Customized Dress Quotes

Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death. We misconstrue the nature of even those few days or weeks. We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock. We do not expect the shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind. We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss. We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe that their husband is about to return and need his shoes. In the version of grief we imagine, the model will be "healing." A certain forward movement will prevail. The worst days will be the earliest days. We imagine that the moment to most severely test us will be the funeral, after which this hypothetical healing will take place. When we anticipate the funeral we wonder about failing to "get through it," rise to the occasion, exhibit the "strength" that invariably gets mentioned as the correct response to death. We anticipate needing to steel ourselves the for the moment: will I be able to greet people, will I be able to leave the scene, will I be able even to get dressed that day? We have no way of knowing that this will not be the issue. We have no way of knowing that the funeral itself will be anodyne, a kind of narcotic regression in which we are wrapped in the care of others and the gravity and meaning of the occasion. Nor can we know ahead of the fact (and here lies the heart of the difference between grief was we imagine it and grief as it is) the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaninglessness itself.

Art, literature, and philosophy are attempts to found the world anew on a human freedom: that of the creator; to foster such an aim, one must first unequivocally posit oneself as a freedom. The restrictions that education and custom impose on a woman limit her grasp of the universe...Indeed, for one to become a creator, it is not enough to be cultivated, that is, to make going to shows and meeting people part of one's life; culture must be apprehended through the free movement of a transcendence; the spirit with all its riches must project itself in an empty sky that is its to fill; but if a thousand fine bonds tie it to the earth, its surge is broken. The girl today can certainly go out alone, stroll in the Tuileries; but I have already said how hostile the street is: eyes everywhere, hands waiting: if she wanders absentmindedly, her thoughts elsewhere, if she lights a cigarette in a cafe, if she goes to the cinema alone, an unpleasant incident can quickly occur; she must inspire respect by the way she dresses and behaves: this concern rivets her to the ground and self. "Her wings are clipped." At eighteen, T.E. Lawrence went on a grand tour through France by bicycle; a young girl would never be permitted to take on such an adventure...Yet such experiences have an inestimable impact: this is how an individual in the headiness of freedom and discovery learns to look at the entire world as his fief...[The girl] may feel alone within the world: she never stands up in front of it, unique and sovereign.

Before Tessa could answer, there was a knock at the door, and a familiar voice. "It's Jem. Tessa, are you there?" Charlotte sat bolt upright. "Oh! He mustn't see you in your dress!" Tessa stood dumbfounded. "Whyever not?" "It's a Shadowhunter custom—bad luck!" Charlotte rose to her feet. "Quickly! Hide behind the wardrobe!" "The wardrobe? But—" Tessa broke off with a yelp as Charlotte seized her about the waist and frog-marched her behind the wardrobe like a policeman with a particularly resistant criminal. Released, Tessa dusted off her dress and made a face at Charlotte, and they both peeked around the side of the furniture as the seamstress, after a bewildered look, opened the door. Jem's silvery head appeared in the gap. He looked a bit disheveled, his jacket askew. He glanced around in puzzlement before his gaze lighted on Charlotte and Tessa, half-concealed behind the wardrobe.

Lovers are not at their best when it matters. Mouths dry up, palms sweat, conversation flags and all the time the heart is threatening to fly from the body once and for all. Lovers have been known to have heart attacks. Lovers drink too much from nervousness and cannot perform. They eat too little and faint during their fervently wished consummation. They do not stroke the favoured cat and their face-paint comes loose. This is not all. Whatever you have set store by, your dress, your dinner, your poetry, will go wrong. How is it that one day life is orderly and you are content, a little cynical perhaps, but on the whole just so, and then without warning you find the solid floor is a trapdoor and you are now in another place whose geography is uncertain and whose customs are strange? Travellers at least have a choice. Those who set sail know that things will not be the same as at home. Explorers are prepared. But for us, who travel along the blood vessels, who come to the cities of the interior by chance, there is no preparation. We who were fluent find life is a foreign language. Somewhere between the swamp and the mountains. Somewhere between fear and sex. Somewhere between God and the Devil passion is and the way there is sudden and the way back is worse.

Also in contemporary Western society the union with the group is the prevalent way of overcoming separateness. It is a union which the individual self disappears to a large extent, and where the aim is to belong to the heard. If I am like everybody else, if I have no feeling or thoughts which make me different, if I conform in custom, dress, ideas, to the pattern of the group, I am saved: saved from the frightening experience of aloneness.

That’s what brings in the customers: the combination of gossip and the intricate detail about the dresses, all related as drama. It has the same effect on women, I’m told, as looking at naked women has on men.

Sinuhe, my friend, we have been born into strange times. Everything is melting – changing its shape – like clay on a potter’s wheel. Dress is changing, words, customs are changing, and people no longer believe in the gods – though they may fear them. Sinuhe, my friend, perhaps we were born to see the sunset of the world, for the world is already old, and twelve hundred years have passed since the building of the pyramids. When I think of this, I want to bury my head in my hands and cry like a child.

One of the few times I’ve ever wished for a penis,” she said to Rae when the bartender stepped up to take the order of yet another male customer. They’d been waiting to be served for over twenty minutes. She’d even worn the red magic boob dress tonight, but unfortunately, its mojo offered no help in this particular situation. “You haven’t had sex in six months,” Rae said. “If I were you, I’d be wishing for penises every night.

Your mother is in the bedside chair. She is wearing a dress printed with strawberries and birds. Using a long needle, she is stringing brightly colored origami cranes into garlands. You know what she's doing: It's a Japanese custom called senbazuru. If you make one thousand paper cranes, you can restore someone to good health. Though you cannot see him, you become aware of the fact that your father is sitting on the floor. He is folding cranes so that your mother can string them. This is marriage.

If you go to Singapore or Amsterdam or Seoul or Buenos Aires or Islamabad or Johannesburg or Tampa or Istanbul or Kyoto, you'll find that the people differ wildly in the way they dress, in their marriage customs, in the holidays they observe, in their religious rituals, and so on, but they all expect the food to be under lock and key. It's all owned, and if you want some, you'll have to buy it.

And we dress, sir --?" he murmured, feeling Osnard's gaze burning the nape of his neck. "Most of my gentlemen seem to favour left these days. I don't think it's political." This was his standard joke, calculated to raise a laugh even with the most sedate of his customers. Not with Osnard apparently. "Never know where the bloody thing is. Bobs about like a windsock," he replied dismissively.

Irritation hardened in Cinder’s gut. She might have pointed out that Pearl and Peony could have been given ready-made rather than custom dresses in order to budget for Cinder’s as well. She might have pointed out that they would only wear their dresses one time too.

Your mother is in the bedside chair. She is wearing a dress printed with strawberries and birds. Using a long needle, she is stringing brightly origami cranes into garlands. It's a Japanese custom called senbazaru. If you make one thousand paper cranes, you can restore someone to good health.

The year was 1987, but it might as well have been the Summer of Love: I was twenty, had hair down to my shoulders, and was dressed like an Indian rickshaw driver. For those charged with enforcing our nation’s drug laws, it would have been only prudent to subject my luggage to special scrutiny. Happily, I had nothing to hide. “Where are you coming from?” the officer asked, glancing skeptically at my backpack. “India, Nepal, Thailand…” I said. “Did you take any drugs while you were over there?” As it happens, I had. The temptation to lie was obvious—why speak to a customs officer about my recent drug use? But there was no real reason not to tell the truth, apart from the risk that it would lead to an even more thorough search of my luggage (and perhaps of my person) than had already commenced. “Yes,” I said. The officer stopped searching my bag and looked up. “Which drugs did you take? “I smoked pot a few times… And I tried opium in India.” “Opium?” “Yes.” “Opium or heroin? “It was opium.” “You don’t hear much about opium these days.” “I know. It was the first time I’d ever tried it.” “Are you carrying any drugs with you now?” “No.” The officer eyed me warily for a moment and then returned to searching my bag. Given the nature of our conversation, I reconciled myself to being there for a very long time. I was, therefore, as patient as a tree. Which was a good thing, because the officer was now examining my belongings as though any one item—a toothbrush, a book, a flashlight, a bit of nylon cord—might reveal the deepest secrets of the universe. “What is opium like?” he asked after a time. And I told him. In fact, over the next ten minutes, I told this lawman almost everything I knew about the use of mind-altering substances. Eventually he completed his search and closed my luggage. One thing was perfectly obvious at the end of our encounter: We both felt very good about it.

No doubt after the emperor was overthrown in 1911, your gardener would have joined the rest of the world in cutting the queue and taking on the laws and customs of his adoptive land. Before that, his assuming Western dress would have been dangerous for his family in China.

Ash has a huge customized Barbie collection. Aside from Horror Movie Barbie (head lopped halfway off, torn and bloody clothes), Commando Barbie (camouflage bandana, pistol-whipping Ken with toy guns stolen from Josh), there is my personal favorite, Fat Barbie (dressed in a muumuu, sporting extra body girth and a double chin, thanks to the discreet placement of Silly Putty), I think Fat Barbie is genius but Nancy flipped out when she saw her. Our mother, whose statuesque blond Minnesouda beauty makes her look like a Barbie, is a size four on her bloated days.

In my case, the effort for these years to live in the dress of Arabs, and to imitate their mental foundation, quitted me of my English self, and let me look at the West and its conventions with new eyes: they destroyed it all for me. At the same time I could not sincerely take on the Arab skin: it was an affectation only. Easily was a man made an infidel, but hardly might he be converted to another faith. I had dropped one form and not taken on the other, and has become like Mohammed's coffin in our legend, with a resultant feeling of intense loneliness in life, and a contempt, not for other men, but for all they do. Such detachment came at times to a man exhausted by prolonged physical effort and isolation. His body plodded on mechanically, while his reasonable mind left him, and from without looked down critically on him, wondering what that futile lumber did and why. Sometimes these selves would converse in the void; and then madness was very near, as I believe it would be near the man who could see things through the veils at once of two customs, two educations, two environments.

A child, left to play alone, says of quite an easy thing, 'Now I am going to to do something very difficult'. Soon, out of vanity, fear and emptiness, he builds up a world of custom, convention and myth in which everything must be just so; certain doors are one-way streets, certain trees sacred, certain paths taboo. Then along comes a grown-up or a more robust child; they kick over the imaginary wall, climb the forbidden tree, regard the difficult as easy and the private world is destroyed. The instinct to create myth, to colonize reality with the emotions, remains. The myths become tyrannies until they are swept away, when we invent new tyrannies to hide our suddenly perceived nakedness. Like caddis-worms or like those crabs which dress themselves with seaweed, we wear belief and custom.

Becomingly dressed in a tan cotton suit, Nancy set off in her convertible for the shopping district. She drove down the boulevard, and upon reaching the more congested streets, made her way skillfully through heavy traffic, then pulled into a parking lot. “I think I’ll try Taylor’s Department Store first for a dress,” she decided. Taylor’s was one of River Heights’ finest stores. Nancy purchased several items for Hannah on the main floor, then went directly to the misses’ wearing apparel section on the second floor. Usually Nancy had no trouble finding a sales-clerk. But this particular morning seemed to be an especially busy one in the department, and an extra rush of customers had temporarily overwhelmed the sales force.

When Kim Kardashian wore a custom latex Thierry Mugler dress that redefined tight to the camp-themed party in 2019, Anna kept saying to Lisa Love, “Can you please tell her to sit down?” Love had to explain that, actually, Kardashian physically couldn’t sit.

And this is the Marilyn section,” says Budge. “You can have five different hairstyles, and in the outfits you get a choice too, depending on what movie. That’s from Gentlemen Prefer Blondes, the pink dress; there’s the black suit from Niagara, and over there is the all-girl jazz band one from Some Like It Hot…” “Where are these headed for?” says Stan. “The Oprahs. Are they that into Oprah, in Holland?” “You name it, someone’s gonna be fetishistic about it,” says Derek. “Our biggest customers are the casino operations,

Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it...We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss. We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe that their husband is about to return and need his shoes. In the version of grief we imagine, the model will be 'healing.' A Certain forward movement will prevail. The worst days will be the earliest days. We imagine that the moment to most severely test us will be the funeral, after which this hypothetical healing will take place. When we anticipate the funeral we wonder about failing to 'get through it,' rise to the occasion, exhibit the 'strength' that invariably gets mentioned as the correct response to death. We anticipate needing to steel ourselves for the moment: will I be able to greet people, will I be able to leave the scene, will I be able even to get dressed that day? We have no way of knowing that this will not be the issue. We have no way of knowing that the funeral itself will be anodyne, a kind of narcotic regression in which we are wrapped in the care of others and the gravity and meaning of the occasion. Nor can we know ahead of the fact the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaninglessness itself.

