He is going to kiss me.

    She battened a palm against his chest to stop him. Heat radiated
through the bright fabric and her pulse accelerated to match the beating of
his heart. Then the sensual light went out of his eyes, replaced by
something akin to confusion.
    Did he think she was a tease? She wanted to play fast and loose this
week, she really did. Just not quite so soon. If she let him keep advancing ,
they might end up doing it right here on the floor. Hm'm. Actually... No, not
yet.
    Nick looked down at her hand, then back into her eyes. The intimacy of
the touch unsettled her and she snatched her fingers away. Uptight.
Inexperienced. Embarrassed.
    "The only contraband I have is the soap and the herbal shampoo."
Duckjing under his extended arm, she darted toward the bedroom to
repack.
    "Speaking of things that ought to be illegal ... "
    Hearing the smoky familiarity in his tone, she tumed back in time to see
him come out of the living room. Her brows furrowed in curiosity I then shot
up in alarm. Would the humiliation of thìs day never end?
    guess you'lI be needing these back." Nick held out one sculpted arm,
dangling her bra and panties from his hand. He casually stroked his thumb
over her intimate wear.
    His fingers grazed the edge of Elise's panties, tickJing the sensitive skin
along her inner fhigh, before slíding inside. .. Meghan blinked, tried to
refocus. The comer of Nick's mouth quirked and the look in his eyes was
pure mischief, as if he suspected her reaction and dared her to come
closer to the source.
    Okay. She could do this. Lifting her chin, she threw back her shoulders
and walked toward him. He skimmed his fingers across her palm when he
returned her Iingerie. Another hot current passed between them.
    A rush of anxiety immediately followed .
    What was she doing flìrting with a guy like Nick? He could have any
woman he wanted. So what mental disorder made her think he'd waste
time on her? Loneliness and longing twisted her head， overwhelmed her.
She was boring, she was frigid-she was doing it again.
    Meghan slammed the self-doubt aside, concentrated instead on her
mission. The plan was to find an attractive man and then entice him into
spending the next week indulging in decadent pleasures. Well, she'd found
a guy and he was perfect. Nick was everything she imagiined the fantasy
lover in her diary to be. His dangerously compelling gaze made her yeam
for wild excìtement and erotic adventure.
    Alex reached into the open dresser, pulled out a nightgown she'd
forgoten in the comer. The white silk whispered through his fingers. He
held it up by its thin straps, easily picturing the delicate material against her
tawny skin.
    Alex stood close, deliberately invading her space, brushing his index
finger across her lower lip. Her eyes widened and her quick intake of
breath was one of the sexiest sounds he'd ever heard. He held her gaze,
dared her to look away.
   

Uncommon Friends, Common Faith

    Even though David had been serving intermittently in Saul's
court, he and Jonathan first met after David's stunning victory
over Goliath. First Samuel 18:1 tells us, "Now it came about when
[David] had finished speaking to Saul, that the soul of Jonathan
was knit to the soul of David, and Jonathan loved him as himself'
    Have you ever met someone and instantly clicked? Been introduced
to a sister in Christ and within five minutes were chatting
like old friends? C. S. Lewis rightly said, "Friendship is born at that
moment when one person says to another, 'What! You too? I thought
I was the only one."' There is an instant bonding when we know we
are not alone in our passions and pains. Jonathan listened to David
and Saul speaking and obviously could tell from the grace in David's
speech that he and this man had much in common so much so
that from this point forward his well-being was directly bound in
David's.
    That oath had to stop Jonathan in his tracks. He knew of David's
unwavering trust in God and of David's own unquestionable integrity.
Based on all Jonathan had observed in David's character, David's
willingness to call on God as witness confirmed his accusation was
true. Jonathan believed David even if that meant siding against his
own father. Bless Jon a than for wanting to believe Saul, but Saul's past
actions hardly gave Jonathan much to work with.
    This matter of trust is foundational in any friendship, but it
is particularly important where servant leaders and laypeople are
concerned. I have often been wrongly hesitant to really open myself
to women in our congregations for fear they would discover I was
a mere mortal with hurts and hang-ups (and bizarre phobias). It's
almost like discovering your doctor failed Anatomy 101. Can you
have confidence in his diagnosis when he doesn't have the credentials
to back it up? That type of fear is what caused me to hold back rather
than to admit I was imperfect and risk how that would affect our
ministry. Could church members follow a man whose wife sometimes
missed her quiet times and had leftover chicken nuggets from
the last fast-food kid's meal under the seats of her car? I didn't know
because I didn't give myself the chance to find out.
    And on the flip side, though I can't say I've ever had it happen
to me personally, there are those women who will try to befriend the
wives of the ministers because of a seeming "inside track" they may
gain.
    What if the apostle Paul had quit when those who had worked
closely with him in ministry maligned him? What a loss if he had
cut himself off forever from Mark instead of allowing a reconciliation
that resulted in a deep appreciation and friendship. What if he'd
said, "No more!" after he'd gotten one beating too many? He could
have settled into a nice home in the Judean countryside with nary
a stoning or whipping in sight. However, he knew his calling wasn't
in safety but in sacrifice. You will never be content on the sidelines
when God has called you to the field.

