Hoops Earrings Quotes

To celebrate our partnership I dressed up like Ranger. Black boots, black jeans, black turtleneck, small silver hoop earrings. He gave me the once-over when I opened the door to him. ‘Smart ass,’ he said.

Yeah, the elf looks good in the sun," Jenks smart-mouthed, the pixy currently sitting on the bottom of my hooped earrings and out of the moderate wind. "When you going to put us all out of your misery and boink him?

So that night after Wyatt goes to bed, I can't sleep. And I see this piece of paper with this song he's writing and it's clearly about me. It says something about a redhead and mentioned the hoop earrings that I was wearing all the time. And then he had this chorous about me having a big heart but no love in it. I kept looking at the words, thinking, This isn't right. He didn't understand me at all. So I thought about it for a little while and got out a pen and paper. I wrote some things down. When he woke up, I said, "Your chorus should be more like 'Big eyes, big soul/big heart, no control/but all she got to give is tiny love.'" Wyatt grabbed a pen and paper and he said, "Say that again?" I said, "It was just an example. Write your own goddamn song." Simone: "Tiny Love"was the Breeze's biggest hit. And Wyatt pretended he wrote the whole thing.

Checking the address, he knocked on the door. The door opened a crack. “We’re closed.” He recognized those violet eyes. His throat went dry. “Oh. You again.” Her eyes narrowed as she chuckled. “You must have women throwing themselves at you with lines like that. What are you doing here?” “I came to see if Flynn Enterprises has made an offer to buy your property.” His gaze wandered against his better judgement. On his ship, she’d been wearing jeans and a t-shirt. Now her curves were covered by a quality replica of a pirate’s frock coat, complete with deck boots, a bandana covering her hair, and a single hoop earring. “Didn’t take you for a pirate earlier today.” “You seriously came over here to talk to a stranger about private financial information, and then you have the balls to comment on her work attire?” She raised a brow. “We’re hardly strangers.” He struggled to hold back a smile and offered his hand. “I don’t think I introduced myself earlier. I’m Colton. Colton Hayes.” She looked at his hand and finally opened the door. “Skye Olson. And apparently I’m a glutton for punishment.

Even with his tattoo-covered arms and the double row of hoop earrings in both ears, Isaiah’s definitely one of the good guys.

Gate C22 At gate C22 in the Portland airport a man in a broad-band leather hat kissed a woman arriving from Orange County. They kissed and kissed and kissed. Long after the other passengers clicked the handles of their carry-ons and wheeled briskly toward short-term parking, the couple stood there, arms wrapped around each other like he’d just staggered off the boat at Ellis Island, like she’d been released at last from ICU, snapped out of a coma, survived bone cancer, made it down from Annapurna in only the clothes she was wearing. Neither of them was young. His beard was gray. She carried a few extra pounds you could imagine her saying she had to lose. But they kissed lavish kisses like the ocean in the early morning, the way it gathers and swells, sucking each rock under, swallowing it again and again. We were all watching– passengers waiting for the delayed flight to San Jose, the stewardesses, the pilots, the aproned woman icing Cinnabons, the man selling sunglasses. We couldn’t look away. We could taste the kisses crushed in our mouths. But the best part was his face. When he drew back and looked at her, his smile soft with wonder, almost as though he were a mother still open from giving birth, as your mother must have looked at you, no matter what happened after–if she beat you or left you or you’re lonely now–you once lay there, the vernix not yet wiped off, and someone gazed at you as if you were the first sunrise seen from the Earth. The whole wing of the airport hushed, all of us trying to slip into that woman’s middle-aged body, her plaid Bermuda shorts, sleeveless blouse, glasses, little gold hoop earrings, tilting our heads up.

I reach up to toy with her gold hoop earrings. “I like these.” “Thank you. My boyfriend gave them to me,” she says pointedly. I bite back a grin. That’s so cute. She thinks I give a fuck about her boyfriend.

I touch the double row of silver hoop earrings hanging from his left ear, trail along his jawline, his neck, down his shoulder, to the flaming tail of the dragon on his arm. He leans into the caress, and my own body feels on fire with the continued way his eyes gaze upon me. The first moment I saw him, the night people clamored over each other to step out of his way, I was frightened. The guy with earrings and tattoos and an energy radiating danger. Now—inside and out—all I see is beauty.