There is a notion that creative people are absentminded, reckless, heedless of social customs and obligations. It is, hopefully, true. For they are in another world altogether. It is a world where the third self is the governor. Neither is the purity of art the innocence of childhood, if there is such a thing. One's life as a child, with all its emotional rages and ranges, is but grass for the winged horse - it must be chewed well in those savage teeth. There are irreconcilable differences between acknowledging and examining the fabulations of one's past and dressing them up as though they were adult figures, fit for art, which they never will be. The working, concentrating artists is an adult who refuses interruption from himself, who remains absorbed and energized in and by the work - who is thus responsible to the work.

The waiters wore striped waistcoats and green baize aprons. Bond ordered an Americano and examined the sprinkling of over-dressed customers, mostly from Paris he guessed, who sat talking with focus and vivacity, creating that theatrically clubbable atmosphere of ‘l’heure de l’apéritif’.

But the more shrewdly and earnestly we study the histories of men, the less ready shall we be to make use of the word ‘artificial.’ Nothing in the world has ever been artificial. Many customs, many dresses, many works of art are branded with artificiality because the exhibit vanity and self-consciousness: as if vanity were not a deep and elemental thing, like love and hate and the fear of death. Vanity may be found in darkling deserts, in the hermit and in the wild beasts that crawl around him. It may be good or evil, but assuredly it is not artificial: vanity is a voice out of the abyss.

This is the heart of it, the scared woman who does not want to go alone to the man any longer, because when she does, when she takes of her baggy dress, displaying to him rancid breasts each almost as big as his own head, or no breasts, or mammectomized scar tissues taped over with old tennis balls to give her the right curves; when, vending her flesh, she stands or squats waiting, congealing the air firstly with her greasy cheesey stench of unwashed feet confined in week-old socks, secondly with her perfume of leotards and panties also a week old, crusted with semen and urine, brown-greased with the filth of alleys; thirdly with the odor of her dress also worn for a week, emblazoned with beer-spills and cigarette-ash and salted with the smelly sweat of sex, dread, fever, addiction—when she goes to the man, and is accepted by him, when all these stinking skins of hers have come off (either quickly, to get it over with, or slowly like a big truck pulling into a weigh station because she is tired), when she nakedly presents her soul’s ageing soul, exhaling from every pore physical and ectoplasmic her fourth and supreme smell which makes eyes water more than any queen of red onions—rotten waxy smell from between her breasts, I said, bloody pissy shitty smell from between her legs, sweat-smell and underarm-smell, all blended into her halo, generalized sweetish smell of unwashed flesh; when she hunkers painfully down with her customer on bed or a floor or in an alley, then she expects her own death. Her smell is enough to keep him from knowing the heart of her, and the heart of her is not the heart of it. The heart of it is that she is scared.

I’ve learned to make really quick decisions that shape the future in a positive way. One talent that I bring to the table is my ability to insult the clothing. For example, “the colors of those pants look like hospital scrubs” or “the shape of that dress is for a toddler.” This ability has served me well and has probably saved the customer from some questionable choices.

The titles of his books are recorded as follows: The Twelve Caesars; Royal Biographies; Lives of Famous Whores; Roman Manners and Customs; The Roman Year; Roman Festivals; Roman Dress; Greek Games; Offices of State; Cicero’s Republic; The Physical Defects of Mankind; Methods of Reckoning Time; An Essay on Nature; Greek Objurgations; Grammatical Problems; Critical Signs Used in Books.

Do you remember bedtime as a child? I was terrified of the dark. I was terrified of the closed closet door that surely cracked open when I wasn't looking and spewed out ghouls and devils. I took care that no arms or legs protruded from the bed. I sometimes slept with the covers over my head. Sweltering, panting, barely breathing. Not even my hair exposed, lest a monster discover and devour me. I remember begging my father to check under the bed. I remember trying to explain how some monsters had invisibility cloaks. He would kiss my cheek and switch off the light. We stop looking under the bed once we realize that the monsters are inside us. It's funny how they transform. Suddenly they don't mind daylight. Suddenly they dress nicely, speak our language, and share our customs. They sit next to us on the metro and jog around our neighborhoods. They slip things into our drinks at parties and offer us jobs. Sometimes we spot them, sometimes we don't. Sometimes we even do the unthinkable: we invite them to our bed. As adults, we burn down the sanctuaries we created as children. Our inner child freaks out, but its screams are drowned by our moans as our monsters bring us to orgasm.

In high school, Tom won rave reviews for his rousing performance of Curly in Oklahoma! while I was relegated to the understudy for Laurey, a role I did not once bring to fruition while pining for Tom from the chorus. His custom-tailored suit for our wedding was far nicer than my dress, and it was all anyone could talk about at our ceremony. If anyone could steal the thunder of my cancer diagnosis, it was Tom.

When Elizabeth finally descended the stairs on her way to the dining room she was two hours late. Deliberately. “Good heavens, you’re tardy, my dear!” Sir Francis said, shoving back his chair and rushing to the doorway where Elizabeth had been standing, trying to gather her courage to do what needed to be done. “Come and meet my guests,” he said, drawing her forward after a swift, disappointed look at her drab attire and severe coiffure. “We did as you suggested in your note and went ahead with supper. What kept you abovestairs so long?” “I was at prayer,” Elizabeth said, managing to look him straight in the eye. Sir Francis recovered from his surprise in time to introduce her to the three other people at the table-two men who resembled him in age and features and two women of perhaps five and thirty who were both attired in the most shockingly revealing gowns Elizabeth had ever seen. Elizabeth accepted a helping of cold meat to silence her protesting stomach while both women studied her with unhidden scorn. “That is a most unusual ensemble you’re wearing, I must say,” remarked the woman named Eloise. “Is it the custom where you come from to dress so…simply?” Elizabeth took a dainty bite of meat. “Not really. I disapprove of too much personal adornment.” She turned to Sir Francis with an innocent stare. “Gowns are expensive. I consider them a great waste of money.” Sir Francis was suddenly inclined to agree, particularly since he intended to keep her naked as much as possible. “Quite right!” he beamed, eyeing the other ladies with pointed disapproval. “No sense in spending all that money on gowns. No point in spending money at all.” “My sentiments exactly,” Elizabeth said, nodding. “I prefer to give every shilling I can find to charity instead.” “Give it away?” he said in a muted roar, half rising out of his chair. Then he forced himself to sit back down and reconsider the wisdom of wedding her. She was lovely-her face more mature then he remembered it, but not even the black veil and scraped-back hair could detract from the beauty of her emerald-green eyes with their long, sooty lashes. Her eyes had dark circles beneath them-shadows he didn’t recall seeing there earlier in the day. He put the shadows down to her far-too-serious nature. Her dowry was creditable, and her body beneath that shapeless black gown…he wished he could see her shape. Perhaps it, too, had changed, and not for the better, in the past few years. “I had hoped, my dear,” Sir Francis said, covering her hand with his and squeezing it affectionately, “that you might wear something else down to supper, as I suggested you should.” Elizabeth gave him an innocent stare. “This is all I brought.” “All you brought?” he uttered. “B-But I definitely saw my footmen carrying several trunks upstairs.” “They belong to my aunt-only one of them is mine,” she fabricated hastily, already anticipating his next question and thinking madly for some satisfactory answer. “Really?” He continued to eye her gown with great dissatisfaction, and then he asked exactly the question she’d expected: “What, may I ask, does your one truck contain if not gowns?” Inspiration struck, and Elizabeth smiled radiantly. “Something of great value. Priceless value,” she confided. All faces at the table watched her with alert fascination-particularly the greedy Sir Francis. “Well, don’t keep us in suspense, love. What’s in it?” “The mortal remains of Saint Jacob.

Self-evident, isn’t it? You don’t have to study for four years in Harvard to discover that. Yet I know and you know department store owners who will rent expensive space, buy their goods economically, dress their windows appealingly, spend thousands of dollars in advertising and then hire clerks who haven’t the sense to be good listeners—clerks who interrupt customers, contradict them, irritate them, and all but drive them from the store.

No doubt the movement which rightly or wrongly we have learnt to call the emancipation of women is in the first place a result of the transformation of society into a capitalist and industrial community, in which the home has lost its importance as an economic and productive unity. But the bitter tone of the champions of Woman’s Rights in their arraignment of man’s rule, the suspiciousness which refused to believe that anything but oppression and masculine tyranny was at the bottom of a great number of laws and customs, which in reality were designed just as much to safeguard women and provide them with protectors and maintenance—the rabidity of militant feminists, in short—was a direct reaction against a dressing-gown and slippers tyranny which was peculiar to non-Catholic Europe at the beginning of the nineteenth century—a revolt against mock heroes who slouched about their homes trying to assert authority over their womenfolk. The other day I came across a book which illustrates in a rather droll way the extent to which Northern European women have taken it for granted that this peculiar North European form of the subjection of women since the Reformation was characteristic of the whole past of Europe. It was a little essay by an English writer, Virginia Woolf—I confess that it is all I have read of hers,1 but she is said to have a great reputation as a novelist.

It is your manner, my dear. When a young man comes up to speak to you, you look so serious that a spiteful person might believe you doubtful of your own virtue. You seem to fear lest a smile should undo you. You really look as if you were asking forgiveness of God for the sins that may be committed around you. The world, my dearest, is not a convent. — But, as you mentioned your dress, I may confess to you that it is no less a duty to conform to the customs and fashions of Society.

Harris is a fellar who like to play ladeda, and he like English customs and thing, he does be polite and say thank you and he does get up in the bus and the tube to let woman sit down, which is a thing even them Englishmen don’t do. And when he dress, you think is some Englishman going to work in the city, bowler and umbrella, and briefcase tuck under the arm, with The Times fold up in the pocket so the name would show, and he walking upright like if is he alone who alive in the world. Only thing, Harris face black.

understand that there are rules to follow if you are to win: 1. The model will provide consistent value to your customers, employees, suppliers, and lenders, beyond what they expect. 2. The model will be operated by people with the lowest possible level of skill. 3. The model will stand out as a place of impeccable order. 4. All work in the model will be documented in Operations Manuals. 5. The model will provide a uniformly predictable service to the customer. 6. The model will utilize a uniform color, dress, and facilities code.

And they fortified Jerusalem unto the broad wall." Nehemiah 3:8 Cities well fortified have broad walls, and so had Jerusalem in her glory. The New Jerusalem must, in like manner, be surrounded and preserved by a broad wall of nonconformity to the world, and separation from its customs and spirit. The tendency of these days break down the holy barrier, and make the distinction between the church and the world merely nominal. Professors are no longer strict and Puritanical, questionable literature is read on all hands, frivolous pastimes are currently indulged, and a general laxity threatens to deprive the Lord's peculiar people of those sacred singularities which separate them from sinners. It will be an ill day for the church and the world when the proposed amalgamation shall be complete, and the sons of God and the daughters of men shall be as one: then shall another deluge of wrath be ushered in. Beloved reader, be it your aim in heart, in word, in dress, in action to maintain the broad wall, remembering that the friendship of this world is enmity against God.

In my case, the efforts for these years to live in the dress of Arabs, and to imitate their mental foundation, quitted me of my English self, and let me look at the West and its conventions with new eyes: they destroyed it all for me. At the same time I could not sincerely take on the Arab skin: it was an affectation only… Sometimes these selves would converse in the void; and then madness was very near, as I believe it would be near the man who could see things through the veils at once of two customs, two educations, two environments.

