I Believe In Manicures Quotes

I believe in manicures. I believe in overdressing. I believe in primping at leisure and wearing lipstick. I believe in pink. I believe happy girls are the prettiest girls. I believe that tomorrow is another day, and... I believe in miracles.

And - as a woman reconciled in her own body - I feel I can argue with anyone's god about my right to end a pregnancy. My first conception - wanted so badly - ended in miscarriage, three days before my wedding. A kind nurse removed my wedding manicure with nail-polish remover, in order to fit a finger-thermometer for the subsequent D&C operation. I wept as I went in to the operating theatre, and wept as I came out. In that instance, my body had decided that the baby was not to be and had ended it. This time, it was my mind that has decided that this baby was not to be. I don't believe one's decision is more valid than the other. They both know me. They are both equally capable of deciding what is right.

I was familiar with the realms of unnatural, for I myself was an unnatural. Not a monster in appearance; I looked like other young women, though perhaps not as primped and manicured. But I wasn't the same as other girls. My friends believed I was sick or gifted. Either way, I was unfortunate. Something entirely new upon the earth.

I believe that the most tragic war of our time is the one within—a war between what we knew as children and what we’ve learned as adults. A war between wisdom and intelligence. A war between the natural colour of our hair and the colour we chemically impose upon it. A war between the manicured hedges and the untouched wilderness. A war between reality and fairy tales. A war between what we could learn about the world and what we are systematically taught. A war that can end in peace.

Something in the way he fastened his eyes on me, it was like he had something for me. But here’s the thing: I couldn’t believe the fast jolt it gave me. He wasn’t the type to set me going, but there was something. Something in the way he stood there, like a king, manicured hand curling around the edge of the bar like it was the arm of his throne, watching everything, appraising. And knowing something about me, knowing it. Who could guess, really, how much he might know about me. So sure, I gave him my best walk, half class, half pay-broad. If you can twist those two tightly, fellas don’t know what hit ‘em. They can’t peg you. It gets them—the smart ones—going. Spinning hard trying to fix you. You’re like the best parts of their grammar school sweetheart and their first whore all in one sizzling package.

Magazine and television advertisements have me subconsciously believing that a sexy airbrushed image can sell a lot more canned tomatoes than without this image. Who’s to say that a dolled up vagina can’t buy me love? Yet this is what we teach our daughters through these images. It’s the makeup, manicures, pedicures, closet full of clothes, the size of our boobs, the perfection of our skin and shininess of our hair – this is what secures us love. We teach our sons to love women who look a certain way. We teach our men to support this belief system, and it’s constantly reinforced by false advertisements. It’s like that one cheesy but lovable song we can’t stop playing. We may forget about it for a while, but the minute we hear it again, it’s on repeat a few hundred times. “How can we be lovers if we can’t be friends?” you may ask. This is a question for Michael Bolton and whoever wrote the lyrics to it.

I think about that often. I think about the boots and the bones, and how I didn't want to be so lowly as to stoop down and help another human being take off their layers of mud. to wind up with their dirt on my hands. I think that's because for a long time I believed freedom looked like getting to a place where none of the people were muddy. Where everyone was shiny and clean and took care of their own front yards. Where everywhere you looked, there were white picket fences and perfectly manicured pansies lining the front walkway. ... And then I think about God and what neighborhood He would live in. I think about Jesus washing the feet of the disciples. Those dusty busted-up, sandal-blistered feet they rolled up with to His supper table. I think about the Savior of the world kneeling there at His last meal, before His body was broken and His blood was poured out, first making sure that none of them had to walk around with muddy feet. At this I picture Jesus kneeling at the feet of my father. I think about the conversation those two might have. I think about the care Jesus would take in removing those heavy weights from around Dad's ankles. how He would hold all those broken parts in His light-filled hands and weep with Dad for all the pain he'd been walking around with. I think He would tell him that He sees how hard he's been fighting to hold it all together, sees all the sacrifices that he's made. I think Jesus would sit with him there for a while in the mud, not even caring about Dad's boots leaving marks all up and down His crisp, white robes. There comes a time when every person who believes in God also has to decide what kind of character they believe He has. Is He a cold and distant God, withholding every good thing, just waiting for the chance to take back what little He has given? Is He a God who only gives out begrudging scraps of joy after first putting you in very hot water, His red-letter way of ensuring that you've been washed clean? Or is He a God who sits with you in the mud, who stoops to serve before the sacrifice? I used to think freedom looked a lot like being around people who aren't muddy. Now I realize we're all pretty muddy and maybe just a little bit broken too, no matter what kind of place we call home. And when it comes right down to it, getting each other's mud on our hands--this serving one another in love--that's what true freedom has always been about anyway. Because love, like integrity, is also about what we do when no one else is looking. And how we do anything is how we do everything.

