Ickis Quotes

No, I don’t live in heartache. I don’t cry myself to sleep or any of that. I am, I tell myself, over it. But I do feel a void, icky as that sounds. And—like it or not—I still think about her every single day.

Observation #8: Boys are icky. Do not even get me started on the state of the bathroom. I'm thinking of calling in a haz-mat team. Seriously.

Do you play video games, Liv?’ he asked congenially. ‘Uh, yes.’ ‘Well, stop cleaning up the dishes and come play with us,’ he teased. I chuckled. ‘Are you asking me on a playdate?’ As soon as the words were out of my mouth, I regretted them. I wasn’t being flirty. I didn’t know how to be flirty! That was just my sense of humor, and now this guy was going to think I was coming on – Nate laughed, cutting me off. ‘Only because you got the Star Trek reference. Otherwise, girls aren’t allowed to play with us. They’re icky.’ Deadpan, I crossed my arms over my chest. ‘Well, boys are icky too.’ He grinned huge. ‘Ain’t that the truth.

If life is like a box of chocolates why do I always seem to grab the icky jelly filled ones?! :)

I hopped out of the shower and immediately began doing the icky dance. You know, the 'oh ma god, I know there are about six more of those things on my body' dance.

Even now, it's still hard for him to say it. I don't blame him. It's an icky word. Why couldn't whoever was in charge of naming things call cancer 'sugar' and sugar, 'cancer'? People might not eat so much of the stuff then. And it's so much more pleasant to die of sugar.

And you, my best friend on earth, my soul sister who shares Chunky Monkey scoops and beefcake e-mails at the drop of a hat, the woman who made me wear a frothy, ruffled lime-colored bridesmaid dress that added fifteen pounds to my hips, are going to spill your guts to me, aren’t you? (Sunshine) No fair and the dress wasn’t lime, it was mint. (Selena) It was lime-icky green and I looked like a sick pistachio. (Sunshine)

They (...) call what I have an invisible illness, but I often wonder if they're really looking. Beyond the science stuff. It doesn't bleed or swell, itch or crack, but I see it, right there on my face. It's like decay, this icky green colour, as if my life were being filmed through a grey filter. I lack light, am an entire surface area that the sun can't touch.

It doesn’t matter anyway!” Patrick couldn’t sit down. He couldn’t. “It’s not like sex is anything to shout about! It’s icky, and the guy never wants to wear a condom, and I have to give a frickin’ health and safety lesson every time I give a blow job because they think I’m stupid, and I know you can get shit from giving head, and I’m not putting that thing in my mouth unless I get a written fucking guarantee that it’s not going to drop off or explode or give me some life-threatening disease or mutant antibiotic-resistant gonorrhea!

No sticky till I no longer feel icky, you feel me?

you dress like that all the time. Like a man.”My eyes widened. “I don’t dress like a man,” I said. “I dress practically. Because I live on a farm. And do icky, farmy things all the time.” Lorenz grinned, which was breathtaking. “A cute little man.

I have your gun" I pulled the Ruger out of my bag and gave it to Ranger. He held the gun flat in his hand and looked at it. "It smells like orange blossoms." "I washed it and sprayed it with air freshener" "You washed it?" "I wore rubber gloves and scrubbed it with my vegetable brush. It was.. icky" He yanked open the driver's side door, pulled me out of the car, and kissed me. The kiss involved tongue, and a hand on my ass, and made my nipples tingle. "I can always count on you to brighten my day" Ranger said. Ranger drove off, and I got back into the Buick. "That was hot," Lula said. "Imagine what he'd do if you washed his Glock -- After Stephanie threw up on Rangers gun.

MR. ICKY: Is your mind in good shape? DIVINE: (Gloomily) Fair. After all what is brilliance? Merely the tact to sow when no one is looking and reap when every one is.

Rubbing herself against a sleeping man just wasn’t on. It was morally questionable. Probably illegal. Definitely icky. But why oh why did bad things always feel so damn good? Just once more, she promised herself as she pushed back into him again. “Addie, I am not made of stone.

She probably crafted potions from toenails and had an alpine newt for a familiar. Icky, slimy things. It would fit her temperament just right. No, no, no. She didn’t mean that. Serilda was fond of the alpine newt. She would never wish such a horrible thing upon them as being spiritually attached to this abhorrent human.

There’s one more reason I opted against sleeping with Julian.” “Okay.” “He’s not like Roarke, but he gives the illusion of being a lot like him when he’s in the mode. So the idea of sleeping with him felt disloyal—and just, well, icky.” Eve started to laugh it off, then realized Nadine was perfectly serious. “Really?” “Yes, really.” “All right, not completely understood, but appreciated anyway.” “I hear he bangs like a turbohammer.” “I thought you said he wasn’t like Roarke.” “Oh, that was cruel. Maybe I’ll give him a spin after all.

Religion is such an icky, sticky thing, full of tortuous—well, everything. Why is it so essential for man to be forced, for that is what religion relies on, force, to believe in anything but himself? And this is what John Winthrop should represent for us: the utter disdain he and Puritanism have for the self, for the human, for the human being.

My mama wore pajamas to the grocery store. She smashed a bunch of eggs on the grocery floor. One dozen, two dozen, four dozen, six. She dumped a bunch of jelly jars into the mix. Grape jelly, apricot, don’t forget cherry. Orange marmalade and wild strawberry. A man walked by and fell in the glop. He slid next door to the barber shop. His icky-sticky body got covered in hair. He tore a hole in his under—

I don't buy into the notion of 'privilege' at all. To even attempt to brand and shame whole swathes of people based on their race or gender is, to me, obscene. It has icky echoes of totalitarian propaganda which seeks to direct the ire of a populace at certain sections of society deemed 'unworthy.' Playing the blame game gets us nowhere.

I once took a poo in the woods while hunched over like an animal. It was AWESOME.

SERIOUSLY! That place was an ICKY mildew-and-bug-infested NIGHTMARE! There were more species of INSECTS in there than in the Amazon rain forest!!

Social media for me is a bit like tequila. Feels like it should be fun, but leaves you with an icky taste in your mouth.

Dude, I told you she was a man-eater." "That's the thing, she isn't. She is actually an amazing woman. Tough as nails, and man she keeps me on my toes, but she has a heart of gold that she hides from everyone. I really do believe that she was made for me, and I don't care how girly that sounds." Erick scoffed. "No worries, when a dude is really in love, he turns into a freaking girl. It's scary. So stay away from girls, they are icky and will make you do stupid things. Okay, buddy?

