Marsha > Recent Status Updates

"It is time for the veil to be set aside," he said. "Some secrets will be shared which have hitherto been spoken only under seal of initiation; but that was done to preserve the truth, that it might be revealed at the appointed hour. To keep these things hidden now would be the true sacrilege." As Chedan drew breath, the bar of sunlight that had haloed his head moved, leaving him in sudden shadow.

Mr. Jelliby was not the sort of man to make hasty decisions. But when the mechanical eye of the faery butler hissed and locked itself onto the bird in Mr. Jelliby's hand, and when the faery smiled that hungry smile at him and said, "Oh! Fancy seeing you here," Mr. Jelliby made a very hasty, very rash decision. He ran.

"Do I have to get Adam to do all my work for me?"
"Excuse me?"
"It seems he's the only one you'll listen to." He turns to Adam. "I'm surprised you didn't tell her to change her clothes like I asked you to."
"I did, sir."
"I like my clothes," I tell him. I'd like to punch you in the eye, is what I don't tell him.
Warner's smile slides back into place. "No one asked you what you like, love. Now eat."

What are we watching tonight?" Max asked. "A camp classic. Valley of the Dolls. It was made in the late l'60s," Anthony said. "It's based on the best-selling trash novel of all time. I have a copy if you ever want to read it. Jacqueline Susann wrote it. Anyway, the story focuses on three single gals who try to make it in Hollywood and they become hooked on booze and pills."

After catching the elevator to the second floor and hanging a right at the mall's central intersection, there we were. I glanced at Chad and Caleb who stared in catatonic rapture as if listening to a chorus of heavenly angels.
"The Guitar Center," Ariel said. "But I thought we were going shopping."
"Exactly. Can you roll up the gate, Seth?" Seth was a sales clerk at this rock-lovers' Valhalla.

The Kawasaki snarled and whimpered by turns, heavy and agile between her legs as she gave it all the gas she dared. She'd been counting on the refuel stop here, but compact southwestern Tonopah had been replaced by a shattered sprawl of buildings, most of them obviously either bulldozed or vanished into pits that glared like a wolf's eye reflecting a flash, and a gas station wasn't one of the remaining options.

SWF in need of nice, daring military boy on leave from dangerous duty. Low-drama, low-drugs, low-attitude only need apply. Studies theater, likes books, makes documentaries, and collects silent films. Meddling relative seeks a polar opposite of applicant who knows how to have a good time.

Did you see the story in the news about the Germany guy with two penises? He lost his original equipment in an accident, so doctors built him a new one. Later, he decided to upgrade, but the doctors left the previous one until the new one took root, so to speak. When his wife saw the new one, she packed her bags and left him. This raises many questions about what made the wife so mad. There are many possibilities.

The latest news from Egypt is that archaeologists found a pharaoh's butler in an underground tomb. I always wonder in these situations whether the butler was dead before he got wrapped up.

My favorite Mr. Boffo comic of all time featured Mr. Boffo in a jail cell talking to his cellmate. He says about himself, "Nineteen arrests. Nineteen convictions. Maybe it's me." I come back to that philosophy often. You can only explain so many times why everyone else is wrong before you have to accept that the problem is on your end. Today I realized that the problem is me.

Every day then, upon awakening, I fled, coiled, into that wonderful machine. It became my friend. There were data, data and more data to hold my interest. I dismissed any shadowy desire to communicate further with those who fed, bathed and medicated me. I knew all their names now—who was on duty, who off—and something of their life histories, from their personnel files. I read all of the menus in advance.

Cora got to work on the phone, talking to an acquaintance of a friend of a friend attached somehow to the administration of the medical school. Her theory was that you choose a doctor by finding out who the other doctors in the area go to with their own problems. A couple of hours after checking into the hotel I had an appointment with a psychiatrist, Dr. Ralph Daggett, set up for the next morning.

"Try the Speckled Band," the green girl said. "He won't do Pigalle before midnight."
"And he doesn't come here any more," the silver girl said.
"We're not good enough for him any more."
"Have you seen his new paintings?"
"Machines, he doesn't like girls any more--"
"Oh, I don't know about that--"

When she was away working I'd take my turn at looking after the kids. And so I'd find myself alone with the children for a couple of days, being worken up throughout the night and still havintg to look after them all day. I'd have to put on all their clothes, feed them breakfast, then try to prevent Mille and Alfie from throwing wet Multi-Cheerios at each other while I changed Henry's nappy.

"So what are you saying?" I asked.
"I'm saying we should maybe wait to enter the MacCloughs' estate. I think it might be wise of us to stand at the center of the Ring of Brogdar."
"I'm sorry, Aileen, but why would we make a detour to some weird stone circle when we've just spent all day hiking through the woods to get here?" I replied. "You said yourself that my father might be inside. Right here."

