Crap Husband Quotes

He is not my focus," Diana told writer Rodney Tyler of Arne. "He’s my husband, my companion, my lover, my confidant. But not my focus. I wasn’t lost, then found by Arne. I was single and met a wonderful man and we enjoyed each other’s company and enjoyed our times together. So it was not lost and found. That’s crap. I have never been lost.

I don’t give a crap what happened between you and Xcor—mother to mother, I care only about you and the babies. And my husband will see my point of view. Trust me.” Layla

On one hand she seems so agile, so athletic, and yet I've seen her appear so awkward that it embarrassed me. She gives the impression of a hard, worldly adroitness, and in some situations she's like an adolescent: rigid with ancient, middle class attitudes, unable to think for herself, falling back on old verities...victim of her family teaching, shocked by what shocks people, wanting what people usually want. She wants a home, a husband, and her idea of a husband is a man who earns a certain amount of money, helps around the garden, does the dishes...the idea of a good husband that's found in This Week magazine; a viewpoint from the most ordinary stratum, that great ubiquitous world of family life, transmitted from generation to generation. Despite her wild language.

You go to the craps table and play a couple of rounds. You keep losing at first, as does he, and you worry that this is sobering both of you. You know the key to impulsivity is believing you are invincible. No one goes around throwing caution to the wind unless the wind is blowing their way.

That which interests most people leaves me without any interest at all. This includes a list of things such as: social dancing, riding roller coasters, going to zoos, picnics, movies, planetariums, watching tv, baseball games; going to funerals, weddings, parties, basketball games, auto races, poetry readings, museums, rallies, demonstrations, protests, children’s plays, adult plays … I am not interested in beaches, swimming, skiing, Christmas, New Year’s, the 4th of July, rock music, world history, space exploration, pet dogs, soccer, cathedrals and great works of Art. How can a man who is interested in almost nothing write about anything? Well, I do. I write and I write about what’s left over: a stray dog walking down the street, a wife murdering her husband, the thoughts and feelings of a rapist as he bites into a hamburger sandwich; life in the factory, life in the streets and rooms of the poor and mutilated and the insane, crap like that, I write a lot of crap like that

You know about trauma bonding, right?” the agent asked abruptly. “Forget kidnapping victims, you see it all the time with battered women. They’re isolated, at the mercy of their dominating spouse, going through intense spells of abject terror followed by even more emotionally draining periods of soul-wrenching apologies. The trauma itself creates a powerful bonding element. The things these two have gone through together, how could anyone else ever understand? It becomes one more thing that makes a woman stay, even after her husband has beat the crap out of her again.

Listen, most people gravitate towards crap. They get a crap husband or a crap job, maybe a crap house or car. It makes them feel like crap. But that's what they're used to, so that's what they go to. Plants always grow towards the light and the food. They are smart enough to reach for the good things in life. They're not dumb. Don't forget that.

I really like you, Evelyn.” I looked at her sideways. She laughed at me. “I know that’s probably not something most actresses mean in this town, but I don’t want to be like most actresses. I really like you. I like watching you on-screen. I like how the moment you show up in a scene, I can’t look at anything else. I like the way your skin is too dark for your blond hair, the way the two shouldn’t go together and yet seem so natural on you. And to be honest, I like how calculating and awful you kind of are.” “I am not awful!” Celia laughed. “Oh, you definitely are. Getting me fired because you think I’ll show you up? Awful. That’s just awful, Evelyn. And walking around bragging about how you use people? Just terrible. But I really like it when you talk about it. I like how honest you are, how unashamed. So many women around here are full of crap with everything they say and do. I like that you’re full of crap only when it gets you something.” “This laundry list of compliments seems to have a lot of insults in it,” I said. Celia nodded, hearing me. “You know what you want, and you go after it. I don’t think there is anyone in this town doubting that Evelyn Hugo is going to be the biggest star in Hollywood one of these days. And that’s not just because you’re something to look at. It’s because you decided you wanted to be huge, and now you’re going to be. I want to be friends with a woman like that. That’s what I’m saying. Real friends. None of this Ruby Reilly, backstabbing, talking-about-each-other-behind-our-backs crap. Friendship. Where each of us gets better, lives better, because we know the other.” I