Miss Tox sat down upon the widow-seat, and thought of her good Papa deceased—Mr. Tox, of the Customs Department of the public service; and of her childhood, passed at a seaport, among a considerable quantity of cold tar, and some rusticity. She fell into a softened remembrance of meadows, in old time, gleaming with buttercups, like so many inverted firmaments of golden stars; and how she had made chains of dandelion-stalks for youthful vowers of eternal constancy, dressed chiefly in nankeen; and how soon those fetters had withered and broken.

Harriet turned round, and we both saw a girl walking towards us. She was dark-skinned and thin, not veiled but dressed in a sitara, a brightly coloured robe of greens and pinks, and she wore a headscarf of a deep rose colour. In that barren place the vividness of her dress was all the more striking. On her head she balanced a pitcher and in her hand she carried something. As we watched her approach, I saw that she had come from a small house, not much more than a cave, which had been built into the side of the mountain wall that formed the far boundary of the gravel plateau we were standing on. I now saw that the side of the mountain had been terraced in places and that there were a few rows of crops growing on the terraces. Small black and brown goats stepped up and down amongst the rocks with acrobatic grace, chewing the tops of the thorn bushes. As the girl approached she gave a shy smile and said, ‘Salaam alaikum, ’ and we replied, ‘Wa alaikum as salaam, ’ as the sheikh had taught us. She took the pitcher from where it was balanced on her head, kneeled on the ground, and gestured to us to sit. She poured water from the pitcher into two small tin cups, and handed them to us. Then she reached into her robe and drew out a flat package of greaseproof paper from which she withdrew a thin, round piece of bread, almost like a large flat biscuit. She broke off two pieces, and handed one to each of us, and gestured to us to eat and drink. The water and the bread were both delicious. We smiled and mimed our thanks until I remembered the Arabic word, ‘Shukran.’ So we sat together for a while, strangers who could speak no word of each other’s languages, and I marvelled at her simple act. She had seen two people walking in the heat, and so she laid down whatever she had been doing and came to render us a service. Because it was the custom, because her faith told her it was right to do so, because her action was as natural to her as the water that she poured for us. When we declined any further refreshment after a second cup of water she rose to her feet, murmured some word of farewell, and turned and went back to the house she had come from. Harriet and I looked at each other as the girl walked back to her house. ‘That was so…biblical,’ said Harriet. ‘Can you imagine that ever happening at home?’ I asked. She shook her head. ‘That was charity. Giving water to strangers in the desert, where water is so scarce. That was true charity, the charity of poor people giving to the rich.’ In Britain a stranger offering a drink to a thirsty man in a lonely place would be regarded with suspicion. If someone had approached us like that at home, we would probably have assumed they were a little touched or we were going to be asked for money. We might have protected ourselves by being stiff and unfriendly, evasive or even rude.

Ubuntu is part of our culture Ubuntu was taught at home Ubuntu was taught in schools Ubuntu was taught in the community Ubuntu was taught in church. Today Ubuntu is nowhere to be found. Because we think being civil, educated, cool, and modern means forgetting who we are and what we are. Leaving behind our culture and heritage. Before we dress nice. Ubuntu is the root and heart of our heritage and that we need to celebrate every day. The world is getting messed up, dark and a bad place, because we lack Ubuntu. We all need the spirit of Ubuntu in us and that is our heritage.

On one occasion, an ancient great-aunt of mine, hieratically assuming a head-dress of feather and globules of jet, required me to accompany her to the beehives. ‘But you surely don't need a hat, Aunt Jane! They're only at the end of the garden.’ ‘It is the custom,’ she said, grandly. ‘Put a scarf over your head.’ Arrived, she stood in silence for a moment. Then — ‘I have to tell you,’ she said, formally, ‘that King George V is dead. You may be sorry, but I am not. He was not an interesting man. Besides,’ she added — as though the bees needed the telling! — ‘everyone has to die’.

Customers came - whites, Negroes and Latin Americans. Well-dressed tourists mingled with the derelicts of the quarter. When we shined their shoes we talked. The whites, especially the tourists, had no reticence before us, and no shame since we were Negroes. Some wanted to know where they could find girls, wanted us to get Negro girls for them. We learned to spot these from the moment they sat down, for they were immediately friendly and treated us with the warmth and courtesy of equals. I mentioned this to Sterling. “Yeah, when they want to sin, they’re very democratic,” he said.

My choice fell on a girl called Thalestris, a Sauromantian. They have many customs of the Amazons, serving the Moon Maid in arms, and fighting in war beside the men. When first she came she looked very outlandish, dressed in a quilted coat and deerskin trousers, and smelling of goat-milk curd. Her country is at the back of the northeast wind, beyond the Caucasus, and they only undress there once a year. But stripped and cleaned she was a fine girl, a little too mannish for one’s bed, but with all the beauties of a bull-leaper. The courage too; for on her very first day she was eying me with envy.

Many, Lorenzo, have held and still hold the opinion, that there is nothing which has less in common with another, and that is so dissimilar, as civilian life is from the military. Whence it is often observed, if anyone designs to avail himself of an enlistment in the army, that he soon changes, not only his clothes, but also his customs, his habits, his voice, and in the presence of any civilian custom, he goes to pieces; for I do not believe that any man can dress in civilian clothes who wants to be quick and ready for any violence; nor can that man have civilian customs and habits, who judges those customs to be effeminate and those habits not conducive to his actions; nor does it seem right to him to maintain his ordinary appearance and voice who, with his beard and cursing, wants to make other men afraid: which makes such an opinion in these times to be very true. But if they should consider the ancient institutions, they would not find matter more united, more in conformity, and which, of necessity, should be like to each other as much as these (civilian and military); for in all the arts that are established in a society for the sake of the common good of men, all those institutions created to (make people) live in fear of the laws and of God would be in vain, if their defense had not been provided for and which, if well arranged, will maintain not only these, but also those that are not well established. And so (on the contrary), good institutions without the help of the military are not much differently disordered than the habitation of a superb and regal palace, which, even though adorned with jewels and gold, if it is not roofed over will not have anything to protect it from the rain. And, if in any other institutions of a City and of a Republic every diligence is employed in keeping men loyal, peaceful, and full of the fear of God, it is doubled in the military; for in what man ought the country look for greater loyalty than in that man who has to promise to die for her? In whom ought there to be a greater love of peace, than in him who can only be injured by war? In whom ought there to be a greater fear of God than in him who, undergoing infinite dangers every day, has more need for His aid? If these necessities in forming the life of the soldier are well considered, they are found to be praised by those who gave the laws to the Commanders and by those who were put in charge of military training, and followed and imitated with all diligence by others.

decorated boxes, or that everything was good to eat and in its Christmas dress; but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other at the door, crashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundreds of the like mistakes, in the best humour possible; while the Grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons behind might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection, and for Christmas daws to peck at if they chose.

Cheat propped his elbows on his knees and gazed up at Kestrel. He scrutinized her: the long, loosely clasped hands, the folds of her dress. Kestrel’s clothes had mysteriously appeared in the suite’s wardrobe, probably while she had slept, and she was glad. The dueling ensemble had served well enough, but wearing a dress fit for society made Kestrel feel ready for different kinds of battle. “Where is Arin?” Cheat said. “In the mountains.” “Doing what?” “I don’t know. I imagine that, since the Valorian reinforcements will come through the mountain pass, he is analyzing its values and drawbacks as a battleground.” Cheat gave her a gleeful smirk. “Does it bother you, being a traitor?” “I don’t see how I am.” “You just confirmed that the reinforcements will come through the pass. Thank you.” “It’s hardly worth thanking me,” she said. “Almost every useful ship in the empire has been sent east, which means there is no other way into the city. Anyone with brains could figure that out, which is why Arin is in the mountains, and you are here.” A flush began to build under Cheat’s skin. He said, “My feet are dusty.” Kestrel had no idea how to respond to that. “Wash them,” he said. “What?” He took off his boots, stretched out his legs, and leaned back against the bench. Kestrel, who had been quite still, became stone. “It’s Herrani custom for the lady of the house to wash the feet of special guests,” said Cheat. “Even if such a custom existed, it died ten years ago. And I’m not the lady of the house.” “No, you’re a slave. You’ll do as I command.

This charming custom of ‘speeding the fairies’ is a special favourite with the fair sex, and in Prospect Garden all the girls were up betimes on this day making little coaches and palanquins out of willow-twigs and flowers and little banners and pennants from scraps of brocade and any other pretty material they could find, which they fastened with threads of coloured silk to the tops of flowering trees and shrubs. Soon every plant and tree was decorated and the whole garden had become a shimmering sea of nodding blossoms and fluttering coloured streamers. Moving about in the midst of it all, the girls in their brilliant summer dresses, beside which the most vivid hues of plant and plumage became faint with envy, added the final touch of brightness to a scene of indescribable gaiety and colour.

The Hardys led Mr. Worth up a side street. They stopped at a wide, steamy window bearing the lettering: CHARLIE’S CLAM HOUSE “I hear the food’s good,” Joe remarked, and the trio entered the restaurant. It was a typical waterfront eating place, with sawdust on the floor. The place was crowded with diners, despite the late hour. In one corner sat a group of well-dressed people who, like the Hardys, had just left a farewell party on board the liner. But most of the customers were rough-looking men of the waterfront district. The noise of lively conversations and the odor of frying fish filled the air. Frank, Joe, and Bart Worth seated themselves at a plain wooden table in the middle of the room. As soon as the waiter had taken a dinner order for Mr. Worth and sandwiches for the Hardys, the Southerner began his story.

I was afraid of anyone in a costume. A trip to see Santa might as well have been a trip to sit on Hitler's lap for all the trauma it would cause me. Once, when I was four, my mother and I were in a Sears and someone wearing an enormous Easter Bunny costume headed my way to present me with a chocolate Easter egg. I was petrified by this nightmarish six-foot-tall bipedal pink fake-fur monster with human-sized arms and legs and a soulless, impassive face heading toward me. It waved halfheartedly as it held a piece of candy out in an evil attempt to lure me into its clutches. Fearing for my life, I pulled open the bottom drawer of a display case and stuck my head inside, the same way an ostrich buries its head in the sand. This caused much hilarity among the surrounding adults, and the chorus of grown-up laughter I heard echoing from within that drawer only added to the horror of the moment. Over the next several years, I would run away in terror from a guy in a gorilla suit whose job it was to wave customers into a car wash, a giant Uncle Sam on stilts, a midget dressed like a leprechaun, an astronaut, the Detroit Tigers mascot, Ronald McDonald, Big Bird, Bozo the Clown, and every Mickey Mouse, Minnie Mouse, Donald Duck, Pluto, Chip and Dale, Uncle Scrooge, and Goofy who walked the streets at Disneyland. Add to this an irrational fear of small dogs that saw me on more than one occasion fleeing in terror from our neighbor's four-inch-high miniature dachschund as if I were being chased by the Hound of the Baskervilles and a chronic case of germ phobia, and it's pretty apparent that I was--what some of the less politically correct among us might call--a first-class pussy.

Grief turns out to be a place none of us know until we reach it. We anticipate (we know) that someone close to us could die, but we do not look beyond the few days or weeks that immediately follow such an imagined death. We misconstrue the nature of even those few days or weeks. We might expect if the death is sudden to feel shock. We do not expect this shock to be obliterative, dislocating to both body and mind. We might expect that we will be prostrate, inconsolable, crazy with loss. We do not expect to be literally crazy, cool customers who believe that their husband is about to return and need his shoes. In the version of grief we imagine, the model will be “healing.” A certain forward movement will prevail. The worst days will be the earliest days. We imagine that the moment to most severely test us will be the funeral, after which this hypothetical healing will take place. When we anticipate the funeral we wonder about failing to “get through it,” rise to the occasion, exhibit the “strength” that invariably gets mentioned as the correct response to death. We anticipate needing to steel ourselves for the moment: will I be able to greet people, will I be able to leave the scene, will I be able even to get dressed that day? We have no way of knowing that this will not be the issue. We have no way of knowing that the funeral itself will be anodyne, a kind of narcotic regression in which we are wrapped in the care of others and the gravity and meaning of the occasion. Nor can we know ahead of the fact (and here lies the heart of the difference between grief as we imagine it and grief as it is) the unending absence that follows, the void, the very opposite of meaning, the relentless succession of moments during which we will confront the experience of meaninglessness itself.           A

Where the hell were the sales ladies? The ones every store had to help relieve customers of guys with panic stricken eyes and the sudden need to drink away the pain of the credit card swipe. Ah! Nice. A female employee turned towards us and started walking. Thank god someone finally recognized the look of horror. She paused in front of us. "Do you need help?" "Yes!" I damn near shouted in the poor thing's face. She was only around five foot and that was with the tallest red heels I'd ever seen. Her face was clean of makeup except for bright red lipstick. She looked like she knew what she was doing. So I did what any sane man would do. I pushed Amy towards her and said, "Can you dress her?" The ladies eyes narrowed. "That came out wrong." I grumbled. "Can you help her find some clothes? She needs a whole new wardrobe. Shoes, under things." I coughed into my hand and looked away. Bar. Bar. Where was a freaking bar?