There were two lumpy shapes in the yard in front of the entrance steps. De Quincey took them to be piles of rubbish, until he stooped to check.
The lumps were men. Or they had been men. They had been guild men, drome workers of the Old Union.
Something had melted them, and the remains of their robes were flecking away from the distorted bodies in the night breeze.
"They tried to stop him," de Quincey mumbled.

Jaspers stalked into the Solar, glancing around at those present with hooded eyes. "Gull."
"Divine, our investigations cross again."
"There's nothing like an abominable crime to make everyone pull together," Jaspers said, wandering over to the desk and helping himself to a glass of claret.

"What was that?" she asked.
"Cats," said Triumff. "Cats fighting. That's all."
It wasn't. In the coal-blackness of the alley stood a bruiser of a ginger tom called Rusty, who owned Mistress Mary. Under normal circumstances of alarm and agitation, Rusty would inflate himself to three times his normal size. Right now, he was so scared, he clean forgot, and exited into the lane.

He grabbed the ivory monkey from its perch on the statue's outstretched hand and stormed from the clearing without another word.
The three ravens stared after him.
Suddenly, the third shrieked, "THE MONKEY!!!!!!!!"
But the second just sighed.
And the first said, "Let him go. After all, he'll need it."
"He'll need a lot more than that," the second added.
But the third just said, "The monkey..."

She had such a belief in the virtues of meat, the Ma. Had you seen her on market days, coming home from Smithfield with her lads pale and close around her great grey skirts, you might not have guessed how we regarded that bounty on her back. it was our future she saw in those stolen scraps. It was lack of meat she believed made all of those children in Pepper Alley so slow and listless.

It was widely known that in all the golden princess's days of loneliness, the only thing that gave her any modicum of happiness was gold. So Johannes told the king to gather all of the gold in the kingdom and to command his goldsmiths to craft the most exquisite golden objects that the world had ever seen. Which soon was done.

"The challenge in changing the environment is not to 'go back in time,' but to engineer physical activity and healthy eating back into our lives in a way that is compatible with our socio-cultural value." As Peters and Hill see it, the challenge is to give everyday people the same cognitive tools--essentially a series of goals and rewards--that the more affluent always have had when it comes to managing weight.

Won't that make black girls just as weight-obsessed as white girls? "No one wants to overemphasize the problems of being fat to these girls, for fear of creating body image problems that might lead to anorexia nd bulimia." He adds: "The problem with that is: For every one affluent white anorexic you create by 'overemphasizing' obesity, you foster ten obese poor girls by downplaying the severity of the issue."

In almost every endeavor at the council he had encountered not just resistance to change but often outright insubordination. "I just don't understand and will not accept that it will take you six months to get me the minutes of the last meeting!" he barked at staff members at one board meeting. "What is it here?" He suspected the AAHPERD of not doing its job on the information front.

This is not to say that Americans have never attempted to deal with fat children. But the thrust of those efforts were almost always social and aesthetic: Fat Joey was being harassed by the slimmer boys. Nowhere in those efforts was childhood overeating paired solely with health concerns. The notion that overfeeding might be a health problem and a health problem alone never entered the American psyche.

I wrote about these insights, first for a local magazine, then in my column in USA Today. I then moved on to other topics. As is the case with most subject matter, fatness had remained, at least for me, somewhat abstract, distant--intellectual rather than emotional. It was certainly nothing one could view as a matter of national urgency. Then two things happened which would change that.

For Saaski, there were strangenesses even about the moor. Elusive shreds of half-remembered stories (or half-imagined dreams?) swirled unexpectedly around certain rocks and berry bushes, crept across the coarse grasses, or clung in hollows, very like the wisps of fog that forever came and went. She picked her mental way around them as automatically as she picked her way through a bog.

It was in this state of looking for a handicap-accessible bathroom (he had not yet quite lowered himself to the humiliation of a regular stall), that he came upon a tiny ring of cold metal lying on the floor of a tunnel. It was a turning point in his career though he did not know it, as he couldn't decipher the invitation to LinkedIn that Necromort the Voldemancer had carved on the inside.

Whorey, Slorey, and Kourtney stayed busy uploading selfies of themselves frolicking on the grass, and the paparazzi, springing out of the ground like dandelions, snapped pictures of the girls snapping pictures of themselves. The flashing of the camera bulbs amused Kiwi, annoyed Fili, and set Doc into an epileptic fit that everyone else laughed off.

"That wasn't fair. Father never would have shooed us out of there," Triste said.
"I don't like her."
"Mother wouldn't like her either."
"Why not? It's true. Mother wanted Father to make Chrysalis Cliff more about peace and welcoming."
Interesting.