Fit As Fiddle Quotes

I didn't know why this was happening. The cruel reality of anxiety is that you never quite do. At the moments it should logically strike, I am fit as a fiddle. On a lazy afternoon, I am seized by a cold dread.

And after a refreshing sleep filled with cobwebby dreams of my past life in the East I got up, washed in the station men’s room, and strode off, fit and slick as a fiddle, and got me a rich thick milkshake at the roadhouse to put some freeze in my hot, tormented stomach.

spirit. These rich curves feel crafted by hand, not computer. Dashing — maybe even exuberant — Baskerville has been known to steal the show, so be sure the content fits it (or doesn’t mind playing second fiddle). Good for: Debonair swagger.

The anxiety that has followed me through my life like a bad friend had reappeared with a vengeance and taken a brand-new form. I felt like I was outside my own body, watching myself work. I didn’t care if I succeeded or failed because I wasn’t totally sure I was alive. Between scenes I hid in the bathroom and prayed for the ability to cry, a sure sign I was real. I didn’t know why this was happening. The cruel reality of anxiety is that you never quite do. At the moments it should logically strike, I am fit as a fiddle. On a lazy afternoon, I am seized by a cold dread. In this moment I had plenty to be anxious about: pressure, exposure, a tense argument with a beloved colleague. But I had even more to be thankful for. Yet I couldn’t feel anything.

After all, he’s not my boyfriend! For that matter, he wouldn’t be able to tell a healthy sound from an unhealthy one. He’d have to have his ears cleaned first, since he’s becoming alarmingly hard of hearing. But enough about my illness. I’m fit as a fiddle again. I’ve grown almost half an

he seemed as right as rain when I saw him yesterday!” And that’s what Pete and Joe said, too. Right as rain! And then I got to thinking. “That’s how he was then,” I said. “What’s in your mind, Terry?” said Pete. “If he was fit as a fiddle one day, how come he was dead as a doornail the next?

In the fable the industrious ant was busy storing up for winter while the grasshopper fiddled and frolicked and frittered away his resources. According to Jim, most Conroys were ants. Jim and his brother Mike, both ants, had married outside their species by hooking up with grasshoppers. Their sister Kathy was an ant married to an ant; while brother Tim and sister Carol were ants with their provisions and grasshoppers with other people’s. “You, my dear,” Pat said with a glance my way, “are obviously an ant. I’ve never met an ant who wasn’t proud and pious about it. You’ll fit right in with my family.” “And what are you?” I teased. “Now what do you think? Unlike you stingy, miserly ants hoarding your last dime in your tight little fists, we grasshoppers

Anyone who has been married knows that the whole “for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health” thing is all fine and good and easy when you’re twenty-four and wearing a pretty dress and fit as a fiddle and your hair is just like you like it and your direct deposit kicks in twice a month. But the character of a marriage is forged in the difficult times, when you’re grappling with heartbreak or illness or disappointment or maybe even betrayal.

If the time comes you need to talk about it, you can share anything you need to with me. I won’t judge you--not for anything.” Loretta stiffened. “What could you judge me for?” She pulled away. Rachel averted her face. “Oh, Aunt Rachel, not you, too? Is it a crime to live through something like this and emerge unharmed? I did starve myself. I chose death, just like any self-respecting woman would. But then he promised to bring me home, and I started eating again. He hadn’t harmed me, and I figured--” Loretta broke off. It was clear as rain Aunt Rachel didn’t believe her. “Merciful heaven, would you rather I was dead?” Amy groaned and tossed her head. Lowering her voice, Rachel replied, “No, I wouldn’t rather you were dead!” She lifted trembling hands to her face. “Lord, no. I--oh, Loretta Jane, no. I love you. I just can’t understand. You come home looking fit as a fiddle, claiming they didn’t touch you? I saw you kiss him with my own eyes. And Tom said you shared the Comanche’s bed, that it appeared you were receiving good treatment. I can only wonder what you had to do to survive so you could be here tonight. It’s amazing what we women can live through--the things we’re willing to put up with just to get by. Look at me. Stuck here in this unforgiving land with a man I despise. Do you think having him touch me is pleasant? But I let him and pretend I like it. Without him, where would the three of us be?” Loretta couldn’t answer. For an instant it was like being mute again, her throat felt so tight. She could understand Uncle Henry’s not believing her. He was one tier short of a full cord, anyway, and a body expected him to be an imbecile. But Aunt Rachel? That hurt--a bone-deep hurt that would be a long time in easing. Even if eloquence had been hers, Loretta would have offered no defense. She knew the truth, and that would have to be enough. Aunt Rachel stood up and wiped her palms on her shift. “I’m here if you need an ear. You can count on me.” With that, she left the loft. Loretta wrapped her arms around her knees and gazed out the window at the moonlit yard, remembering another night, a lifetime ago, when Hunter had sat astride his black stallion there, his arm lifted to her in a salute, his fisted hand holding her stolen bloomers. How could it be that a Comanche understood the song her heart sang and her own aunt did not?