"Somewhere in the South Pacific"

    The movement of WACs to New Guinea was beginning to escalate- more to Moresby, others breaking new ground at Oro Bay and Hollandia on the Dutch half of New Guinea which, incidentally, is the largest island in the world next to Greenland. Lt. Velma "Pat" Griffith, a Hoosier of f,'Teat good humor and press savvy served as the only public relations officer for several thousand WACs scattered over an area about the size of Western Europe. Without her, the war would have seemed much longer- and probably would have been.

    It was finally conceded that Pat deserved an enlisted assistant, and, in looking over the field, she decided that no one was more convincingly enlisted than I. The job was mine but I'd be stalled at yeronga while she winged off to Hollandia to prepare a place for me. In the interim, she suggested I make myself useful to a cadre lieutenant named Opgrand who hadn't the slightest idea what to do with me.

    Lacking direction, I cranked out hometown releases on the whole rear echelon which, measured in line count, produced my greatest body of work ever.

    Unofficially, I had also become the resident ghost writer of those let-down letters known as "dear Johns." With such a plethora of escorts close at hand, a number of my camp mates decided to tenninate earlier alliances with gentle words tl1ey felt unable to express. Thus I became proxy pen pal, trying to break off relationships through some of the most creative work I have ever done. Except, possibly, expense accounts in my later life.

    About this time, a lurid domestic jomnal called Truth was establishing a far from tmthful predecessor for what the States would later know as the supermarket tabloid. WACs did not escape attention.

    Its pages screeched the plight of war-weary diggers - liberated, evacuated, or rotated home - finding the girls they left behind occupied with an inexhaustible supply of Yanks. Truth claimed WACs were forbidden to date diggers and, given the availability of their own countrymen, wouldn't if they could.
First part: false; second part: probably true.

    The accusation should have been ignored. Instead, someone up the chain of command decided to make peace, not war, by committing four of us to an enchanted evening witl1 four of them. And Opgrand fmally fOtmd a use for me; I would chair this allied assignation.

    Tarted up in A unifonns and jeep-lifted to a deserted and darkening stretch of Brisbane docklands, we joined our escorts aboard a launch that looked like the last out of Dunkirk. Casting off for what we anticipated as a leisurely river cmise, the boatman steered to midstream, dropped anchor, curled up over the wheel and promptly went to sleep.

    At this point, we began to doubt the efficacy of detente. Displaying our best boarding school manners, we enthused over the picnic supper laid out on the cabin roof, then stuffed ourselves, ever so slowly, with its bounty (excluding the Matmite.) We admired the beverage choice (beer, gin, no mixes) and politely asked for water.

    Down to our last time-killing ploy, conversation, we talked long, enthusiastically, and without a whit of real knowledge about war strategy, Australian football, Labor Party politics, heroics at Gallipoli, and cricket. Despite the bone-chilling cold, we steadfastly stressed our preference for the bracing open air over the warm and cozy cabin below into which one of our hosts optimistically disapperu·ed to plump the pillows on two couches. His buddies, no grammarians to start with, were soon ending every sentence with a proposition.

