when he heard the water stop, heard heavy footfalls racing around the upstairs bedroom, heard Paige yell, “Christopher!” “We better get our story straight,” Preacher said to him. “Our story,” Chris said, pointing at the page in front of him. Momentarily there were feet coming down the stairs, fast. When she got to the bottom, she stopped suddenly. “He got away from me while I was running the tub,” she said. “Yeah. In fact, he’s dressed like he barely escaped.” “I’m sorry, John. Christopher, get over here. We’ll read after your bath.” He started to whine and wiggle. “I want John!” Paige came impatiently around the counter and plucked him, squirming, into her arms. “I want John,” he complained. “John’s busy, Chris. Now, you behave.” “Uh—Paige? I’m not all that busy. If you’ll tell Jack I’m not in the kitchen for a bit, I could do the bath. Tell Jack, so he knows to lock up if everyone leaves.” She turned around at the foot of the stairs. “You know how to give a child a bath?” she asked. “Well, no. But is it hard? Harder than scrubbing up a broiler?” She chuckled in spite of herself. She put Chris down on his feet. “You might want to go a little easier than that. No Brillo pads, no scraping. No soap in the eyes, if you can help it.” “I can do that,” Preacher said, coming around the counter. “How many times you dunk him?” She gasped and Preacher showed her a smile. “Kidding. I know you only dunk him twice.” She smirked.

Melinda, what are you doing?” he asked, unzipping his jeans to take them off and take a shower of his own. “Nothing,” she said, averting her eyes. He frowned and stepped toward her. He lifted her chin and looked into her eyes. “Were you covering up? In front of me?” he asked, astonished. “Jack, I’m going to pot,” she said, cinching the towel tighter. “What?” he asked, laughter in his voice. “What are you talking about?” She took a deep breath. “My boobs are drooping, my butt fell into my thighs, I have a potbelly, and if that’s not bad enough, I’m so covered with stretch marks, I look like a deflated balloon.” She put a hand against his rock-hard chest. “You’re eight years older than I am and you’re in perfect shape.” He started to laugh. “I thought you were trying to cover a tattoo or something. Mel, I didn’t have two children, a year apart. Emma’s only a few months old. Give yourself a little time, huh?” “I can’t help it. I miss my old body.” “Oh-oh,” he said, putting his arms around her. “If you’re thinking like that, I’m not doing my job.” “But it’s true,” she said, laying her head against the soft mat of hair on his chest. “Mel, you are more beautiful every day. I love your body.” “It’s not what it was…” “Hmm. But it’s better,” he said. He tugged at the towel and she hung on. “Come on,” he said. She let go and he pulled it away. “Ah,” he said, smiling down at her. “This body is amazing to me—incredible. More lush and irresistible every day.” “You can’t mean that,” she said. “But I do.” He leaned down and touched her lips with his, one hand on her breast, the other moving smoothly down her back and over her bottom. “This body has given me so much—I worship this body.” He lifted her breast slightly. “Look,” he said. “I can’t bear it,” she complained. “Look, Mel. Look in the mirror. Sometimes when I see you like this, uncovered, I can’t breathe. Every small change just makes you better, more delicious to me. You can’t think I’d have anything but complete admiration for the body that gave me my children. You give me so much pleasure, sometimes I think I might be losing my mind. Baby, you’re perfect.” “I’m twenty pounds heavier than when you met me,” she said. He laughed at her. “What are you now? A size four?” “You don’t know anything. It’s much more than a four. We’re headed for double digits…” “God above,” he said. “Twenty more pounds for me to gobble up.” “What if I just keep getting fatter and fatter?” “Will you still be in there? Because it’s you I love. I love your body, Mel, because it’s you. You understand that, right?” “But…” “If I had an accident that blew my legs off, would you stop loving me, wanting me?” “Of course not! That’s not the same thing!” “We’re not our bodies. We’ve been lucky with our bodies, but we’re more than that.” “It was my butt in a pair of jeans that got your attention….” “My love for you is a lot deeper than that, and you know it. However—” he grinned “—you still knock me out in those jeans. If you’ve gained twenty pounds, it went to all the right places.” “I’m thinking—tummy tuck,” she said. “What nonsense,” he said, leaning down to cover her mouth in a bold and serious kiss.

The miles between Tylerville and Spokane passed quickly, and the growing city was visible in the distance when suddenly there were shouts and the stagecoach came to a sudden stop. Lily heard Sam Hargrave swear up in the box of the coach, and for one terrible moment she thought they’d been set upon by bandits. She was completely shocked when Caleb wrenched open the stage door. “You’ve changed your mind,” Bianca said softly. Lily’s gaze shifted from Caleb to Bianca and back again. Even with his face shrouded by the shadow of his hat brim Lily could see that Caleb had gone a little pale. “No,” he answered flatly. “Damn it, Major,” Sam complained from the box, “I got a schedule to keep!” “Hold on,” Caleb said distractedly. “Lily, I’ve got to talk to you.” An awful suspicion was forming in Lily’s mind. Bianca had been talking about a man she’d hoped to marry, and when she saw Caleb, she’d said, “You’ve changed your mind.” Lily folded her arms. “I’ll be at my brother Rupert’s house on Division Street,” she said, though a moment later she regretted sharing the information. Bianca had taken a handkerchief from her bag, and she was drying her eyes with it. Her shoulders trembled slightly as she wept. “Rascal,” Lily said to Caleb, wrenching the door closed. “Fiend!” “Lily!” Caleb shouted. Sam yelled to the horses, and the coach raced into motion.