Her straight brown hair rarely covered her trademark earrings, which ranged from spoon-like appendages covered in sequins to hoops that a parrot could roost in. Today, she had selected a demure pair of feathers plucked from some species of bird that took mating rituals very seriously, as no fewer than ten shades of greens and blues created a pattern that could cause a seizure disorder if one stared at them too long. 

She made one mistake,” he kept repeating. “She forgot to change her earrings. She has the same earrings on.” The prosecutor was so dramatic. The scene was straight out of the movies. You could tell he had been watching the late show. Both the woman in the bank and i had on hoop earrings. When Stanley summed up, he just said, “Will all the women in the courtroom who have on hoop earrings, please stand up?” Half the women rose to their feet.

He put on his underwear and shuffled back to the bedroom, standing in the doorway for a moment and looking at the woman who had brought him home last night. Arms and legs splayed, everything show ing. Last night she had looked like the goddess of the Western world in her thigh-high leather skirt and cork sandals, her cropped top and hoop earrings. This morning he saw the sagging white dough of a growing boozegut, and the second chin starting to appear under the first.

One day we are looking at the Magnum photograph of Sophia Loren at the Christian Dior show in Paris in 1968 and thinking yes, it could be me, I could wear that dress, I was in Paris that year; a blink of the eye later we are in one or another doctor's office being told what has already gone wrong, why we will never again wear the red suede sandals with the four-inch heels, never again wear the gold hoop earrings, the enameled beads, never now wear the dress Sophia Loren is wearing.

A bunch of Latinas at Pitzer College decided to let white girls know that they shouldn’t wear hoops anymore, because that’s appropriating a style.... I’ve never worn hoop earrings for the purpose of “feeling ethnic,” nor have I ever associated hoop earrings with a certain culture. They’ve always been an accessory I like. It’s really as simple as that....I can’t wear hoops because I didn’t “create the culture as a coping mechanism for marginalization”? I can’t wear hoops because I’m not a feminist? I can’t wear hoops because some Latinas can’t afford it? I can’t wear hoops because I refuse to buy into your hypersensitive BS?....Does anyone else realize how completely ridiculous that sounds?

In his worn blue jeans and a black T-shirt, the early-morning sun hits Isaiah just right, highlighting him like he’s a relaxed tiger bathing in the warmth. The light glints off his double rows of hoop earrings and there’s a twinkle in his eyes that makes me feel like he has a secret, but not the type kept from me. No, it’s the type that suggests I’m in on it, and that it involves a lack of my clothes. And maybe some of his. As if I spoke the thought instead of keeping it internal, Isaiah lifts his shirt to scratch at a spot right above his hip bone. Good Lord, he’s pretty. I soak in the sight of the muscles in his abdomen like I’m a plant in the Sahara Desert, except it doesn’t quench my thirst. It only causes my mouth to run dry. Isaiah smiles like he knows what I’m thinking, and heat licks up my body and pools in my cheeks. What really causes my blood to curve into itself is the wicked gleam in his eye. It’s a spark that says he’s done very naughty things I’ve never even heard about.

So Dad was a tedious, well-connected workaholic. But the other thing you need to understand is that Mom was a living wet dream. A former Guess model and Miller Lite girl, she was tall, curvy and gorgeous. At thirty-eight, she had somehow managed to remain ageless and maintained her killer body. She’s five-foot-nine with never-ending legs, generous breasts and full hips that scoop dramatically into her slim waist. People who say Barbie’s proportions are unrealistic obviously never met my stepmother. Her face is pretty too, with long eyelashes, sculpted cheekbones and big, blue eyes that tease and smile at the same time. Her long brown hair rests on her shoulders in thick, tousled layers like in one of those Pantene Pro-V commercials. One memory seared in to my brain from my early teenage years is of Mom parading around the house one evening in nothing but her heels and underwear. I was sitting on the couch in the living room watching TV when a flurry of long limbs and blow-dried hair burst in front of the screen. “Teddy-bear. Do you know where Silvia left the dry cleaning? I’m running late for dinner with the Blackwells and I can’t find my red cocktail dress.” Mom stood before me in matching off-white, La Perla bra and panties and Manolo Blahnik stilettos. Some subtle gold hoop earrings hung from her ears and a tiny bit of mascara on her eye lashes highlighted her sparkling, blue eyes. Aside from the missing dress, she was otherwise ready to go. “I think she left them hanging on the chair next to the other sofa,” I said, trying my best not to gape at Mom’s perfect body. Mom trotted across the room, her heels tocking on the hard wood floor. I watched her slim, sexy back as she lifted the dry cleaning onto the sofa and then bent over to sort through the garments. My eyes followed her long mane of brown hair down to her heart-shaped ass. Her panties stretched tightly across each cheek as she bent further down. “Found it!” She cried, springing back upright, causing her 35Cs to bounce up and down from the sudden motion. They were thrusting proudly off her ribcage and bulging out over the fabric of the balconette bra like two titanic eggs. Her supple skin pushed out over the silk edges. And then she was gone as quickly as she had arrived, her long legs striding back down the hallway.