Here's Looking At You, Kids

    The oral history of a family, while valuable, tends to change as
it drifts through generations. Events are viewed differently by
different people; memories fade, and tales are often edited or
embellished to suit the teller. Without photographs, much family
history would be lost or inaccurate. Photos acquaint us with
kinfolk we never knew, and keep alive the memory of those who've
gone before us. They enable us to go home again and visit the past.
Pictures shore up and enrich memories; fill in details when the
mind fails. Pictures provide answers to genealogy questions. A
license plate on a car marked Just Married identifies the year a
couple wed and the state in which to find their marriage license.
    My mother had her Kodak box camera handy from the first
days of marriage, when she took a picture of her husband and
their firstborn on the farmhouse porch. Poppy was debonair in
a suit and a snap-brim cap; Joe wore baby attire, complete with
high-button shoes. Then Poppy turned the camera on Ma and
Joe (Poppy's shadow is visible in the photo). Ma is fashionably
dressed in a cloche, a coat with a fur collar, black hose and
shoes. Her hat tells me they were dressed for church; Catholic
women covered their heads back then.
    More children followed, and Ma's pictorial story unfolded
over three decades. In the driveway at the farm, a bevy of
children, along with aunts, uncles, and cousins, are piled atop
and around a car, reminiscent of a scene from The Grapes Of
Wrath.
    My two oldest brothers posed atop a snow-covered farm
building, verifying the mountains of snow during the blizzards
of 1936-37. Tunnels were dug to the barn to feed the animals,
and for thirty-eight consecutive days the temperature ranged
from zero to thirty-five below.
    There's a picture labeled: Christmas day, 1946, when we
traipsed outdoors coatless to prove that Iowa has warm winter
days. Another picture recalls for me not only my wool pants
suit made from my brother's Navy uniform, but the seamstress
who made it. Emma Tjossem was a tiny widow who smelled like
Sen-Sen. She lived across the street from the park, upstairs in
someone's house, with the outdoor flight of stairs around back.
She wore a pincushion bracelet, a tape measure necklace, and
a dress adorned with snippets of thread.
    I know that we were as poor as the proverbial church mouse,
but our apparel would not reveal that to strangers viewing our
pictures. I've looked at other people's pictures from that era
and my family doesn't look much different than they do. Our
clothing was home sewn, from church rummage sales, and
store-bought. Garments and shoes were handed down from one
to the next until there wasn't an hour's worth of wear left.
    We were captured in play clothes and dirty faces, and
scrubbed faces and angelic white for First Communion and
Confirmation. For the latter occasions the boys had fresh
haircuts; their curls, cowlicks, or crew cuts slicked down or up
with a comb dipped in water. We girls added veils, ribbons, or
bows to our pipe-curls. We each held a new rosary draped over
a new prayer book; white for girls, black for boys.
    We wore feed sack dresses and pinafores, mannish little boy
three piece suits, knickers, Army nurse and cowboy costumes,
overalls, coveralls, sweaters, snowsuits, mackinaws, pea jackets,
and coats pinned shut where buttons had been. The boys wore
blue denim jeans they called "whoopee pants." I don't know
why. With the jeans they wore "inner-outer" shirts. You guessed
it, they could be worn tucked in or hanging out.
    Our heads were capped with baby bonnets, Easter hats, ear
flappers, stocking caps, headscarves, and turbans. We were
shod in high-tops, oxfords, loafers, patent leather, sandals,
saddle shoes, and four buckle overshoes. In winter, our knobbykneed
little girl legs were covered with full-length brown cotton
stockings, wrinkled like an elephant's legs from the long johns
underneath. When it grew warm, we shed the underwear and
rolled the stockings into plump doughnuts around our ankles.
Then we switched to anklets or bobby socks, next came bare
legs and, finally, bare feet. Ah; summer had arrived.
    Pictures tell me about my three older sisters as teenagers.
Sometimes pudgy, other times slim, they were perky, giggly,
pouty, coy, and sexy. Their hair styles and clothing reveal
that they were fashion conscious. The two older girls rolled
their hair in pads called "rats," or used home permanents
to set it into tight curls. The youngest of the trio didn't need
accouterments. Her hair was naturally curly, coal black, thick,
and lustrous. When war brought a hosiery shortage, they wore
leg makeup and drew seam lines up the backs of their legs.
They dolled up in hats or snoods, spectator pumps, wedgies,
and sling-back shoes, pleated slacks, shorts and midriffs,
dirndl skirts, blouses tied under their bosoms, Rosie The
Riveter overalls, and dresses whose style has come and gone
again.
    My younger brothers, Larry and Danny, were photographed
seated in a homemade wagon, adorable in over-sized caps. A