Let me guess. Reagan’s pregnant and you’re scared shitless,” he deadpans. All the blood drains from Pete’s face. “What? Reagan’s pregnant?” He looks at each of us in turn. “Oh, fuck,” Paul says. “You didn’t know.” “How the fuck did you know and I didn’t?” Pete says, his voice rising. “We didn’t know,” Matt says. “He was just guessing, because all of us, aside from Sam, came to him when we had one on the way.” Matt glares at Paul. “Why did you have to go and ruin it?” “Hell, I thought everyone knew. She’s been sick for the past week.” “Bad shrimp,” Pete says. “Bad shrimp wouldn’t make her throw up every morning,” Logan chimes in. He can speak when he wants to. “She’s knocked up.” Pete sinks down in a chair like his legs have turned to noodles. Logan raises his hand. “When I suspected Em was pregnant and I came to spill my guts to Paul, it was because Em’s boobs were getting bigger.” “Sky’s did too,” Matt chimes in. Paul nods. “Same here.” Pete looks around the room. “Reagan’s boobs are bigger, and she’s sick every morning. And afternoon. Hell, even in the evening.” He smiles, and I imagine I can see stars floating in the air around his head. “I’m going to be a dad?” “Sorry we ruined the surprise. We’ve had bets going for a whole week to find out if you’d realize it before Reagan does.” Matt shrugs. “One of you could have told me!” Pete cries. But he’s grinning like a damn fool. He points around the room at each of us. “So, which of you bet Reagan would know first?” I raise my hand. I figured she’s the one with the uterus, so she’d realize it before Pete did. “You lost, little brother,” Paul says. He walks by me and squeezes my shoulder. “Doesn’t count if you tell him,” I complain. Paul wraps his beefy arm around Pete’s head and gives him a noogie. Pete’s still in la-la land though, so he doesn’t even struggle. “Stop and get a test on the way home,” Matt tells him. “Okay.” Pete’s still star-struck. “Wait,” I say. “If you didn’t want to tell us Reagan’s pregnant, what did you call me here for?” Pete throws up his hands. “Hell, I can’t remember.

Mooommmm-eeeee! What are you dooooo-ing?” Sean broke away abruptly and turned scarlet. There, at the end of the couch, stood Rosie, her pajama bottoms and panties missing, Harry standing beside her, his tail wagging out of his tutu. Sean grabbed a throw pillow and held it over the bulge in his jeans, although there was no way Rosie would know what was going on with him. “Kissing Sean,” Franci said very naturally. “Where are your pants?” “I pooped! I called you to check if I wiped good, but you dint come!” And with that she turned her back on them, bent over at the waist to touch her toes and exposed her butt. “Arrrggghhh,” Sean groaned, covering his eyes and sliding lower on the couch. Franci chuckled and stood. “Okey-dokey, looks like you did a good job. I like it when you save the inspection for the bathroom, though,” Franci said. “Let’s get your bottoms on and back to bed.” Sean collapsed against the couch and thought, I am not ready for this! How does a person get ready for this? When Franci came back, she was laughing at him. “Come on, stop it! The learning curve is really high here!” he complained. “When we get right down to it, marriage would be the least of your adjustments.” *

The Connecticut River March 2, 1704 Temperature 10 degrees “My theory,” said Eben, “is that being a captive is an honor for the strong and the uncomplaining.” Sarah and Mercy considered this. “Then why is Ruth alive? She complains all day long,” said Sarah. “But she isn’t sobbing,” Mercy pointed out, “and she isn’t actually complaining. She’s calling them names. She attacked her own Indian this afternoon, did you see? She was going to stab him with his own knife.” They giggled. It was scary to watch Ruth, and impossible not to. Instead of a blow to the head, though, Ruth was usually given food. It wasn’t a method anybody else wanted to try. “But Eliza doesn’t fit your theory, Eben,” said Mercy. “She hasn’t spoken since they killed Andrew. If you let go her arm, she stops walking. Yet they’re patient with her.” “I admit Eliza isn’t brave,” said Eben. “She’s in a stupor. Maybe they respect her for caring about her husband so deeply.” Mercy had never liked thinking about Eliza marrying an Indian. But what was her own future now? Would she, would Sarah, would Ruth, end up marrying an Indian? The image of Ruth Catlin agreeing to obey an Indian as her lawfully wedded husband made Mercy laugh. “And they let Sally Burt live,” Sarah went on, “and she’s about to give birth right on the trail. They’re letting her husband walk with her, and he’s the only one they let do that.” Sally’s courage was inspiring. Eight months pregnant, big as a horse, and she bounded along like a twelve-year-old boy. She had even taken part in the snowball fight. “I’m having this baby,” she had said when Mercy complimented her. “It’s my first baby, I know it’s going to be a boy, I know he’ll be strong and healthy, and I know I will be a good mother. That’s that.” In Mercy’s opinion, Sally Burt was holding her husband up and not the other way around. If she could be half as brave as Sally Burt, she would be satisfied.

Gray headed toward the stairs to find her mom and grill her, then stopped short. She recalled the dark circles she’d seen under her mom’s eyes that morning. Even when Gray had returned from the hospital Mom had been holding her head at the dining room table, ancient texts spread open before her. That was why Gray had greeted then quickly bypassed her in favor of online research before she began firing away questions about Stacey Morehouse’s accident. Mom was worried. She’d already complained of a headache that wouldn’t go away. Must be a migraine if Mom couldn’t cast it off. Gray had put

When my mother complained to him about how much she hated life in the suburbs and how lonely she felt, he said nothing to placate her. "If you are so unhappy, go back to Calcutta," he would offer, making it clear that their separation would not affect him one way or the other. I began to take my cues from my father in dealing with her, isolating her doubly. When she screamed at me for talking too long on the telephone, or for staying too long in my room, I learned to scream back, telling her that she was pathetic, that she knew nothing about me, and it was clear to us both that I had stopped needing her, definitively and abruptly, just as Pranab Kaku had.

I realized something,” she said huskily, “when I was standing outside the foundry, watching it burn and knowing you were inside.” She swallowed hard against the thickness in her throat. “I would rather have died in your arms, Simon, than face a lifetime without you. All those endless years… all those winters, summers… a hundred seasons of wanting you and never having you. Growing old, while you stayed eternally young in my memories.” She bit her lip and shook her head, while her eyes flooded. “I was wrong when I told you that I didn’t know where I belonged. I do. With you, Simon. Nothing matters except being with you. You’re stuck with me forever, and I’ll never listen when you tell me to go.” She managed a tremulous smile. “So you may as well stop complaining and resign yourself to it.