Since your asshole ex-husband took all his shit with him and we have nothing fun to burn, we’ll start with this pile of shitty clothes,” she tells me, kicking the stack with her toe. “We’re not burning my clothes. Do you have any idea how expensive those pieces were?” I argue, even though the sight of all my monotone, plain clothing makes me want to reach for the closest lighter. “Cindy, you had a breakthrough the other night. You are on the track toward recovery and the first step is admitting you have a problem. Repeat after me: I will no longer put things on my body that are golden wheat, ecru, light baby-shit tan, or anything else in the beige family unless what I’m putting on my body is an actual man with that color skin tone,” Ariel recites, putting her hands on her hips and raising one eyebrow as she waits for me to comply with her request. “And we don’t have to burn everything. Just a few pieces to make you feel better. And by you I mean me, because if I have to look at this crap any longer, I’m going to throw up in my mouth. We can sell the rest.

Is Joanna Gaines here? We have a warrant here for her arrest,” the officer said. It was the tickets. I knew it. And I panicked. I picked up my son and I hid in the closet. I literally didn’t know what to do. I’d never even had a speeding ticket, and all of a sudden I’m thinking, I’m about to go to prison, and my child won’t be able to eat. What is this kid gonna do? I heard Chip say, “She’s not here.” Thankfully, Drake didn’t make a peep, and the officer believed him. He said, “Well, just let her know we’re looking for her,” and they left. Jo’s the most conservative girl in the world. She had never even been late for school. I mean, this girl was straitlaced. So now we realize there’s a citywide warrant out for her arrest, and we’re like, “Oh, crap.” In her defense, Jo had wanted to pay those tickets off all along, and I was the one saying, “No way. I’m not paying these tickets.” So we decided to try to make it right. We called the judge, and the court clerk told us, “Okay, you have an appointment at three in the afternoon to discuss the tickets. See you then.” We wanted to ask the judge if he could remove a few of them for us. “The fines for our dogs “running at large” on our front porch just seemed a bit excessive. We arrived at the courthouse, and Chip was carrying Drake in his car seat. I couldn’t carry it because I was still recovering from Drake’s delivery. We got inside and spoke to a clerk. They looked at the circumstances and decided to switch all the tickets into Chip’s name. Those dogs were basically mine, and it didn’t make sense to have the tickets in her name. But as soon as they did that, this police officer walked over and said, “Hey, do you mind emptying out all of your pockets?” I got up and cooperated. “Absolutely. Yep,” I said. I figured it was just procedure before we went in to see the judge. Then he said, “Yeah, you mind taking off your belt?” I thought, That’s a little weird. Then he said, “Do you mind turning around and putting your hands behind your back?” They weren’t going to let us talk to the judge at all. The whole thing was just a sting to get us to come down there and be arrested. They arrested Chip on the spot. And I’m sitting there saying, “I can’t carry this baby in his car seat. What am I supposed to do?” I started bawling. “You can’t take him!” I cried. But they did. They took him right outside and put him in the back of a police car. Now I feel like the biggest loser in the world. I’m in the back of a police car as my crying wife comes out holding our week-old baby. I’m walking out, limping, and waving to him as they drive away. And I can’t even wave because my hands are cuffed behind my back. So here I am awkwardly trying to make a waving motion with my shoulder and squinching my face just to try to make Jo feel better. It was just the most comical thing, honestly. A total joke. To take a man to jail because his dogs liked to walk around a neighborhood, half of which he owns? But it sure wasn’t funny at the time. I was flooded with hormones and just could not stop crying. They told me they were taking my husband to the county jail. Luckily we had a buddy who was an attorney, so I called him. I was clueless. “I’ve never dated a guy that’s been in trouble, and now I’ve got a husband that’s in jail.

My husband and I have had a three-year debate over whether the man across the street is Chip or Rich, so we just call him Chip-Rich, which makes me hungry for an ice-cream sandwich every time I say it.