couple of years later, Ma caught the same pair, plus four friends,
perched on a bench like crows on a telephone line, reading
comic books. The twin babies of the family are shown doing
this, that, and the other thing. Coming along in late 1945 after
the deaths of two children within seventeen months, twins
brought Ma's models to a baker's dozen.
    Norma had died at fifteen from kidney disease; eight -monthold
Donnie from pneumonia. The last picture taken of Norma
belied her illness; only my parents knew she was dying. I was
eight at the time, and nine-and-a-half when Donnie died. I
recall their deaths, but almost nothing about their lives. Family
snapshots verify their brief existence.
    Ma sometimes stopped her work and our play and appeared
with her camera. "Hold still a minute," she'd say, and we'd
freeze like a game of statues. On one such day, when winter
had conceded to spring, she posed us in the yard where the sun
had melted enormous mounds of snow. The resulting picture,
showing trees and houses mirrored in large puddles, was one
of her favorites.
    "Larry, you little devil, get away," she often said when she
had a select group of us arranged just so. "I want only the girls
in this picture." But like Alfred Hitchcock appearing in all his
own movies, Larry played the extra in our scenes. His mug can
be seen behind a bush or in the corner somewhere.
    One day I asked Ma to show me how to use her camera. She
handed it over and instructed, "Hold it at your waist, find the
picture in the window, and push this button. The sun should be
behind you. Turn this knob after every picture or you'll have a
double exposure."
    "Who should I take a picture of?" I asked.
    '~nyone but me," she replied. She preferred being on the
business end of the camera rather than the object of its curious
eye.
    When I began earning money of my own, in the 1950s, I
bought a camera with a flash attachment. This opened new
possibilities: we could be photographed inside as well as
outdoors. That was about the time Ma retired her old black
box, thinking, I imagine, that newer is better. Not always so.
I had several cameras after that, but the color has faded from
many prints taken only a few years ago. Ma's black and white
images remain sharp, and continue conveying stories to her
grandchildren and their children and beyond. Many are now
spread across the Internet and on Facebook.
    Ma could never have imagined the photographic legacy
she left us. But I thank her for it whenever I sift through the
treasure trove of images, all of them now digitalized and shared
with several generations.

Ohhhh Canada

    I went to preschool at Saint joseph's Church, and I'd give a shout out
to the teacher now if I could remember who she was. There were a few
things that happened at preschool that I would like to touch upon that
stick out in my mind. One time, we were having big wheel races down
the empty parking lot outside and everyone knew that the Spider Man
big wheel was not only the coolest but seemed to go the fastest. Two by
two, we would line up and make our way down the marked raceway. Well,
I had lined up in a way that allowed me to get the sought after Spidey
Mobile.
    As the kid in front of me walked the masked beauty with the three
wheels my way, some bitch girl cut in front of me and got on it. There are
several things you don't do to a man, and at that time I knew only one:
Do not touch my Spider Man big wheel! This girl clearly didn't know. I
figured the teacher lady would have my back and take this wench away.
Wrong! She just told me to get in the other one to take my turn. I looked
over and saw a creme-colored frame, purple wheels, and a giant Cabbage
Patch Kid head on the front of the handle bars. I knew at that early age
that this wasn't good at all.
    I could cry and scream and tell on her and get my Spider Man bike
back, or I could take this girlie ass CPK doll bike and somehow whip
h er ass down this track. I got myself all amped up go race and after