She pulls a face and mutters something. ‘Seriously, though, why don’t you?’ ‘Oh, for Christ’s sake – I don’t know, Howard. Maybe this is all I’m good for. Maybe office equipment is all there is to write about.’ He withdraws his hand, exasperated. ‘Well, if you won’t do anything about it, then you’ve got to stop complaining.’ ‘I’m not complaining, if you ever actually listened to what I –’ ‘I do listen, that’s the problem, I’m listening all the time to you telling me you’re unhappy, but then when I try to encourage you to do something about it –’ ‘Just forget it, I don’t want to talk about it.’ ‘Fine, but then don’t tell me I’m not listening when the problem is you don’t want to talk –’ ‘Can we just forget – Jesus, would you put that fucking thing down?’ She stares at him, alight with wounded fury, until he slides the camera’s panel shut. Right, right, this is how they act. She grabs another cigarette, lights and tugs at it in a single blur of antipathetic motion. ‘Fine,’ says Howard, picking up his book and getting to his feet. ‘Fine, fine, fine, fine.

Reducing whingeing, complaining, pestering and arguing First, let’s remember that it rarely helps to reason with an immature child. Often he does not quite understand our adult reasons, or possibly he does understand but does not really care. So don’t bother trying to reason with your son when he is being unreasonable. A much more useful strategy is to look at him as he is whingeing or arguing, but bite your tongue and say nothing. This takes self-control! Wait a few seconds for a pause in the whingeing or arguing. Then you can say, ‘You’re not whingeing now,’ or ‘You stopped saying you want another ice cream.’ He might start whingeing or complaining or pestering again straightaway because he knows that usually gets a rise out of you, and he’s thinking there’s a chance you might give in. These annoying habits have been his way of getting your attention and, up until now, it has been pretty foolproof. So it is understandable that he may test you for a while before he realises that the old way of getting your attention is no longer working. If you have accepted my challenge and are making a point of Descriptively Praising your son ten or more times a day, he will soon see, probably within the first week, that now he is getting attention for the sensible behaviour. Here are some examples of Descriptive Praises for little bits of self-control:   You were so brave at the doctor’s. You didn’t make a fuss. You just sat there quietly while she gave you the injection.   I can see you’re upset, but you’re remembering not to shout.   You’re waiting patiently. (Say this after one or two minutes of waiting patiently. If you delay this praise, he will probably reach the end of his tether and start misbehaving; then you won’t be able to praise him for being patient.)   The Descriptive Praises will sink in and start to change how your son views himself. So whenever your son is doing something annoying, think ‘I’ll wait for a pause and then Descriptively Praise the absence of the negative.’ Parents report that at first they focused their Descriptive Praises on their son’s three or four most annoying habits. Within a few weeks or months, those habits had improved so much that they hardly happened any more.

Logan is wearing me out,” she admits quietly. “What do you mean?” I stand up and start to actually soap myself now that most of the paint is gone. “He’s working really hard to make it easy for me, but I wish he’d just leave and go to work and let me try to do some of it. He holds her. He gets up for every feeding and sits with us. He changes all the diapers.” I stick my head out of the curtain. “Not necessarily a bad thing.” “It’s like he thinks I can’t do it. I’m capable. I’m strong. I’m not going to break.” A tear tracks down her face. “Dammit.” She swipes it away. “I can’t stop crying lately.” “Pass me a towel,” I say. I wrap it around myself and step out. “I think you have a really good thing going on,” I tell her. “But you’re tired and your hormones are going crazy and your tits are huge.” I look at her boobs and shake my head, and she laughs. At least I can do that much for her; I can make her laugh. “It’s going to get easier.” “I miss our intimacy,” she admits. “It’s like he’s afraid to wrap around me because he doesn’t want to wake me up when I do finally get to sleep.” “Did you tell him?” “I don’t want to complain. He’s trying so hard.

Prayer is my half of an ongoing conversation between my God and me. ~ Donna Fawcett         Why Worry When We Can Pray?     “Can any one of you by worrying add a single hour to your life?” (Matthew 6:27)     The hill in the distance looked daunting. “You want to climb that?” I stopped walking to re-lace my shoes.   Helen giggled. “Yes, of course. I do it almost every day. The dogs love it.” Her two dogs ran ahead, eager to get going.   “Well, I suppose. But I’m not sure if I’ll make it.” I shifted my water bottle to my hip. The hill loomed ahead, a 5 kilometre walk upwards. I wasn’t a stranger to a good hike; I loved to tromp through the woods and along the trails. But a walk straight up a steep hill was not my usual repertoire.   To pass the time and keep my mind off the pain in my calves, we talked. Enjoying a good chat is one of my favourite things to do in combination with a walk. Helen explained how she normally walks alone and she agreed that having a partner makes the upwards strain that much easier. She shared with me a story of how she had been walking the same road the day before and suffered from blasts of dust from cars that raced by with no consideration for her and her dogs. Her frustration was compounded by the heat. She threw her arms up in irritation as cars sped past. “Why are you not slowing down? Have you no consideration?” she called after them. But as her anger and indignation rose, she felt convicted in her spirit. Why worry when you could pray? So as the next car came into vision, instead of complaining and getting agitated waiting for the dust to swirl around her, she chose to pray instead. “Dear Lord, please make this driver slow down.” As she watched the vehicle approach, it slowed to such a degree that she expected the driver to pull over and ask directions. Instead he gave a wave and continued on.   “Thank You, Jesus!” Helen exclaimed. As each car came into view, Helen prayed to God and He came through every time. The walk became enjoyable and a real testament to the fact that God cares about our every need.   As Helen finished her story, a farm vehicle, large and spewing dust all around came over the hill. “Let’s pray!” Helen enthusiastically challenged. We prayed and the truck passed without a flicker of dust. “God

