Floral Print Quotes

The woman wears a floral print blouse with lots of leaves and pink flowers. Risa would like to attack her with a weed whacker.

Commander Lebedev wrote—‘After a communication session we invited Flight Engineer Savitskaya to the heavily laden table. We gave Sveta a blue floral print apron and told her, “ ‘Look, Sveta, even though you are a pilot and cosmonaut, you are still a woman first. Would you please do us the honor of being our hostess tonight?’ “ “Ouch,” says Roth

The big bad monster wasn't green and hiding under the bed, it wore tasteless floral prints, bright scarlet lipstick and sat in the kitchen smoking and saying 'bollocks' alot.

She saw for the first time the way we fill our homes with macabre altars to the live things we've murdered__ the floral print of the twin mattress in her childhood bedroom, stripped of its sheets when she soiled them; ferns on throw pillows coated in formaldehyde; poppies on petrochemical dinner plates; boxes and bags of bulk pulpstuffs emblazoned with plant imagery the way milk cartons are emblazoned with children. A rock on a window ledge, cut flowers stabbed in vases, a wreath of sprigs nailed to the front door-- every house a mausoleum, every house a wax museum.

She was wearing a long loose dress of floral print. It was obvious that she tried not to look sexy, something very unusual for her. She had failed in this attempt.   Her perfect breasts strained the fabric of her dress. The seams that extended over her chest appeared to be drawn by the invisible hands of a cupid as his magical bowstring. Since I happened to place myself within his shooting range it was no wonder I started to fall for her again.

them up. Flowers blooming. A garden … As she neared the house, the front door opened. A woman came out, wearing a pretty floral-print dress beneath a frilly red apron, and holding a broom. Her bobbed hair was carefully curled and a pair of wireless glasses magnified her eyes.

A slow smile spread across his lips as his gaze left my face and raked my body up and down. The guy seemed to be mentally undressing me. As quickly as he mentally removed my clothing, I mentally replaced them with unappealing apparel. An argyle cardigan. A loose jumpsuit. A floral-print muumuu.

We were The Hottentot Venus Draped in our mothers' dresses, Wearing rouge & lipstick, Pillows tucked under floral & print cloth, the first day of spring, As we balanced on high heels. Women sat in a circle talking About men; the girls off Somewhere else, in other houses. We felt the last kisses Our mothers would give us On the mouth.

A cross with yellow roses. What a fucking thing. It was like an electric chair with floral-print cushions, a bad joke.

Elizabeth took her first good look at her new surroundings. There wasn't much to see. In better times the room she was in might have been a living room, but now it was little more than a dingy, nearly empty space about the size of her bedroom. To her left was the front door, and against the wall in front of her was a torn, floral-print sofa. Straining her neck she caught a glimpse of a table and another chair similar to the one she was tied to, which, like the sofa, looked like Salvation Army rejects. Behind her and to the right was a stove, then an archway, which she thought probably led to the bathroom and perhaps a bedroom. The lone window on the wall next to the door was boarded over with planks of weathered wood, and the floor was worn and stained with grime. The walls were dirty, too, and there were no pictures or any kind of personal mementos that Elizabeth would have expected to see in a place someone called home.

all they’ve found is a pair of pink rubber gloves with a floral print near the elbows, discarded in a small parking lot a short distance away.

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Today she’d encased her ample frame in aqua pedal pushers and a bold floral print shirt topped with a string of beads that could have inspired a mother hen to sit a while. “What’s

