Classy Is When Quotes

When a woman is really in touch with her sensuality, she naturally draws beautiful things, people, and deeply nourishing relationships into her life.

Bartimaeus: "A small piece of advice," I said "it isn't wise to be rude to someone bigger than you, especially when they've just trapped you under a boulder." Imp: "You can stick your advice up...." "This brief pause replaces a short, censored episode, characterized by bad language and some sadly necessary violence. When we pick up the story again, everything is as before, except that I am perspiring slightly and the contrite imp is the model of cooperation." Bartimaeus: "I'll ask again: who is Rupert Deveraeux?" Imp: "He's the British Prime Minister, oh Most Bounteous and Merciful one.

People think that the word "class" involves the color black, wearing Chanel No. 5 and carrying a Louis Vuitton. The word "class" and "classy", to me, mean what happens when you are able to be thankful, able to give and be a true friend to anybody regardless of their background and where they come from. That's class. It's a beautiful wave that washes away faults and paints things in a graceful light. You can't always do this, though. Sometimes you just need to slap someone. Still, you can slap someone with a lot of poise and that makes all the difference.

Outsourcing your autonomy to an attention economy conglomerate—as you do when you mindlessly sign up for whatever new hot service emerges from the Silicon Valley venture capitalist class—is the opposite of freedom, and will likely degrade your individuality.

When a woman has truly embodied her sensuality, no labor is burdensome to her man. He finds great delight in making her happy no matter what.

And our conservationist-environmentalist-moral outrage is often (in its frustration) aimed at the logger or the rancher, when the real power is in the hands of people who make unimaginably larger sums of money, people impeccably groomed, excellently educated at the best universities - male and female alike - eating fine foods and reading classy literature, while orchestrating the investment and legislation that ruin the world.

The Cyrus-Swift Phenomenon. Taylor Swift has had, like, eighteen boyfriends, but everyone still thinks she’s really classy because she’s just so poised and sweet and appropriate-looking. Meanwhile, Miley Cyrus was with the same guy for practically forever, and people are always calling her a slut. And I’m not saying we should be calling T. Swift a slut instead—even if you do date a lot of guys, you don’t deserve that. What I’m saying is, when it comes to popular opinion, it’s all about the persona.

Kindness is incredibly powerful because it is so unlike what most of us see every day. It does not come naturally to us. We have to work at it and build it, like a muscle. But when we do, it stands out.

When demanded of those without power-- 'if you said it more nicely maybe we would listen'-- 'I can't hear you when you're so angry'-- 'the ones who are nice are the ones who will get what they want' (or, worse, the ones who are nice and pretty, which, of course, also includes white, Christian, and 'classy')-- it is yet another subjugation, yet another tool of oppression.

STEVE CARELL IS NICE BUT IT IS SCARY It has been said many times, but it is true: Steve Carell is a very nice guy. His niceness manifests itself mostly in the fact that he never complains. You could screw up a handful of takes outside in 104-degree smog-choked Panorama City heat, and Steve Carell’s final words before collapsing of heat stroke would be a friendly and hopeful “Hey, you think you have that shot yet?” I’ve always found Steve gentlemanly and private, like a Jane Austen character. The one notable thing about Steve’s niceness is that he is also very smart, and that kind of niceness has always made me nervous. When smart people are nice, it’s always terrifying, because I know they’re taking in everything and thinking all kinds of smart and potentially judgmental things. Steve could never be as funny as he is, or as darkly observational an actor, without having an extremely acute sense of human flaws. As a result, I’m always trying to impress him, in the hope that he’ll go home and tell his wife, Nancy, “Mindy was so funny and cool on set today. She just gets it.” Getting Steve to talk shit was one of the most difficult seven-year challenges, but I was determined to do it. A circle of actors could be in a fun, excoriating conversation about, say, Dominique Strauss-Kahn, and you’d shoot Steve an encouraging look that said, “Hey, come over here; we’ve made a space for you! We’re trashing Dominique Strauss-Kahn to build cast rapport!” and the best he might offer is “Wow. If all they say about him is true, that is nuts,” and then politely excuse himself to go to his trailer. That’s it. That’s all you’d get. Can you believe that? He just would not engage. That is some willpower there. I, on the other hand, hear someone briefly mentioning Rainn, and I’ll immediately launch into “Oh my god, Rainn’s so horrible.” But Carell is just one of those infuriating, classy Jane Austen guys. Later I would privately theorize that he never involved himself in gossip because—and I am 99 percent sure of this—he is secretly Perez Hilton.

[Joan's rule for dressing well] When you finish a creation, take something off. Diminish, diminish, diminish.

A young lady is supposed to be classy, kind, generous, and respectful. She is told she should not display any anger and/or badmouth her peers. A young lady is told to think ‘inside the box’ and to limit her expectations because her husband will provide for her in the future. A young lady is taught to never fuss or complain and to always keep a smile on her face. When a young lady speaks her mind, she is told that she is not acting “ladylike”. When a young lady steps out of her comfort zone to challenge herself to fight for what she wants, she is told she is not acting “ladylike”. When a young lady plays a sport, and at times she may be aggressive, she is told that she is not acting “ladylike” When a young lady is bossy, she is told to humble herself, because that is not acting “ladylike”. Maybe she isn’t bossy, maybe she is confident within herself, has high self-esteem and knows she can dare to be different.

is a MYTHical MANchild Of rather dubious distinction Always AGITATING COMBINATING and ELEVATING his game He dribbles fakes then takes the ROCK to the glass, fast, and on BLAST But watch out when he shoots or you’ll get SCHOOLed FOOLed UNCOOLed ’Cause when FILTHY gets hot He has a SLAMMERIFIC SHOT It’s Dunkalicious CLASSY Supersonic SASSY and D O W N right in your face mcNASTY

IN ENGLISH, words of Latin origin tend to carry overtones of intellectual, moral and aesthetic “classiness"—overtones which are not carried, as a rule, by their Anglo-Saxon equivalents. “Maternal,” for instance, means the same as “motherly,” “intoxicated” as “drunk”—but with what subtly important shades of difference! And when Shakespeare needed a name for a comic character, it was Sir Toby Belch that he chose, not Cavalier Tobias Eructation.

when we practice putting others first, following Christ’s example, that small world expands.

There is no lack of harmony in the relationship of a sensual couple. Problems arise when sensuality is neglected.

I’m gonna admit it: When one of those nuns showered with us after wrestling practice there were more than a few boners on display.