how I see the distinction between sexism and misogyny. When a husband tells his wife, “I can’t quite explain why and I don’t even like admitting this, but I don’t want you to make more money than me, so please don’t take that amazing job offer,” that’s sexism. He could still love her deeply and be a great partner in countless ways. But he holds tight to an idea that even he knows isn’t fair about how successful a woman is allowed to be. Sexism is all the big and little ways that society draws a box around women and says, “You stay in there.” Don’t complain because nice girls don’t do that. Don’t try to be something women shouldn’t be. Don’t wear that, don’t go there, don’t think that, don’t earn too much. It’s not right somehow, we can’t explain why, stop asking. We can all buy into sexism from time to time, often without even noticing it. Most of us try to keep an eye out for those moments and avoid them or, when we do misstep, apologize and do better next time. Misogyny is something darker. It’s rage. Disgust. Hatred. It’s what happens when a woman turns down a guy at a bar and he switches from charming to scary. Or when a woman gets a job that a man wanted and instead of shaking her hand and wishing her well, he calls her a bitch and vows to do everything he can to make sure she fails. Both sexism and misogyny are endemic in America. If you need convincing, just look at the YouTube comments or Twitter replies when a woman dares to voice a political opinion or even just share an anecdote from her own lived experience. People hiding in the shadows step forward just far enough to rip her apart. Sexism in particular can be so pervasive, we stop seeing it. It reminds me of the opening anecdote from author David Foster Wallace’s 2005 commencement speech at Kenyon College. Two young fish are swimming along. They meet an older fish swimming the other way, who nods at them and says, “Morning, boys, how’s the water?” The two young fish swim on for a bit, until one looks at the other and asks, “What’s water?” “In other words,” Wallace said, “the most obvious realities are often the ones that are the hardest to see and talk about.

Bannon and the Breitbart editors had the same reaction and immediately turned on Megyn Kelly, with a fusillade of negative articles. She became the newest Breitbart narrative: the back-stabbing, self-promoting betrayer-of-the-cause. And Breitbart became the locus of pro-Trump, anti-Fox conservative anger. Between Thursday night, when the debate took place, and Sunday evening, Breitbart published twenty-five stories on Kelly, and the site’s editor in chief, Alex Marlow, went on CNN to accuse Fox News of “trying to take out Donald Trump” and staging “a gotcha debate.” The intensity of Republican anger stunned Fox News executives. The debate had drawn a record 24 million viewers. Now many of them were apoplectic at the network’s top talent. “In the beginning, virtually 100 percent of the emails were against Megyn Kelly,” a Fox source told New York’s Gabriel Sherman. “Roger was not happy. Most of the Fox viewers were taking Trump’s side.” Word spread through the building that Kelly was furious and had personally complained to Ailes. By Sunday, the attacks against her showed no sign of letting up, as other conservative opinion makers, such as radio host Mark Levin, agreed that her questions to Trump had been “unfair.” In a panic, Ailes called Bannon and begged him to call off the attacks. “Steve, this isn’t fair, and it’s killing us,” Ailes said. “You have to stop it.” “Fuck that, that was outrageous what she did!” Bannon retorted. “She pulled every trick out of the leftist playbook.” “You’ve gotta knock this crap off, Steve.” “Not until she backs off Trump—she’s still going after him on her show.” “She’s the star of this network! Cut it out!” The call ended without resolution. Bannon and Ailes would not speak again for almost a year.

Uh, I think I speak for all of us when I say, ew,” Dex complained as he sat down next to Biana. Biana shoved him. “That’s not what he meant. And gross—he’s my brother! He knows not to tell me that kind of stuff.” “Um, there’s nothing to tell!” Sophie emphasized. “Okay, but why not?” Stina asked, joining them on the grass. “We’re talking about kissing Fitz Vacker, aren’t we? Fitz! Vacker!” She curled her arms around her knees and stared dreamily at the swaying branches. “How are you not—” “All right, just so we’re all clear,” Biana interrupted, holding out her hands like stop signs. “I’m good with Sophie dating my brother. It’s a little weird, but… whatever. But that doesn’t mean I want to hear about it.” “YUP!” Dex agreed.

curly, waist-length brown hair. One at her workplace “kept touching my hair, pulling my curls to watch them bounce back. Rubbing the top. So when I told her to stop and complained to HR [human resources] and my supervisor, she complained that I wasn’t a people person or team member and I had to leave that position for being ‘threatening’ to a coworker.

Well, Emma wondered, if the breeding of these flies was a miracle, God was certainly wasting his gifts. God is giving you something to do, her father said. There was something in Emma which made her want to keep count, and other things in Emma which were horrified by the thought. Days drew on, mostly with a monotony which mingled them, so that time seemed not slow, not fast, just not about. And she failed grades and advanced anyway, and grew like a skinny tree to be stared at, and became increasingly useless, as if uselessness were an aim. Why, her father complained, wouldn’t Emma attack those bugs in the garden when she was so murderous about flies. As if he’d failed to notice that Emma had stopped swatting them many months, years, failed grades ago. Things went on in their minds, Emma imagined, out of inertia. Memory was maybe more than a lot of little red dots. The swats were still there, swatting. The paper sack still sat in a kitchen chair like a visitor. And Emma stayed on the page even when all her books were closed.