I know your given name is Katherine. So why does everyone call you Kitty?” He pulled a bag of dried apple slices from his medical bag. With a few pieces in his hand, he gestured to Kitty but she shook her head to decline.  She sat straight. “Do you not know?” Holding a piece of apple up to his mouth, Nathaniel prepared for a bite. “I’m waiting.” He flicked the morsel in his mouth and began to chew. She grinned and played with the printed floral fabric of her skirt. “Father was in his study reviewing materials one evening, when Peter—” Nathaniel raised his hand, his expression tender. “You mean your older brother... the one you lost.” “Aye.” The pain of her brother’s death, though always fresh, receded as she prepared to share how her dear sibling had given her such a name. She brushed a blade of grass from her knee. “Peter must have been about two and a half years old, perhaps older. Father said Peter came rushing in babbling something about a kitty and pointing vigorously in the direction of the kitchen.”  Kitty imitated the motion, making Nathaniel’s handsome smile widen. “I’m intrigued. Continue.” “Father followed Peter toward the kitchen where, inside the barrel of flour and covered from top to toe was none other than the baby of the family. So, from that moment on Peter, Father, Mother and Liza all called me Kitty.” Nathaniel pelted the air with that buoyant laugh Kitty loved. “How did you get into the barrel without your mother’s notice?” “’Tis a mystery.” He leaned back onto the grass and rested against his elbow, nodding with mock disapproval. “So you were a wily child then?” “Am I not wily now?” “I should say so. And you’ve enjoyed getting your fingers messy in the kitchen ever since.” “Aye, I have.” He

The father, for his part, had waited until they arrived, in the midst of the hustle and bustle of people and the cries of the shoeshine boys and the importuning of beggars, he explained that it was book by a journalist that had come out a couple of years ago but was still selling, that the guy was uncouth but the book, from what he had heard wasn't bad. Elaine tore off the wrapping paper, saw a design of nine blue frames with trimmed corners, and inside the frames saw bells, suns, Phrygian caps, floral sketches, moons with women’s faces, skulls and crossbones and dancing demons, and all seemed a bit absurd and gratuitous, and the title, Cien años de soledad, exaggerated and melodramatic. Don Julio put a long fingernail over the E of the last word, which was backwards. ‘I didn’t notice till I’d already bought it’, he apologized. ‘If you want we can try to exchange it.’ Elaine said it didn’t matter, that she wasn’t going to get on the train with nothing to read because of a silly typo. And days later, in a letter to her grandparents, she wrote: ‘Send me something to read, please, I get bored at night. The only thing I have here is a book that the señor gave me as a going- away present, and I’ve tried to read it. I swear I have tried, but the Spanish is very difficult and everybody has the same name. It’s the most tedious thing I’ve read in a long time, and there’s even a typo on the cover. It’s incredible, it’s in its fourteenth printing and they haven’t corrected it. When I think of you reading the latest Graham Greene, it doesn’t seem fair.

Her despairing mind searches for the thorns on her floral print dress.

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Not yet.” Jess leaned forward, taking his hands and pulling them into her lap. “Do you remember that time Nana bought us all gardening gloves and didn’t realize the ‘floral print’ was actually marijuana?” “The way she kept insisting it was a Japanese maple.” His shoulders shook with quiet laughter. “And Junebug still pointing out ‘Nana’s favorite plant’ whenever she sees one on a T-shirt or a sign.

Adelaide wasn’t depressed. She never felt bleak. She had energy. She was talky. She painted her fingernails green and wore floral-print dresses and enormous cardigan sweaters. But you can be talky and paint your fingernails and still be very sad. In fact, you can be talky and paint your fingernails to protect other people from how sad you are.