Ladies, I have bad news for you. Men are pigs. No really. I know you think you know what I'm talking about but you don't know the half of it. You have no idea how depraved we men really are. I'm about to tell you the truth about men. The whole truth. Not that sanitized holier-than-thou shit they feed you in all those other relationship books. I'm gonna take you into the abyss that is the male mind. It's a dark and scary place. You're not gonna like it. It's dirty in there. Icky. Don't touch anything. Bring hand sanitizer.

The icky part was knowing I was in the presence of a woman so crazy that she thought her highest calling was to incubate encapsulated alien teratomas until they came squirting out of her body and walked around on their own legs. I have heard of some bizarre vocations in my life, but seldom anything quite so disgusting.

When the children were very small I spent weeks alone with them high up in the Welsh hills and I used to lose the power of speech. I would return to London bereft of all vocabulary, communicating in grunts and diddums talk. You feel a fool asking, for instance, Professor Sir Alfred Ayer if he would care for an icky bitty more soup in his ickle bowl.

Maybe she's preemptively getting her karmic backlash for that, but there's something icky about all this. Yes, the "hello, boys" chest like two friendly chinchillas, Bigfoot ball stomper Lara Croft was oversexualized, but this is still sexualization from the opposite, somehow even creepier side of the coin. At least that Tyrannosaurus in the first game never tried to feel her up.

A tall woman with ass-length, honey-blonde hair had entered the lobby and was barking orders at an entourage of men who toted her Gucci leather luggage. Her dog, a white Westie, was barking, adding to the commotion. “Justin!” the woman chastised the man who held the door open for her. “Icky snow on my feet. My Manolo Blahniks. Oh my God! These shoes are a work of art! Do somethinggg!

But for some reason I feel icky inside, like I should write a letter of explanation and maybe print out a boyfriend permission slip for Levi to sign. I, Levi Andrews, give my explicit permission for one Pixie Marshall to date whomever she wishes without any feelings that might resemble guilt or betrayal or awkward confusion. Signed, Levi Andrews, platonic third party in all Pixie Marshall-related endeavors and keeper of the east wing hot water.

and I emerge so icky and befouled and cross-eyed from the guy’s right hook that I blow what should have been a very legitimate shot at the title in the Men’s Best Legs Contest, in which I end up placing third but am told later I would have won the whole thing except for the scowl, swollen and strabismic right eye, and askew swimcap that formed a contextual backdrop too downright goofy to let the full force of my gams’ shapeliness come through to the judges.

to, and some like the engineer never do get comfortable with them and use the less garish auditory side-doors; and the abundant sulcus-fissures and gyrus-bulges of the slick latex roof make rain-drainage complex and footing chancy at best, so there’s not a whole lot of recreational strolling up here, although a kind of safety-balcony of skull-colored polybutylene resin, which curves around the midbrain from the inferior frontal sulcus to the parietooccipital sulcus—a halo-ish ring at the level of like eaves, demanded by the Cambridge Fire Dept. over the heated pro-mimetic protests of topological Rickeyites over in the Architecture Dept. (which the M.I.T. administration, trying to placate Rickeyites and C.F.D. Fire Marshal both, had had the pre-molded resin injected with dyes to render it the distinctively icky brown-shot off-white of living skull, so that the balcony resembles at once corporeal bone and numinous aura)—which balcony means that

wheelchair-accessible front ramp, take a bit of getting used to, and some like the engineer never do get comfortable with them and use the less garish auditory side-doors; and the abundant sulcus-fissures and gyrus-bulges of the slick latex roof make rain-drainage complex and footing chancy at best, so there’s not a whole lot of recreational strolling up here, although a kind of safety-balcony of skull-colored polybutylene resin, which curves around the midbrain from the inferior frontal sulcus to the parietooccipital sulcus—a halo-ish ring at the level of like eaves, demanded by the Cambridge Fire Dept. over the heated pro-mimetic protests of topological Rickeyites over in the Architecture Dept. (which the M.I.T. administration, trying to placate Rickeyites and C.F.D. Fire Marshal both, had had the pre-molded resin injected with dyes to render it the distinctively icky brown-shot off-white of living skull, so that the balcony resembles at once corporeal bone and

Oh my god,” I shrieked. “Who did I screw over in a former life that those douches get to go to cool cities and I have to go home to an island called Hung?” “Those douches do have hairy asses and not just on a full moon. You’re the only female agent I have that looks like a model so you’re going to Georgia. Period.” “Fine. I’ll quit. I’ll open a bakery.” Angela smiled and an icky feeling skittered down my spine. “Excellent, I’ll let you tell the Council that all the money they invested in your training is going to be flushed down the toilet

I don’t know,” Mom said. “A boy in the house…” Her voice trailed off as though her thoughts were traveling into R-rated territory. “It’s not like we’re going to date him, Mom. Worse than seeing Tiff without her clothes, he may see her without her makeup.” “No way!” Tiffany screeched. “I don’t leave my room without makeup.” “Exactly. It would be kinda icky dating a guy who was living with us, who wouldn’t always see us at our best. So, getting involved with him isn’t even an issue.” Getting involved with one of his teammates, yes, but him, no.

Megan Meade’s Guide to the McGowan Boys Entry One Observation #1: When they’re beautiful, they know they’re beautiful. Like the second-to-oldest one, Evan. He’s a senior. He is perfection personified. And he knows it. You can tell because he just sort of smiles knowingly when you gape at him. Not that I’ve been gaping at him. Not at all. Anyway, too soon yet to tell if it negatively affects his behavior. (Like Mike Blukowsi and his Astrodome-sized ego problem.) Observation #2: They like skin. Especially skin they think they’re not necessarily supposed to be seeing. Like the space between your belly tee and your waistband. Observation #3: They have no problem bringing up events that would mortify me into shamed silence if the roles were reversed. Like Evan totally brought up the wiffleball bat incident, when if that had happened to me, I’d be wishing on every one of my birthday cakes for everyone to forget it. Observation #4: They gossip. Can you believe it? I overheard Finn and Doug in the backyard talking about some girl named Dawn who blew off some guy named Simon for some other guy named Rick for like TWENTY MINUTES! They sounded like those old mole-hair ladies at Sal’s Milkshakes. ‘Member the ones who lectured us for a whole hour that day about how young women shouldn’t wear shorts? Wait, okay, I got sidetracked. Observation #5: The older ones are so cute with the younger ones. They were playing ultimate Frisbee when I first got here and Evan totally let Caleb and Ian tackle him. It was soooooo cute. **sigh.** Observation #6: They’re cliquey. I mean, eye-rolling, secret-handshake, don’t-talk-to-us-unless-you’ve-got-an-X-and-a-Y cliquey. Very schooled in the art of the freeze-out. Observation #7: They have no sense of personal space. I need a lock on my door. STAT. Observation #8: Boys are icky. Do not even get me started on the state of the bathroom. I’m thinking of calling in a haz-mat team. Seriously. Observation #9: They have really freaky things going on down there. Yeah, I don’t think I’m ready to elaborate on that one yet. Observation #10: They know how to make enemies. Big time.