Some of the groupies who had been visiting Richard in Los Angeles now began to go to San Francisco to see him. Doreen was unhappy with all the competition she had. She’d complain to him that they were taking visiting time away from her, but Richard enjoyed all the female attention. Never before had he had so much female admiration—and he reveled in it, thrived upon it. Cindy, unlike Doreen, didn’t mind Richard’s other visitors, as long as none of them bothered her. But there was one woman Cindy and Doreen came to refer to as “the bimbo,” who did, in fact, start getting aggressive with both Cindy and Doreen. The Bimbo, a heavy-set, well-built belligerent blonde with frizzy hair, and a big nose, began to challenge Cindy and Doreen when she ran into them at the jail. “He’s mine. Stay away from him or I’ll break your face,” she’d say regularly. Cindy stood up to her, telling her to fuck off, but Doreen did not have Cindy’s combative nature and would take the Bimbo’s threats, taunts, and admonitions. The Bimbo began regularly to step on Doreen’s toes and call her “Dogreen.” It got to the point that Doreen began asking the jail guards to walk her to her car, she was so afraid of the Bimbo. Doreen again complained to Richard, but he didn’t stop the Bimbo from coming to the jail. Several of the Ramirez women would bring phallic-shaped vegetables with them on their visits and would sexually excite themselves with the vegetables while Ramirez watched. For many of these women Richard Ramirez was a turn-on.

When I finally get called, I give my name as Bryan Jackson—Bryan after the Purple People Eater who is married to our old water polo coach, and Jackson after Jackson Hole, Wyoming, where Tamara Dunleavy lives. I’m trying to give my story to a desk sergeant who is about as interested as a hibernating bear. The only time his ears perk up is when I drop the name Gus Alabaster. “You mean the gangster?” “He’s my father,” I resume the telling, “even though we’ve never met. He doesn’t even know I exist. Mom only told me I was his son when she read that he hasn’t got long to live.” The desk sergeant stops making notes and looks up at me. “What exactly is the nature of your complaint?” “I’m not complaining about anything. I just need Gus Alabaster’s address so I can go over there and meet him before he dies.” “So no actual crime has been committed,” he concludes. I shake my head. “No crime. I just need the address.” “We don’t do that here. Sorry, kid. Next!” Diaper Man gets up and heads for the desk. What can I do? I turn to walk away, utterly defeated. But before I can take a step, Laska rushes over and pushes me back into the chair. “Aren’t you going to help him?” she shrills at the desk sergeant, her face flaming bright red. “Don’t you even care?” The cop leans back in his chair. “And you are?” “All he wants to do is have a moment with his dying father!” Tears—real tears—are streaming down her cheeks. “And there’s a time limit for that, you know!” The desk sergeant’s half-closed eyes pop wide open. He’s probably seen it all working this job, but a crying girl turns out to be the one thing he doesn’t know what to do with. And I’ve got to hand it to Laska. As soon as she sees she’s spooking the guy, she switches on the full waterworks. He hustles to his feet. “Uh—follow me.

Madame Lorraine was a rich French woman who lived in an old mansion, which she inherited from her husband. The family had already had many possessions, however, they were ruined in the Revolution. For defending the monarchy, they lost their titles, lands and servants. Madame Lorraine's husband, the old Earl, died in the Reign of Terror, as did her children. The wife, however, had hidden the jewelry at the beginning of the revolution and had left in secret for Switzerland. After the restoration, she returned to France, but with few resources she had, she bought a house in Paris. She complained of loneliness and adopted a little orphan, named Juliette, who she used as a servant. When the girl complained about being overworked, as she had to take care of the entire house alone, her stepmother told her: “your complaints hurt me, you see, I lost everything and I only have you, your mother didn't want you, but I I adopted you and took care of you and you don’t even appreciate that.” The girl, then, victim of emotional blackmail, got used to serving, without complaining. The problem is that every day more and more was demanded – the girl never reached perfection, said Madame Lorraine: “look at the silverware, look at the floor, look at the walls, you will never be able to get married”. However, Madame Lorraine did not tell the girl that perfection is never achieved: it is just a resource to dominate the poor in spirit, who see in the light of their own craft a hope of transcendence. Another thing that Madame Lorraine had not taught the girl – even if the Revolution had taught humanity: that they were free. The girl then grew older and became an object of exploitation every day, her arms becoming weaker, her mind increasingly taken over by obedience. One day, the girl went to the market in the square, and hardly talked to anyone – Madame Lorraine told her that everyone wanted to abuse her and that she shouldn't trust anyone. That day, however, she was exhausted and stopped at a farmer's stand selling tomatoes and said to her: “young man, what's your name, I always see you running around here and you never talk to anyone”. She decided to talk to him: “I'm the old widow's daughter, she says that everyone wants to exploit me, that I shouldn't trust strangers”. The salesman, already aware of the girl's situation from the stories that were circulating in the village, said to her: “Isn't it just the opposite, girl, maybe you haven't learned a lie all your life and now you're trying harder and harder to keep this lie as if it were the truth – see, God made everyone free.” The girl then quickly returned to the house, but doubt had entered her heart and there she began to take root and grow. Until, one day, the old lady released the drop that would overflow her body and said to her: “Well, Juliette, you don't do anything right, look how my dresses are, you didn't sew them perfectly”. The girl then got up, looked the vixen in the eyes and said: “if it’s not good, do it yourself” and left. It is said that she married the farmer in the sale and, from that day on, she was the best wife in the world. Not because she did everything with great care, with an almost divine perfection, that she was modest or because she had freed herself from the shrew who exploited her, but simply because she recognized the value of freedom itself.

