More displayLikeStats("/g/outgrown", 0, 125140083, false) doinktheclown00 $('#timedispmsg125140088').replaceWith(DisplayShortTime(1137229712000000000, false)); #156 --- In outgrown@..., "busch555" wrote:having a little sister thats taller than you really sucks. my sisters2 1/2 years younger than me and taller.How tall are you and your sister now? More All Messages By This Member
displayLikeStats("/g/outgrown", 0, 125140088, false) M Jaworski $('#timedispmsg125140092').replaceWith(DisplayShortTime(1137278466000000000, false)); #157 I grew a little bit more than she did over the next couple of years. right now were both full grown, im 5'5 and 125lbs, shes 5'9 and around 150 lbs. doinktheclown00 wrote: --- In outgrown@..., "busch555" wrote:>> having a little sister thats taller than you really sucks. my sisters > 2 1/2 years younger than me and taller. How tall are you and your sister now?
Taller Sister Stories
More displayLikeStats("/g/outgrown", 0, 125140092, false) Harkha2000 $('#timedispmsg125140096').replaceWith(DisplayShortTime(1137769117000000000, false)); #158 So, this is true that story?!- In outgrown@..., M Jaworski wrote:I grew a little bit more than she did over the next couple ofyears. right now were both full grown, im 5'5 and 125lbs, shes 5'9and around 150 lbs.doinktheclown00 wrote: --- Inoutgrown@..., "busch555" wrote:having a little sister thats taller than you really sucks. mysisters2 1/2 years younger than me and taller.How tall are you and your sister now? SPONSORED LINKS Tall people--------------------------------- YAHOO! GROUPS LINKS Visit your group "outgrown" on the web. To unsubscribe from this group, send an email to: outgrown-unsubscribe@... Your use of Yahoo! Groups is subject to the Yahoo! Terms ofService.------------------------------------------------------------------Yahoo! Photos Got holiday prints? See all the ways to get quality prints inyour hands ASAP. More displayLikeStats("/g/outgrown", 0, 125140096, false) Close Verify Delete Are you sure you wish to delete this message from the message archives of outgrown@groups.io? This cannot be undone. Cancel Yes Close Verify Repost Are you sure you wish to repost this message? Cancel Yes CloseReport MessageReasonReport to ModeratorsI think this message isn't appropriate for our group. The Group moderators are responsible for maintaining their community and can address these issues.Report to Groups.io SupportI think this violates the Terms of Service. This includes: harm to minors, violence or threats, harassment or privacy invasion, impersonation or misrepresentation, fraud or phishing.Note:Your email address is included with the abuse report.
DEAR ABBY: My sister and I have a close but complicated relationship. She has always embellished stories about me when she's talking to others, and most of the time they portray me in a bad light. I usually ignore them when they get back to me, because I choose to pick my battles with her.
My advice is to distance yourself, and if you hear that she has been telling more lies about you, to give the person a sad smile and say, "You know, my poor sister has had a traumatic brain injury." Period.
Writing by Annie Banerji @anniebanerji, Additional reporting by Kim Harrisberg in Johannesburg; Editing by Jason Fields; Please credit the Thomson Reuters Foundation, the charitable arm of Thomson Reuters that covers humanitarian issues, conflicts, land and property rights, modern slavery and human trafficking, gender equality, climate change and resilience. Visit news.trust.org to see more stories
None of the women thinks to get her own bags, so my sisters run forward, helping Ondine pull the same brown leather bags marked LV out of the back of the van six times. One for each woman. My mother leaves them to us, disappearing up steps the color of cotton candy and through the open doorway.
"I" went downstair and let the jowly old elf into the basement. He seemed taller than normal and the Santa suit rode higher up his legs. He banged his head on the some planks hanging down from the rafters.
As usual, there were many pictures taken and much merriment. Santa had gifts for all the boys and girls and even the parents as well. At one point, Santa invited "I"'s teenaged sister to sit on his lap. She courteously declined.
