Prue's attention stayed on their joined hands. 'What does it feel like to be touched by a man, Rosie?' The madam grew serious. 'I've worked in a tavern for many years, honey. It's been a long time since I was young and innocent like you.' 'Please, Rosie, ' Prue begged. 'Tell me what it was like before you came to work at the tavern. Were you ever with a man?' Rosie nodded. 'I was, Prue.' 'What was it like?' Tears welled in the madam's eye's, long ago memories returning to her. 'It was the most wondrous pleasure you could ever imagine.' Hearing a knock on the door, Rosie quickly wiped away her tears. 'W-who is it?' -from Mistress of Purity
Am I on your page?" Jesse asked. Rosie knew Jesse liked her, loved her, maybe, but this was not about that. "Yes, " Rosie said, making eye contact with Jesse. "How could you not be on my page?... (But) even though we are on the same page, we see the page differently, " Rosie had continued, enjoying the moment, "my page - which I admit you are on - is not the page that you think you are on. You will never see the page the same as me. You cannot look through my eyes and see what I see.
If Rosie's mother had known that eye colour was not a reliable indicator of paternity, and organised a DNA test to confirm her suspicions, there would have been no Father Project, no Great Cocktail Night, no New York Adventure, no Reform Don Project""and no Rosie Project. Had it not been for this unscheduled series of events, her daughter and I would not have fallen in love. And I would still be eating lobster every Tuesday night.Incredible.
CRACKLIN' ROSIE WRITTEN BY NEIL DIAMOND CRACKLIN' ROSIE, GET ON BOARD WE'RE GONNA RIDE TILL THERE AIN'T NO MORE TO GO TAKING IT SLOW LORD, DON'T YOU KNOW HAVE ME A TIME WITH A POOR MAN'S LADY HITCHIN' ON A TWILIGHT TRAIN AIN'T NOTHING THERE THAT I CARE TO TAKE ALONG MAYBE A SONG TO SING WHEN I WANT DON'T NEED TO SAY PLEASE TO NO MAN FOR A HAPPY TUNE
Just then a familiar voiced spoke right in to Stephens's ear which startled him as his eyes once again began slowly opening. 'Don't try to move or talk you two, not that you could if you wanted to anyway.' It was Bob inches away from his face and he sounded very different now, his voice was low and threatening and his eyes were unsmiling and cold. 'Very soon you will be gone and there will be no trace of any of you here, or us for that matter.' He felt Bob go through his pockets until eventually he saw that he had pulled his van keys out of his pocket. Stephen looked around for his baby and he could see the others passing a sleeping Rosie clutching Roo and her dummy to the goblin like creatures. They grabbed her with their long thin hands with talon like fingers and then began sniffing her like animals that smelt out the prey. Bob saw him looking at them walking off with Rosie. 'Don't worry Stephen. The sproggers will care for her' Bob told him before letting out a spine shivering sinister laugh.
I've known the poet Eileen Myles since the 1990s, when I first moved to New York, and I remember seeing her walking her Pit Bull Rosie around the East Village. She had these beautiful arms and David Cassidy hair and the sort of swagger so many of the gay boys I knew wished we had. We all had crushes on her.
Dachshunds have their own agenda and can be stubborn about seeing their plans through to completion. What Rosie lacked in consistency, she made up for in enthusiasm. Most of the time when I called her name, she sprinted back, her long ears cocked and flying like a little girl's pigtails. Each encounter was a glorious reunion, even if we'd been parted for only a minute or two. I had never felt so loved.
Mary Doria Russell
'Feminist comedy,' practically an oxymoron, had a couple of good years after WWII. Chalk it up to the forced female autonomy that occurred during wartime, when Rosie the Riveter went to work in the factories, constructing the Allies' war machines while taking charge of the finances, the home, and the children.
And I have to admit that there is something undeniably fulfilling about hunting with Rosie. Somehow, it makes me feel as if the long list of differences between us doesn't exist. We're dressed the same, we fight the same enemy, we win together... It's as though for that moment I get to be her, the one who isn't covered in thick scars, and she gets to understand what it is to be me. It's different than hunting with Silas-he and I are partners, not part of the same heart.
And I have to admit that there is something undeniably fulfilling about hunting with Rosie. Somehow, it makes me feel as if the long list of differences between us doesn't exist. We're dressed the same, we fight the same enemy, we win together ... It's as though for that moment I get to be her, the one who isn't covered in thick scars, and she gets to understand what it is to be me. It's different than hunting with Silas-he and I are partners, not part of the same heart.
You can't have Rosie on The View and Elton John packing Mom and Pop in at Caesars Palace and gay people all over television, and then have these politicians run out there with a straight face and say that gay and lesbian relationships are a threat to the family. We are winning in the culture - which is why we'll ultimately win the political war.