Miss Independent" Yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeah yeah [Verse 1] Ooh there's somethin about just somethin about the way she's move And I can't figure it out there's something about her. Said ooh it's somethin about kinda woman that want you but don't need you And I can't figure it out it's somethin about her Cause she walk like a boss talk like a boss Manicured nailed to set the pedicure off She's fly effortlessly Cause she move like a boss do what a boss Do she got me thinkin about gettin involved That's the kinda girl I need [Chorus] She got her own thing that's why I love her Miss Independent Won't you come and spend a little time She got her own thing that's why I love her Miss Independent ooh the way you shine Miss Independent yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah [Verse 2] Ooh there's somethin about kinda woman that can do for herself I look at her and it makes me proud There's something about her Somethin oh so sexy about kinda woman that don't even need my help She said she got it she got it No doubt, it's somethin about her Cause she work like a boss play like a boss Car and a crib she bouta pay em both off And the bills are paid on time yeah She made for a boss only a boss Anything less she telling them to get lost That's the girl that's on my mind [Chorus] [Bridge] Her favorite thing to say Don't worry I got it And everything she got best believe she bought it She gonna steal ma heart ain't no doubt about it You're everything I need, said you're everything I need yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeah, yeah yeah yeah [Chorus] Miss Independent That's why I love her

Perpetual Care The Perpetual Care fees for my mom’s cemetery plot got embezzled and now the overgrown weeds and wildflowers have their day. My mom never wore makeup, so I must believe she’s happier without the manicured grass. It’s the random rocks of memory that spill over her headstone she smiles upon. It is memory, not maintenance, that defines perpetual love; memories that can never be overgrown.

In a recent talk on Mary, Ruth Fox, a Benedictine sister who is president of the Federation of St. Gertrude, a group of women’s monasteries, reclaims Mary as a strong peasant woman and asks why, in art and statuary, she is almost always presented “as a teenage beauty queen, forever eighteen years old and ... perfectly manicured.” Depictions of Mary as a wealthy Renaissance woman do far outnumber those that make her look like a woman capable of walking the hill country of Judea and giving birth in a barn, and I believe that Fox has asked a provocative question, perhaps a prophetic one. I wonder if, as Christians, both Protestant and Catholic, seek to reclaim the Mary of scripture, we may well require more depictions of her as a robust, and even muscular, woman, in both youth and old age.