Come back to me,” he says. But Wren is silent and still. Oak lets go of his power, cursing himself. He glances up helplessly at Jude, who looks back at him and shakes her head. “I’m sorry.” It is a very human thing for her to say. He lets his head fall forward until his forehead is touching Wren’s. Gathering her in his arms, he studies the hollowness of her cheeks and the thinness of her skin. Presses a finger to the edge of her mouth. Oak thought his magic was just finding what people wanted to hear and saying it in the way they wanted, but since he’s let himself really use the power, he discovered that he can use it to find truth. And for once, he needs to tell her the truth. “I thought love was a fascination, or a desire to be around someone, or wanting to make them happy. I believed it just happened, like a slap to the face, and left the way the sting from such a blow fades. That’s why it was easy for me to believe it could be false or manipulated or influenced by magic. Until I met you, I didn’t understand to feel loved, one has to feel known. And that, outside of my family, I had never really loved because I hadn’t bothered to know the other person. But I know you. And you have to come back to me, Wren, because no one gets us but us. You know why you’re not a monster, but I might be. I know why throwing me in your dungeon meant there was still something between us. We are messes and we are messed up and I don’t want to go through this world without the one person I can’t hide from and who can’t hide from me. Come back,” he says again, tears burning the back of his throat. “You want and you want and you want, remember? Well, wake up and take what you want.” He presses his mouth against her forehead. And startles when he hears her drawn in a breath. Her eyes open, and for a moment she stares up at him. “Wren?” Bex says, and smacks Oak on the shoulder. “What did you do?” Then she pulls the prince into her arms and hugs him hard. Jude is staring, hand to her mouth. Bogdana stays back, glowering, perhaps hoping that no one noticed she rent her garments with her nails as she watched and waited. “I’m cold,” Wren whispers, and alarm rings through him like the sound of a bell. She could walk barefoot through the snow and not have it hurt her. He had never heard her complain of even the most frigid temperatures. Oak stands, lifting Wren in his arms. She feels too light, but he is reassured by her breath ghosting across his skin, the rise and fall of her chest. He still cannot, however, hear the beat of her heart. With the storm stopped, it seems that all of Elfhame has forded the distance between Insear and Insmire. There are boats aplenty, and soldiers. Grima Mic’s second-in-command is barking orders. Bex scavenges a blanket from one of the tents, and Oak manages to bundle Wren in it. Then he carries her to a boat and commandeers it to take him across so he can bring her to the palace. The journey is a blur of panic, of frantic questions, plodding steps. Finally, he carries her into his rooms. By then, her body is shivering, and he tries not to let terror leak into his voice as he speaks to her softly, explaining where they are and how she will be safe. He puts Wren in his bed, then pushes it close by the fire and piles blankets on top of her. It seems to make no difference to her shuddering.

Come back to me,” he says. But Wren is silent and still. Oak let’s go of his power, cursing himself. He glanced up o helplessly at Jude, who looks back at him and shakes her head. “I’m sorry.” It is a very human thing for her to say. He lets his head fall forward until his forehead his touching Wren’s. Gathering her in his arms, he studies the hollowness of her cheeks and the thinness of her skin. Presses a finger to the edge of her mouth. Oak thought his magic was just finding what people wanted to hear and saying it in the way they wanted, but since he’s let himself really use the power, he discovered that he can use it to find truth. And for once, he needs to tell her the truth. “I thought love was a fascination, or a desire to be around someone, or wanting to make them happy. I believed it just happened, like a slap to the face, and left the way the sting from such a blow fades. That’s why it was easy for me to believe it could be false or manipulated or influenced by magic. Until I met you, I didn’t understand to feel loved, one has to feel known. And that, outside of my family, I had never really loved because I hadn’t bothered to know the other person. But I know you. And you have to come back to me, Wren, because no one gets us but us. You know why you’re not a monster, but I might be. I know why throwing me in your dungeon meant there was still something between us. We are messes and we are messed up and I don’t want to go through this world without the one person I can’t hide from and who can’t hide from me. Come back,” he says again, tears burning the back of his throat. “You want and you want and you want, remember? Well, wake up and take what you want.” He presses his mouth against her forehead. And startles when he hears her drawn in a breath. Her eyes open, and for a moment she stares up at him. “Wren?” Bex says, and smacks Oak on the shoulder. “What did you do?” Then she pulls the prince into her arms and hugs him hard. Jude is staring, hand to her mouth. Bogdana stays back, glowering, perhaps hoping that no one noticed she rent her garments with her nails as she watched and waited. “I’m cold,” Wren whispers, and alarm rings through him like the sound of a bell. She could walk barefoot through the snow and not have it hurt her. He had never heard her complain of even the most frigid temperatures. Oak stands, lifting Wren in his arms. She feels too light, but he is reassured by her breath ghosting across his skin, the rise and fall of her chest. He still cannot, however, hear the beat of her heart. With the storm stopped, it seems that all of Elfhame has forded the distance between Insear and Insmire. There are boats aplenty, and soldiers. Grima Mic’s second-in-command is barking orders. Bex scavenges a blanket from one of the tents, and Oak manages to bundle Wren in it. Then he Carrie’s her to a boat and commandeers it to take him across so he can bring her to the palace. The journey is a blur of panic, of frantic questions, plodding steps. Finally, he carries her into his rooms. By then, her body is shivering, and he tries not to let terror leak into his voice as he speaks to her softly, explaining where they are and how she will be safe. He puts Wren in his bed, then pushes it close by the fire and piles blankets on top of her. It seems to make no difference to her shuddering.

Anita, she won’t take responsibility for her actions and complains that she’s always the “victim.

Would you stay out of my head? Wait until you’re invited.” If I waited for an invitation from you, little red hair, I would be centuries old before it ever came about. The smile in his mind was just a little too sexy for her peace of mind. I was merely attempting to ease your fears. Now he sounded innocent. She laughed softly. “Do I have naïve stamped on my forehead?” Has anyone ever complained about your bedside manner? Shea raised her eyebrows. “I’m a surgeon. I don’t need a bedside manner. And in any case, I’ve never had such an outrageous patient before. Stop calling me red hair. And little red hair. And all the other things you call me. Dr. O’Halloran is appropriate.” For the first time his sensuous mouth softened, curved into a grin. The effect on her was shattering. It wasn’t right for a male to look that sexy. He should be banned from all female company. Handsome and sexy. I must be getting somewhere after all. His tone was lazy, teasing, a little bit husky. Shea laughed softly. It was impossible to be annoyed with him when he was in this mood. “You are handsome and sexy, but don’t let it go to your head. You’re also arrogant, dominating, and too ruthless for my taste.” She squashed him without a qualm. Jacques tugged on her hand, drew her close to the bed so that he could bring her palm to the warmth of his mouth. I am exactly to your taste. She yanked her hand away as if he had burned her, rubbing her palm along her thigh. The feeling didn’t go away, and neither did the butterflies he had sent winging in her stomach. “How do you know you’re not a vampire?” She needed to distract him, distract both of them. “Maybe you forgot. You’re certainly capable of acting like one.” This time he laughed, startling both of them. The sound was husky, low, and foreign to his ears, as if he had forgotten what it was like. His black eyes leapt to her face almost in fear. “Not bad, wild man. First a growl, and now a laugh. We’re making progress.” Her eyes danced at him, reassured him. Joy welled up in the midst of pain. Shea. She had created a world where his soul could somehow touch light.