Rosie had to keep her room neat enough so James would not freak out, but not so neat that they could figure it all out, break the code, of who you truly were, what you were up to, your values, your truest parts... you were layer upon layer of ideas and erasures and new ideas and soul and images. [p. 68]
I remember going onstage on Broadway in this Leigh Bowery thing for a track like "Ich Bin Kunst." I've got breasts, this latex dripping down on my head, and I come out in a box. I just remember the audience looking really horrified because Rosie [O'Donnell] was trying to sell the show as sort of Pippin and Annie. She was saying it's a family show.
Ring around the rosie. A pocket full of posie. Ashes ashes, we all fall down. Some people say that this poem is about the Black Death, the fourteenth-century plague that killed 100-million people... Sadly, though, most experts think this is nonsense... How can I be so sure about this rhyme when all the experts disagree? Because I ate the kid who made it up.
But the uproar this caused was nothing compared with the uproar when Katronia noticed [Rosie] had also cut her eyelashes. Various negotiations (including, finally, such desperate measures as "supposing you ever want to eat again") eventually produced the grudging promise that, in return for Katronia keeping her hair cut short, she would leave her eyelashes alone.
You know what my mum once said?' said Rosie... 'She said that if a just-married couple put a coin in a jar every time they make love in their first year, and take a coin out for every time that they make love in the years that follow, the jar will never be emptied.' And this means... ?' Well', she said. 'It's interesting, isn't it?
Back in the twentieth century, we thought that robots would have taken over by this time, and, in a way, they have. But robots as a race have proved disappointing. Instead of getting to boss around underlings made of steel and plastic with circuitry and blinking lights and tank treads, like Rosie the maid on The Jetsons, we humans have outfitted ourselves with robotic external organs. Our iPods dictate what we listen to next, gadgets in our cars tell us which way to go, and smartphones finish our sentences for us. We have become our own robots.
Gene told me the next day that I got it wrong. But he was not in a taxi, after an evening of total sensory overload, with the most beautiful woman in the world. I believed I did well. I detected the trick question. I wanted Rosie to like me, and I remembered her passionate statement about men treating women as objects. She was testing to see if I saw her as an object or as a person. Obviously the correct answer was the latter. 'I haven't really noticed,' I told the most beautiful woman in the world.
One of my personal favorite moments in life was when a buddy of mine and I were working in the joust. We finished up one really hot day, went over to the Rosie Stag, a little on-site period tavern, clapped our swords on the table, ordered up a pitcher of ale, whipped out our period pipes and tobacco, and just sat there relaxing for the next hour waiting for the next joust. Moments like that, you feel like you've transcended into what (life) might have been at that time.
No! Please no, " she feels the cool metal of the handcuffs again. "Please, I'm Madison, I'm Madison!" Her arms lock into place above her head. She jerks her body, pain snapping at her muscles. "You can stay like this for the day." He rises from the bed, bends down, and blows out the candles on her birthday cake. "Night, night, Rosie." "No!" He opens the door, letting a stream of sunlight into the room. "Please don't leave me here, please!" And then the door closes, and the sunlight is gone.
A girl about her own age reached out and took hold of her hand. The girl was tall and thin. She had long black hair streaked with red, and the whites of her green eyes stood out against the black coal dust that covered her face. Her blue and white dress hung in tatters, and was blackened by coal dust and smeared with blood. The girl smiled and Rosie could see that in her other hand she was holding her red umbrella.
That's not why I'm here. I've got a mission. I made a promise.' His chest expanded with a deep, ragged breath. 'Ah, hell. Quit looking at me like you either want to shoot me or eat me up. I'm trying to do the right thing here.' Max's rejection instantly sent her back to the times in her relationship with Richard when he'd rebuffed her advances. 'I wasn't very good, was I? I'm sor-' 'Do not let that man come between us.' Max swiped his hand over his mouth and jaw and spun away. Just as quickly he faced her again and grabbed her wrist. 'You call me whatever crass SOB you want to.' He pulled her hand to the front of his jeans and cupped it over the unmistakable warm bulge behind his zipper. 'This is what you do to me. I don't know why you and me fit together this good. If I could take you to bed right now and finish this, I would.' He released her and backed away, raising his hands in apology. 'But that's not what I'm here for. Neither one of us needs that kind of complication in our lives. I have to keep the mission in mind. I'm a cop. I have to think like a cop, not a... ' 'Not a what?' she asked, her voice barely a whisper. But he didn't fill in the blank. 'It's not your job to deal with me. I'm damaged goods, Rosie. You can do better than me.