When I come down the stairs, Peter is sitting on the couch with his mom. He is shaking his knee up and down, which is how I know he’s nervous too. As soon as he sees me, he stands up. He raises his eyebrows. “You look--wow.” For the past week, he’s been asking for details on what my dress looks like, and I held him at bay for the surprise, which I’m glad I did, because it was worth it to see the look on his face. “You look wow too.” His tux fits him so nicely, you’d think it was custom, but it’s not; it’s a rental from After Hours Formal Wear. I wonder if Mrs. Kavinsky made a few sly adjustments. She’s a marvel with a needle and thread. I wish guys could wear tuxedos more often, though I suppose that would take some of the thrill away. Peter slides my corsage on my wrist; it is white ranunculus and baby’s breath, and it’s the exact corsage I would have picked for myself. I’m already thinking of how I’ll hang it over my bed so it dries just so. Kitty is dressed up too; she has on her favorite dress, so she can be in the pictures. When Peter pins a daisy corsage on her, her face goes pink with pleasure, and he winks at me. We take a picture of me and her, one of me and Peter and her, and then she says in her bossy way, “Now just one of me and Peter,” and I’m pushed off to the side with Trina, who laughs. “The boys her age are in for it,” she says to me and Peter’s mom, who is smiling too. “Why am I not in any of these pictures?” Daddy wonders, so of course we do a round with him too, and a few with Trina and Mrs. Kavinsky. Then we take pictures outside, by the dogwood tree, by Peter’s car, on the front steps, until Peter says, “Enough pictures! We’re going to miss the whole thing.” When we go to his car, he opens the door for me gallantly. On the way over, he keeps looking at me. I keep my eyes trained straight ahead, but I can see him in my periphery. I’ve never felt so admired. This must be how Stormy felt all the time.

Nearly every dark elf in Menzoberranzan dressed in a quiet and practical manner, in robes adorned with the symbols of the Spider Queen or in supple chain-link armour under the folds of a magical and camouflaging piwafwi cloak. Jarlaxle, arrogant and brash, followed few of the customs of Menzoberranzan inhabitants. He was mostly certainly not the norm of drow society and he flaunted the differences openly, brazenly. He wore not a cloak nor a robe, but a shimmering cape that showed every color of the spectrum both in the glow of light and in the infrared spectrum of heat-sensing eyes. The cape’s magic could only be guessed, but those closest to the mercenary leader indicated that it was very valuable indeed. Jarlaxle’s vest was sleeveless and cut so high that his slender and tightly muscled stomach was open for all to view. He kept a patch over one eye, though careful observers would understand it as ornamental, for Jarlaxle often shifted it from one eye to the other.

Merripen, what does it mean when a man wears a thumb ring? Is it a Gypsy custom?” Seeming uncomfortable with the question, Merripen looked through the window into the damp night. A group of young men passed the vehicle, wearing fine coats and tall hats, laughing among themselves. A pair of them stopped to speak with a gaudily dressed woman. Still frowning, Merripen replied to Amelia’s question. “It signifies independence and freedom of thought. Also a certain separateness. In wearing it, he reminds himself he doesn’t belong where he is.” “Why would Mr. Rohan want to remind himself of something like that?” “Because the ways of your kind are seductive,” Merripen said darkly. “It’s difficult to resist them.” “Why must you resist them? I fail to see what is so terrible about living in a proper house and securing a steady income, and enjoying things like nice dishes and upholstered chairs.” “Gadji,” he murmured in resignation, making Amelia grin briefly. It was the word for a non-Gypsy woman.

The little procession proceeded to the center of the square, where the village locksman, one John MacRae, stepped out of the crowd to meet them. This personage was dressed as befitted his office in the sober elegance of dark breeches and coat and grey velvet hat (removed for the nonce and tenderly sheltered from the rain beneath the tail of his coat). He was not, as I had at first assumed, the village jailer, though in a pinch he did perform such office. His duties were primarily those of constable, customs inspector, and when needed, executioner; his title came from the wooden “lock” or scoop that hung from his belt, with which he was entitled to take a percentage of each bag of grain sold in the Thursday market: the remuneration of his office. I had found all this out from the locksman himself. He had been to the Castle only a few days before to see whether I could treat a persistent felon on his thumb. I had lanced it with a sterile needle and dressed it with poplar-bud salve, finding MacRae a shy and soft-spoken man with a pleasant smile.

Haven’t I tired you out yet, darling?” Ian whispered several hours later. “Yes,” she said with an exhausted laugh, her cheek nestled against his shoulder, her hand drifting over his chest in a sleepy caress. “But I’m too happy to sleep for a while yet.” So was Ian, but he felt compelled to at least suggest that she try. “You’ll regret it in the morning when we have to appear for breakfast,” he said with a grin, cuddling her closer to his side. To his surprise, the remark made her smooth forehead furrow in a frown. She tipped her face up to his, opened her mouth as if to ask him a question, then she changed her mind and hastily looked away. “What is it?” he asked, taking her chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifting her face up to his. “Tomorrow morning,” she said with a funny, bemused expression on her face. “When we go downstairs…will everyone know what we have done tonight?” She expected him to try to evade the question. “Yes,” he said. She nodded, accepting that, and turned into his arms. “Thank you for telling me the truth,” she said with a sigh of contentment and gratitude. “I’ll always tell you the truth,” he promised quietly, and she believed him. It occurred to Elizabeth that she could ask him now, when he’d given that promise, if he’d had anything to do with Robert’s disappearance. And as quickly as the thought crossed her mind, she pushed it angrily away. She would not defame their marriage bed by voicing ugly, unfounded suspicions carried to her by a man who obviously had a grudge against all Scots. This morning, she had made a conscious decision to trust him and marry him; now, she was bound by her vows to honor him, and she had absolutely no intention of going back on her own decision or on the vow she made to him in church. “Elizabeth?” “Mmmm?” “While we’re on the subject of truth, I have a confession to make.” Her heart slammed into her ribs, and she went rigid. “What is it?” she asked tautly. “The chamber next door is meant to be used as your dressing room and withdrawing room. I do not approve of the English custom of husband and wife sleeping in separate beds.” She looked so pleased that Ian grinned. “I’m happy to see,” he chuckled, kissing her forehead, “we agree on that.

It is a scene which combines the worst of Uncle Tom’s Cabin and Fritz Lang’s Metropolis; it is mechanized Negro slavery; it represents the progress which the Negro has made from picking cotton to tailoring it. (Were they in the picking stage of their evolution, they would at least be in the healthful outdoors singing and eating watermelons [as they are, I believe, supposed to do when in groups alfresco].) My intense and deeply felt convictions concerning social injustice were aroused. My valve threw in a hearty response. (In connection with the watermelons, I must say, lest some professional civil rights organization be offended, that I have never been an observer of American folk customs. I may be wrong. I would imagine that today people grasp for the cotton with one hand while the other hand presses a transistor radio to the sides of their heads so that it can spew bulletins about used cars and Sofstyle Hair Relaxer and Royal Crown Hair Dressing and Gallo wine about their eardrums, a filtered menthol cigarette dangling from their lips and threatening to set the entire cotton field ablaze. Although residing along the Mississippi River [This river is famed in atrocious song and verse; the most prevalent motif is one which attempts to make of the river an ersatz father figure. Actually, the Mississippi River is a

Consider the average worker in almost any urban industrialized city. The alarm rings at six forty-five and our workingman or -woman is up and at it. Check the phone. Shower. Dress in the professional uniform—suits for some, coveralls for others, scrubs for the medical professionals, jeans and T-shirts for construction workers. Breakfast, if there’s time. Grab commuter mug and briefcase (or lunch box). Hop in the car for the daily punishment called rush hour or get on a bus or train packed crushingly tight. On the job from nine to five (or longer). Deal with the boss. Deal with the coworker sent by the devil to rub you the wrong way. Deal with suppliers. Deal with clients/customers/patients. E-mails pile up. Act busy. Scroll through social media feeds. Hide mistakes. Smile when handed impossible deadlines. Give a sigh of relief when the ax known as “restructuring” or “downsizing”—or just plain getting laid off—falls on other heads. Shoulder the added workload. Watch the clock. Argue with your conscience but agree with the boss. Smile again. Five o’clock. Back in the car or on the bus or train for the evening commute. Home. Act human with your partner, kids, or roommates. Cook. Post a picture of your dinner online. Eat. Watch an episode of your favorite show. Answer one last e-mail. Bed. Eight hours of blessed oblivion—if we’re lucky.

He does not care for me. He brought me to the village to feed his child." "He gave you Red Star." Jesse denied its significance. "That was only so that I would not shame him." "He brought many skins for a new tepee. He brought you elk skins for a new dress." Jesse explained. "We needed those things because of the fire.All of the people needed new tepees, new clothing." "He sits with you every evening outside the tepee." "That is so I can read from the Book." Prairie Flower grew impatient. "Walks the Fire! I tell you truth.Rides the Wind wishes you to be his wife.You know nothing of Lakota ways.I will tell you!" Jesse started to protest, but Prairie Flower interrupted. "No! You listen! When a man wishes to show he wants a woman, he dresses in his finest clothing and comes to her outside her tepee.They sit and talk.He gives gifts to her parents. Not every custom is followed, because you are not a young Lakota woman. But I tell you, Rides the Wind cares for you. After the fire, when Medicine Hawk came-when you were as one dying-you did not see him. I saw him. Rides the Wind did not eat. He did not sleep.He thought only of Walks the Fire.He hunted healing herbs.He hunted the elk for your dress.He took Two Mothers to Yellow Bird's tepee so that his cries would not disturb your rest.He trusted no one but Old One, and himself, and me to care for you.

The Grocers'! oh the Grocers'! nearly closed, with perhaps two shutters down, or one; but through those gaps such glimpses! It was not alone that the scales descending on the counter made a merry sound, or that the twine and roller parted company so briskly, or that the canisters were rattled up and down like juggling tricks, or even that the blended scents of tea and coffee were so grateful to the nose, or even that the raisins were so plentiful and rare, the almonds so extremely white, the sticks of cinnamon so long and straight, the other spices so delicious, the candied fruits so caked and spotted with molten sugar as to make the coldest lookers-on feel faint and subsequently bilious. Nor was it that the figs were moist and pulpy, or that the French plums blushed in modest tartness from their highly-decorated boxes, or that everything was good to eat and in its Christmas dress; but the customers were all so hurried and so eager in the hopeful promise of the day, that they tumbled up against each other at the door, crashing their wicker baskets wildly, and left their purchases upon the counter, and came running back to fetch them, and committed hundreds of like mistakes, in the best humor possible; while the Grocer and his people were so frank and fresh that the polished hearts with which they fastened their aprons might have been their own, worn outside for general inspection, and for Christmas daws to peck at if they chose.