That was just one of many weird things we have done. Even weirder to me than that, was the fact that we all talked about- like how it would be for one of us to die… if we would. Sex, drinking, and death were the main topics most nights. Yet that nightfall I do not remember how it came up in the conversations, other than Kenneth complaining that I got to sit in the front seat- aka ‘shotgun’ with Jenny after the party I guess I was where he thought he should be, and you know that wearing a seatbelt is for pussies. I do remember us talking about what a bucket let would be, yet to me, I thought mine was almost complete. The rap music was so loud, that we were yelling at one other just to overhear. Jenny kept going through her I-phone to change the song and text her other friends and boys, her phone was in her right hand in her lap. One reason I sat there is that- I was the one that was meant to pick the music so she could drive. I remember hearing the lyric- ‘To the window to the walls…’ the song was ‘Get Low!’ However, Jenny was so high, and Maddie was singing in the back to the words making her hands go in-between the front seats, and that was comical because she is as white as they come. I remember that is when we started shouting our theory on death and the afterlife, or if there is one. I thought there was… yet I was not sure. We were all gathering what those would be. Jenny was bitching about how it could be and going to be, in the ground, and like her beautiful body is going to be eaten away overtime in her sealed casket. That made my skin crawl. We were all like you’re going to die you’re not going to feel anything dumb ass. Then Maddie said my dying wish is to hook up with Lizzy, Sam, and others all at the same time and never stop. Hey, why not they were both very sexy hot girls. I could see that fantasy of doing it until death. I was a little pissed that I was not one of the girls in that scenario but it's her death wish not mine. Yet this is kind of surprising to me because Maddie was never that way at all. Like she has a boyfriend of two years. However, their love life was always on again and off again. The makeup hookups are all that kept them together… I think...? (#- Hashtag: Wcw- Women crush Wednesday)

Five years ago, I decided to eliminate my reactive behavior to irritations, but at first none of my tricks worked. I placed philosophical and inspirational quotes on my iPhone wallpaper or wrote in my journal, but the proverbs always lost their effectiveness over time. Then, one day, I told one of my clients who blamed her husband for everything to take 100 percent responsibility for her part in their interactions. “This way,” I said, “you will be free of trying to control him, and you will be able to find constructive solutions in your relationship.” When she left, I realized that the same advice could help me as well. Taking 100 percent personal responsibility would help me to stop blaming or complaining and achieve a sense of flow. It would also give me the clarity in any conversation to locate the right words to help a person to accept a hard choice.

Whites impose these rules on themselves because they know blacks, in particular, are so quick to take offense. Radio host Dennis Prager was surprised to learn that a firm that runs focus groups on radio talk shows excludes blacks from such groups. It had discovered that almost no whites are willing to disagree with a black. As soon as a black person voiced an opinion, whites agreed, whatever they really thought. When Mr. Prager asked his listening audience about this, whites called in from around the country to say they were afraid to disagree with a black person for fear of being thought racist. Attempts at sensitivity can go wrong. In 2009, there were complaints from minority staff in the Delaware Department of Transportation about insensitive language, so the department head, Carolann Wicks, distributed a newsletter describing behavior and language she considered unacceptable. Minorities were so offended that the newsletter spelled out the words whites were not supposed to use that the department had to recall and destroy the newsletter. The effort whites put into observing racial etiquette has been demonstrated in the laboratory. In experiments at Tufts University and Harvard Business School, a white subject was paired with a partner, and each was given 30 photographs of faces that varied by race, sex, and background color. They were then supposed to identify one of the 30 faces by asking as few yes-or-no questions as possible. Asking about race was clearly a good way to narrow down the possibilities —whites did not hesitate to use that strategy when their partner was white—but only 10 percent could bring themselves to mention race if their partner was black. They were afraid to admit that they even noticed race. When the same experiment was done with children, even white 10- and 11-year olds avoided mentioning race, though younger children were less inhibited. Because they were afraid to identify people by race if the partner was black, older children performed worse on the test than younger children. “This result is fascinating because it shows that children as young as 10 feel the need to try to avoid appearing prejudiced, even if doing so leads them to perform poorly on a basic cognitive test,” said Kristin Pauker, a PhD candidate at Tufts who co-authored the study. During Barack Obama’s campaign for President, Duke University sociologist Eduardo Bonilla-Silva asked the white students in his class to raise their hands if they had a black friend on campus. All did so. At the time, blacks were about 10 percent of the student body, so for every white to have a black friend, every black must have had an average of eight or nine white friends. However, when Prof. Bonilla-Silva asked the blacks in the class if they had white friends none raised his hand. One hesitates to say the whites were lying, but there would be deep disapproval of any who admitted to having no black friends, whereas there was no pressure on blacks to claim they had white friends. Nor is there the same pressure on blacks when they talk insultingly about whites. Claire Mack is a former mayor and city council member of San Mateo, California. In a 2006 newspaper interview, she complained that too many guests on television talk shows were “wrinkled-ass white men.” No one asked her to apologize. Daisy Lynum, a black commissioner of the city of Orlando, Florida, angered the city’s police when she complained that a “white boy” officer had pulled her son over for a traffic stop. She refused to apologize, saying, “That is how I talk and I don’t plan to change.” During his 2002 reelection campaign, Sharpe James, mayor of Newark, New Jersey, referred to his light-skinned black opponent as “the faggot white boy.” This caused no ripples, and a majority-black electorate returned him to office.

