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Some Marriages Insights « Result #2 on Mar 14, 2009, 12:29am »
My wife dresses to kill. She cooks the same way. -- Henny Youngman
My wife and I were happy for twenty years. Then we met. -- Rodney Dangerfield
A good wife always forgives her husband when she's wrong. -- Milton Berle
I was married by a judge. I should have asked for a jury. -- George Burns
What's the difference between a boyfriend and a husband? About 30 pounds. -- Cindy Garner
I bought my wife a new car. She called and said, "There was water in the carburetor." I said, "Where's the car?" She said, "In the lake." -- Henny Youngman
Never go to bed mad. Stay up and fight. -- Phyllis Diller
The secret of a happy marriage remains a secret. -- Henny Youngman
People are always asking couples whose marriages have endured at least a quarter of a century for their secret for success. Actually, it is no secret at all. I am a forgiving woman. Long ago, I forgave my husband for not being Paul Newman. -- Erma Bombeck
After a quarrel, a wife said to her husband, "You know, I was a fool when I married you." The husband replied, "Yes, dear, but I was in love and didn't notice."
When a man steals your wife, there is no better revenge than to let him keep her.
I haven't spoken to my wife in 18 months - I don't like to interrupt her.
My girlfriend told me I should be more affectionate. So I got two girlfriends.
A man said his credit card was stolen but he decided not to report it because the thief was spending less than his wife did.
Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut, and still think they are beautiful.
Enlarging The Breast « Result #3 on Mar 14, 2009, 12:29am »
A husband, tired of his wife asking him how she looks, buys her a full length mirror. This does little to help, as now she just stands in front of the mirror, looking at herself, asking him how she looks. One day, fresh out of the shower, she is yet again in front of the mirror, now complaining that her breasts are too small.
The husband comes up with a suggestion. ¡°If you want your breasts to grow, then every day take a piece of toilet paper, and rub it between your breasts for a few seconds.¡±
Willing to try anything, the wife fetches a piece of toilet paper, and stands in front of the mirror, rubbing it between her breasts. ¡°How long will this take?¡± she asks.
¡°They¡¯ll grow larger over a period of years,¡± he replies.
The wife stops. ¡°Why do you think rubbing a piece of toilet paper between my breasts every day will make my breasts grow over the years?¡±
The husband shrugs. ¡°Why not, it worked for your ass, didn't it?¡±
Watching Me Go « Result #4 on Feb 26, 2009, 4:29am »
The crayoned picture shows a first-grade boy with shoebox arms, stovepipe legs and tears squirting like melon seeds.wow power leveling, The carefully printed caption reads, "I am so sad." It is my son Brendan's drawing-journal entry for September 19. Brendan cried his first day of school, dissolving at his classroom door like a human bouillon cube. wow power leveling,The classroom jiggled with small faces, wet-combed hair, white Nikes and new backpacks. Something furry scuttled around in a big wire cage. Garden flowers rested on Mrs. Phillips's desk. Mrs. Phillips has halo status at our school. She is a kind, soft-spoken master of the six-year-old mind. But even she could not coax Brendan to a seat. Most kids sat eagerly awaiting thingy and Jane and two plus two. Not my Brendan. His eyes streamed, his nose ran and he clung to me like a snail on a strawberry. I plucked him off and escaped. It wasn't that Brendan didn't like school. He was the kid at the preschool Christmas concert who knew everyone's part and who performed "Jingle Bells" with operatic passion. Brendan just didn't like being apart from me. wow power leveling,We'd had some good times, he and I, in those preschool years. We played at the pool. We skated on quiet morning ice. We sampled half the treat tray at weekly neighbourhood coffee parties. Our time together wasn't exactly material for a picture book, but it was time together. And time moves differently for a child. Now in Grade 1, Brendan was faced with five hours of wondering what I was doing with my day. wow gold,Brendan always came home for lunch, the only one of his class not to eat at his desk. But once home, fed and hugged, a far-away look of longing would crease his gentle brow--he wanted to go back to school to play! So I walked him back, waited with him until he spotted someone he knew, then left. He told me once that he watched me until he couldn't see me anymore, so I always walked fast and never looked back. One day when I took Brendan back after lunch, he spied a friend, kissed me goodbye, and scampered right off. I went, feeling pleased for him, celebrating his new independence, his entry into the first-grade social loop. And I felt pleased for myself, a sense of well-being and accomplishment that I, too, had entered the mystic circle of parents whose children separated easily.
Then--I don't know why--I glanced back. And there he was.wow gold, The playground buzzed all around him, kids everywhere, and he stood, his chin tucked close, his body held small, his face intent but not sad, blowing me kisses. So brave, so unashamed, so completely loving, Brendan was watching me go.
No book on mothering could have prepared me for that quick, raw glimpse into my child's soul. My mind leaped 15 years ahead to him packing boxes and his dog grown old and him saying, "Dry up, Mom. It's not like I'm leaving the country." In my mind I tore up the card every mother signs saying she'll let her child go when he's ready. I looked
at my Brendan, wow gold,his shirt tucked in, every button done up, his toes just turned in a bit, and I though, "OK, you're six for me forever. Just try to grow up, I dare you." With a smile I had to really dig for, I blew him a kiss, turned and walked away.
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