a quick pump-up talk I was ready to do this shit. I braced myself for
this showdown and was waiting for the word to go when I looked at my
opponent for a brief but intimidating stare down. Just as I did this, the
teacher yelled "Go!" The girl took off like we all knew Spider Man would
and caught a little plastic on the pavement. She kicked up a little bit of
gravel, and she was gone. I would love to say that I caught her on the
backstretch and pulled off the miracle at St. ] oes, but I cannot lie. She
whipped my ass down that hill, but I know to this day that she butted my
line and took my ride.
    Another incident happening at preschool was someone threw a
rock through the window of our classroom and got glass all over the
magic carpet. Upon this discovery, our teach er b egan crying. We weren't
afforded the customary naptime that day, so to whoever threw that rock,
you owe me some sleep bitch. We went on a field trip to go sled riding
later that winter and that's when I got in trouble at school for the first
of a lot of times. Apparently as the day was winding down, the teacher
began yelling for and herding us in, and I didn't hear her, so I kept on
sledding. I really didn't hear her, and she came up to me and dragged
me to the bus just as I got to the top of the hill for another go at it.
She scolded me in front of everyon e. I felt terrible and started crying,
because I was shy and wasn't yet the little shit head that I'd become.
    !-leading into Kindergarten, I was nervous as most kids are but also
wanted to go to school because my older brother Damien was already
in second grade and anything he did, I was all about that. Back in the
1980s in Oil City at least, you had the choice between morning nonnal
kindergarten and afternoon kindergarten. My mom sent me in the
afternoon. I have never asked why she didn't send me in the morning with
my older brother who was by now going full days, but it is my personal
belief that if I went in at ten or eleven or whatever time I had to be there,
that she would be rid of me for the afternoon, and thus freeing up time
for The Young and the R estless. Again that's only my personal assumption.
I enjoyed going to school, and in Oil City, there were only four main
elementary schools going from Kindergarten through fifth grade. They
were Lincoln Elementary, Seventh Street Elementary, Hasson Heights
Elementary, and Smedley Elementary. Since we moved around as often
as people did on America's Most Wanted Top Ten lists, I did a couple
tours of each school.
    Mter the first day or two of school, I began walking to school by
myself which was a few blocks away. This is true. I walked there alone and
home in the afternoon with Damien, who probably shouldn't have been

walking himself but nonetheless we forged on and made the best of it. I
do remember in first grade being in Miss. Scott's class, I accidentally shit
myself and absolutely could not bear to tell anyone. I vividly remember
thinking 'just get through the day and you'll be OK" Every time Miss.
Scott carne over to my side of the class, she made a face, and curled her
nose like she was sniffing the air. I knew I was busted now that this damn
basset h ound with the shit-seeking missile nose was on to me. "What is
that smell?" she would say with disgust. "It's terrible." All the kids around
me would immediately point at rne and say "It's him, Ms. Scott ... it's
him!" "No, it's not," I lied. Finally, she pulled me in the hall and did an
embarrassing check of the back of my pants revealing that indeed it was
me, with the turd, in the classroom as if I had cleverly devised a solo game
of Clue. Bodily Function Edition. I was sent to the office where surprisingly
they had extra clothes for the kids my age that may occasionally do their
thing in the privacy of a cramped desk as opposed to the privacy of a
bathroom stall or at the very least a kitty litter box. Unfortunately for
me, however, the ensemble of pants thrown down to 1ne to choose from
wasn't would one would consider for fashion week. I was very poor with
mismatched clothing as it were already, but this was a bit too much . The
pants were a white base (after Labor Day) with red, green, brown, and
black stripes all over them in a vertical pattern. This, along with my orange
shirt, did not look like something anyone should be wearing.

'One's Real Life Is the Life One Does Not Lead'