 It’s weird being alone in the museum. It’s dark and eerily quiet: Only the after-hours lights are on—just enough to illuminate the hallways and stop you from tripping over your own feet—and the background music that normally plays all the time is shut off. I quickly organize the flashlights and check their batteries, and when I don’t hear Porter walking around, I stare at the phone sitting at the information desk. How many chances come along like this? I pick up the receiver, press the little red button next to the word ALL, and speak into the phone in a low voice. “Paging Porter Roth to the information desk,” I say formally, my voice crackling through the entire lobby and echoing down the corridors. Then I press the button again and add, “While you’re at it, check your shoes to make sure they’re a match, you bastard. By the way, I still haven’t quite forgiven you for humiliating me. It’s going to take a lot more than a kiss and a cookie to make me forget both that and the time you provoked me in the Hotbox.” I’m only teasing, which I hope he knows. I feel a little drunk on all my megaphone power, so I page one more thing: “PS—You look totally hot in those tight-fitting security guard pants tonight, and I plan to get very handsy with you at the movies, so we better sit in the back row.” I hang up the phone and cover my mouth, silently laughing at myself. Two seconds later, Porter’s footfalls pound down Jay’s corridor—Boom! Boom! Boom! Boom! He sounds like a T. rex running from Godzilla. He races into the lobby and slides in front of the information desk, grabbing onto the edge to stop himself, wild curls flying everywhere. His grin is enormous. “Whadidya say ’bout where you want to be puttin’ your hands on me?” he asks breathlessly. “I think you have me confused with someone else,” I tease. His head sags against the desk. I push his hair away from one of his eyes. He looks up at me and asks, “You really still haven’t forgiven me?” “Maybe if you put your hands onme, I might.” “Don’t go getting my hopes up like that.” “Oh, your hopes should be up. Way up.” “Dear God, woman,” he murmurs. “And here I was, thinking you were a classy dame.” “Pfft. You don’t know me at all.” “I aim to find out. What are we still doing here? Let’s blow this place and get to the theater, fast.

It's odd," Amory said to Tom one night when they had grown more amicable on the subject, "that the people who violently disapprove of Burne's radicalism are distinctly the Pharisee class—I mean they're the best-educated men in college—the editors of the papers, like yourself and Ferrenby, the younger professors.... The illiterate athletes like Langueduc think he's getting eccentric, but they just say, 'Good old Burne has got some queer ideas in his head,' and pass on—the Pharisee class—Gee! they ridicule him unmercifully.

Watch Shawshank Redemption. ‘Expertly done’ would be the review. Not a foot wrong. Classy. I just wish this had not extended even to the immaculate hairdos of all the inmates. When will a director tell a hair person to STOP tidying everyone up—it’s an awful reflex action.

Burg Catholicism was a convenient religion. When the mind boggled, there was always God, waiting in the wings to take the rap. Connie handed me the check and plucked at a clump of mascara hanging at the end of her left eyelash. “I’m telling you, it’s fucking hard to be classy,” she said.

when Mary died a few years after their wedding, Philip wasn’t exactly broken up about it. He was so unfazed, in fact, that he immediately proposed to her much younger sister. (In terms of taste, that’s nearly on par with beheading your wife, then marrying her illiterate, nymphomaniacal teenage cousin. Keeping it classy, Tudors.)

Me: I’m glad we never had to resort to robbing banks for money. You’d be a terrible accomplice. Georgia: Yes, remember that. Me = terrible accomplice. Me: Tell me something I don’t already know. If you were a hooker, you’d probably track your payments on an Excel spreadsheet and claim them on your taxes. (Add terrible hooker to the list.) Georgia: Whatever. I’d be the most organized hooker. I’d get one of those credit card swipe-y things. Me: When is the right time to complete the transaction in that scenario? Georgia: I think they’d swipe before, and sign their PayPal receipt after. Me: Prostitute Georgia is classy AF. Georgia: I know, right?

My mom is all about being prim, proper, and classy. Enter beauty pageants, marry a rich man, and live lavishly. I think she just wanted me to have the life she couldn’t have, and when I did the opposite, she resented me for it.” “At least you'll end up marrying a rich man.” “Now I can never marry you. It's my life's purpose to disappoint her in every decision I make.” “Don't underestimate me, Addie. I'll become a poor man for you.

Ravi buys all four of our tickets, which Peter is really impressed by. “Such a classy move,” he whispers to me as we sit down. Peter deftly maneuvers it so we’re sitting me, Peter, Ravi, Margot, so he can keep talking to him about soccer. Or football, as Ravi says. Margot gives me an amused look over their heads, and I can tell all the unpleasantness from before is forgotten. After the movie, Peter suggests we go for frozen custards. “Have you ever had frozen custard before?” he asks Ravi. “Never,” Ravi says. “It’s the best, Rav,” he says. “They make it homemade.” “Brilliant,” Ravi says. When the boys are in line, Margot says to me, “I think Peter’s in love--with my boyfriend,” and we both giggle. We’re still laughing when they get back to our table. Peter hands me my pralines and cream. “What’s so funny?” I just shake my head and dip my spoon into the custard.

When he got out, I rolled my window down. “You look like you’re going to throw up.” He grimaced, pressing a hand to his stomach. “I don’t know if it’s from this, or if I actually am sick. I think Avery got sick from the weekend. She was puking this morning when I left.” “Avery, huh? At your place?” He rolled his eyes. “Don’t even start.” “But you see, I have to. I have to start. Avery’s my friend. I’m hanging out with your brother. You and I are classmates. I think we can develop our friendship to the stage where I give you shit. We should even start sitting next to each other in class.” “Don’t press your luck.” I kept going, “It’s a natural progression. Don’t fight it, Marcus. It’s like evolution. Don’t fight evolution. You’ll never win. Mother nature is a bitch. She’s always going to win.” “What the fuck are you talking about?” “How I get to give you shit. It’s an amazing experience in life, like giving birth. It’s painful for one person, but breathtaking for another. I’m the baby here. I get to feel air for the first time on my skin. Let me breathe, Marcus. Let me put my baby lungs to work and scream.” “I swear you’re making me even sicker.” “If you gotta puke, don’t suppress. It’s a natural body process.” He eyed me a moment. “Did you rhyme that on purpose?” “Maybe. Or I might be crazy?” I winked. “Or just a classy lady?” “Stop. I’m really going to puke now.” He groaned, pressing his arm against his forehead. “I was going to tease you back about Caden, but forget it. I don’t think I have the energy to deal with your rhyming.” “I’ve been told I’m amazing like that.” “Who told you that?” “Who hasn’t is the real question.” “You’re not making sense.” “I do that too. That’s very true.” I wondered if I should find him a bag, in case he actually was going to upchuck.

excited about a work of fiction? Reviews? Few see them. Awards or nominations? Most folks are oblivious to them. Covers? Good ones can cause a consumer to lift a book from its shelf, but covers are only wrapping. Classy imprints? When was the last time you purchased a novel because of the logo on the spine? Big advances? Does the public know, let alone care? Agents with clout? Sad to say, that is not a cause of consumer excitement. In reality there is one reason, and one reason only, that readers get excited about a novel: great storytelling.