The ceremony was beautiful, and as Hope and Mark stood beneath the towering floral arch, I couldn't help but think this scene truly looked like something out of a fairytale wedding. I even started feeling a little emotional--- until they started to recite their vows. Hope had told me earlier that she and Mark had written their own vows but failed to say more about them. At first, I thought my hearing had failed or I was having some kind of stroke. "What language is that?" I whispered to Dom from our perch in the back. "I... I actually think it's a pretend language," he replied. "What are you talking about?" I asked. "What do you mean pretend language?" "Do you have one of the programs with you?" he asked. "I bet there's a note in there about it." "No, but let me grab one." I didn't have to go far before I found the table at the back of the aisle and a basket full of programs. Each program was iridescent, in the shape of a flower with a beautiful lilac ribbon tied at the bottom. Under the order of service, a small line read: "The bride and groom have chosen to recite their own vows to one another in their favorite mythical tongue: Sindarin, one of the Elvish languages of Tolkein." My eyes were wide as saucers. Both the Elvish and English translations were printed below for everyone to follow along. Dom was going to lose it for sure. I quietly moved back to my seat next to Dom, who was still filming. "You're not going to believe what I'm about to tell you," I whispered as I casually fanned myself with the floral program. "What is it?" he asked. "It's Elvish," I said, holding back a laugh. "What?" he replied a little too loud. "Keep your voice down," I said, now pointing to the line in the program as proof. "Like, from The Lord of the Rings?" "I can't believe she didn't mention this to me earlier," I said. "But yes, I think so. This wedding is just full of surprises." "For once, I'm at a loss for words," Dom said. "They are clearly perfect for each other if this was something they both enjoyed. I bet they go to all those conferences for people who like fantasy stuff." "Maybe that's what they're doing for their honeymoon," I added. "I haven't asked them about it yet. If it is, I'm going to die." We were both holding back giggles at this point, but thankfully the couple finished reciting whatever it was they were saying to each other. I wondered whether we'd need to add subtitles to our video if we showed this part of the ceremony. As soon as the officiant pronounced them man and wife, the ceremony musicians played a set of chimes and the officiant asked for every guest to open the small box that was placed at the base of every bench. Inside each box was a butterfly that flew into the air and fluttered around the entire area above all the guests. I supposed that since real fairies weren't available, butterflies were the next best option. It was actually the perfect ending to this mythical ceremony, and everyone cheered in delight.

you are back in your grandmother’s attic looking at photographs of people you don’t know, ladies in floral print dresses, wearing feathered and veiled hats; men with cigarettes, leaning against automobiles, thumbs through their belt loops; an empty railroad depot, the tracks heading away to a landscape of bare trees, the rail yard littered with handcarts and piles of sooty snow, and you hear your mother calling you to lunch, but you are curious about this missing snapshot, the four triangular corner mounts forming a dark rectangle. Who removed the photo from the album and why? And who is the purloined ghost? And at that moment you realize that secrets lie all around you, that the world is so much larger than you had imagined, and that you are a part of it, and that this is a world of loss, and that all of these people whose names are penned on the borders of the photographs, whose smiles and shadows have been preserved, these people named Eustache and Marie, Walter, Pamille, Theona, Grace, Emma, Cousin Butchie, Big Fred, Little Fred, that all of them were tillers in the garden where the flower of you now blooms.

I wander back to class along Zhengsu Lu in the afternoon, my floral-print umbrella in one hand, an ice cream in the other. The air has that pre-lightning feel. It is June.

She saw for the first time the way we fill our homes with macabre altars to the live things we’ve murdered—the floral print of the twin mattress in her childhood bedroom, stripped of its sheets when she soiled them; ferns on throw pillows coated in formaldehyde; poppies on petrochemical dinner plates; boxes and bags of bulk pulpstuffs emblazoned with plant imagery the way milk cartons are emblazoned with children. A rock on a window ledge, cut flowers stabbed in a vase, wreath of sprigs nailed to the front door—every house a mausoleum, every house a wax museum.

Blue Bottle wanted to help customers find coffee they’d love. But coffee beans all look alike, so photos wouldn’t be helpful. To find useful solutions, the team did Lightning Demos of websites selling everything from clothes to wine, looking for ways to describe sensory details such as flavor, aroma, and texture. In the end, it was a chocolate-bar wrapper that provided the most useful idea. Tcho is a chocolate manufacturer in Berkeley, California. Printed on the wrapper of every Tcho bar is a simple flavor wheel with just six words: Bright, Fruity, Floral, Earthy, Nutty, and Chocolatey. When Blue Bottle looked at that wheel, they got inspired, and when we sketched, someone repurposed the idea as a simple flavor vocabulary for describing Blue Bottle’s coffee beans: In Friday’s test, and later, at the new online store, customers loved the simple descriptions. It’s a prime example of finding inspiration outside your domain (and yet another reason to be grateful for chocolate).