The boys who have done you harm are surrounded by girls you will choose never to be. girls who are disgusting, who bleed and weep and wail. Girls who spend too much time in the bathroom. Girls who are never ready on time. Girls who titter, who are soft, who wear pretty clothes that are easily dirties, girls in hoop earrings and perfect wings of black eyeliner, girls who don't know what's cool. Girls who read the wrong books, twirl their hair around, are pursued, are hunted. You will remake yourself into something else: a boys' girl, a tough girl, a girl without needs or feelings, a girl who wisecracks and drinks whiskey in the backseat of cars, a girl cool as the first frost in winter, a girl so totally unlike other girls. If you cannot be loved and safe, you will be clever, mean, a girl as vicious as the serrated edge of a hunting knife. If you cannot be pretty, you will disdain beauty and its trappings. If you cannot be heard, you will be silent on purpose. You will find your knights again, a different set of boys, this time united against a common enemy: the softness and fragility of girls, of anything girlish within you, of anything girlish in any other girl. Against girls who are sad and silly and weeping (you don't cry), girls who complain (you protest nothing), girls who make demands (you never ask). This time, however, you will not be queen. Some of these boys will never even know your name.

Son unas cualquieras,” she mutters. Nobodies. No culture, no family life, illiterates, she means. The kind of people who make her cross to the other side of the street if she meets them in the dark on payday. They’re her worst nightmare of what a Latin girl can become in the United States. Their big hoop earrings and plucked eyebrows, their dark lips painted like those stars in the old black-and-white movies, their tight T-shirts that show too much curve and invite boys’ touches.

February 16: Marilyn flies to Seoul, South Korea, to begin entertaining the troops at ten different sites. Her outfit for her performances includes a skin-tight, low-cut, plum-colored crepe cocktail dress, with bugle beads and thin spaghetti straps, and high heeled sandals, with a matching long-sleeved bolero jacket she only wears when not on stage. Other than hoop earrings and a diamond brooch and bracelet, she wears no jewelry. Between performances, she covers over two hundred miles, wearing a flight jacket and combat boots. Neither snow nor sub-zero temperatures seem to impede her enthusiastic shows.

Sibil is white. Not Caucasian but white: as sheet ice as new paper as porcelain, from her braids to her bare feet. Not a blemish, not a variation, every feature of her—hair, skin, pupilless eyes—smooth like the inside of a shell, dazzling like a torch, as though carved from a single radiant white stone. Likewise her ornaments—her beads and star pendant, diadem, hoop earrings, the pedestal she rests on—are made of the same ghostly matter. She clasps in her casual hand blank pages, a skinny book with its cover torn off.

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Close to, he looked uncannily like the portrait of Khaster that hung in the long gallery. But the resemblance was only physical, Varencienne felt. Merlan was neither melancholy nor despairing, but quite the opposite. There was also a certain slyness to his expression. Light brown hair fell over his face, which was corded with muscle as if his features were in constant motion. Varencienne had heard all the stories about Merlan; he now held quite a prestigious position as assistant to the governor of Mewt. He was not a soldier but an administrator, safe from combat. His skin had been tanned to dark brown by the hot sun of Mewt, and gold highlights shone in his hair. He wore gold Mewtish earrings in his ears, hoops wound with tiny enameled snakes.

cobra with hoop earrings, blond hair extensions, and a spray-on tan.

Rosa was rummaging in the trunk of her car, and emerged with a large wicker basket covered with a red-and-white checkered cloth. She wore a red polka dot halter top, red clamdiggers, gold hoop earrings, big sunglasses and ruby-colored finger- and toenails. The adult-entertainment version of Red Riding Hood.