Tell me about your boss. Tell me about the job you've been trying to quit for the past four years. Tell me the morning is just a townhouse burning to the ground and the snooze button is a fire extinguisher. Tell me the alarm clock stole the keys to your smile, drove it into the 7 AM and the crash totaled your happiness. Tell me. Tell me how blessed are we to have tragedy so small it can fit on the tips of our tongues. When Evan lost his legs he was speechless. When my cousin was assaulted she didn't speak for 48 hours. When my uncle was murdered we had to send out a search party to find my father's voice. Most people have no idea that tragedy and silence often have the same address. When your day is a museum of disappointments, hanging from events that were outside of your control, when you feel like your guardian angel put in his two weeks notice two months ago and just decided not to tell you, when it seems like God is just a babysistter that's always on the phone, when you get punched in the esophagus by a fistful of life. Remember, every year two million people die of dehydration. So it doesn't matter if the glass is half full or half empty. There's water in the cup. Drink it and stop complaining. Muscle is created by lifting things that are designed to weigh us down. When your shoulders are heavy stand up straight and call it exercise. Life is a gym membership with a really complicated cancellation policy. Remember, you will survive, things could be worse, and we are never given anything we can't handle. When the whole world crumbles you have to build a new one out of all the pieces that are still here. Remember, you are still here. The human heart beats approximately 4,000 times per hour and each pulse, each throub, each palpitation is a trophy, engraved with the words "You are still alive. You are still alive. So act like it.

When Doreen phoned Sherrena to complain, she often found herself being complained about. “Every time we call about something,” Doreen said, “she tries to blame it on us, and say we broke it. I’m tired of hearing it….So, we just fix it every time it breaks.” “Fixing it” often meant getting on without it. The sink was the first thing to get stopped up. After it stayed that way for days, Ruby and Patrice took to washing dishes in the bathtub. But they weren’t able to catch all the food scraps from going down the drain, and pretty soon concrete-colored water was collecting in the bathtub too. So the family began boiling water on the kitchen stove and taking sponge baths. Afterward, someone would dump the pot water down the toilet and grab the plunger, causing a small colony of roaches to scamper to another hiding spot. You had to plunge hard. It usually took a good five minutes before the toilet would flush. When the toilet quit working, the family began placing soiled tissue in a plastic bag to be tossed with the trash.

Although Tata was a very liberal father in some ways, he could also be stubbornly conservative. These attitudes were obvious when I was in Mysore. I wanted to join the extracurricular student paramilitary organisation, the National Cadet Corps (NCC), which had just been introduced. All my college friends had volunteered to participate. However, Tata flatly refused me permission with the diktat: ‘No! I don’t like the idea of girls wearing pants.’ I was very envious of my friends wearing pants in the NCC. After completing my bachelor’s degree in psychology, Tata encouraged me to pursue my passion by enrolling in the master’s degree programme at the Manasa Gangothri campus of the University of Mysore. We were only two girls among eight students in that class. The famous Professor Kuppuswamy was my teacher. We had to conduct practical experiments on human subjects, forming smaller groups. Because we were only two girls, these groups were necessarily mixed. A couple of months later, a professor of philosophy who was a friend of my uncle, K.R. Karanth, wrote to Tata that I was overly friendly with the boys in my class. Tata, with his usual penchant for sending cryptic telegrams, sent one that just said, ‘Come home immediately.’ I took the overnight bus from Mysore and reached Balavana in the morning. Tata confronted me with the offending letter, saying, ‘A professor has complained that you are talking to the boys in your class!’ I was furious. I retorted, saying, ‘We are two girls. We must conduct experiments in teams that include boys. I can’t participate in experiments without talking to the boys. Either you let me go back and study or stop my education. You cannot tell me that I can go back and study psychology without talking to boys in my class.’ My strong ultimatum made him realise how foolish he had been. He sheepishly said, ‘Go back, go back. Do whatever you want to do.’ There was a very strong, caring, trusting relationship between us. I had fought back with facts, and Tata respected that. He never brought up the subject of boys again. In contrast, Amma had total faith in me. I could not do anything wrong. ‘Let Malu do what she wants,’ was her clear opinion. Tata’s judgement of people was much poorer than Amma’s. Even if a stranger wrote something nonsensical to him, he had this tendency to believe the worst first and ask questions later.

Giving her a chair was a good decision. I told myself it’s so she’ll stop complaining. The truth is, I enjoy the look on her face when I give her things.

She was well into her course of self-recrimination when he returned. The flap parted, and a very wet Zane crawled in beside her. “You okay?” he asked, as he set down the flashlight and touched her cheek. “Getting warm?” She nodded, then sniffed. “I’m sorry.” His dark eyes crinkled slightly as he smiled. “It was worth it.” “What?” “I get to say I told you so.” She sniffed again. “You’re not mad?” “Because I had to go out in the rain, in the middle of the night, pull up the stakes on your tent, resecure it somewhere else so it would dry out, then cart your saddlebags over to Cookie’s wagon, wake him up and then listen to him complain?” She winced. “Those would be the reasons.” “I’m not mad.” She couldn’t believe it. “But I was stupid.” “You’re a greenhorn. You didn’t know any better.” “You tried to tell me. I should have listened.” He smiled. “That’ll teach you. The man always knows best.” “That’s so not true.” “It is in this case. So are you naked?” The switch in topic caught her unaware. She shimmied a little deeper into the sleeping bag. “I, ah, left on my panties.” Zane swore softly. “I guess I deserved that for asking.” “Deserved what?” “You don’t want to know.” Suddenly she did. Very much. But she didn’t know how to ask. So she tried a different subject. “Are we going to share the sleeping bag?” “I thought I’d go stay with Cookie.” “Oh.” Disappointment flooded her way more than the river had. It was just as cold, but not as wet. “Phoebe, we talked about this,” he reminded her. “You deserve better than a quickie out in the open.” “We’re in a tent,” she said before she could stop herself. “And it doesn’t have to be quick.