Question, Dave. At what age is it appropriate to stop dreaming of the year I sweep the Nobels, and really hunker down and specialize on the talent that’s gonna win me international acclaim and sex? Fourteen? Eighteen? Six? I got to tell you, nothing discourages the ambitious twelve-year-old like a bilingual Japanese fifth grader who gets onstage at skits, all humble and nervous, and busts fiery concertos out her violin like it’s nothing, or like a linguist mom who tells me that if I were to make it my life’s pursuit to learn the little fiddle prodigy’s primary language, it’s already too late for my brain to pick up on the nuances necessary for fitting in. I’m too late to dominate at something, aren’t I? If I’m too late, it’s fine, I just need to hear you say it so I can transition out of having goals and start nudging whoever’s beside me at skits and going, “Yeah, but at least I’ve got a life.” Or, wait, “Yeah, but at least I’ve got a life.” Well. Not there yet. I’ll work on it.

Is . . . everything proceeding as it should? With . . . the baby?” The smile in her eyes deepened. “Yes, everything is fine. It’s normal to have these pains. I had the same with Andrew.” “And how many weeks are left before the baby is expected?” “Five, at least. Andrew came three weeks early but I’d been sick with him. The doctor said that had a lot to do with it. And as you can see, I’m fit as a fiddle now.” She shrugged. “A very big fiddle.” He smiled at the look on her face. “I can’t imagine you being any more beautiful than you are right now, Aletta. You . . . shine from the inside out.” She shook her head. “That’s probably just perspiration from building the nativity.” They laughed, then she looked down at her hand still tucked in his. She gently started to pull away, but he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. Once, twice, her skin like silk. Her gaze lowered from his eyes to his mouth, and the simple gesture sent something akin to a thunderbolt through him. There’d been plenty of times when he’d looked at her and wished he’d earned the liberty to kiss her, to hold her close. But never more so than right at that moment. As though she’d read his thoughts, her cheeks flushed crimson. Jake traced a feather path with his thumb across her lower lip, and her mouth opened slightly. He told himself to move slowly where this woman was concerned. But when she closed her eyes, that was all the answer he needed. He kissed her gently at first, her mouth softer, sweeter than he’d imagined. But when a soft sigh rose in her throat, he drew her closer and she slipped her arms around his neck.

Is . . . everything proceeding as it should? With . . . the baby?” The smile in her eyes deepened. “Yes, everything is fine. It’s normal to have these pains. I had the same with Andrew.” “And how many weeks are left before the baby is expected?” “Five, at least. Andrew came three weeks early but I’d been sick with him. The doctor said that had a lot to do with it. And as you can see, I’m fit as a fiddle now.” She shrugged. “A very big fiddle.” He smiled at the look on her face. “I can’t imagine you being any more beautiful than you are right now, Aletta. You . . . shine from the inside out.” She shook her head. “That’s probably just perspiration from building the nativity.” They laughed, then she looked down at her hand still tucked in his. She gently started to pull away, but he brought her hand to his lips and kissed it. Once, twice, her skin like silk. Her gaze lowered from his eyes to his mouth, and the simple gesture sent something akin to a thunderbolt through him. There’d been plenty of times when he’d looked at her and wished he’d earned the liberty to kiss her, to hold her close. But never more so than right at that moment. As though she’d read his thoughts, her cheeks flushed crimson. Jake traced a feather path with his thumb across her lower lip, and her mouth opened slightly. He told himself to move slowly where this woman was concerned. But when she closed her eyes, that was all the answer he needed. He kissed her gently at first, her mouth softer, sweeter than he’d imagined. But when a soft sigh rose in her throat, he drew her closer and she slipped her arms around his neck. He deepened the kiss, weaving his hands into her hair and— “Mama! We’re here to help with the star!” Jake drew back slightly and broke the kiss, hearing the boys barreling in their direction. Aletta looked up at him and smiled, and whatever determination he’d had to move slowly where she was concerned vanished completely. “Mama?” Andrew called. “I’m coming,” she answered and stood, smoothing the sides of her hair then the front of her dress. Jake rose along with her and reached over and tucked a wayward curl back into place, then kissed her on the forehead.

Regaining her composure, Maisie stood away from the wall, keeping one hand outstretched, touching the bricks. As confidence in her stability returned, she walked slowly into Charlotte Street. Maisie brushed off the interlude, telling herself that it served her right for skipping breakfast. Frankie Dobbs would have had something to say about that! “Breakfast, my girl, is the most important meal of the day. You know what they say, Maisie: ‘Breakfast like a king, lunch like a lord, and dinner like a pauper.’ Key to bein’ as fit as a fiddle, is that.

Junior partnerships within authoritarian regimes proved disastrous for fascist movements. Playing second fiddle fit badly with fascists’ extravagant claims to transform their peoples and redirect history. For their part, the authoritarian senior partners took a dim view of the fascists’ impatient violence and disdain for established interests, for these cases often involved fascist movements that retained much of the social radicalism of the early movement stage.

He tucked the fiddle under his chin, tightening his mouth and raising his head as he did so: and the tightening of his mouth was enough to release a flood of emotion. His face reddened, his breath heaved deep, his eyes grew larger and, because of the extreme contraction of their pupils, bluer: his mouth tightened still further, and with it his right hand. Pupils contract symmetrically to a diameter of about a tenth part of an inch, noted Stephen on a corner of a page. There was a loud, decided crack, a melancholy confused twanging, and with a ludicrous expression of doubt and wonder and distress, Jack held out his violin, all dislocated and unnatural with its broken neck. ‘It snapped,’ he cried. ‘It snapped.’ He fitted the broken ends together with infinite care and held them in place. ‘I would not have had it happen for the world,’ he said in a low voice. ‘I have known this fiddle, man and boy, since I was breeched.