When I got back to the kitchen, my heart nearly stopped. Dad was leaning across the stainless worktable, over a pile of shrimp, almost right in Alex's face. He was holding a new knife, this one small and very sharp. "You got that,kid, or should I say it again?" he was demanding. Alex looked more nervous than I'd ever seen him. But only for a second. Then his face hardened, and he slapped both palms flat on the table. "I've got it," he said. He shoved up his sleeves and reached for the knife. Moments later, he was deveining shrimp with a lot of enthusiasm and a little skill. Dad turned and caught me gaping. He tilted his head in obvious warning. Raw, icky, slippery: This was the task he'd given the boy I brought into his kitchen, and I was not to interfere. Poor Alex. He was being tested for a position he didn't even want.

ninja shook his head. “You think you’ve defeated Team Scorpion? You fool…” I stood there quietly. “My rescue team is coming for me.” “Oh? Well, I’ll let the mayor know that we’ll be needing more jail cells soon for the rest of your friends.”  “Heh…” Red looked around the room, then he said, “You guards better be nice to me… because when I get rescued, I just might spare your lives.” “Save your threats, Red. They’re nothing but empty words in here,” I said. “Oh, you’ll see… soon.” I was getting annoyed with talking to the ninja, so I left. “I’ll be seeing you soon!” he yelled as I exited. I left the prison with an icky feeling. All of Red’s big talk got to me. I didn’t know if he was serious or if he was just bluffing. After all, ninjas are masters of deception. Still, I wanted to be safe, so I went to go look for Devlin. I found my friend talking to Bob. They were just chilling and eating. “Hey, can I talk to you?” I asked. “Yeah, what’s up?” asked Devlin. “I just returned from a visit to the prison.” “Oh, no… what happened?” I explained to Devlin the situation. “See! That’s exactly why you shouldn’t go talking to the prisoners. Now he has you all paranoid.

My mother was the alcoholic in my life. I was the eldest of four children and always had the duties of taking care of my brothers and sisters, the house, and my dad. I resented my mother for this. But my dad praised me so much and gave me so much special attention for being the “little mother” around the house for him, that eventually I didn’t seem to mind my mother’s alcoholism. My dad would always let me sit in his lap at night for being “his girl,” comb my hair, and do special things for me. Something didn’t feel right about it, but it was the only attention I got. As an adult, I seemed to have everything going for me and seemed in control. But my husband confronted me one day and said he was dissatisfied with my difficulties in being intimate with him. He wanted changes or a divorce. I was stunned. That’s when I discovered that growing up in an alcoholic family affected my ability to be intimate. I figured if I dealt with my feelings and issues about my mother, things would be fine. After all, she was the alcoholic. Well, I did deal with her, but things weren’t fine. I came to realize that all that special attention from my dad was really a source of pain and the real culprit behind my difficulty in being close to my husband. Now I realize that I’ve lived my life for him. I chose my husband because I thought my father would approve. The career and family I built were intended to win my father’s admiration and love. Even as an adult, I went to him with intimate details of my life, which he invited. God, I began to feel icky all over again. I was scared and guilt-ridden. I knew I had to stop being “Daddy’s girl” if I was going to save myself and my marriage. It was the most difficult decision I ever had to make about my life: separating from the man who had been the only source of comfort while I was growing up. Yet it was also the most freeing decision I ever made.

What no one tells you is that there will be a last time you ever carry your child. A last time you tuck them in. A last time they run into your arms off the school bus. All through his infancy, Dylan was attached to me, almost literally. I nursed him, and he was fussy, so I carried him almost constantly, patting his back, humming to him, breathing in his delicious baby scent. He didn’t walk till he was fourteen months old, and I loved that, because I got to carry him that much longer. I took him for hikes in a backpack, his little knees hitting my ribs. I carried him on my shoulders, him clinging to fistfuls of my hair. I loved every minute. He was an affectionate boy full of drooly kisses and cuddles. He was generous with his hugs, from Paul at the post office to Christine, our librarian. And especially with me. Every night when I read him bedtime stories, his sweet little head would rest against my shoulder, and he’d idly stroke my arm, smelling like Dove soap and baby shampoo. Driving in the car was like a tranquilizer dart for Dylan . . . even bumping down our long dirt road wouldn’t wake him up, and I’d park the car, get out and unbuckle him, then lift his sweaty little body into my arms to carry him inside and just sit on the couch with him in my arms, heart against heart. And then one day, he no longer needed that. The bedtime stories stopped when he was about ten and wanted to read to himself. The last time I attempted to carry him from the car, he woke up and said, “It’s okay, Mom. I’m awake.” He never needed that again. Had someone told me “This is the last time you’ll get to carry your son,” I would have paid more attention. I would have held him as long as I could. They don’t tell you that your son will stop kissing you with sweet innocence, and those smooches will be replaced with an obligatory peck. They don’t tell you that he won’t want a piggyback ride ever again. That you can’t hold his hand anymore. That those goofy, physical games of chasing and tickling and mock wrestling will end one day. Permanently. All those natural, easy, physical gestures of love stop when your son hits puberty and is abruptly aware of his body . . . and yours. He doesn’t want to hug you the same way, finding your physicality perhaps a little . . . icky . . . that realization that Mom has boobs, that Mom’s stomach is soft, that Mom and Dad have sex, that Mom gets her period. The snuggles stop. This child, the deepest love of your life, won’t ever stroke your arm again. You’ll never get to lie in bed next to him for a bedtime chat, those little talks he used to beg for. No more tuck-ins. No more comforting after a bad dream. The physical distance between the two of you is vast . . . it’s not just that he’ll only come so close for the briefest second, but also the simple fact that he isn’t that little boy anymore. He’s a young man, a fully grown male with feet that smell like death and razor stubble on his once petal-soft cheeks.