Motor-scooter riders with big beards and girl friends who bounce on the back of the scooters and wear their hair long in front of their faces as well as behind, drunks who follow the advice of the Hat Council and are always turned out in hats, but not hats the Council would approve. Mr. Lacey, the locksmith,, shups up his shop for a while and goes to exchange time of day with Mr. Slube at the cigar store. Mr. Koochagian, the tailor, waters luxuriant jungle of plants in his window, gives them a critical look from the outside, accepts compliments on them from two passers-by, fingers the leaves on the plane tree in front of our house with a thoughtful gardener's appraisal, and crosses the street for a bite at the Ideal where he can keep an eye on customers and wigwag across the message that he is coming. The baby carriages come out, and clusters of everyone from toddlers with dolls to teenagers with homework gather at the stoops. When I get home from work, the ballet is reaching its cresendo. This is the time roller skates and stilts and tricycles and games in the lee of the stoop with bottletops and plastic cowboys, this is the time of bundles and packages, zigzagging from the drug store to the fruit stand and back over to the butcher's; this is the time when teenagers, all dressed up, are pausing to ask if their slips shows or their collars look right; this is the time when beautiful girls get out of MG's; this is the time when the fire engines go through; this is the time when anybody you know on Hudson street will go by. As the darkness thickens and Mr. Halpert moors the laundry cart to the cellar door again, the ballet goes under lights, eddying back nad forth but intensifying at the bright spotlight pools of Joe's sidewalk pizza, the bars, the delicatessen, the restaurant and the drug store. The night workers stop now at the delicatessen, to pick up salami and a container of milk. Things have settled down for the evening but the street and its ballet have not come to a stop. I know the deep night ballet and its seasons best from waking long after midnight to tend a baby and, sitting in the dark, seeing the shadows and hearing sounds of the sidewalk. Mostly it is a sound like infinitely patterning snatches of party conversation, and, about three in the morning, singing, very good singing. Sometimes their is a sharpness and anger or sad, sad weeping, or a flurry of search for a string of beads broken. One night a young man came roaring along, bellowing terrible language at two girls whom he had apparently picked up and who were disappointing him. Doors opened, a wary semicircle formed around him, not too close, until police came. Out came the heads, too, along the Hudsons street, offering opinion, "Drunk...Crazy...A wild kid from the suburbs" Deep in the night, I am almost unaware of how many people are on the street unless someone calls the together. Like the bagpipe. Who the piper is and why he favored our street I have no idea.

Delbert was the only Bumpus kid in my grade, but they infested Warren G. Harding like termites in an outhouse. There was Ima Jean, short and muscular, who was in the sixth grade, when she showed up, but spent most of her time hanging around the poolroom. There was a lanky, blue-jowled customer they called Jamie, who ran the still and was the only one who ever wore shoes. He and his brother Ace, who wore a brown fedora and blue work shirts, sat on the front steps at home on the Fourth of July, sucking at a jug and pretending to light sticks of dynamite with their cigars when little old ladies walked by. There were also several red-faced girls who spent most of their time dumping dishwater out of windows. Babies of various sizes and sexes crawled about the back yard, fraternizing indiscriminately with the livestock. They all wore limp, battleship-gray T-shirts and nothing else. They cried day and night. We thought that was all of them—until one day a truck stopped in front of the house and out stepped a girl who made Daisy Mae look like Little Orphan Annie. My father was sprinkling the lawn at the time; he wound up watering the windows. Ace and Emil came running out onto the porch, whooping and hollering. The girl carried a cardboard suitcase—in which she must have kept all her underwear, if she owned any—and wore her blonde hair piled high on her head; it gleamed in the midday sun. Her short muslin dress strained and bulged. The truck roared off. Ace rushed out to greet her, bellowing over his shoulder as he ran: “MAH GAWD! HEY, MAW, IT’S CASSIE! SHE’S HOME FROM THE REFORMATORY!” Emil

The street sprinkler went past and, as its rasping rotary broom spread water over the tarmac, half the pavement looked as if it had been painted with a dark stain. A big yellow dog had mounted a tiny white bitch who stood quite still. In the fashion of colonials the old gentleman wore a light jacket, almost white, and a straw hat. Everything held its position in space as if prepared for an apotheosis. In the sky the towers of Notre-Dame gathered about themselves a nimbus of heat, and the sparrows – minor actors almost invisible from the street – made themselves at home high up among the gargoyles. A string of barges drawn by a tug with a white and red pennant had crossed the breadth of Paris and the tug lowered its funnel, either in salute or to pass under the Pont Saint-Louis. Sunlight poured down rich and luxuriant, fluid and gilded as oil, picking out highlights on the Seine, on the pavement dampened by the sprinkler, on a dormer window, and on a tile roof on the Île Saint-Louis. A mute, overbrimming life flowed from each inanimate thing, shadows were violet as in impressionist canvases, taxis redder on the white bridge, buses greener. A faint breeze set the leaves of a chestnut tree trembling, and all down the length of the quai there rose a palpitation which drew voluptuously nearer and nearer to become a refreshing breath fluttering the engravings pinned to the booksellers’ stalls. People had come from far away, from the four corners of the earth, to live that one moment. Sightseeing cars were lined up on the parvis of Notre-Dame, and an agitated little man was talking through a megaphone. Nearer to the old gentleman, to the bookseller dressed in black, an American student contemplated the universe through the view-finder of his Leica. Paris was immense and calm, almost silent, with her sheaves of light, her expanses of shadow in just the right places, her sounds which penetrated the silence at just the right moment. The old gentleman with the light-coloured jacket had opened a portfolio filled with coloured prints and, the better to look at them, propped up the portfolio on the stone parapet. The American student wore a red checked shirt and was coatless. The bookseller on her folding chair moved her lips without looking at her customer, to whom she was speaking in a tireless stream. That was all doubtless part of the symphony. She was knitting. Red wool slipped through her fingers. The white bitch’s spine sagged beneath the weight of the big male, whose tongue was hanging out. And then when everything was in its place, when the perfection of that particular morning reached an almost frightening point, the old gentleman died without saying a word, without a cry, without a contortion while he was looking at his coloured prints, listening to the voice of the bookseller as it ran on and on, to the cheeping of the sparrows, the occasional horns of taxis. He must have died standing up, one elbow on the stone ledge, a total lack of astonishment in his blue eyes. He swayed and fell to the pavement, dragging along with him the portfolio with all its prints scattered about him. The male dog wasn’t at all frightened, never stopped. The woman let her ball of wool fall from her lap and stood up suddenly, crying out: ‘Monsieur Bouvet!

But what should he wear? I thought about having him laid to rest in his uniform. But the truth is he hated wearing it. He really needed to be dressed in something he was comfortable in. And that wasn’t going to be in a suit, either: he hated being in a jacket and tie even more than in a uniform. Tie? Ha! I got a pair of his best pressed jeans. They had a nice crease in the pants leg, just like he liked. I found one of his plaid button-down shirts, another favorite. Kryptek, which produces tactical gear and apparel and was one of Chris’s favorite companies, had presented him with a big silver belt buckle that he loved. It was very cowboy, and in that way very much who Chris was. “You think I can pull this off?” he’d asked, showing me how it looked right after he got it. “Hell, yeah,” I told him. I made sure that was with him as well. But if there was any item of clothing that really touched deep into Chris’s soul, it was his cowboy boots. They were a reminder of who he was when he was young, and they were part of who he’d been since getting out of the military. He had a really nice pair of new boots that had been custom made. He hadn’t had a chance to wear them much, and I couldn’t decide whether to bury him in those or another pair that were well worn and very comfortable. I asked the funeral director for his opinion. “We usually don’t do shoes,” he said. It can be very difficult to get them onto the body. “But if it’s important to you, we can do it.” I thought about it. Was the idea of burying them with Chris irrational? The symbolism seemed important. But that could work the other way, too--they would surely be important to Bubba someday. Maybe I should save them for him. In the end, I decided to set them near Chris’s casket when his body was on view, then collect them later for our son. But Chris had the last word. Through a miscommunication--or maybe something else--they were put in the casket when he was laid to rest. So obviously that was the way it should have been.

Hey, can I help you—whoa!” As he wheeled around and settled into his attack stance, the black human salesperson jumped back and put his palms up. “Forgive me,” Xcor muttered. At least he hadn’t outed one of his weapons. “No problem.” The handsome, well-dressed man smiled. “You looking for something specific?” Xcor glanced around, and nearly walked back to that fancy stairwell. “I require a new shirt.” “Oh, cool, you got a hot date?” “And pants. And socks.” Come to think of it, he never wore underwear. “And undergarments. And a jacket.” The salesman smiled and raised a hand as if he were going to clap his customer on the shoulder—but then caught himself as he clearly rethought the contact. “What kind of look are you going for?” he asked instead. “Clothed.” The guy paused like he wasn’t sure whether that was a joke. “Ah . . . okay, I can work with non-naked. Plus it’s legal. Come on with me.” Xcor followed, because he didn’t know what else to do—he’d gotten this ball rolling; there was no reason not to follow through. The man stopped in front of a display of shirts. “So I’m going to go with the it’s-a-date thing, unless you tell me otherwise. Casual? You didn’t mention a suit.” “Casual. Yes. But I want to look. . . .” Well, not like himself, at any rate. “Presentable.” “Then I think what you’re going to want is a button-down.” “A button-down.” The guy regarded him steadily. “You’re not from here, are you.” “No, I’m not.” “I can tell by the accent.” The salesman passed a hand over the dizzying array of folded-up squares with collars. “These are our traditional cuts. I can tell without measuring you that the European stuff isn’t going to do you right—you’re too muscled in the shoulders. Even if we could get the neck and arm size right, you’d bust out of them. Do you like any of these colors?” “I don’t know what to like.” “Here.” The man picked up a blue one that reminded Xcor of the backdrop on his phone. “This is good with your eyes. Not that I go that way—but you gotta work with what you got. Do you have any idea of your size?” “XXXL.” “We need to be a little more exact.

Although a youth culture was in evidence by the 1950s, the first obvious and dramatic manifestation of a culture generated by peer-orientation was the hippie counterculture of the 1960s and 1970s. The Canadian media theorist Marshall McLuhan called it “the new tribalism of the Electric Age.” Hair and dress and music played a significant part in shaping this culture, but what defined it more than anything was its glorification of the peer attachment that gave rise to it. Friends took precedence over family. Physical contact and connection with peers were pursued; the brotherhood of the pop tribe was declared, as in the generation-based “Woodstock nation.” The peer group was the true home. “Don't trust anyone over thirty” became the byword of youth who went far beyond a healthy critique of their elders to a militant rejection of tradition. The degeneration of that culture into alienation and drug use, on the one hand, and its co-optation for commercial purposes by the very mainstream institutions it was rebelling against were almost predictable. The wisdom of well-seasoned cultures has accumulated over hundreds and sometimes thousands of years. Healthy cultures also contain rituals and customs and ways of doing things that protect us from ourselves and safeguard values important to human life, even when we are not conscious of what such values are. An evolved culture needs to have some art and music that one can grow into, symbols that convey deeper meanings to existence and models that inspire greatness. Most important of all, a culture must protect its essence and its ability to reproduce itself — the attachment of children to their parents. The culture generated by peer orientation contains no wisdom, does not protect its members from themselves, creates only fleeting fads, and worships idols hollow of value or meaning. It symbolizes only the undeveloped ego of callow youth and destroys child-parent attachments. We may observe the cheapening of cultural values with each new peer-oriented generation. For all its self-delusion and smug isolation from the adult world, the Woodstock “tribe” still embraced universal values of peace, freedom, and brotherhood. Today's mass musical gatherings are about little more than style, ego, tribal exuberance, and dollars.

For a start, most books like this, rich in such expensive pigments, had been made for palaces or cathedrals. But a haggadah is used only at home. The word is from the Hebrew root ngd, “to tell,” and it comes from the biblical command that instructs parents to tell their children the story of the Exodus. This “telling” varies widely, and over the centuries each Jewish community has developed its own variations on this home-based celebration. But no one knew why this haggadah was illustrated with numerous miniature paintings, at a time when most Jews considered figurative art a violation of the commandments. It was unlikely that a Jew would have been in a position to learn the skilled painting techniques evinced here. The style was not unlike the work of Christian illuminators. And yet, most of the miniatures illustrated biblical scenes as interpreted in the Midrash, or Jewish biblical exegesis. I turned the parchment and suddenly found myself gazing at the illustration that had provoked more scholarly speculation than all the others. It was a domestic scene. A family of Jews—Spanish, by their dress—sits at a Passover meal. We see the ritual foods, the matzoh to commemorate the unleavened bread that the Hebrews baked in haste on the night before they fled Egypt, a shank bone to remember the lamb’s blood on the doorposts that had caused the angel of death to “pass over” Jewish homes. The father, reclining as per custom, to show that he is a free man and not a slave, sips wine from a golden goblet as his small son, beside him, raises a cup. The mother sits serenely in the fine gown and jeweled headdress of the day. Probably the scene is a portrait of the family who commissioned this particular haggadah. But there is another woman at the table, ebony-skinned and saffron-robed, holding a piece of matzoh. Too finely dressed to be a servant, and fully participating in the Jewish rite, the identity of that African woman in saffron has perplexed the book’s scholars for a century. Slowly, deliberately, I examined and made notes on the condition of each page. Each time I turned a parchment, I checked and adjusted the position of the supporting forms. Never stress the book—the conservator’s chief commandment. But the people who had owned this book had known unbearable stress: pogrom, Inquisition, exile, genocide, war.