She’s a cobra with hoop earrings, blond hair extensions, and a spray-on tan.

Calling MacKenzie a mean girl is an understatement. She’s a cobra with hoop earrings, blond hair extensions, and a spray-on tan.

GRETCHEN O, Cady, if thou only knew’st how vile, How reprehensible, how knavish, and How horrible Regina truly is! Thou knowest I may not hoop earrings wear? ’Twas two full years ago she did declare Hoop earrings as her purview only, yea— The bound’ry circular of her domain— Ne’ermore would I be sanction’d in the wearing. When I, for Hanukkah, receiv’d a pair From my dear parents—white gold hoops were they, Expensive in the buying, priceless in The giving generous—yet ’twas my lot To act as though I could not stand the things. She took the ring of me: I’ll none of it, But must contest her wickedness anon. Know’st thou she cheateth frequently on Aaron, Doth make him cuckold for another’s lust? Each Thursday, when he thinks she is engag’d In preparation for the SAT, She earns him horns by being horny with Shane Oman, o’er in the projection room, Which sits above the auditorium. Ne’er have I shar’d this secret with a soul Because I am, I grant, a perfect friend. Yet knowledge of it nearly makes me burst, For Aaron is, in sooth, an innocent man— If there’s a chance of resurrecting love, I’m not above returning to the start, To find out where the heartache did begin.

Look into this one,' the Bomb says with a strange expression. It's Cardan as a very small child. He is dressed in a shirt that's too large for him. It hangs down like a gown. He is barefoot, his feet and shirt streaked with mud, but he wears dangling hoops in his ears, as though an adult gave him their earrings. A horned faerie woman stands nearby, and when he runs to her, she grabs his wrists before he can put his dirty hands on her skirts. She says something stern and shoves him away. When he falls, she barely notices, too busy being drawn in to conversation with other courtiers. I expect Cardan to cry, but he doesn't. Instead, he stomps off to a tree that an older boy is climbing. The boy says something, and Cardan grabs for his ankle. A moment later, the boy is on the ground, and Cardan's small grubby hand is forming a fist. At the sound of the scuffle, the faerie woman turns and laughs, clearly delighted by his escapade. When Cardan looks back at her, he's smiling, too. I shove the crystal ball back in to the drawer. Who would cherish this? It's horrible.

In the back of my closet, I saw a pink wrap dress that was hopelessly Southern. Pale pink, with little flutter sleeves all in a Swiss-dot fabric that you could see through if you held it up to the light. I would need nude undergarments, which I was sure I had. My mom always told me never to wear wild undies, you never knew who'd see them! What if I got in a car wreck? I pulled my hair up and allowed a few red curls to fall out of a messy bun at the nape of my neck. I slipped the dress on and gave my lips a quick swipe of gloss. I chose small gold hoop earrings that had belonged to Gran at one time and stepped into a pair of gold flip-flops. I looked at myself in the mirror and reminded myself I was going to a farm. Jim walked in. "Ready for the big... Oh, my God, Magnolia!" "What? Too much?" I said, grimacing. "Good God, no! You look absolutely perfect! You look like a mouthwatering pink confection! A true Southern Magnolia!

Even on her phone, even in this footage in which the woman was so often so frustratingly just out of shot or visible only so fleetingly, it was all the ways that this woman was clearly not Jackson Crane’s wife that kept leaping out at her. Georgia Crane was an outspoken supporter of PETA. This woman was wearing what looked very much like a real fur coat. Nor would Georgia Crane ever have worn a pair of big hoop earrings like that, unless for some film role.

Esperanza’s dark beauty brought on images of moonlit skies, night walks on the beach, olive trees in a gentle breeze. She wore hoop earrings. Her long black hair always had the perfect muss to it. Her sheer white blouse had been fitted by a benevolent deity; it may have been open a button too low but it was all working. The

Why had a gold hoop earring, one of a pair, tuned up on the kitchen floor when she was

911,” I said. “What kind of emergency?” she replied. “Are we putting our hair up and taking off our hoop earrings, or is it something that can be cured with a tub of ice cream and Baileys?

I couldn't remember if jeans and heels and hoop earrings had always been my favorite combination on a woman, or whether it was only now my favorite combination because it was on her.