BILATERAL COORDINATION Ball Catch—Toss a large beach ball gently to the child from a short distance. As he becomes more competent, use a smaller ball and step farther away. Ball Whack—Have the child hold a baseball bat, rolling pin, broomstick, book, cardboard tube, or ruler in both hands. Remind her to keep her feet still. Toss her a big ball. As she swings, her body will rotate, as her arms cross the midline. Two-Handed Tetherball—Suspend a sponge ball at the child’s eye level from a string attached to a wide doorframe. Let your child choose different “bats.” Have her count how many hits she makes without missing. Try four-handed tetherball, in which you play, too. Balloon Fun—Using both hands together, the child bounces or tosses up a balloon and catches it. He can keep it afloat by whacking it with open hands or batting it repeatedly with hands clasped together in one large “fist.” Rolling-Pin Fun—Provide the child with a cylindrical block or a rolling pin without handles, so he presses down with his opened hands. Have him roll real dough, playdough, crackers, clay—or mud! Body Rhythms—While you chant or sing, clap, and tap different body parts and have your child imitate your motions. Tip your head from side to side, wave your arms overhead, shake icky sticky glue off your hands, pound your chest, slap your hips, bend from side to side, hunch and relax your shoulders, stamp your feet, and hop from foot to foot. Use both hands together or alternately.

Gotta go pee first." Nina veered to the toilets. Of course, Ellie knew the reason Nina had to go to the bathroom before they started their short walk to the restaurant- not to pee, but to touch up. Outside there was a whole new crop of people for Nina to present herself to. Ellie didn't mind Nina's preoccupation with her looks. Nina used her beauty like a talent. If her personal presentation looked like a piece of art, it was only natural that people would enjoy looking at her. Ellie made her way to Icky's by crossing the street and turning down Mabon Road. As Ellie walked, she prepared herself for lunch with Nina. She guessed, correctly, that people wondered why Nina kept her so close. Nina was a magnet. Men wanted to marry her, or at the very least, sleep with her. Women wanted to be like her and hoped a little of Nina's casual self-confidence would somehow transfer onto them. But Ellie, being a keen observer of human nature, knew exactly why Nina felt the need to have Ellie in her life. With Ellie, Nina talked and talked about herself and her life, never asking Ellie for her opinion or feedback. It was as close as Nina could possibly get to being by herself, which Ellie suspected she preferred over everyone else's company. Ellie supposed this should bother her, but somehow it didn't. She was amused by Nina's outrageous self-love, but Ellie also knew Nina's friendship forced Ellie into human interaction, which she knew was good for her. Nina was always inviting Ellie to openings or parties. They had even vacationed together in Cabo San Lucas one year.

I can't tell you how many times over the years people tried to give me soy cheese and tempeh fake-meat, and other ickiness and pass it off as yummy. I'm sorry but no, you cannot make vegetable protein taste like bacon, no matter how much salt and liquid smoke you put in it! I wanted to celebrate good food, prepared in ways that make it good for you, which is surprisingly easy to do if you know the basics. If you use exceptional products that have inherent natural goodness, you don't need to swamp them in butter or cream to make them taste good." For dinner we'd had grilled skirt steaks, spicy Thai sesame noodles from my friend Doug's recipe, braised cauliflower, and for dessert, poached pears and Greek yogurt with lavender flowers and black sage honey. Filling, balanced, nutritionally sound.

Well, class,” said Teacher Jane. “As I guess you all know, Valentine’s Day is coming. We’re going to have a valentine party with punch and cookies, and we’re all going to give valentines to each other.” “Yippee!” cried the class. “Oh, yeah?” said Sister under her breath. “If she thinks I’m going to send a valentine to that no-good, rotten Billy Grizzwold, she’s got another think coming.” But Sister had another think coming, too. She began to think about what kind of valentine Herbie Cubbison might send her. She was still thinking about it that night at dinner when the phone rang. “It’s probably for you, Brother,” said Papa. “So you might as well answer it.” “That’s right,” said Sister. “It’s probably one of your sweethearts.” “You cut that out!” said Brother as he went to answer the phone. “I wish you wouldn’t tease your brother like that,” said Mama. “Well,” said Sister when Brother returned, “which one of your sweethearts was it, Bonnie, Jill, or Alexis?” “It was Bonnie, if you must know,” said Brother, “and she was calling about math homework.” “Uh-huh,” said Sister. “But that’s not the real reason she was calling. The real reason is that Valentine’s Day is coming and she wants to make sure you send her an icky-sticky valentine with lots of kisses.” “You cut that out!” shouted Brother. “Mama, if she doesn’t cut that out, I’m gonna--” But the phone rang again. “It’s probably Jill this time,” said Sister as Brother went to the phone.

How does one go about telling her friend that she didn’t seem to have grown out of the kissing-is-icky phase we spent our whole youth in?

Wait a minute. Let me get this straight. You gave me a six because you liked me, and you thought it would make you stop liking me?” “I thought it would be weird liking a guy who was living in my house. And I sorta promised Mom I wouldn’t do that. Really like the guy who was living here. Only I do.” “But you’ve been hanging out with Mac.” “Not really. I’ve been kissing Mac.” I put my elbows on the table, buried my face in my hands. “God, I’ve created such a mess.” I finally lifted my head and looked at him. “I’m not noble. I’m not like Tiffany with her orphans. I talked my parents into sponsoring a player not because guys needed a place to stay. I did it…because I wanted a boyfriend.” “You thought I’d be your boyfriend?” “No, that was too icky to even consider. I mean, you’ve seen my underwear. I’ve seen yours.” His mouth twitched. “I thought you’d introduce me around,” I continued. “I’d do things with the team. The players would get to know me, become interested. I just wanted a boyfriend.” It sounded so pathetic, so desperate. “And now you’ve got one,” he said. “But I don’t know if he’s the right one.” He grabbed the ice pack, stood up. “Let me know when you figure it out.” I watched him walk out of the room.