Needless to say, cooking for a man with such a delicate palate can be challenging and every once in a while I like to make something that isn't served with a glass of milk and a side of applesauce. This can be difficult with a husband with such discriminating taste buds. Difficult, but not impossible, if you're willing to lie. Which I am.   During the winter months I love to make soups and one of my favorites is taco soup. It has all of the basic food groups in one bowl; meat, veggies, beans, and Fritos. It's perfection. I've been warming bodies and cleaning colons with this recipe for years. However, when I met my husband he advised he didn't like beans, so he couldn't eat taco soup. This was not the response I hoped for.   I decided to make it for him anyway. The first time I did I debated whether to add beans. I knew he wouldn't eat it if I did, but I also knew the beans were what gave it the strong flavor. I decided the only way to maintain the integrity of the soup was to sacrifice mine. I lied to him about the ingredients. Because my husband is not only picky but also observant, I knew I couldn't just dump the beans into the soup undetected. Rather, I had to go incognito. For that, I implored the use of the food processor, who was happy to accommodate after sitting in the cabinet untouched for years.   I dumped the cans of beans in the processor and pureed them into a paste. I then dumped the paste into the taco soup mixture, returning the food processor to the cabinet where it would sit untouched for another six months.   When it came time to eat, I dished out a heaping bowl of soup and handed it to my husband. We sat down to eat and I anxiously awaited his verdict, knowing he was eating a heaping bowl of deceit.   “This is delicious. What's in it?” he asked, in between mouthfuls of soup.   “It's just a mixture of taco ingredients,” I innocently replied, focusing on the layer of Fritos covering my bowl.   “Whatever it is, it's amazing,” he responded, quickly devouring each bite.   At that moment I wanted nothing more than to slap the spoon out of his hand and yell “That's beans, bitch!” However, I refrained because I'm classy (and because I didn't want to clean up the mess).

Shyness is not necessarily a problem. It can be a very nice aspect of your personality. Many introverted celebrities, such as Chelsea Clinton and the late Princess Diana, are considered sophisticated and classy because of their reserved personalities. Shyness can make you appear intelligent, discreet, and circumspect. Shy people are valued as good listeners and are more likely to be considered kindhearted, conscientious, and trustworthy. They rarely are overaggressive or obnoxious and usually try not to act in ways that hurt others. A degree of shyness also allows you to be cautious and judge situations before jumping into them. You can stand back, observe, make careful decisions, and then act deliberately. With all of these positive qualities, it is no surprise that between 10 and 20 percent of those who consider themselves shy like their personalities and don’t want to change. They are comfortable with being quiet and are confident that when they do have something to say others will pay attention. Distinguishing social anxiety from normal shyness is sometimes difficult. It has to do with the level of distress and impairment associated with social fears. If you prefer being quiet and listening to others and you feel comfortable with that role, you probably don’t have social anxiety. On the other hand, if you don’t speak up because you are afraid others won’t like what you say or you are terrified of sounding foolish, you most likely have a degree of social anxiety.

When did all this happen?” Vaughn asked. “We met for drinks last Friday to discuss a criminal matter related to Sterling. Things progressed from there.” “Is that right?” Vaughn looked at him slyly. “Just how far did they progress?” “Still not comfortable talking about Brooke this way,” Huxley interjected. Cade held back a smile, grateful for the excuse to change the subject. For whatever reason, he didn’t feel like engaging in locker room talk about Brooke. “Huxley’s right. Try to keep it classy, Vaughn.” Vaughn studied him for a moment. Seven years they’d been best friends, and they knew each other well. “You like her.” Cade took a nonchalant sip of his beer. “Just watch the game.” “Evading the question,” Huxley said under his breath to Vaughn. “I think we got our answer, Agent Roberts.” “We sure did, Agent Huxley,” Vaughn said. Cade shook his head. He really needed to get some non-FBI friends.

And, should anyone here present know of any reason that this couple should not be joined in holy matrimony,” Archbishop Callaghan said as he neared the end of the wedding ceremony. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.” There wasn’t even a slight pause when a voice rang out from behind. “Grant! No! I love you!” Vanessa Bennet came running down the aisle, her eyes glazed over. She was also wearing a full-length wedding gown. “You can’t marry her! You love me.” “Cazzo!” Frankie rolled her eyes. “Hold this,” she shoved her bouquet at Grant and picked up her skirts, intending to give Vanessa a piece of her mind. Who the hell wears white to another woman’s wedding? Before Frankie could even began walking towards the aisle, Vanessa let out a pained shriek as a fist connected with her jaw, sending her sprawling to the ground. “You. Will. Not. Ruin. This. Day!” Callista declared, her voice edged with danger as she rubbed her fist. Alynna guffawed loudly from her seat on the groom’s side. “Wow. I guess Callista’s not too classy to smack a biatch either.

Lukesagynecologist." "What?" Everly tilts her head like I'm talking crazy. "Luke is a gynecologist. At the student health clinic." "Shut the fuck up." I think I've managed to shock Everly. "I did not see this coming." She looks at me. "So?" "So?" I ask. "So you rescheduled the appointment with another doctor?" "No. I kept the appointment." "You kinky bitch, you did not! Stop it." "I did. I was already sitting on the exam table wearing a paper gown when he walked in. What was I supposed to do?" "Was it good for you?" She grins at me suggestively. "Everly!" "Bitch, I know you enjoyed it. At least a little." "You think there's something wrong with me, don't you?" "Sophie, no. That guy has no business being a gynecologist. It's not fair to women." "I think he's technically an obstetrician." "Same difference." "The nurse said he runs a department at the hospital.” "Well done, Sophie. When you crush, you crush classy." "Ugh." I cringe. "That reminds me. Do you keep your socks on during a gynecologist exam?" "Off. So, did you get your prescription?" "Yeah." I nod. "And a bag full of condoms." I pat my backpack. "Aww. Dr. Luke cares about your safety." "You understand I am never waiting on him again, right?" "Oh, yeah. I figured that out about thirty seconds into this conversation.