To this day, I am still not sure what it was about Chip Gaines that made me give him a second chance--because, basically, our first date was over before it even started. I was working at my father’s Firestone automotive shop the day we first met. I’d worked as my dad’s office manager through my years at Baylor University and was perfectly happy working there afterward while I tried to figure out what I really wanted to do with my life. The smell of tires, metal, and grease--that place was like a second home to me, and the guys in the shop were all like my big brothers. On this particular afternoon, they all started teasing me. “You should go out to the lobby, Jo. There’s a hot guy out there. Go talk to him!” they said. “No,” I said. “Stop it! I’m not doing that.” I was all of twenty-three, and I wasn’t exactly outgoing. She was a bit awkward--no doubt about that. I hadn’t dated all that much, and I’d never had a serious relationship--nothing that lasted longer than a month or two. I’d always been an introvert and still am (believe it or not). I was also very picky, and I just wasn’t the type of girl who struck up conversations with guys I didn’t know. I was honestly comfortable being single; I didn’t think that much of it. “Who is this guy, anyway?” I asked, since they all seemed to know him for some reason. “Oh, they call him Hot John,” someone said, laughing. Hot John? There was no way I was going out in that lobby to strike up a conversation with some guy called Hot John. But the guys wouldn’t let up, so I finally said, “Fine.” I gathered up a few things from my desk (in case I needed a backup plan) and rounded the corner into the lobby. I quickly realized that Hot John was pretty good-looking. He’d obviously just finished a workout--he was dressed head-to-toe in cycling gear and was just standing there, innocently waiting on someone from the back. I tried to think about what I might say to strike up a conversation when I got close enough and quickly settled on the obvious topic: cycling. But just as that thought raced through my head, he looked up from his magazine and smiled right at me. Crap, I thought. I completely lost my nerve. I kept on walking right past him and out the lobby’s front door. When I reached the safety of my dad’s outdoor waiting area, I realized just how bad I’d needed the fresh air. I sat on a chair a few down from another customer and immediately started laughing at myself. Did I really just do that?

Follow back after the sale—ask how they are enjoying that hot tub, if the kitchen renovation is going well, or even if the dress they bought for their daughter’s wedding was a hit. Follow-back leads to repeat customers.

The crystal merchant awoke with the day, and felt the same anxiety that he felt every morning. He had been in the same place for thirty years: a shop at the top of a hilly street where few customers passed. Now it was too late to change anything—the only thing he had ever learned to do was to buy and sell crystal glassware. There had been a time when many people knew of his shop: Arab merchants, French and English geologists, German soldiers who were always well-heeled. In those days it had been wonderful to be selling crystal, and he had thought how he would become rich, and have beautiful women at his side as he grew older. But, as time passed, Tangier had changed. The nearby city of Ceuta had grown faster than Tangier, and business had fallen off. Neighbors moved away, and there remained only a few small shops on the hill. And no one was going to climb the hill just to browse through a few small shops. But the crystal merchant had no choice. He had lived thirty years of his life buying and selling crystal pieces, and now it was too late to do anything else. He spent the entire morning observing the infrequent comings and goings in the street. He had done this for years, and knew the schedule of everyone who passed. But, just before lunchtime, a boy stopped in front of the shop. He was dressed normally, but the practiced eyes of the crystal merchant could see that the boy had no money to spend. Nevertheless, the merchant decided to delay his lunch for a few minutes until the boy moved on. *

Food allergies are no joking matter. We have a friend who left a Paris restaurant on a gurney because a waiter took it upon himself to interpret her stated Capsicum annuum (bell peppers) allergy as merely an intolerance. Another friend is fatally allergic to Arachis hypogaea (peanuts). Serious allergy sufferers carry epinephrine pens that can inhibit some allergic reactions. They never take risks, because the appearance of EMTs—emergency medical technicians—and a stretcher kills the vibe of any celebration. And any veteran chef who’s seen a severe allergy attack unfold at a party will work in good faith to make damn sure it never happens again. But more and more Americans dress up mild intolerances and preferences for food in allergy drag, perhaps to absolve themselves of the rudeness of expecting to be served a customized plate. Chefs and waiters share stories of such behavior constantly: guests who are “allergic” to dairy until the chocolate pudding comes out for dessert. The “celiac” who needs his first course and second course gluten-free and then asks for a second slice of cake. “It’s every party now,” Robb Garceau, now executive chef at Neuman’s Kitchen, told us. “Guest says: ‘I need a vegan first course!’ So we build a special salad just for her. And then we send her a vegan main. But she’s seen somebody else’s salmon. Captain tells me: ‘She wants the fish course.’ And I’m like: ‘What?! You were vegan half an hour ago!

Addison dramatically put a hand to her chest, covering the V-neck of her sleek, green cocktail dress. “If only the world could understand the suffering of this rich white man in his custom Armani suit.

I need to take Longganisa for her morning walk." My adorable dachshund accompanied me to work every day and was content to spend most of the day napping in my office, but I tried to be good dog parent and take her out for multiple walks throughout the day. The Brew-ha Cafe was dog-friendly, and Nisa proved to be one of our most successful promo attempts. Whenever people saw her walking around in her adorable Brew-ha Cafe-themed outfits, custom-made by my friend's daughter, they'd stop and ask to pet her. The perfect opportunity to hand over my business card and invite them to the cafe. Today, Nisa was outfitted in a lemon-yellow Brew-ha Cafe dress and a little flower crown to welcome spring.

I felt that this Sethani was trying to please her customers with her attire and make up only for the sake of a living - I do the same: respectably dressed, mentally prepared I go to the court of my customers. The only difference is that all my wisdom and intellect are dried and sucked sugarcane — and the Sethani - a pitcher full of juice - I sell my brain, and the Sethani her body!

Stiff with terror, I hold the pose as Yannie’s flashes radiate off the backdrop. I open my arms to present in second position. I throw back my head, letting my hair cascade to the small of my back. I curve sideways like the marble statue of a water nymph—Dress like a Nun—that rule has most definitely gone down. At last, the rapid-fire clicking stops. Yannie speaks in Mandarin. Sophie’s no longer smiling. “We’re done.” “Already?” “I told you. She’s got another customer in a few minutes.” I don’t budge.

Mens Clothing Brand in Pakistan In a world where everybody is brand conscious. The competition between clothing brands is getting higher and higher. Every clothing brand seems to be doing efforts for the sake of their customers. Whether its men or women everybody wants to dress nice. There are so many Mens Clothing brands in Pakistan. One of them is The Cress. Upgrade your wardrobe by buying your favorite shirts from The Cress, one of the best Mens Clothing brands in Pakistan.

Salvatore returned after two hours, puffing his distress. “They all refused to pay me. All of them. The Chinese chef chased me off with a knife. The dress shop lady locked me inside the store, shouted to her customers that I was trying to rob her, and then five of them hit me with their handbags.

Jana Ann Couture Bridal | Wedding Dress Stores San Diego Every bride has a different body shape, and this can make it frustrating to purchase a typical wedding dress. You will have a great time though, Jana Ann's wedding dresses are elegant in design as well as customized to fit your body. The dress you choose will be tailored to fit you perfectly in every area of your body. The result is a wedding dress that appears tailored to fit you perfectly. You won't be shy in a dress like this when all your eyes are on you. Instead, you'll feel confident that you look your best. It can be fitted again in the weeks leading up to the wedding for any last-minute adjustments. That's why Jana Ann the lead in wedding dresses in San Diego. Call us: (619) 649-2439 Address: Del Mar Plaza, 1555 Camino Del Mar STE 313, San Diego, CA 92014, United States #bridal_san_diego #wedding_dresses_san_diego #bridal_boutique_in_san_diego #bridal_shops_san_diego #wedding_dress_shops_san_diego #white_wedding_dresses_san_diego #wedding_dress_stores_san_diego #bridal_stores_san_diego #bridal_boutique_san_diego

Jana Ann Bridal Couture | San Diego Plus Size Wedding Dresses First time in Bridal Industry, a Bridal Designer making a full Collection just for Plus Size Brides. Jana Ann Couture launched 40 new designs for 2020, all collections specifically designed with all the latest trends. Internationally well-known bridal designer Jana Ann says, “Size cannot limit your dreams.” Jana Ann has been recognized and featured on TLC TV show for Curvy brides, her remarkable attention to detail of giving her plus size brides the best variety of wedding dresses, reminding them that there is no compromise that they’re dream dress is reality and it is done with so much love and impeccable workmanship along with the belief that size doesn’t matter. In her mission of changing the industry standard of giving plus size the best and wide variety and trendy styles of plus size wedding dresses to choose from, giving them full attention and making them shine more than ever before. Jana Ann with her Engineering background as much as she gives importance to design and beauty, she has applied her engineering knowledge to build impeccable structure built in that brides over size 18 are two-three sizes down without having to wear bra, spanx, shapewear and additional undergarment. Incredible combination of comfort and function is her secret in building the structure in her plus size wedding dresses dresses. She has heard her plus size brides coming in disappointment from the lack of options that it has come to her attention to fully focus to fill this need to make a collection fully focused to her plus size brides, with her mission of body positivity, rooted in the belief that all human beings should have a positive body image, while challenging the ways in which society presents and views the physical body. She believes that no matter what size, shape and form with the right dress that is engineered and designed very well, every bride can be as equally stunning. Making every bride dreams come true one a dress at a time. She strongly believes that there is no compromise to settle down on a dress because it fits the bride size, that equally every bride has to find a dress according to their personality. Call us: (619) 649-2439 #San_Diego_Wedding_Dresses #San_Diego_Bridal_Shops #Bridal_Shops_San_Diego #San_Diego_Bridal_Boutique #Custom_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Plus_Size_Wedding_Dresses #Beach_Wedding_Dresses #Simple_Wedding_Dresses #San_Diego_Bridal_Shops #Bridal_Shops_near_me #Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Wedding_Dresses_near_me #San_Diego_Bridal_Boutique #Bridal_Boutique_near_me #San_Diego_Wedding_Shop #Wedding_shop_near_me #San_Diego_Bridal_Stores #Bridal_Stores_near_me

Jana Ann Bridal Couture | Bridal Shop in San Diego Are you a bride-to-be getting jitters for your dress? Have you been dealing with a bride going bridezilla? If you have been on the search for the best San Diego bridal shop have to offer, welcome aboard Jana Ann Bridal Couture. We offer bridal dresses that please even the pickiest of brides. That’s because our bridal dresses are made-to-order, which allows you to incorporate any features and design elements you desire. We understand that there’s nothing more devastating than finding your perfect dress that’s missing one element. From tulle to lace, rhinestones to feathers, help us help you with your bridal dress dreams. You’ll always be delighted with a Jana Ann bridal dress because our dresses center around you. Come browse our selection of bridal dresses in San Diego that can be customized to your liking. Take some to shed the stress off your shoulders hoping to stumble across the perfect dress. Brides can spend hours trying on dresses, usually leaving empty-handed and disappointed. We understand that it’s a flawed process that can end up causing unnecessary pre-wedding stress. Our dresses are designed especially for you, so you don’t have to luck out on finding a dress that suits you. Jana Ann Bridal Couture gets you that perfect bridal dress without unnecessary bridal stress. Are you ready to bring your dream dress to life? We’d love to do that for our lovely brides! Call us: (619) 649-2439 #San_Diego_Wedding_Dresses #San_Diego_Bridal_Shops #Bridal_Shops_San_Diego #San_Diego_Bridal_Boutique #Custom_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Plus_Size_Wedding_Dresses #Beach_Wedding_Dresses #Simple_Wedding_Dresses #San_Diego_Bridal_Shops #Bridal_Shops_near_me #Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Wedding_Dresses_near_me #San_Diego_Bridal_Boutique #Bridal_Boutique_near_me #San_Diego_Wedding_Shop #Wedding_shop_near_me #San_Diego_Bridal_Stores #Bridal_Stores_near_me