 They say we only have one life, but some people make a
career out of resisting that idea. Everyone starts with a blank
page, but all too soon the biographical data creep up on us:
where and when we were born, to whom, in what order and
of what gender, who taught us, who loved us and who did
not. The facts crowd in and shape our options. Actors,
bigamists and conmen are some of those who keep grabbing
for a fresh sheet of paper on which to reinvent their lives.
    Actors are parasites. We function through other people's
inventions and borrow other people's lives. Protected by the
camoutlage of character, we can express our truest selves and.
yet avoid detection. We are moving targets. We are refiections
,but which is more 'real'-the light or the reflected light?
    A Memory
    I am about five years old . I am wafting Isadora-1ike round the
drawing. room of our London home to Chopin's Nocturnes
on the gramophone. I wallow in the melancholy as only the
young and basiailly hopeful can bear to do. The hugeness of
my yearnings threatens to burst my little seams. My
aspirations are as deep as the music, as high as the sky. And
yet I cannot name them.
   Now I am eleven. I have been taken to Covent Garden to
wateh Rudolf Nureyev dance As he spins and leaps he takes
me  with him.THe Nameless Aspiration is within groping
distance. I want to dance like him? No, I want to be him? No,
not exactly. I want to be the music? That's getting nearer but
still not right. I woulld just have to carry on groping.
    Meanwhile, there was childhood to get through.
    An Early Leuon
    In reality I was an unexcptional child, the younger and
weedier of two girls being brought up in uneventful comfort
in London in the 1950s. I juggled those irreconcilable
opporites that go with the job of growing up. I was both
massively important and totally insignificaut at the same
time. I was shy but desperate to shatter my shell and be
heard.
    I was surprised to hear my mother and sister say very
recently that they remember me as being very funny as a
child- According to my own memory; my sister was unbeat-
ably hilarious (to this day n.o one can make me laugh like &he
an) and deletve.d the limelight every time.
    At my first school, I was the one who ducked under the
desk when they were lookimg for volunteers to be in tlle play.
I suspect this had more to do with cowardice and pride than
modesty. Already acting wu too important for me to be seen
doing it badly.
    However, in the safety of my own home I do recall the
sweaty exhilaration of being given my head in the
'entertainments' which my sister and I would knock up from
time to time . One evening, my act in front of the grown-ups
seemed to be going pretty well when suddenly, by some adult
yardstick which totally bewildered me, 1 must have tipped
over a limit.
    'Now you're just showing of£. .. ' said by a friend of the
family. Jam on the brakes. Screech to a halt. Then an interminable
huff. I bad been a star for a few minutes, now all of
a sudden I was a worm . There never seemed to be anything
in between.
    We have all been there. But why can I still feel the sting of
that slap in the face? In a way it was my first acting lesson,
delivered in a teacher's voice, stern and witheringly gentle .
Learning through shame, is that the deal! Fair enough .
Swallow hard.
    The thing was to learn to anticipate that point of going
'over the top' and temper the act myself.
    Compared to the dangers of real life, the stage can be the
safest place on earth.

Famous Fashion Designers

Fashion designers use flair and know-how to create everything from hospital uniforms to the eye-popping outfits worn by rock stars and models. Jobs for fashion designers are expected to grow more slowly than the average for all careers through 2014, according to government economists. A study of the work of several other fashion designers records how fashion changed throughout the decade.

Fashion

Fashion design is also a labor of love, requiring long hours and little chance of superstardom -- but for many, the work itself is the reward. Fashion designers, in fact, are some of the most creative and eclectic people that you will ever meet. Men's fashions during the 19th and 20th centuries have been conservative and dull in comparison to women's. The fashion industry is a big part of our economy. Here is a short list: Chanel Gabrielle "Coco" Chanel (1883-1971) created feminine fashion that provided the feeling of luxury and combined traditional women's clothing with styles, fabrics, and articles of clothing used by men. Her fashion revolution liberated women to express their femininity with elegance and grace.

The Hollywood film "The Devil Wears Prada", starring Meryl Streep, has brought a lot of attention to the world of fashion. More information about Prada Versace Gianni Versace (1946-1997) became interested in fashion working in his mother's small dress shop. By 1978 he had become a design leader of women's and men's fashions. More information about Giorgio Armani Jean-Paul Gaultier (1952- ) is a French fashion designer who never received formal design training. In 1967 he purchased the Polo label and launched a world-wide fashion empire that includes clothing lines for men and women.

Fashion

The high prices commanded by the fashionable Fendi purses have created a large market for fake goods from Asia bearing logos that are eerily similar to the inverted FF. In 1985, they took part in a fashion show featuring "New Talent", and the following year, they presented their first independent women's ready-to-wear show. You'd have to be walking around with a shopping bag over your head to not realize that fashion is everywhere. In order to succeed in the often cutthroat--and frequently debt-ridden--world of fashion, designers can no longer hide behind their model's skirts.

Most fashion designers, however, work for apparel manufacturers, creating designs of men's, women's, and children's fashions for the mass market. Employment growth for fashion designers will be slowed, however, by declines in the apparel manufacturing industries Designers in most fields are expected to face strong competition for available positions.

Most women of means had a dressmaker who would create garments according to the latest fashions. Instead of catering strictly to a few wealthy clients, coveted fashion designers now create product lines ranging from perfumes to pantyhose that can reach consumers at every price point. "Consumers at the middle and lower level have realized they can get just as good a fashion direction with clothing at disposable prices that they can wear once and throw away--or if it falls apart, who cares.