I talked my parents into sponsoring a player not because guys needed a place to stay. I did it…because I wanted a boyfriend.” “You thought I’d be your boyfriend?” “No, that was too icky to even consider. I mean, you’ve seen my underwear. I’ve seen yours.” His mouth twitched.

Consumers even avoid buying items placed near a product with icky connotations. Grocery shoppers, for instance, have been shown to be repelled by foods—including goodies like cookies—if those items come within an inch of touching garbage bags, diapers, or other products associated with filth or bodily waste.

And your mother was a scumbag criminal kingpin, but we don’t judge you based on that.” Icky blinked. “Point taken. I’ll shut up now.

Segregate the kitty returning from the vet in a room alone for at least half a day. That gives him time to self-groom and remove all the icky clinic smell from his fur,

We are not just dawdling around in some anonymous cosmos; we are home. We are dwelling in God’s world. This isn’t just “nature”; it is creation.1 And it is “very good” (Gen. 1:31). The material creation is not just some detour from our heavenly existence. It is the very good abode created by our heavenly Father. Creation is not some icky, regrettable mistake on God’s part. It is the product of his love. Some Christians seem to think otherwise. Some Christians try to be holier than God when it comes to creation, seeing it only as the world “under the control of the evil one” (1 John 5:19). And so, with their escape pods prepared, ready and eager to abandon creation, they’re convinced that God doesn’t really care about it either. But that’s hardly God’s take on creation. Indeed, in the incarnation, the Word becomes flesh, the Creator of the universe moves into our neighborhood. The infinite, transcendent God becomes embodied like us. And notice how the whole Story ends in Revelation 21: God doesn’t eject us from creation; he comes down to dwell with us in a new creation.2 So the end of the Story confirms the beginning: creation is very good. While we also need to appreciate how God’s creation has been marred and broken, and how God is renewing and restoring it, throughout the Story God continues to confirm this evaluation: creation is very good.

Icky raised two hands like a kid in class. “Van, what’s a lawn?” “An area of grass that ruins your Saturday afternoon. Now, eyes on me. It’s time for violence.

She preferred distraction and pushing those squashy icky emotions down deep inside until they couldn’t make her feel anything.

I want to be as laid-back about gender as they are. But I'm not laid-back at all, thanks to Dad. I'm Ashley or I'm Asher and that's that. While I'm switching, for that week or so, everything feels gross and inside out and bass-ackward until I can settle into what I'm switching to. That 'identify as airport' thing Dad said was icky, but it also hit a nail on the head. I hate being in between. It's like when a lousy radio DJ doesn't know how to fade one song into another. That few seconds when both songs are playing but the beats aren't blending and you're like, Oh my god, go back to DJ school.

Icky sniffed. “Smart and sexy. Hold me back.” Funboy eyed her thick frame. “With what? A tugboat?” Icky grinned, then flexed a massive leg. “Thank you.

Danny turned to the others. “Bathroom’s through that door in the back. It’s a little icky—okay, I wouldn’t want to use it with a twenty-foot pole—but if you gotta go, you gotta go.

And she saw Mr. Nobley clearly. The thin wrinkles just beginning at the corners of his eyes, the whiskers on his chin darkening already after his morning shave, the hint of lines around his mouth that suggested he might smile more in real life. He had the kind of face you wanted to kiss--lips, forehead, cheeks, eyelids, everywhere except his chin. That you wanted to bite. Jane thought: I wouldn’t kick him out of bed for eating crackers. Miss Erstwhile thought: My, what a catch. How the society page would rant! “I think you should stay away from him, Miss Erstwhile.” Mr. Nobley turned his back on Martin and took her arm, returning her to the path. “I don’t know why you care, sir,” she said, doing her best to sound Austen-y, “but I certainly will, if you’ll do me a favor. Perform in the theatrical.” “Miss Erstwhile…” “Oh, come on! It will please me to no end to see you so uncomfortable. You’re not afraid, are you? You seem so stuck on being proper all the time, but there can’t be anything really wrong in doing a little theatrical. This is, after all, the nineteenth century. So perhaps your protests stem from your fear of appearing the fool?” “You accuse me of vanity. It may be that the enterprise simply does not seem to me amusing. And yet in part you are right. I am not much of an actor.” “Aren’t you?” She looked at him meaningfully. He flinched and recovered. “My true concerns, however, are in regards to the delicate sentiments of our good hostess.” “And if we propose the recreation to her and she approves, will you participate?” “Yes, I suppose I must.” He tightened his lips, in annoyance or against a smile, she wasn’t sure. “You are infuriatingly persistent, Miss Erstwhile.” “And you, Mr. Nobley, are annoyingly stubborn. Together we must be Impertinence and Inflexibility.” “That was clever.” “Was it? Thanks, it just came to me.” “No forethought?” “Not a lick.” “Hm, impressive.” Jane jabbed him with her elbow. When they caught up to the rest of the party, Miss Charming was engaging Colonel Andrews in a discussion on the “relative ickiness of tea” and Captain East and Amelia were either walking in silence or whispering their hearts’ secrets. “We’re going to do the theatrical,” Jane announced to the others. “Mr. Nobley is clay in my hands.

New things always look weird to begin with. Imagine being the first monkey who grew a thumb. No one realized how useful that was going to be. They probably all ran around yelling, "Look at Clive's hand! It's icky, hit it with a rock!" Thousands of years later, we're texting with it and Clive has the last laugh.

In the daylight, we were lucky enough to spot a sheep trough not far from where we’d camped. This trough didn’t have a float valve, so it had overflowed and made a bit of a pond around itself. With all the sheep coming and going, the “pond” was more like thick, oozing mud than water. In spite of the obvious challenge of getting past the mud, I was determined to take advantage of a nice tub. As the only woman on the trip, I pulled the whole “ladies first” thing and headed off. I was excited as I hiked over with my toothbrush, soap, and shampoo. But as I arrived I was greeted by the overwhelming smell--a sheep had gotten bogged down in the mud and died some time ago. Its body was partially liquefied and teeming with maggots. Ignoring this little friend would be difficult, but I had no idea when I’d get my next chance to clean up. I picked my way around the mud and balanced precariously on the edge of the concrete slab that the trough rested on. The water was dribbling in slowly from the bore pipe, and three-quarters of the surface of the water was covered in an algae-like slime. After removing a patch of the green goo, I stashed my clothes on a dry corner of the concrete and eased myself in. I tried not to think about the water bugs nibbling on me, and I made a real effort not to stir up the sludge on the bottom of the trough--remnants of dead birds that had drowned. Put it out of your mind, I thought. As I held my breath, I went under. I resolved that I wouldn’t wash my hair again for a week. It was so icky to stick my head clear under! I finished up and let everyone have their turn. I suppose it was better than not bathing at all…perhaps.