So what kind of woman are you looking for? Let me guess. Professional. Sophisticated. Classy. Intelligent. Basically, Lucia but younger, or do you like a little Mrs. Robinson between the sheets?" She took another bite of her hot dog. Was there any better food? "My relationship with Lucia is strictly professional, but yes, I'd be interested in someone similar." "So, you want a mini-me," she teased. "I mean a mini-you. Not me. Obviously. Lucia is pretty much the opposite of me, which is another reason I knew that job wouldn't work out." "You have ketchup on your cheek." He took a napkin and gently dabbed it at the corner of her mouth. Desire flooded her veins followed by a wave of desolation. She could easily fall for a man like Jay. Smart, handsome, ambitious, successful, and yet she sensed a longing in him, a secret Jay waiting to be free. "Is it gone?" Her voice came out in a whisper. He leaned in and studied her with a serious intensity that took her breath away. He was so close she could see the gentle dip of his chin, the dark stubble of his five-o'clock shadow even though it couldn't be much past four o'clock. His lips were firm and soft, his mouth the perfect size for kissing. She drew in his scent: pine and mountains and the rich, earthy scent of the soil she'd turned in the garden when her family was whole and she never had to wonder whose house she was in when she woke up in the morning.

She walked slowly towards him, taking in how he looked so eerily still. “Okay you,” she said, her voice choked. “We have to have a talk. I know you’re a Dardano, but a wedding reception in the ICU? Not so classy.” She lowered her head, her attempt at levity falling flat under the weight of her heartbreak. She blinked back her tears and cupped his face. “You listen to me, okay? You are not leaving me. You’re not allowed. You’re going to fight, understand? Alessandro, I will not bury another husband. Do you hear me? I refuse to grieve for you. That is not even an option because you are my life.” She kissed his forehead, the beeping of the heart monitor and the respirators the only sounds in the room. “Funny huh? I spent so much time pushing you away and here I am begging you to stay. Not just for me, but for our boys. Will’s already lost one father, don’t you leave him too. And Gianni…don’t you dare leave him nothing but stories about some man in a picture frame.” Bree took his hand, rubbing his ring finger. “Please, Alessandro. Fight. I won’t survive without you. I won’t.” She kissed his palm. “We’ve fought too hard for you to just give up when we’re finally going to be happy. Dammit Alessandro, you owe me! You owe me a life, a happy life together. So don’t you dare die on me. Don’t you leave me to deal with that son of a bitch father of yours by myself.” She covered her mouth with her free hand to stifle her sobs. She leaned down and kissed his still mouth. “I love you…I love you so much…” Her tears fell on his face as she rested her forehead against his.

He frowned down at her. “You need to settle down and listen to me.” “You need to fuck off and—” She never got the next word out because he flipped her over on her stomach. While she cursed and tried to move him he tied her hands together with something, then wrapped some silky cloth around her head, forcing it between her lips. Bound and gagged, he moved her back over so she was on her back again. Beyond pissed, she struggled against her bindings, trying to get free so she could kill him. To her disgust he just grinned and watched her writhe on her mattress until she finally lay there in a sweaty, panting heap, with her hands still bound and her mouth still gaged. “Done with your tantrum?” he asked in a quiet voice. “Fuck you,” she said, or at least tried to say. It must have come through loud and clear because he smiled at her, a predatory smile that actually made her wet. Damn her hormones had bad taste and timing. He licked his lips and her pussy throbbed. “Oh, you’ll be begging me to fuck you by the time I’m done with you.” She glared, then rolled over on her stomach so she could flip him off with both bound hands. “See, this is why I love you. I love you, Amanda. You’re it for me. All I want, the only woman I want.” He leaned down and brushed her hair back from her face with a gentle touch. “Hold still and I’ll let you up. I’m sorry if I scared you.” “Wait,” she said in a garbled voice. “You love me?” He smiled and began to unbutton his shirt, slowly, revealing his magnificent body an inch at a time. “That’s right, I love you. I love how brave you are, how smart, how classy and yet at the same time you can cuss up a blue streak. I love how you take care of me, how I’m the only one who gets to see the soft, feminine side of you that comes out when you make love. I love your temper, your kindness, and how you devour me with your eyes, like you want to eat me alive. Kind of like you’re doing right now.” “I don’t love you,” she mumbled through the gag. “Liar,” he whispered into her ear, tracing the shell with the tip of his tongue.

When we reach a certain age we have opportunity to decide how we present ourselves to the world, and that age is getting ever younger. Even our young teenage generation is aware of fashion and we grow acutely more and more aware of how obsessed our society is with imagery and appearance. Or rather we become more aware that to get on in life we need to be brash and bright and sparkling all the time. That bright colours and big noises is what gets your through life, that any substance behind that is almost irrelevant to success. We only need look at who we proclaim as celebrities, who society rewards with wealth, that substance is not a prerequisite to success. Be bright, make a statement, choose a bold look, dye your hair, pierce your body, paint it with permanent ink, wear outlandish clothes and don't be afraid to say something crude or mean or controversial because that's the person you are. Or is it? Is it that when you've done with the all the additions to your body, the person you look at in the mirror is no longer the real you. It is a character, the one you think society wants you to be, that society has convinced you that you want to be, substance optional. One of the most beautiful moments of conversation on and offline I've had with some people is when they surprise me, a comment or opinion with substance and thought, something away fro their character, revealing the real individual in-between. So why hide that part of you. When did our society evolve into a place when people have to sell themselves as a larger than life character? When did being a little quiet, thoughtful, more subtly dressed stop being classy and become perceived as dull. When did people, intelligent people, start to realise that world didn't want them to be themselves and it was better to throw in some over the top extravagances, make claim to some extreme habits and tastes. These same people permanently seeking definition of the character they've become rather than friendship from real people who know it is purely superficial but go along with it anyway. You're not your unnaturally coloured hair or your mark applied to you by a skilled artist. You are not the label of clothes you wear nor the quirky colours you choose to represent yourself. Just be honest with yourself, attention seeking is an illness. Don't follow the trends like everyone else. Make your own. That's my objective, to unashamedly be myself, And that is probably why I always wear a lot of black. No tricks, no fancy colours, no parlour tricks to detract from who I am. I want people to see my subtance, not be clouded with smoke and mirrors and see a character that doesn't really exist.