Exactly. That woman? One of the kindest people I’ve ever met. She works hard to prepare food for ungrateful kids like you. She always wears a smile on her face and cares about the welfare of the students here. Only terrible, miserable people would talk crap about her behind her back. And by the way, she has a loving husband and daughter who think the world of her. So the next time you want to say something awful about her? Don’t.

The important thing to take away from all this is that, just like a computer, your brain has specific programming. No one else can change it. Just like I can’t change my husband’s or my daughter’s beliefs, I can’t change yours either. YOU have to decide that you’re tired of thinking this crap. The programming (your beliefs and your RAS) is something you can CHANGE. Your mind is standing by, just waiting for you to tell it how to help you, and your RAS is the key. And perhaps this will help you too: No one else is still thinking about what happened five years ago, but you. No one else is keeping score as diligently as you. You are the one cataloging all your flaws, mistakes, and problems, and it’s keeping you focused on (you guessed it!) all your flaws, mistakes, and problems. It’s creating these toxic, untrue beliefs about yourself that act like walls, keeping you trapped in the past. How about you let yourself out of that mental jail? You’ve served your time. You’ve beaten yourself up. It’s time to free yourself from the past and start focusing on the future you want to create. It starts with recognizing that you do have a story or belief about yourself. And that belief is bringing you down.

Her house was broken into, her daughter threatened, her husband shot a man in front of her, then disappeared. And then all this crap from his past—her husband’s ex-girlfriend, the daughter he kidnapped, all of that. It’s insane. I think we can give her a little respectful space, right?

Y-yeah. Michelle wants to be a doctor. She got into NYU, and I can’t send her on my income. But it’s not just that. My husband is sick. Bone cancer, three times, and we’re always waiting for it to come back. If Simone could blacklist Michelle from college, I knew she could put the screws in me, too. She could cost me my career with her connections, and I have to be able to work.” She sniffs at the air. “I’m sure she threatened that other poor woman, too. Jillian. Because when I insisted no one would believe the line of crap she gave me to sell, she promised they would. She told me she had another person lined up. I’m so sorry. Earlier, when you came at me in the bar, I panicked. But once I calmed down, I knew I couldn’t let it go on like this. I had to come clean. I had to...

Later, after Rule became famous, she stopped writing those kind of books and started writing about a different kind of true-crime case. She started writing about real-life gothic soap operas, dream-come-true husbands who turn out to have a dark past and crap. I don’t have any interest in those crimes or those books, which I think are written for women, and I haven’t been able to read anything she’s written in 25 years, although I keep trying.

Trev, there’s—” “Hang on.” Metal grinding on metal screeched in the cold air. Then, “Motherfuckin’ piece of shit.” Chassie glanced at Edgard who’d gone completely still. “That’s not the way to talk in front of company, hon.” “Who’s here?” Trevor spun around and froze. A beat passed. Then Edgard said softly, “Hello, Trevor.” No one spoke; no one moved. Trevor roared, “You motherfuckin’ piece of shit.” He threw the wrench and bulled toward Edgard. Crap. Maybe they weren’t friends after all. Instead of tackling the man and pounding him into the ground, Trevor slapped Edgard on the back. Clasping him in a bear hug, lifting him in the air, practically swinging him in a circle. Whoa. She’d never seen her husband so…exuberant. From seeing an old friend she’d never even heard of? Chassie’s eyes met Trevor’s in confusion and he hastily set Edgard down. “Ah. Sorry, man. It’s just…” Trevor turned away. As he composed himself, Chassie fired a sardonic look at Edgard. “Well, I reckon he’s happy to see you after all.” For Christsake, Edgard was here. Standing in his goddamn front yard. Next to his wife. How was he supposed to deal with this situation? At least he’d stopped himself from laying a big, wet kiss on him. Kissing another man. In front of his wife. Fuck.

What?” “Have you met Thane?” “No, so?” Tina grinned. “I love my husband and my heart is only his, but holy crap, Thane Dreki is hot. He’s like one giant Viking you want pillaging and plundering you.” Lily almost choked on her wine. “Seriously?