This was the kack’s cradle, icky-poo’s bassinet. It was Death and Diarrhea, singing duet.

A very ugly nasty icky looking thing with warts and pimples, and I wish he smelled bad. Like poop. Or farts. And now his hands smell like my sweaty armpits.

Wall Street: I’d start carrying guns if I were you.      Your annual reports are worse fiction than the screenplay for Dude, Where’s My Car?, which you further inflate by downsizing and laying off the very people whose life savings you’re pillaging. How long do you think you can do that to people? There are consequences. Maybe not today. Or tomorrow. But inevitably. Just ask the Romanovs. They had a nice little setup, too, until that knock at the door.      Second, Congress: We’re on to your act.      In the middle of the meltdown, CSPAN showed you pacing the Capitol floor yapping about “under God” staying in the Pledge of Allegiance and attacking the producers of Sesame Street for introducing an HIV-positive Muppet. Then you passed some mealy-mouthed reforms and crowded to get inside the crop marks at the photo op like a frat-house phone-booth stunt.      News flash: We out here in the Heartland care infinitely more about God-and-Country issues because we have internal moral-guidance systems that make you guys look like a squadron of gooney birds landing facedown on an icecap and tumbling ass over kettle. But unlike you, we have to earn a living and can’t just chuck our job responsibilities to march around the office ranting all day that the less-righteous offend us. Jeez, you’re like autistic schoolchildren who keep getting up from your desks and wandering to the window to see if there’s a new demagoguery jungle gym out on the playground. So sit back down, face forward and pay attention!      In summary, what’s the answer?      The reforms laws were so toothless they were like me saying that I passed some laws, and the president and vice president have forgotten more about insider trading than Martha Stewart will ever know.      Yet the powers that be say they’re doing everything they can. But they’re conveniently forgetting a little constitutional sitcom from the nineties that showed us what the government can really do when it wants to go Starr Chamber. That’s with two rs.      Does it make any sense to pursue Wall Street miscreants any less vigorously than Ken Starr sniffed down Clinton’s sex life? And remember, a sitting president actually got impeached over that—something incredibly icky but in the end free of charge to taxpayers, except for the $40 million the independent posse spent dragging citizens into motel rooms and staring at jism through magnifying glasses. But where’s that kind of government excess now? Where’s a coffee-cranked little prosecutor when you really need him?      I say, bring back the independent counsel. And when we finally nail you stock-market cheats, it’s off to a real prison, not the rich guys’ jail. Then, in a few years, when the first of you start walking back out the gates with that new look in your eyes, the rest of the herd will get the message pretty fast.

What do you understand?” “I understand that all women think they are too fat to be loved unconditionally.” “But this is insane and ridiculous. I love looking at her.” “Unconditional love is probably what she wants. Am I right, Alisa?” “It is more complicated than that. I really am fat, and don’t feel good in a relationship. Not at this time.” She scrunched up her face. “I feel icky when Bob puts his arms around me. I know he feels rows of fat.

The bad, icky and stinky things that happen sometimes should never be allowed to have an adverse effect over the good, lovely and beautiful things happening everyday.

I know you’re cousins but you’re like fourth cousins.  It’s not necessarily too icky.” 

Integration databases—don’t do it! Seriously! Not even with views. Not even with stored procedures. Take it up a level, and wrap a web service around the database. Then make the web service redundant and accessed through a virtual IP. Build a test harness to verify what happens when the web service is down. That’s an enterprise integration technology. Reaching into another system’s database is just…icky. Nothing hobbles a system’s ability to adapt quite like having other systems poking into its guts. Database “integrations” are pure evil. They violate encapsulation and information hiding by exposing the most intimate details about a system’s inner workings. They encourage inappropriate coupling at both the structural and semantic levels. Even worse, the system that hangs its database out for the world cannot trust the data in the database at all. Rows can be added or modified by other entities even while the owner has objects in memory mapped from those rows. Vital application logic can be bypassed, resulting in illegal or unreachable states.[119]

Oh no, oh no. I feel icky

It still felt a little icky. “It’s slavery, though. It’s… it’s wrong. We don’t do that here.” “Yeah, you do, Chosen,” Cecil chipped in. “Not in the States.” “Oh, you do. It’s even legal. Your governments just repurposed it and put it in a prettier package. Now, it’s called penal labor.

I’m gonna warn you guys, it tastes like feet, and not the good kind,” Icky hissed at Torina and me, leaning our way. “There’s a… good-tasting kind of feet?” Torina asked. Icky blinked at her. “Well, yeah.” When the bowl came to me and I lifted it to my face, sure enough, I was walloped with a blast of eau du gym locker. I held my breath, took a sip, and swallowed the hot, acrid liquid as quickly as I could. Then I passed it on to Torina. She glanced at me as she took it. “Feet?” I peeled my tongue from the roof of my mouth, which it had desperately hugged for protection. “It’s more nuanced than that. I’d say more… sweaty sock.” She took a sip, made a face like she’d been punched, passed on the bowl, and turned back to me. “I think a bunch of my taste buds just put in their two-week notice,” she hissed.

It’s important to let the Feeling Brain air out all its icky, twisted feelings. Just get them out into the open where they can breathe, because the more they breathe, the weaker their grip is on the steering wheel of your Consciousness Car.28

But of course Bronte and Grady had led them past the cool, shimmering lagoon without even pausing to dip a toe in. They’d also ignored the much-needed shade formed by the clumps of lacy palm trees, instead heading straight for an icky brown quagmire on the far side of the oasis, bordered by scraggly grass.

Ew… I’m all sticky and icky,” said Harper.

Newton’s First Law of Emotion states that when someone (or something) causes us pain, a moral gap opens up and our Feeling Brain summons up icky emotions to motivate us to equalize.

the American dining public what it wants. And what most Americans want is the elements of Japanese culture that they like—the nice-looking things; the tender, palatable foods; the weird stuff, but nothing icky or slimy. What most Americans want isn’t Japanese: what they want is Japanese-y.

I feel all icky and sticky,

When I took my hand out of the drawer I noticed there was a green leaf with a curlicue stem carefully etched on the back of my hand.