When we reach a certain age we have opportunity to decide how we present ourselves to the world, and that age is getting ever younger. Even our young teenage generation is aware of fashion and we grow acutely more and more aware of how obsessed our society is with imagery and appearance. Or rather we become more aware that to get on in life we need to be brash and bright and sparkling all the time. That bright colours and big noises is what gets your through life, that any substance behind that is almost irrelevant to success. We only need look at who we proclaim as celebrities, who society rewards with wealth, that substance is not a prerequisite to success. Be bright, make a statement, choose a bold look, dye your hair, pierce your body, paint it with permanent ink, wear outlandish clothes and don't be afraid to say something crude or mean or controversial because that's the person you are. Or is it? Is it that when you've done with the all the additions to your body, the person you look at in the mirror is no longer the real you. It is a character, the one you think society wants you to be, that society has convinced you that you want to be, substance optional. One of the most beautiful moments of conversation on and offline I've had with some people is when they surprise me, a comment or opinion with substance and thought, something away fro their character, revealing the real individual in-between. So why hide that part of you. When did our society evolve into a place when people have to sell themselves as a larger than life character? When did being a little quiet, thoughtful, more subtly dressed stop being classy and become perceived as dull. When did people, intelligent people, start to realise that world didn't want them to be themselves and it was better to throw in some over the top extravagances, make claim to some extreme habits and tastes. These same people permanently seeking definition of the character they've become rather than friendship from real people who know it is purely superficial but go along with it anyway. You're not your unnaturally coloured hair or your mark applied to you by a skilled artist. You are not the label of clothes you wear nor the quirky colours you choose to represent yourself. Just be honest with yourself, attention seeking is an illness. Don't follow the trends like everyone else. Make your own. That's my objective, to unashamedly be myself, And that is probably why I always wear a lot of black. No tricks, no fancy colours, no parlour tricks to detract from who I am. I want people to see my subtance, not be clouded with smoke and mirrors and see a character that doesn't really exist.

Sky's The Limit" [Intro] Good evening ladies and gentlemen How's everybody doing tonight I'd like to welcome to the stage, the lyrically acclaimed I like this young man because when he came out He came out with the phrase, he went from ashy to classy I like that So everybody in the house, give a warm round of applause For the Notorious B.I.G The Notorious B.I.G., ladies and gentlemen give it up for him y'all [Verse 1] A nigga never been as broke as me - I like that When I was young I had two pair of Lees, besides that The pin stripes and the gray The one I wore on Mondays and Wednesdays While niggas flirt I'm sewing tigers on my shirts, and alligators You want to see the inside, I see you later Here comes the drama, oh, that's that nigga with the fake, blaow Why you punch me in my face, stay in your place Play your position, here come my intuition Go in this nigga pocket, rob him while his friends watching And hoes clocking, here comes respect His crew's your crew or they might be next Look at they man eye, big man, they never try So we rolled with them, stole with them I mean loyalty, niggas bought me milks at lunch The milks was chocolate, the cookies, butter crunch 88 Oshkosh and blue and white dunks, pass the blunts [Hook: 112] Sky is the limit and you know that you keep on Just keep on pressing on Sky is the limit and you know that you can have What you want, be what you want Sky is the limit and you know that you keep on Just keep on pressing on Sky is the limit and you know that you can have What you want, be what you want, have what you want, be what you want [Verse 2] I was a shame, my crew was lame I had enough heart for most of them Long as I got stuff from most of them It's on, even when I was wrong I got my point across They depicted me the boss, of course My orange box-cutter make the world go round Plus I'm fucking bitches ain't my homegirls now Start stacking, dabbled in crack, gun packing Nickname Medina make the seniors tote my Niñas From gym class, to English pass off a global The only nigga with a mobile can't you see like Total Getting larger in waists and tastes Ain't no telling where this felon is heading, just in case Keep a shell at the tip of your melon, clear the space Your brain was a terrible thing to waste 88 on gates, snatch initial name plates Smoking spliffs with niggas, real-life beginner killers Praying God forgive us for being sinners, help us out [Hook] [Verse 3] After realizing, to master enterprising I ain't have to be in school by ten, I then Began to encounter with my counterparts On how to burn the block apart, break it down into sections Drugs by the selections Some use pipes, others use injections Syringe sold separately Frank the Deputy Quick to grab my Smith & Wesson like my dick was missing To protect my position, my corner, my lair While we out here, say the Hustlers Prayer If the game shakes me or breaks me I hope it makes me a better man Take a better stand Put money in my mom's hand Get my daughter this college grant so she don't need no man Stay far from timid Only make moves when your heart's in it And live the phrase sky's the limit Motherfuckers See you chumps on top [Hook]

tip. I always try to catch a moment when I just stand back and quietly watch my family and friends enjoying themselves and each other. Let that moment wash over you so you can store it up for the times when life gets stressful. Those moments are like precious treasures we can pause to look at again and again. You might even keep a hospitality journal—a book to record the memories of your time together. Or, like we have, a guest book by the front door for our friends to sign so we remember our time together. Entries can be short and sweet, just enough to jog your memory: ice cream sandwiches on the patio with family and friends, game night with the grandparents, pizza party with the neighbors. You might write down what was on the menu, who attended, any details that you cherished—twinkly lights on the porch, the smell of homemade brownies baking, or jokes you laughed at, stories you shared. There

When he wants to, he can be real kind. He knows so well how to spoil a woman. He gave me a ring with a pink sapphire. I bet you it’s real! Also, a gold chain with a locket, which at the last minute—like, just before saying, I do—I decided not to wear. I wanted to look classy, and worried that it’s gonna be a bit much. And the other pair? Now, that’s my very first pair of high heel shoes.

I wondered if she had bought the story. If she hadn’t thanked Harry for his response, I would have known she hadn’t bought it, because she was classy and it wouldn’t have been like her not to respond. But the thank-you might have been automatic, sent even in the presence of continued suspicions. It could even have been duplicitous, intended to lull Harry into thinking she was satisfied when in fact the opposite was true.

here where it contains a number of oh-so-useful skewers and spatulas that will add a —ing new dimension of enjoyment to those Al Fresco patio meals.” He ripped open the box and dragged out a blue and white apron, which he examined critically. “‘Kill the Cook!!!’” he said, slipping it over his head. “Hey, this is classy stuff. I’ll have to get some —ing friends, so’s they can envy me when I’m having meals with —ing Al Fresco.