Jana Ann Bridal Couture | Custom Wedding Dresses San Diego Are you frustrated by the wedding dress buying process and tired of trying on dress after dress with no luck? The modern woman and her strict schedule do not have much time for boutique hopping to find a dress inspired by a hundred pieces you have already seen before. If all wedding dresses start to look the same to you, choose to stand out from the crowd with a custom made wedding dress, handcrafted Jana Ann Couture dress. Blending in is so not your style, so why settle for less? Our bridal boutique is different from the rest. We know that the searches for bridal boutiques in San Diego have increased after the pandemic. This is why our team of design experts has created a collection of flexible creations that can be altered to fit in your bridal shenanigans. We have seen it all, from ruffles to lace to mermaid tails, and there is no job too complicated for us. If you are having trouble finding a dress that is as unique as you, your first stop should be Jana Ann Bridal Boutique. It has never been simpler to find the dress of your dreams. Jana Ann makes all of its wedding dresses by hand, meaning you can be sure of the gown’s high-quality and craftsmanship. Moreover, you won’t have to worry about seeing similar wedding dresses on other brides. Maybe you’ve given up on finding the perfect wedding dress. We want to breathe new hope into your search at Jana Ann Bridal Boutique in San Diego. We have all the trending styles and the ability to create a new trend specifically for you. What are you waiting for? Don’t make do with any San Diego bridal boutique search when you have us only an interaction away! Dreaming of a customized wedding dress? Have Jana Ann onboard to get the most exclusive couture designs for your wedding! Book an appointment now. Call us: (619) 649-2439 #San_Diego_Wedding_Dresses #San_Diego_Bridal_Shops #Bridal_Shops_San_Diego #San_Diego_Bridal_Boutique #Custom_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Plus_Size_Wedding_Dresses #Beach_Wedding_Dresses #Simple_Wedding_Dresses #San_Diego_Bridal_Shops #Bridal_Shops_near_me #Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Wedding_Dresses_near_me #San_Diego_Bridal_Boutique #Bridal_Boutique_near_me #San_Diego_Wedding_Shop #Wedding_shop_near_me #San_Diego_Bridal_Stores #Bridal_Stores_near_me

Jana Ann Bridal Couture | San Diego Custom Wedding Dresses What appeals to one person may not appeal to another. Which is why Jana Ana Bridal Couture prides itself on creating custom wedding dresses from start to finish. Jana Ana Bridal Couture offers custom wedding dresses in the San Diego area and beyond. You are in control of your own destiny here. Did you find an almost-perfect dress that’s not your preferred shade of off-white? Or maybe it doesn’t have a long and dramatic train that you had your heart set on? What if we told you that you don’t have to settle for less? At Jana Ana Bridal Couture, we are excited by the opportunity of crafting your dream dress. If you’re a bride that knows what she wants and won’t stop until she gets it, we should be the first people you call, because we put your needs first. Custom wedding dresses are all the rage, and there’s no one who does custom wedding dresses better than Jana Ana Bridal Couture. We were making custom dresses before it was cool! Stop on by our San Diego Bridal Boutique today. Jana Ana Bridal Couture also provides Plus Size Wedding Dresses, Beach Wedding Dresses and with our variety of styles and special collections will sure end your baffles, our team is waiting for you to give the service you deserve, plan your wedding dress in style with the best San Diego Wedding Dresses shop. Call us: (619) 649-2439 #San_Diego_Wedding_Dresses #San_Diego_Bridal_Shops #Bridal_Shops_San_Diego #San_Diego_Bridal_Boutique #Custom_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Plus_Size_Wedding_Dresses #Beach_Wedding_Dresses #Simple_Wedding_Dresses #San_Diego_Bridal_Shops #Bridal_Shops_near_me #Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Wedding_Dresses_near_me #San_Diego_Bridal_Boutique #Bridal_Boutique_near_me #San_Diego_Wedding_Shop #Wedding_shop_near_me #San_Diego_Bridal_Stores #Bridal_Stores_near_me

Jana Ann Bridal Couture Simple Wedding Dress A simple wedding dress is perfect for the minimalistic bride. If you’re someone whose style would be best described as unfussy, a simple wedding dress is a perfect fit. You know who you are, you’re drawn to white t-shirts…even though you own 5. You search far and wide for the perfect cut of blue jeans with no rips or embellishments, and you stick with the classic patterns of stripes and polka dots. A floral print might be considered a little “wild” for you. You’re the simple bride, and you know what you like. We don’t want to stand in the way of your dream. Find your simple wedding dress in our San Diego location. Jana Ana Bridal Couture is a wedding boutique that doesn’t put you in a box. There’s nothing wrong with choosing a simple wedding dress. Not everyone shares the philosophy of going big or going home when it comes to wedding dresses. If you want a dress that is beautiful yet not overwhelming, Jana Ana Bridal Couture can help. Loving what you’re wearing and feeling comfortable in your wedding dress is half the battle in feeling great on your wedding day. Besides, with a simple wedding dress, you won’t distract your guests from your hair, makeup, and that bride-to-be glow. Let your personality shine with a simple wedding dress from Jana Ana Bridal Couture San Diego. Call us: (619) 649-2439 #San_Diego_Wedding_Dresses #Bridal_Shops_San_Diego #San_Diego_Bridal_Boutique #Custom_Wedding_Dresses_San Diego #Plus_Size_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Beach_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Bridal_Stores_San_Diego #Simple Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Wedding_Shops_San_Diego #San_Diego_Bridal_Shops

Jana Ann Bridal Couture Wedding Dress Stores San Diego There are wedding dress stores in San Diego, and then there’s the wedding couture by Jana Ann. Jana Ann Bridal Couture is the place where wedding dress dreams come true. That’s because we are not just a boutique, but a bride’s sartorially-equipped best friend! You may have noticed other stores only carry dresses that hit some of the items on your list. If you want a pale pink, lace, and tulle dress with all the fixings, but can’t find one? No problem. Don’t be limited in your choices or feel like you need to fit into someone else’s design. Exude the best possible version of yourself on your wedding day by choosing a dress that gives you confidence. We firmly believe confidence builds inside the being, and what better day to feel confident about your choices than your wedding day? Wedding days are years, and sometimes even decades, in the making. Make sure you aren’t giving up your dreams just because big-box wedding dress stores in San Diego can’t turn your vision into a reality. By choosing Jana Ann Bridal Couture, you ensure that you’ll feel great, and obviously look great too. Pre-wedding glow? Yes, please. Be the star of your wedding in a wedding dress designed by you. Just for you. Call us: (619) 649-2439 #San_Diego_Wedding_Dresses #Bridal_Shops_San_Diego #San_Diego_Bridal_Boutique #Custom_Wedding_Dresses_San Diego #Plus_Size_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Beach_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Bridal_Stores_San_Diego #Simple Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Wedding_Shops_San_Diego #San_Diego_Bridal_Shops

Jana Ann Bridal Couture Bridal Stores San Diego Hundreds of dresses available off-the-rack, yet none that catch your eye? We’ve been there before, and we understand the frustration. Take all the frustration out of your wedding dress search by taking a quick stop into the best bridal store in San Diego, at Jana Ann Bridal Couture. The Jana Ann Bridal Couture has a different approach to the wedding dress dilemma. Rather than stocking hundreds of dresses that only appeal to a small percentage of people, we reserve samples of dresses that you can customize from the bottom up. This ensures that every bride-to-be can find the dress of their dreams with ease at our bridal store in San Diego. We make sure that every frill and foil on the dress is customized to the bride’s choice. From the materials used to the form and fitting, each detail is used to express the bride’s identity and her love for her spouse-to-be! We create a love story out of the white gown worn at the wedding ceremony. Whether Priyanka Chopra Jonas or Megan Markle inspires you, you can use your wedding dress as a definite fashion statement that can keep you joyful; even in the memory of the day! The majority of stores tagged as bridal stores in San Diego tend to lack the glitz and glamour of a custom-made wedding gown! We at Jana Ann Coutier recognize that wedding dresses are not one-type-fits-all. Brides come in all shapes and sizes, so we can help you determine which silhouette is most flattering. We add features and style elements to hide your trouble areas and accentuate your curves for a more captivating look on your big day! Brides also come with different tastes and preferences. Some like to stay simpler, while others want to go all out with embellishments. Don’t limit yourself if you’re going to go big or remain traditional. Since most San Diego bridal stores search leads you to boutiques creating designer wear replicas, our specialty will satisfy your expectations for the dream wedding dress! We hope to help you create the dress of your dreams and feel fantastic on your wedding day, with the knowledge that your dress is one-of-a-kind, just like you! For a bridal store that values your opinion and time, stop by our location in San Diego today. Ready to get started? Get an appointment with Jana Ann to create the wedding ensemble of your dreams. Call us: (619) 649-2439 #San_Diego_Wedding_Dresses #Bridal_Shops_San_Diego #San_Diego_Bridal_Boutique #Custom_Wedding_Dresses_San Diego #Plus_Size_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Beach_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Bridal_Stores_San_Diego #Simple Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Wedding_Shops_San_Diego #San_Diego_Bridal_Shops

Jana Ann Bridal Couture Bridal Dresses San Diego Are you a bride-to-be getting jitters for your dress? Have you been dealing with a bride going bridezilla? If you have been on the search for the best San Diego bridal shop has to offer, welcome aboard Jana Ann Bridal Couture. We offer bridal dresses that please even the pickiest of brides. That’s because our bridal dresses are made-to-order, which allows you to incorporate any features and design elements you desire. We understand that there’s nothing more devastating than finding your perfect dress that’s missing one element. From tulle to lace, rhinestones to feathers, help us help you with your bridal dress dreams. You’ll always be delighted with a Jana Ann bridal dress because our dresses center around you. Come browse our selection of bridal dresses in San Diego that can be customized to your liking. Take some to shed the stress off your shoulders hoping to stumble across the perfect dress. Brides can spend hours trying on dresses, usually leaving empty-handed and disappointed. We understand that it’s a flawed process that can end up causing unnecessary pre-wedding stress. Our dresses are designed especially for you, so you don’t have to luck out on finding a dress that suits you. Jana Ann Bridal Couture gets you that perfect bridal dress without unnecessary bridal stress. Are you ready to bring your dream dress to life? We’d love to do that for our lovely brides! Call us: (619) 649-2439 #San_Diego_Wedding_Dresses #Bridal_Shops_San_Diego #San_Diego_Bridal_Boutique #Custom_Wedding_Dresses_San Diego #Plus_Size_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Beach_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Bridal_Stores_San_Diego #Simple Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego #Wedding_Shops_San_Diego #San_Diego_Bridal_Shops

Jana Ann Couture Bridal | Wedding Dress Shops San Diego - CA We care about all details of our bridal dresses. You will feel like a pretty white bird that flap over the moon. We are focusing on the beautiful elements that make up a wedding day was always present. And that includes the wedding dress. Choosing a wedding outfit is such a milestone in the wedding planning process, that even the couples who choose to scale down their celebrations and don’t focus on fashion, Jana Ann Bridal Shop in San Diego ensures them that their desire isn’t an odd one as we have every fashion even it is from a passing age. Our bridal stores are ready for all challenges to show tremendous creativity and resilience as they plot. The major pre-wedding tasks for any bride to tick off their to-do list is finding the white dress. This doesn't have to be stressful since there is Jana Ann Wedding Dresses Shops in San Diego are existed. To your Knowledge our wedding dress shops know how to pamper their customers, making it a pleasurable shopping experience from start to finish. Call us: (619) 649-2439 #Bridal_Shops_San_Diego_ CA #Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego_CA #Wedding_Shop_San_Diego_CA #Bridal_Shops_San_Diego_CA #Wedding_Dress_Shops_San_Diego_CA #Brides_of_San_Diego_San_Diego_CA #Bridal_Boutique_San_Diego_CA #Bridal_Stores_San_Diego_CA #Bridal_Dresses_San_Diego_CA #Bridal_Boutique_San_Diego_CA #Bridal_Store_San_Diego_CA