Icky shook her head. “Don’t need to. I already know he doesn’t like pants.

Even in a galaxy filled with danger, there was joy. And in that moment, it sank in that what I—what we were doing—was worth it. The pain and frustration and danger, all of it. It was worth it for moments like this, where Icky could dance with an alien insect while we tapped our feet in a rhythm so universal, no one missed a beat.

When Odie’s brain starts working again, she finds herself in her bedroom with no memory of how she got there. Her ears ring, and her legs feel boneless and jiggly, washed out in the aftermath of another epic tantrum. She kind of likes the way she feels brand new after one—wobbly, like a newborn baby. But with it comes the icky feeling that everyone hates her,

Little Bobby Randall was a most unfortunate child. According to his mother, who should have known, he was just “Born wrong.” Well, maybe. Cindy On the first day, his mother asked him what he learned in camp. Bobby’s answers were simple and direct, as though he was quoting his counselor at the camp: “Bobby, please take your seat.” “Bobby, please stop talking.” “Don’t throw kitty in the pool” “Well, I don’t need to tell YOU that the last thing an 11-year-old girl wants to do is help a boy with his zipper, even if he is only 6.“ “Why Mesun cry?” he asked. “Icky is gone,” she said. Sometimes when Bobby’s mother gave him a bath, and he was especially dirty, like the time he decided to see what dog poop would feel like if he rubbed it all over himself, she said that she was going to wash off all the icky. So, you can understand why, when Mi-Sun said “Icky is gone,” Bobby became confused. He was smiling a big beagle smile, and if you have never seen a beagle smile, you have missed one of the great delights of this world. Beagles have large, lustrous brown eyes, and they are particularly good at making those eyes look sad, especially when they want something to eat. But when they smile it makes you feel as though your heart could leap out of your chest. Nothing on this earth brings more joy than a merry little beagle, smiling a big beagle smile and licking you. Nothing.

The nightmare memory slowly fades away, leaving behind an icky residue that sticks to my skin. Breathe, Shane. Inhale. Exhale. The tightness in my chest with each breath I take. With a rueful laugh, I shake my head, sweeping away the creepy cobwebs. Be present, Shane, I tell myself. Let all the bad stuff go. I survived. I made it back.

Author Glennon Doyle says, “I tend toward dramatic thinking. When I have a problem or when I feel icky, I tend to think the solution is: I have to move, and I need a new family and a new religion and a new house. I need to start all over; everything is terrible. But what I usually need is, like, a glass of water.

It’s better than mating season combined with a trip to the tool ship—” “Aren’t those the same thing?” Torina asked. Icky snorted. “One has less lubricant. And no interest if you pay it off in time.

No, chides Michel. Not my words. Yours. There is no such thing as an impersonal insight. Borrowed truths fit about as well as borrowed underwear, and are just as icky. You either know something in your heart or you don’t know it at all. Live your life not as a standardized exam but, like Gandhi, as one grand experiment. In this sort of personal, lived philosophy, the goal is not abstract knowledge but personal truths: not to know that but simply to know. There’s an enormous difference. I know that love is an important human emotion and has many health benefits. I know I love my daughter.

Meanwhile, breastfeeding was still frowned upon when I was born back in 1966, so I have no preconscious memories of the comfort of her breast either. I don’t blame her for not breastfeeding me or my sisters. At all. I blame the industrial revolution. I blame bad science. I blame a society that not only told women that breastfeeding was kind of icky, indecent, and strictly for those in the lower classes who couldn’t afford formula, but that also frowned upon a woman breastfeeding in public without providing any viable alternatives

Could I still be angry with her for keeping so many things from me? Sure, I could, but festering over what cannot be changed only makes you feel gross and icky inside.

We are not just dawdling around in some anonymous cosmos; we are home. We are dwelling in God’s world. This isn’t just “nature”; it is creation.1 And it is “very good” (Gen. 1:31). The material creation is not just some detour from our heavenly existence. It is the very good abode created by our heavenly Father. Creation is not some icky, regrettable mistake on God’s part. It is the product of his love. Some Christians seem to think otherwise. Some Christians try to be holier than God when it comes to creation, seeing it only as the world “under the control of the evil one” (1 John 5:19). And so, with their escape pods prepared, ready and eager to abandon creation, they’re convinced that God doesn’t really care about it either. But that’s hardly God’s take on creation. Indeed, in the incarnation, the Word becomes flesh, the Creator of the universe moves into our neighborhood. The infinite, transcendent God becomes embodied like us. And notice how the whole Story ends in Revelation 21: God doesn’t eject us from creation; he comes down to dwell with us in a new creation.2 So the end of the Story confirms the beginning: creation is very good.

...here, just as everywhere else, many men are far from skilled Latin lovers that legend would have them. ... In some ways, of course, Italian men are different and in my opinion got - and deserve - their reputation because of their extreme warmth, actively affectionate nature and sentimental romanticism, not necessarily because of their sexual bravura. ... They also appear to be less “generous” than men from some other countries. ... Italian men love being on the receiving end of oral sex but generally shy away from giving it. “Oh, there are a few older guys who like it,” says one male friend, “but most men think it’s kind of icky.

Craig wants to be intimate physically, which feels odd and icky to me when I don;t feel like we're being intimate anywhere else. If we are not connecting in the kitchen, in the family room... we're not really going to connect in the bedroom either. We're just going through the motions, But it seems to me like going through the motions is good enough for Craig. Like just get the job done sufficient. And that bothers me, a whole lot. I want more in every room of our house. And if I can't have real intimacy, then I don't want to fake it... ...An intimate friend is someone who notices when I'm saying something important and never forgets it... ...I've told him all these important things in the past. I've offered him these gifts before, but he loses them. It makes me feel like he's being careless, because these stories matter to me. They make up who I am. They make me different from anyone else Craig knows, and they make our relationship different from any other relationship he has. I have to ask: If you don't know my stories, if you don't know me, why do you love me? Mr, personally. Not just your wife, but me? Sometimes Craig really tries. He focuses and listens hard to what I'm saying. But even then, his replies seem canned to me. Flat... the dangerous result of all the forgetting and canned responses is that I stopped sharing important things with Craig. I stopped offering him special gifts because the offerings felt like a waste of my time and breath... Is wanting more too demanding? Am I asking my husband to communicate like a woman? Or is it sexist to suggest that a man can't get as deep and true as a woman can? And if it's not fair for me to expect Craig to be intimate with me mentally and emotionally, is it fair for him to expect physical intimacy from me? Because going through the motions in the bedroom, it's not working for me. It makes me feel used and resentful and angry.