Laszlo eyed the Drakefords suspiciously. “I already told you. There. Is. No. Beelzebub!” “Okay,” said Maggie. “Fine. Then why have we heard about him and not Baal?” “You really want to know?” She nodded. The demon looked like he’d been sucking on a lemon. “All right,” he muttered. “Fine. I’ll tell you. It all began when a certain bigwig—we’ll call him Lite-Brite—didn’t like my dad calling himself Baal Zebul. That means ‘Lord of the Manor,’ which we can all agree is perfectly normal and classy. But Lite-Brite thought Dad was getting too big for his britches. So what does that asshole do? He starts a rumor with the Israelites that my dad’s name is actually Baal Zebub—‘Lord of the Flies’—which might as well be ‘Lord of the Turds.’ Well, everyone thought this was hilarious.” Laszlo assumed a patrician bonhomie. “‘Evening, Baalzebub!’ . . . ‘How goes it, Baalzebub?’ . . . ‘I accidentally swatted one of your subjects, Baalzebub. Hope you don’t mind, old chap’ . . .

You haven’t,” he accused with a chuckle. “Why make all of that talk about me assuming something if it’s true? Women…” He shook his head. “You’re upset because I guessed something about you and was correct. Relax… it doesn’t make you predictable.” Gaby was too busy trying to stop from reaching over and smashing black rice in his face to see the compliment in his words. “Well, for your information, you’re wrong. I very much have had Fusion food before and in fact… I’ve been here, many times actually.” Gaby glared at him before reaching over and picking up the small cup of water. He looked like he wanted to say something to her but was stuck and Gaby was ecstatic she had stumped him as she took a sip, parched from her tête-à-tête. “Uh…” Power started, but Gaby was already quenching her thirst. Ew, it was a bit…stale, maybe? Definitely tap water, warm, and not something that should be served in a classy restaurant. She slowly put the water back down and looked off, swishing the remnants around in her mouth before stubbornly swallowing. When she brought eyes back to him she noticed his lips were sucked in and a trace of a grin played on his face. “What? What’s wrong with you?” He hesitated, as if he didn’t want to say at first. “That’s…the finger bowl.” After a beat, Gaby replied.

When I entered the Classy Cat on Piedmont Road,

It was another beautiful crisp, clear day, in what has always been considered picturesque Überlingen. The village was internationally known for its traditional beauty and was a popular vacation destination long before the war. As usual, there was just a hint of a breeze off the brilliantly blue lake and I could understand why so many Germans would come here for their urlaub or vacation. Having a little money left over from the last check sent by Mina, I found a nice room for the three of us, overlooking the lake at a classy resort hotel. For the next two days we lived quite comfortably in our new surroundings. In fact we even enjoyed a real hot bath, something that I had almost forgotten. As I soaked in the warm, sudsy water I could hear my children laughing and giggling in the next room, and longed for a time when the world would be at peace again. During the day we walked along the shore of the beautiful Bodensee, but in the back of my mind, I knew that this was nothing more than a horrible illusion and couldn’t last; besides I had to find work. In reality, the children and I would have to settle in somewhere so that we could find some sort of stability. It was also important that they enroll in a school again. That “somewhere” turned out to be a room in a house owned by two old ladies who took in boarders. The old house faced the railroad station and was quaint in the old world style. It fit right into the picture postcard appearance of romantic Überlingen. Erika, the younger of the two ladies, was very kind and helpful to me. There were also two other tenants, Mr. and Mrs. Koestoll. He was German and she seemed to be what could be considered a typical French housewife, who devoted her life to her German husband. Herr Koestoll, was old and feeble and they sustained themselves on a very small pension. In fact it was so bad that he couldn’t even afford shoes. However their happiness didn’t seem to depend on money. I grew very fond of them for the short time that we knew each other.

There is a misperception about black women in society. When a black woman presents expectations to a man, she is seen as needy, bossy and a gold digger. When a woman who is not of African American descent expresses the same thing from a man, she is seen as a trophy wife. When a woman of European descent presents the same thing, she is viewed as a classy woman with standards. When a woman of European descent presents the same standards as a black woman, the Caucasian woman is credited for implementing rules of dating when she expects a man to pay for dinner or when she tells a man what she desires out of a relationship. The value of African American women is reduced not only by dominant culture and society, but by men, particularly African American men. The media, radio, music, television, newspapers and movies have devalued African American women when in reality African American women are honorable, respectable, classy, elegant, beautiful, educated and hardworking women. Dark skin women are viewed as angry, unattractive and uneducated within modern society. African American women are seen as loud, irate, insensitive and angry women as a result of labels from some African American men, media, movies and music. Television, magazines, social media, internet, videos and some music present Hispanic, Latino, White and Armenian women as trophy wives, idols and models while presenting African American women as mistresses, one night stands, casual sex, gold diggers and “baby mamas.” Latino and Dominican women are viewed as physically beautiful while Caucasian women are viewed as ideal and classy within media, music, music videos and movies. Media presents black women as bitter, scorned, ghetto, ratchet and promiscuous as if women of other races do not exhibit those characteristics. Women of other races are on television and the internet using profanity, fighting, engaging in sexual acts and cheating, however, there is an emphasis on African American women who exhibit those behaviors” (McEachern 85).

Myron walked up the little brick walk and knocked on the door. A very attractive black woman answered, a pleasant smile at the ready. Her hair was tied back in a severe bun, emphasizing the high cheekbones. Age lines around the eyes and mouth, but nothing drastic. She was well dressed, kind of conservative. Anne Klein II. Her jewelry was noticeable but not too flashy. The overall impression: classy. Her smile seemed to fade when she saw him. “Can I help you?” “Mrs. Yeller?” She nodded slowly, as though not sure. “My name is Myron Bolitar. I’d like to ask you a few questions.” The smile fled completely. “What about?” Her diction was different now. Less suburban civil. More street suspicious.

I swear to God, it’s like I don’t know you these last few months! First you accuse my cousin of rape, then you meet and get engaged to a guy that you just met, and now you’re saying my cousin is breaking into our apartment when he doesn’t even know where we live? Classy, Rach. You’ve turned into a real bitch.” I bent forward and exhaled roughly, as if she’d actually punched me. “Candice.” “And you know what pisses me off more? The fact that throughout all of this, all of this lying to me, all of this acting like you’re so in love with Kash and like you’re some fucking victim . . . you’re still dating Blake!” “Whoa, what?! I—no! Where did you hear that?” “He hates that you treat him like crap at school and that you’re hiding your relationship with him. He showed me all of your texts to him.” I shook my head furiously and attempted to swallow past the dryness in my throat. “I haven’t texted him since our dates at the end of last school year, Candice, I swear to you.” “I’m so done with this, Rachel. I’ve been waiting for you to just come clean to me, but for whatever reason, our friendship doesn’t mean anything to you anymore. But if you’re actually going to go through with this marriage to Kash, at least be respectful to my cousin and break it off with him. Nicely.” “Our friendship doesn’t mean anything to me?! You’re the one who won’t believe me and you’re the only family I have left!” She snorted and whirled around with her hand on the door. “And another thing. I’d love to know how you’ve been going between school, work, Kash, and Blake without Kash or me noticing. Share your secrets sometime, it could really come in handy for me, seeing as I’m the slut and all.” The door to her bedroom slammed shut and I stood there unmoving, just staring as I tried to comprehend what the hell had just happened. How had this happened? How had he not only hurt me but hurt my relationship with Candice as well? I hated Blake West with every fiber of my being, and I hated what he’d done to my life. When