Jana Ann Couture Bridal | Bridal Shops San Diego - CA Jana Ana Bridal Couture is not your ordinary bridal shop in San Diego, which is perfect if you’re no ordinary bride. You’ll find something spectacular everywhere you look at Jana Ana’s San Diego Showroom. We carry dresses of every size, shape, fabric, and style. Best of all, every single dress can be customized to your tastes. Every bride is different and deserves a special dress that matches her personality. We aren’t in the business of making generic dresses, we’re called Jana Ana Bridal Couture for a reason—we offer couture dresses customized to your body and style without the couture price tag. Jana Ana is the only bridal shop in San Diego that gives you the couture experience. Call us: (619) 649-2439 #Bridal_Shops_San_Diego_ CA #Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego_CA #Wedding_Shop_San_Diego_CA #Bridal_Shops_San_Diego_CA #Wedding_Dress_Shops_San_Diego_CA #Brides_of_San_Diego_San_Diego_CA #Bridal_Boutique_San_Diego_CA #Bridal_Stores_San_Diego_CA #Bridal_Dresses_San_Diego_CA #Bridal_Boutique_San_Diego_CA #Bridal_Store_San_Diego_CA

Jana Ann Couture Bridal | Bridal Shops San Diego – CA Jana Ana Bridal Couture is not your ordinary bridal shop in San Diego, which is perfect if you’re no ordinary bride. You’ll find something spectacular everywhere you look at Jana Ana’s San Diego Showroom. We carry dresses of every size, shape, fabric, and style. Best of all, every single dress can be customized to your tastes. Every bride is different and deserves a special dress that matches her personality. We aren’t in the business of making generic dresses, we’re called Jana Ana Bridal Couture for a reason—we offer couture dresses customized to your body and style without the couture price tag. Jana Ana is the only bridal shop in San Diego that gives you the couture experience. Call us: (619) 649-2439 #Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego_CA #Bridal_Shops_San_Diego_CA #Beach_Wedding_Dresses_San Diego_CA #Black_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego_CA #Wedding _Shop_San_Diego_CA #Boho_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego_CA #Long_ Sleeve_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego_CA #Plus_Size_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego_CA #Bridal_Gowns_San_Diego_CA #Bridal_San_Diego_CA #Simple_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego_CA #Mermaid_Wedding_Dresses_San_Diego_CA

intricate patterns on the pavement. Her enormous brown eyes glittered with happiness at the attention she had attracted. Sarah wasn’t the only passerby who had stopped to watch, entranced. Then the song ended, and the gathered crowd applauded. The girl bobbed a curtsey and looked around expectantly. In a moment, coins appeared, fished from pockets and purses and offered in tribute. The coins disappeared again as if by magic, spirited away by little fingers as nimble as the little feet had been and deposited into the pocket of her dress. While the crowd disbursed, the girl turned and hurried back to the man who had produced the music. That was when Sarah recalled her purpose in being here. The child was emptying her pocket and giving the coins to a handsome youth who sat on a small stool with his back against the building. He held the organ between his knees, resting on a small stand. He wore a dark shirt and trousers and had a red bandanna tied rakishly at his throat. He looked so perfect that Sarah almost didn’t notice the wooden crutches tucked discreetly between his stool and the wall. Finally, she saw the pant leg pinned up at the ankle. She’d never expected Georgio to have a child, which was why she’d been so slow to realize she’d found him. Taking advantage of this lull, she stepped over to where the man and the girl were conversing in Italian. There seemed to be some question about whether she’d given him all the coins she’d collected. “Georgio?” Sarah tried. He looked up from beneath the bill of his small cap. His eyes were dark and liquid, his smile big and bright and charming. “Si, Signorina, do you want to see the little one dance?” His English was very good, probably honed from conversing with his customers. “No, although she dances very well,” Sarah added, giving the child an approving smile, in case she didn’t understand the compliment. “I wanted to ask you about your sister Emilia.” His charming smile vanished, and the dark eyes grew wary. “She is dead,” he said very carefully. “I know. I’m very sorry.” “Who are you and what do you want?” he asked suspiciously. When he frowned, Sarah realized how much he looked like his mother. “My name is Sarah Brandt, and I met Emilia at the Prodigal Son Mission.” His expression hardened from wariness into anger. Plainly, none of the Donato family had any love for the mission. “She was such a lovely girl, and she was trying very hard to become a respectable young woman,” Sarah hurried on, wishing she had some idea how Georgio felt about his sister. Seeing that the grown-ups were going to talk a bit, the little girl sank down onto the pavement with a weary sigh and leaned back against the wall. Sarah wondered vaguely how many times she

Travelling through eastern and central India, Gandhi found the purdah system far more prevalent than in other parts of the country. In western and southern india, women were attending schools and colleges and even participating in public life. The Tamil women he knew in South Africa had raised money for his struggle and even courted arrest. But in Bihar and the United Provinces the situation was altogether different. The women who attended his meetings were dressed in purdah, and sat behind a screen segregating them from the rest of the crowd. In an article for Young India, Gandhi wrote of how the treatment of women had ‘pained and humiliated’ him. ‘Why do not our women enjoy the same freedom we do?’ he asked. ‘Why should they not be able to walk out and have fresh air?’ Purdah was a ‘barbarous custom which, whatever use it might have had when it was first introduced, had now become totally useless and [was]doing incalculable harm to the country

When I was a child, charlottes--- French desserts made traditionally out of brioche, ladyfingers, or sponge and baked in a charlotte mold--- were everywhere. Charlotte au chocolat wasn't the only variety, though being chocolate, it had the edge on my mother's autumn-season apple charlotte braised with brioche and poached in clarified butter, and even on the magnificent charlotte Malakoff she used to serve in the summer: raspberries, slivered almonds, and Grand Marnier in valleys of vanilla custard. But it is charlotte au chocolat, being my namesake dessert, that I remember most, for we offered it on the menu all year long. I walked into the pastry station and saw them cooling in their rusted tin molds on the counter. I saw them scooped onto lace doilies and smothered in Chantilly cream, starred with candied violets and sprigs of wet mint. I saw them lit by birthday candles. I saw them arranged, by the dozens, on silver trays for private parties. I saw them on customers' plates, destroyed, the Chantilly cream like a tumbled snowbank streaked with soot from the chocolate. And charlottes smelled delightful: they smelled richer, I thought, than any dessert in the world. The smell made me think of black velvet holiday dresses and grown-up perfumes in crystal flasks. It made me want to collapse and never eat again.

One thing I don’t see here today is customers. Luxury-car sales are “more lifestyle than automotive,” Christiansen explains. The vehicles follow the money. His team will cosponsor events with private jet manufacturers and fractional ownership services such as NetJets and XOJET, or with San Francisco’s St. Francis Yacht Club, to expose affluent people to vehicles “they don’t even know they want yet.” Customers wander in from time to time, of course. Rocker Sammy Hagar, a Ferrari collector who sold his Cabo Wabo tequila brand to Campari for $91 million, has been known to stop by the sister dealership in San Francisco “in flip-flops, torn shorts, ratted hair, and a T-shirt. You wouldn’t think the guy has two dimes to rub together if you didn’t know who he was,” Christiansen says. Another guy showed up at the Walnut Creek lot dressed like a plumber and configured a $260,000 Bentley. He was, in fact, a plumber—one who owned a thriving plumbing business. He’d arrived in another Bentley, now on consignment.

Miyajima oysters, simmered Kurama-style, miso-glazed baked butterburs with millet cake, bracken and bamboo shoot stew, chargrilled moroko, breast of Kyoto-reared chicken with a wasabi dressing, and vinegared Wakasa mackerel wrapped in pickled Shogoin turnip. In the bottom right you have a hamaguri clam broth thickened with kudzu starch. Tonight's customer asked me to create something that evoked both the lingering winter and the onset of spring, which led to the dishes you see here.

but before he can elaborate, that door which separates Emile’s kitchen from the rest of the world swings open. It is Andrey, as prompt as ever, with his Book in hand and a pair of spectacles resting on the top of his head. Like a brigand after a skirmish, Emile slips his chopper under the tie of his apron and then looks expectantly at the door, which a moment later swings again. With the slightest turn of the wrist the shards of glass tumble into a new arrangement. The blue cap of the bellhop is handed from one boy to the next, a dress as yellow as a canary is stowed in a trunk, a little red guidebook is updated with the new names of streets, and through Emile’s swinging door walks Count Alexander Ilyich Rostov—with the white dinner jacket of the Boyarsky draped across his arm. One minute later, sitting at the table in the little office overlooking the kitchen were Emile, Andrey, and the Count—that Triumvirate which met each day at 2:15 to decide the fate of the restaurant’s staff, its customers, its chickens and tomatoes. As was customary, Andrey convened the meeting by resting his reading glasses on the tip of his nose and opening the Book. “There are no parties in the private rooms tonight,” he began, “but every table in the dining room is reserved for two seatings.” “Ah,” said Emile with the grim smile of the commander who prefers to be outnumbered. “But you’re not going to rush them, eh?” “Absolutely not,” assured the Count. “We’ll simply see to it that their menus are delivered promptly and their orders taken directly.” Emile nodded in acknowledgment. “Are there any complications?” asked the Count of the maître d’. “Nothing out of the ordinary.” Andrey spun the Book so that his headwaiter could see for himself.

Employers harassed them for "being inappropriately dressed" or "not having the right attitude," and held their wages ransom. Customers thought the right to harass young women came with their purchase.

New dress codes stigmatized Jews using the same colorful fabric or garments that marked prostitutes. For instance, in the fifteenth century, Roman Jewish women were required to wear a red overskirt that prostitutes also wore; Jewish women in other parts of Italy had to wear a yellow veil—a sign of the prostitute in Italian cities from the fourteenth through the sixteenth centuries. In 1397, Venetian law required Jews to wear a yellow badge, and a 1416 law required prostitutes and pimps to wear a yellow scarf. In Viterbo, any Jewish woman who dared appear on the streets without her yellow veil could be stripped naked by the first person to apprehend her—the same punishment prescribed in other cities for prostitutes who strayed from the districts where they were allowed to solicit customers.

Shuta felt mixed emotions thinking about how this fierce-looking man dressed in construction gear went to a pet store and rush-ordered a custom-engraved cat collar.

Following the Soviet invasion, the Communists, to their credit, passed decrees making girls’ education compulsory and abolishing certain oppressive tribal customs—such as the bride-price, a payment to the bride’s family in return for her hand in marriage. However, by massacring thousands of tribal elders, they paved the way for the “commanders” to step in as the new elite. Aided by American and Saudi patronage, extremism flourished. What had once been a social practice confined to areas deep in the hinterlands now became a political practice, which, according to ideologues, applied to the entire country. The modest gains of urban women were erased. “The first time a woman enters her husband’s house," Heela “told me about life in the countryside, “she wears white”—her wedding dress—“and the first time she leaves, she wears white”—the color of the Muslim funeral shroud. The rules of this arrangement were intricate and precise, and, it seemed to Heela, unchanged from time immemorial. In Uruzgan, a woman did not step outside her compound. In an emergency, she required the company of a male blood relative to leave, and then only with her father’s or husband’s permission. Even the sound of her voice carried a hint of subversion, so she was kept out of hearing range of unrelated males. When the man of the house was not present, boys were dispatched to greet visitors. Unrelated males also did not inquire directly about a female member of the house. Asking “How is your wife?” qualified as somewhere between uncomfortably impolite and downright boorish. The markers of a woman’s life—births, anniversaries, funerals, prayers, feasts—existed entirely within the four walls of her home. Gossip, hopscotching from living room to living room, was carried by husbands or sons.