The second he caught her scent, he stopped. “Leelan! Are you sure you should be up?” Turned out the smell of the food was one hell of a distraction: the spike of hunger she got in response enough to halt her in her tracks. “Ah . . . yeah, I feel okay. I’m hungry, actually.” As well as scared to death. While the staff continued on into the billiards room, filing in past some sheets of heavy plastic, Wrath came over to the base of the stairs. “Let’s get you into the kitchen.” Heading all the way down to join him, she let him take her arm, and leaned into his strength, taking a deep, easing breath. She’d probably just imagined everything up there. Really. Probably. Crap. “You know, I slept well,” she murmured as if to reassure herself. Which didn’t work. “Yeah?” “Mm-hm.” Together, they walked past the long dining table, and went through the flap door in the far corner. On the other side, iAm was once again at the stove, stirring a great pot. The Shadow turned—and immediately frowned as he looked at her. “What?” She put her hands to her stomach. “What are you—” “Nothing,” he said, banging his wooden spoon on the steel vat. “You two like chicken soup?” “Oh, yes, that sounds perfect.” Beth hopped up onto a stool. “And some bread maybe—” Fritz materialized at her elbow with a baguette and a plate with butter. “For you, madam.” She had to laugh. “How did you know?” As Wrath sat on the stool next to her, George parked it between them. “I had him on standby.” A steaming bowl of soup was slid in front of her by the Shadow. “Enjoy.” “Him, too?” she asked of iAm. “Yeah, the Shadow mighta been on it as well.” Picking up the spoon Fritz offered her, she dug in, aware the three males were staring at her—Wrath with such intensity, it was almost as if he’d gotten his sight back— “Mmmmm,” she said—and meant it. The soup was perfect, simple, not too heavy, and warm, warm, warm. Maybe it was just that she’d been through the needing and not eaten for how long? “So what’s going on in the billiards room,” she asked, to try to distract the males. “They’re cleaning up after me.” She winced. “Ah.” Wrath patted around for the baguette and broke off the hard end, putting it aside. The piece he then tore for her was soft in the middle, crunchy on the outside—and the butter he put on it was the unsalted, sweet kind. The combo was great with the soup. “Would you like something to drink?” Fritz asked. “Wine?” iAm said—before catching himself. “No, not wine. Milk. You need the calcium.” “Good idea, Shadow,” Wrath chimed in as he nodded at Fritz. “Make it whole—” “No, no, that will make me gag.” Annnnd didn’t that stop all of them in their tracks. “Which was true before all the, well, you know. But the skim does sound good.” And so it went, the three of them waiting on her: More soup? iAm hit her bowl again right away. More bread with butter? Husband was on it. More milk? The butler raced for the fridge.

Her face distressed, Astrid handed him off to Zarek. "Menoeceus wants his father." Zarek glared at her. "Bob is crying because he wants his mother to stop calling him that crap-ass name." Zarek cuddled the small boy to him as he rocked him gently against his shoulder while he continued to wail. Loudly. "It's all right, Bob. Daddy's got you now. I'm saving you from Mommy's bad naming taste. I'd be crying, too, if my mom named me after an idiot." "Menoeceus is a great name," Astrid said defensively. Zarek snorted. "For an old man or a feminine hygiene product. Not for my son. And next time I get to name the kid and it won't be something that sounds like meningitis." Astrid stood with her hands on her hips, toe to toe with her husband. "You keep that up and next time you'll be the one birthing it, and don't mess with me, bucko, I have connections in that department. A pregnant man is not an impossibility in my neighborhood." She started away from him. "Yeah, well, I'll be glad to birth it if it means I can name him something normal," Zarek called after her.

There’s no way you could ever guess that the killer is actually Steve. Wait. Oh, crap. Ugh. Well, nobody reads the prologue anyway.

There is no possible way you could know the truth. There’s no way you could ever guess that the killer is actually Steve. Wait. Oh, crap. Ugh. Well, nobody reads the prologue anyway.

Is that a problem?” he asked, without a hint of genuine concern. Good. I didn’t want a vagina for a husband. I would have preferred no husband at all, but if I had to have one, I certainly didn’t want him getting bent out of shape every time I opened my mouth. I wasn’t the standard Notebook-watching, girls’ night out type of woman. I didn’t do emotions or touchy-feely crap.