When you look at other sports it’s just ludicrous, really. A soccer player’s touched; he collapses like he’s been shot. Tennis: A player cramps, there’s a break, he gets a massage. But the embarrassment, the humiliation LeMond had to endure. But I tell you one thing: He went up in my estimation for that. There was always a sense that LeMond was … classy but soft. Yeah, classy but soft. He was looked on as being a curiosity, as not being serious. Being in a French team, I tried to fit in by pretending I was French, following the French rules—no ice cream but a ton of cheese. He refused that, refused to compromise. But what a bike rider. What a fucking bike rider.

Jack sat in the big chair in his room and said, “Come here,” to Mel. She went to him and he pulled her down onto his lap. “I have something for you.” He pulled a small box out of his pocket, shocking her into silence. It was definitely a ring box. “I don’t know how practical this is in a place like Virgin River. It might be a little fussy. But I couldn’t help myself. I want to give you everything—but this will have to do.” She opened the box to find a diamond ring so beautiful it brought tears to her eyes. It was a wide gold band with three large diamonds set in; classy and understated, yet very rich and unique. “Jack, what were you thinking? This is beautiful! The diamonds are huge!” “I understand if you can’t wear it often, given your work. And if you don’t like the design—” “Are you kidding? It’s gorgeous!” “I went ahead and got a band like it, no diamonds. Is that okay?” “Only perfect. Where in the world did you find this thing?” “Not the Virgin River jewelry store, that’s for sure. I had to drive over to the coast. Are you sure you like it?” She threw her arms around his neck. “You gave me a baby,” she said. “I wasn’t expecting this, too!” “I didn’t know I was giving you a baby,” he said, grinning. “This, I did on purpose.” She laughed at him and said, “People will think we’re uppity.” “Mel—I got it a while ago. When I first thought you might be pregnant. Probably before you did. Even if it had turned out you weren’t, I was set on this. This idea to marry you, to have my life with you… It’s not something I feel like I have to do. It’s what I want.” “God, how did this happen?” “I don’t care how,” he said. He

A striking blonde had just come through the front doors. She was wearing a black pants suit and pumps. Practical, but classy. What you’d see on a traveler carrying a first-class ticket. She was tall, too, maybe five-nine, five-ten, with long legs that looked good even in pants, and a ripe, voluptuous body. A porter followed her in, gripping a pair of large Vuitton bags. He paused near her, and leaned forward to ask something. She raised a hand to indicate he should wait, then started her own visual sweep of the room. I hadn’t expected that, and quickly returned my attention to Keiko until the blonde’s gaze had passed over us. When I glanced over again, she was standing beside Belghazi, her arm linked through his. Something about her presence was as relaxed and, in its way, as commanding as his. Everything about her seemed natural: her hair, her face, the curves beneath her clothes.

In our day, friends, there weren’t fancy computers or the internet telling us how to be a man. We just…were men. We figured things out, took responsibility & got the job done. We never needed some motivation or a fancy coaching program to do that. Sweetheart, This isn’t to brag about a bygone era, but to remind you that you too possess that same potential. But yes, now the time has changed. Maybe you need a little help figuring out what it means to be a Man today. Being a man means – having the ability to make yourself do the things that should be done, when you should do it, whether you feel like it or not! There are a few things that make a real man. Go on my blog to read the full list of things that you must do become a real man. (rajeshgoyaldotin) Darling listen - Become the Man You Want to Be! I wish you to know that becoming a man is not a one-time decision or event: it’s something you have to choose every day. It’s like shaving; just because you do it once doesn’t mean you’re done; you still have to wake up & do it again in the morning. Remember, dear – you are supposed to become an honorable man & not just a man; it’s not enough to know you need to act, you also need to know what actions to take. What should you start doing? Where do you hope your actions will lead you? Here’s to all the strong, confident men out there, young & old! Stay Classy, Sassy & Fabulous! Blessings!

A negative passion cannot become universal. You cannot imagine a federation of hatreds. You might almost wish to see such a scenario come about. But the worst situation doesn't always materialize. The fact remains that from this point on there is something which is completely beyond social regulation. If this is not the end of History, it is certainly the end of the social. We are no longer in anomie, but in anomaly. Anomaly is what escapes not only the law but the rule. What is outside the game, `offside', no longer in a position to play. The outlaw space bred violence; this offside space breeds virulence. But as to what exactly is being bred in anomaly, we have no notion. When a system becomes universal (the media, networks, the financial markets, human rights), it automatically becomes anomalous and secretes virulences of all kinds: financial crashes, AIDS, computer viruses, deregulation, disinformation. Hatred itself is a virus of this kind. Take Paulin, the man from Guadeloupe who went around murdering old ladies a few years ago. A monstrous individual, but cool, and with no apparent hatred in him. He had no identity, and was of indeterminate sex and mixed race. He committed his murders without violence or bloodshed. And he recounted them with an odd detachment. Being indifferent to himself, he was eliminating people who were themselves indifferent. But we can assume that behind all this there was a deep fund of radical hatred. Doubtless Paulin `had the hate', but he was too classy, too educated, to express it openly.

One by one, the players expressed their anger and disappointment. They said Solo had torn down what the players before her—players like Julie Foudy and Mia Hamm—had built up. This team had a vitally important culture that Solo was destroying. Solo argued: “This isn’t about Julie Foudy or anyone else from the past.” But her pushback only seemed to further upset the veterans. “I didn’t know to handle this betrayal of the team culture,” Markgraf says now. “I was tired, I was hurt, I had blown my ankle out after a poor World Cup. We played horrible soccer. And she blasted Bri, who had handled the transition of power at goalkeeper in a very classy way, so when she did that, it became a mess. I wish I had kept my cool, but her actions were the telling sign that the old culture would no longer work.” For the rest of the players outside that leadership group, the situation was viewed with a range of attitudes, but everyone knew it was something that needed to be dealt with. The problem was that there wasn’t a consensus on what to do.

Done with all you assholes and all your shit! I am done being treated like garbage. I am done rising above it all with a polite fucking smile. I am done trying to be classy about it. I am done with being related to you when I hate you. Go. Away.