If you insist on ‘exposing us’,” Donovan said, his voice hard as ice, using air quotes, “we’ll have to do some exposing of our own. Certain people, like network executives, probably aren’t too keen on their employees engaging in blackmail. Besides, Jada is beloved. You know it, and I know it. I’m sure her fans would love to fill your Twitter mentions with all kinds of creative replies if they knew what you were attempting to do.” “You have no proof of blackmail.” Lila’s eyes spat fire. Jada held up a manicured index finger. “Oh, but I do. You know how you kept calling and leaving messages? Silly me, I thought you were asking me to do interviews. Which you were, I guess, technically. I finally got around to listening to the voice mails.” She wrinkled her nose, “Wow. Really creative vocabulary you have there, Lila. That last voice mail was quite a doozy. I wasn’t expecting the threats about how you were going to destroy me, how you were going to leak damaging rumors about me, how you’d been behind a lot of the hate I received online with bot accounts.” Jada grimaced. “Ugly stuff. You sounded drunk or high when you admitted that, so you might not remember saying all that, but you did.” Jada kept her gaze trained squarely on Lila. She ignored John’s gasp. Lila’s already pale skin turned ghastly white. “I don't know what you’re talking about.” Jada sniffed. “Oh, I think you do. Really, I’d hate for those messages to fall into the wrong hands.” Lila sneered, her veneer finally cracking. “You wouldn’t dare. You’re a spoiled, rich girl. You don’t have the balls.” The courage of her convictions swept through Jada. “Keep telling yourself that.” Jada turned to the other member of the blackmailing crew. “As for you, John, I’m sure people would love to know their perfect Mr. America has slid into the DMs of no less than three contestants from My One and Only with a woe-is-me story, trying to get back together with them, all at the same time.” Jada snapped her fingers. “Did I forget to mention I ended my social media hiatus to check my DMs? I do so love it when women have each other’s backs.” Jada gave the cowards a moment to respond. When none came, she offered up the kill shot. “If none of that reasoning convinces you, and I can't imagine why it wouldn’t, please remember this spoiled, rich girl has a billionaire grandmother who loves her very, very much. If I tell her what you both attempted to do to me, she will ruin both your lives, barely lifting a finger. Contrary to what you believe, Lila, I don't make idle threats. I suggest you both slink away and forget you ever knew my name.

Richard Kay Richard Kay became friends with Diana, Princess of Wales, through his job as royal correspondent for London’s Daily Mail. After her separation in 1992, he used his knowledge to give a penetrating and unique insight into Diana’s troubled life, and they remained friends until the end. Richard is now diary editor or the Daily Mail and lives in London with his wife and three children. Over the years, I saw her at her happiest and in her darkest moments. There were moments of confusion and despair when I believed Diana was being driven by the incredible pressures made on her almost to the point of destruction. She talked of being strengthened by events, and anyone could see how the bride of twenty had grown into a mature woman, but I never found her strong. She was as unsure of herself at her death as when I first talked to her on that airplane, and she wanted reassurance about the role she was creating for herself. In private, she was a completely different person form the manicured clotheshorse that the public’s insatiable demand for icons had created. She was natural and witty and did a wonderful impression of the Queen. This was the person, she told me, that she would have been all the time if she hadn’t married into the world’s most famous family. What she hated most of all was being called “manipulative” and privately railed against those who used the word to describe her. “They don’t even know me,” she would say bitterly, sitting cross-legged on the floor of her apartment in Kensington Palace and pouring tea from a china pot. It was this blindness, as she saw it, to what she really was that led her seriously to consider living in another country where she hoped she would be understood. The idea first emerged in her mind about three years before her death. “I’ve got to find a place where I can have peace of mind,” she said to me. She considered France, because I was near enough to stay in close touch with William and Harry. She thought of America because she--naively, it must be said--saw it as a country so brimming over with glittery people and celebrities that she would be able to “disappear.” She also thought of South Africa, where her brother, Charles, made a home, and even Australia, because it was the farthest place she could think of from the seat of her unhappiness. But that would have separated her form her sons. Everyone said she would go anywhere, do anything, to have her picture taken, but in my view the truth was completely different. A good day for her was one where her picture was not taken and the paparazzi photographers did not pursue her and clamber over her car. “Why are they so obsessed with me?” she would ask me. I would try to explain, but I never felt she fully understood. Millions of women dreamed of changing places with her, but the Princess that I knew yearned for the ordinary humdrum routine of their lives. “They don’t know how lucky they are,” she would say. On Saturday, just before she was joined by Dodi Al Fayed for their last fateful dinner at the Ritz in Pairs, she told me how fed up she was being compared with Camilla. “It’s all so meaningless,” she said. She didn’t say--she never said--whether she thought Charles and Camilla should marry. Then, knowing that as a journalist I often work at weekends, she said to me, “Unplug your phone and get a good night’s sleep.

Sister Lucy is one of the kindest young women I’ve met. When it comes to French manicures and blow-drying, she has no equal. But I don’t believe the poor girl has ever seen a map of England. No wonder she is challenged by her jigsaw.