The more you numb pain, the worse that pain becomes, thus impelling you to numb it further. At a certain point, the icky ball of pain grows to such great proportions that your avoidance of that pain becomes compulsive. You lose control of yourself—your Feeling Brain has locked your Thinking Brain in the trunk and isn’t letting it out until it gets its next hit of whatever. And the downward spiral ensues.

Welcome to the Hellmouth. An emotionally safe place to be? No way. Because on the lot, and in the interviews, and through the day-to-day encounters we had with the cast and crew, we came to understand the dedication everyone connected with Buffy brings to their craft. They talked about having to spar with their agents over accepting positions at Buffy (“the vampire what? Are you nuts?”). They shared with us the painful truth that when the twenty-minute presentation of Buffy was shown to “the suits” around town, no one wanted it. It was passed over. It was not picked up. And then, finally, twelve episodes were ordered so that Buffy could serve as a mid-season replacement series. Hardly a sign of enthusiasm or confidence. It was the critics who found Buffy first, and then the fans. And it was a huge, diverse audience of fans: horror devotees, teenagers, Boomers—anyone who watched the show and realized this wasn't just about icky things that go bump in the night. This was a show about the heart…by people who were pouring their hearts and souls into it. A shared vision.

this pointless conversation is over,” Moth complained, “I’d like to get His Majesty back to the room.” “Of course,” Granny said. “I’m going to pop in on Mr. Canis. I’ll meet you soon.” The girls went up to their room and closed the door. Moth climbed onto one of the two queen-sized beds and propped the icky cocoon onto a pillow. “I need silence, humans,” she announced. Sabrina rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said turning to her sister. “I need to talk to you.” She gestured to the bathroom and Daphne followed her inside. “Daphne, Granny and I have talked and we’ve come to an understanding

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Whatever you like.’ Mum rolled herself off the bed and headed into the bathroom. ‘Just keep her close. It’s good for her to bond.’ ‘Like Mika.’ I smiled, then gazed down at the little face in front of me. Her eyes were closed, and her nose was the tiniest thing I’d even seen, except for her eyelashes, which made me gasp out loud when I noticed them. I peeked inside the blanket wrap and saw a little fist, closed up but relaxed, with the tiniest little fingers ever. And fingernails! ‘Oh!’ I said. I couldn’t help myself. We sat on the armchair for ages. Mum must have had the longest shower ever in the history of showers, but I guess she had a lot of icky stuff to wash off, plus with the power going off, the rain, and the mud I tracked in, everything had seemed kind of grubby at home. I didn’t mind, though. I just sat with my baby sister, looking at her and talking to her, and falling in love. Yes, I was in love with her. It was true. And astounding. For so many months, I had hated the thought of having a baby in the house, but the second I’d met her, everything was different. I looked towards the bathroom door. Mum was still in there, but I wanted to apologise. For everything. For thinking Mum wouldn’t love me as much if she had another baby. For thinking I was getting squeezed out. For assuming Mum didn’t care. ‘Love grows,’ I whispered to the baby. ‘There’s enough for everybody to have one hundred per cent of it.’ I blew on her forehead, just gently. She stirred and moved her hand, and I smiled to myself. In the stillness, the room seemed to shrink until it was just me and my baby sister, sitting together in the light and calm.

It’s important to let the Feeling Brain air out all its icky, twisted feelings. Just get them out into the open where they can breathe, because the more they breathe, the weaker their grip is on the steering wheel of your Consciousness Car.

Ugh. Fine, we can hold off the late-night exploring—for now. But I’m still super disappointed in you, Foster. You’ve got the Fitzster passed out cold right there. And you know Elwin would be down with sneaking him a few funky elixirs. You could be giving him hairy feet and purple freckles and pretty pink ringlets. But what have you been doing instead?” He snatched the knotted piece of extra bandage from her lap and held it up by the corner, like it was some icky dead thing. “Do I want to know why I found you staring at this like it holds the secrets of the universe?” “It’s called trying to improve my telekinesis,” she grumbled, reaching for the scrap—but of course Keefe raised his arm and dangled it just out of her reach. And he was too far away to punch. “Why would you need to improve that?” he asked. “Need I remind you that you’re the Ultimate Splotching Champion? Also the Girl Who Dropped Bronte on His Grumpy Butt—which you should be bragging about more, by the way. Why isn’t that embroidered across all of your Foxfire uniforms?

It’s so pretty up here,” she says, sighing with what sounds like contentment. “Yep.  I love coming here to decompress.  I do it several times a year, but usually not in winter.” “I like the river,” says Liam, looking up from his coloring.  “It’s cold but I still swim in it.  Daddy says I have merman jeans.  But he’s silly cuz mermans don’t wear pants.  They have fish tails so they have scales.” “Not jeans.  Gene.  Like in your DNA.” “I know.  That’s what I said.  But I don’t wear my jeans in the water, cuz that would make them all wet, and I don’t like to have wet pants or wet underwear.” Nicole laughs softly, turning to look in the back seat.  “Are you going to show me how you swim in the river, Liam?” “Yep.” Brian looks in his rearview mirror at his son again.  “We need to show this girl how to fish, Li-Li.  She’s never fished before.” Liam keeps coloring.  “I’ll show her how.  But she has to bait her own hook.  That’s the rule.” Nicole faces Brian.  “What do you fish with?” “Worms.” She grimaces.  “No, thank you.  I’ll just watch.” Brian smiles, knowing he’ll be able to convince her to try.  He’ll bait her hook as long as she needs him to, rules be damned.  He just has to explain to Liam that it’s okay to bait hooks for girls and that it’s not sexist to want to spare them the ickiness of it.  The kid probably won’t understand though; he thinks squirmy worms are fun to play with.  Brian’s had to dissuade him from putting worms in his pockets for years.

  Word For The Day BOONDOGGLE (BOON dahg’uhl) n. A pointless project. Work of no value, done merely to appear busy. Alternate Word ICKY (IK ee) adj. Very distasteful; disgusting.

White Americans, what? Nothing better to do? Why don't you kick yourself out? You're an immigrant too?