The Blessed Mother hangs in portraits over the University of Dayton just as Our Lady of Guadalupe hangs over the borderlands. Through our Marianist identity, we have claimed Mary as our mother, but more than that, we have claimed all those who fall under her gaze as our sisters and brothers. When we remain complacent in the face of immigration policies that seek to dehumanize our own, we refuse the relationships the form our identity. We must choose family by committing to the ways we are bound to one another and refusing the ways our culture disavows and distances the vulnerable. We need to reject immigration policies determined to isolate and marginalize and instead, demand policies that prioritize the relationships at the center of what it means to be human. And just as urgently, we need to love and to hope. When we choose hope and love as means of resistance, when we hold one another closely within systems maintained by distance, we learn that there are no boundaries that truly separate us, no walls which we cannot peer over, and no borders around the ways we belong to each other.
I took my wife to our favorite Italian restaurant to help her see that her canceled credit cards were really just E-Man's first attempts to exercise his newly found powers. During her silence, my eyes drifted across the menu. How could Chef Lorenzo justify $16.95 for grilled chicken Caesar salad when it cost only $3.95 to make? (The next day my wife left with the kids for her sister's house upstate.)
Cleary had a cross-hatch of lines around her eyes that made her look wise and wistful. She had raisin-colored hair with a few grays. She let my sister pull one out and the pop it made was the death sound.
Ray and Cleary left before dawn for the zendo. My sister and I were timid at first about getting our own breakfast. Ray went directly from the zendo to his Service. Cleary came home, at once flushed and lightheaded, and washed our bowls out.
A girl with a round, rice-colored face was up on her knees, staring openly at my sister. Her black hair was downy and wild. I stared back and she darted out her snake tongue. When she waved to grownups in the audience they beamed back at her, avid with blessing. I watched her push her fingers into back bends; they touched her arms as if they were boneless.
I looked sideways at my sister. I saw that when she closed her eyes she no longer looked like a worldly child, fearful and self-consoling. I saw that His music moved her organs from one side to the other as if they were caught at low tide between giant rocks, her heart in streamers like seaweed.
It was the black-haired girl from the Concert Barn, Una, who summoned my sister. Her mother was Kai, the First Beautiful. Her father was a Japanese Roshi who lived in Kyoto, a place where the clouds swept up from two sides of the sky to make a cloud pagoda. No wonder Una looked like a little Buddha from the fifth century, Ray said, planted in the raked gravel garden by the zendo.
Now my sister could smell something fatty, like French fries, beneath the smell of wood shavings. She took a few steps backward. Outside the glowing circle of the heat lamp, the bedroom was freezing. Una pinched the tiny crane out of the box and palmed it underneath the heat lamp. Her breathing was loud and rapid.
Almost immediately there was another smell, faint at first, like burning hair, only my sister knew it was bird skin as delicate as the flying dust on a butterfly. Una swooped the bird around and around the bedroom. It looked as small and pink as a worm in her hand. Finally she landed it on the bed, suddenly less an unmade futon than a stormy Arctic.
My sister ran down the back stairs, past the farmhouse kitchen, past the screened porch which faced the road and where sanghists were gathered in heavy sweaters and blankets, discussing a parable or a precept, hands wrapping stoneware. Already my sister knew it was forbidden to discuss koans.
Book Description: Soft cover. Condition: Good. Second Thus. Author's note: The stories and the play in this book may be read as notes, appendix and unversified episodes of the events behind the poems, or as chapters of a single adventure to which the poems are commentary and amplification. Either way, the verse and the prose are intended to be read together, as parts of a single work. ---------------------------------------------------------------- 184 pages ---------- Orders of $100.00 or more are shipped using tracked courier delivery services. Size: Approx 5" Wide and 8" Tall. Seller Inventory # 000506
I am remembering that once upon a time my mother spent mornings in Jersey pushing fabric under the rapid-fire needle of a sewing machine all the while in fear that la migra would show up at her factory. I am remembering that my father lost his job when NAFTA took the factories out of the country. I am remembering that it took me years to piece together their stories, our stories, because my parents both tend toward silence, toward playing it safe, toward staying afloat at any cost.
In her stories, my mother is the heroine, the inocente who scares easily and whom everyone knows to be gentle and kind. She is not ambitious. In fact, she wants nothing more than to grow up and marry a good man with blond hair and blue eyes and have children who look like him. This is what she tells my sister and me when the lights are turned off. She rubs our backs and whispers stories into our dark hair. 2ff7e9595c
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