It was disheartening to read this sentence in a travel blog. Just including it here makes me cringe: "Sneakers and even sweatpants are acceptable attire everywhere, even in upscale or fancy restaurants." What has become of us? When did travellers transform into the people always in workout gear? What happened to the days when embarking on a journey was an occasion that warranted dressing with pride?

I’m not a conspiracy theory kind of guy, but when city officials close down on you, when Princeton University won’t provide any answers, and when the media says what you’ve got is all a hoax, then where am I? So here is the true story of the Peter Armstrong Papers. You think you know all about them. Such eminent publications as The New York Times and The New Yorker have already said they were a forgery. (The New Yorker went so far as to say that I created a hoax to scare an already virus-nervous public.) Experts I hired examined the papers and verified that they are authentic documents from the period, and that some elements of the stories were undeniably true. Newsweek examined the documents with an open mind and a battery of forensic experts and historians of the era, but would not go as far to say that they described actual events. The women on The View had a rare moment of agreement when they said I was “a menace.” Rolling Stone, ever classy, said I was “full of shit.

But God knows,” he said in his last interview, “when I look back over thirty years of professional writing, I’m hard-pressed to come up with anything that’s important. Some things are literate, some things are interesting, some things are classy, but very damn little is important.”8

Outsourcing your autonomy to an attention economy conglomerate—as you do when you mindlessly sign up for whatever new hot service emerges from the Silicon Valley venture capitalist class—is the opposite of freedom, and will likely degrade your individuality

Sue and I stood in the hallway, waiting on Vice President Biden to arrive to officiate at the ceremony. When he appeared, I took a couple of steps forward, preparing to shake his hand, but without making eye contact with me, he went straight to Sue, thanking her for the sacrifices she'd made, for her service, and for letting me come back to government. What a classy thing to do! I thought. In that moment I knew that he understood how difficult life can be for families, who also serve, and who often see when we're frustrated, sad, or angry--or sometimes, elated--but can't always be told the reason why.

When you define yourself by your successes, you’ll soon also define yourself by your failures. A better way is to anchor yourself in how God sees you: you are His beloved daughter.

That trick shouldn’t be reserved for the movies or stage. I pass it on for any woman to use […]. For a romantic scene by candlelight, let your face and figure — and your expression — play the leading roles. Underdress. Play down the accessories. Leave the startling hat or jewel at home. For a public appearance, on the other hand, when I’m going to be mingling with hundreds of people, I try to give them something stunning to look at. I especially like to give them color.

Here’s another trick you can use. I’ll never forget when I was about 14 years old, full on in my puberty and hornier than a bull. I had a young and pretty math teacher. She was always well dressed and took care of her appearance. One day she had been sitting at her desk as we completed an assignment. She was wearing a classy skirt and shirt, with her hair in a ponytail. Then she dropped a pen and bent over to pick it up. For a split second I could look up her shirt that was loosely hanging down. I saw her bra. This drove me nuts. My hormones went berserk for the very first time ever. This was also the very first time I had felt one of the powers a woman can have over a guy. She gave me a hint. My mind couldn’t stop thinking about the complete picture. Had she given me the complete picture by standing totally naked in front of the blackboard, I would not have been thinking about her in that way for months. To be honest, even thinking about that moment now, more than twenty years later, still does something to me. There are many ways you can give him a hint. However, it should be inconspicuous. If he realizes you’re doing it on purpose, it will lose ALL of its power. All of it! It devalues you right away to the one-night-stand category.

When we appreciate the good in others, the good of others becomes our property. THE BOOK FEATURES: 1.There is Always a Tomorrow 2.The Hare and Tortoise 12 versions (c) 3.The Crayons of Personality 4.The Powerful First Impression 5.Public Speaking - A Million Dollar Idea 6.A Sense of Humor 7.Mind Power- The Giant Within 8.The Making of a Gentleman 9.The Classy Elegant Lady 10.How to Smell Good 11.Grooming and Dress Sense 12.Personal Hygiene 13.Good Manners and Etiquettes 14.Body Language 15.The Attractive Voice 16.Self-Discipline and Time Management 17.Woo, Persuade and Influence Others 18.The Magical Power of Love 19.Secrets of Personal Magnetism 20.A Healthy Lifestyle 21.Cosmetic Surgery Make Over's 22.The Self-Made Millionaire "Every next level of Your life will need a new version of you".

The central idea of minimalism, that less can be more, is not novel. As mentioned in the introduction, this concept dates back to antiquity and has been repeatedly espoused since. The fact, therefore, that this old idea might apply to the new technologies that define so much about our current age shouldn’t be surprising. That being said, the past couple of decades are also defined by a resurgent narrative of techno-maximalism that contends more is better when it comes to technology—more connections, more information, more options. This philosophy cleverly dovetails with the general objective of the liberal humanism project to offer individuals more freedom, making it seem vaguely illiberal to avoid a popular social media platform or decline to follow the latest online chatter. This connection, of course, is specious. Outsourcing your autonomy to an attention economy conglomerate—as you do when you mindlessly sign up for whatever new hot service emerges from the Silicon Valley venture capitalist class—is the opposite of freedom, and will likely degrade your individuality.

Our God is an ambitious God, and He has uniquely and specially prepared you to do the work He’s calling you to. So go ahead, get a little ambitious. When you’re leaning into God’s purpose, it’s a beautiful thing.

. “And I came to know about the mistress. Andrea Darius. I met her for the first time before we were married. Beautiful woman, so beautiful. Smart, classy, very high-society type. She looked kind of like Katherine Heigl—that stately, confident, above-it-all look. I’d suspected from the first time I met her. There was something in the way she looked at him, it was just there. She was an image consultant, a public relations expert who specialized in the financial sector. Lenders and investors are constantly scrutinized, especially private companies and hedge fund managers. But that was just a front. That was one of the first issues I faced when I looked the other way. I made excuses to make my existence more acceptable in my own eyes.” She laughed hollowly. “While I’m a leper in Manhattan, Andrea is still a prominent figure in New York society. There’s been speculation that she’s a high-priced prostitute or even madam. Who knows? Who cares?

Welcome to Château du Roi,” Carter said. Of course the house had a name, Kate thought, and one about as subtle as the three cars out front. Castle of the King. She decided to name her apartment something classy when she got back to L.A. Her place overlooked a gas station, so maybe Château du Chevronview.

And instead of just bein’ classy and beautiful and sweet, she put herself out there when this guy only wanted the classy, beautiful and sweet