Martini Girl Quotes

See you just don’t understand women the way I do J.D. They want it all: a career apple martinis financial independence great shoes but at the same time—and this they’ll never admit—they are drawn to patriarchal men who are dominant and controlling. That’s the essence of the Darcy complex. He may be an asshole but he’s an asshole that gets the girl in the end.

Life should NOT be a journey to the grave with the intention of arriving safely in an attractive and well-preserved body, but rather to skid in sideways, chocolate in one hand, martini in the other, body thoroughly used up, totally worn out, and screaming, ‘WOO HOO, what a ride!’” Mimi’s

Aw,” I said, “look at this guy. He’s never even seen a girl before.” Fenton’s gaze jerked from my chest to my face, confusion twisting his eyebrows. “What?” “Only a basement-dwelling loser would stare like that.” “What?” I looked sadly at Aaron. “And he’s deaf too! Poor thing.

The cold night air outside was like a slap in the face. If I wasn't in Naughty Girl Martini Land, I would have sobered instantly. Unfortunately, I was deep in Naughty Girl Martini Land. So deep, I was skipping dazedly through the Naughty Girl Martini forest and leaping over the Naughty Girl Martini streams, completely oblivious to everything.

There are two kinds of girls: those who've fantasized about a threesome with a pair of hot guys, and liars.

As I remember, the worst result of a World War II block was a flood of Argentine Gin. Sensitive martini-boys and Gibson-girls still shudder....

I'd always hated martini glasses - the stem and the funny shape seemed embarassing, like the adults were trying too hard to be adults.

Dear Jim." The writing grew suddenly blurred and misty. And she had lost him again--had lost him again! At the sight of the familiar childish nickname all the hopelessness of her bereavement came over her afresh, and she put out her hands in blind desperation, as though the weight of the earth-clods that lay above him were pressing on her heart. Presently she took up the paper again and went on reading: "I am to be shot at sunrise to-morrow. So if I am to keep at all my promise to tell you everything, I must keep it now. But, after all, there is not much need of explanations between you and me. We always understood each other without many words, even when we were little things. "And so, you see, my dear, you had no need to break your heart over that old story of the blow. It was a hard hit, of course; but I have had plenty of others as hard, and yet I have managed to get over them,--even to pay back a few of them,--and here I am still, like the mackerel in our nursery-book (I forget its name), 'Alive and kicking, oh!' This is my last kick, though; and then, tomorrow morning, and--'Finita la Commedia!' You and I will translate that: 'The variety show is over'; and will give thanks to the gods that they have had, at least, so much mercy on us. It is not much, but it is something; and for this and all other blessings may we be truly thankful! "About that same tomorrow morning, I want both you and Martini to understand clearly that I am quite happy and satisfied, and could ask no better thing of Fate. Tell that to Martini as a message from me; he is a good fellow and a good comrade, and he will understand. You see, dear, I know that the stick-in-the-mud people are doing us a good turn and themselves a bad one by going back to secret trials and executions so soon, and I know that if you who are left stand together steadily and hit hard, you will see great things. As for me, I shall go out into the courtyard with as light a heart as any child starting home for the holidays. I have done my share of the work, and this death-sentence is the proof that I have done it thoroughly. They kill me because they are afraid of me; and what more can any man's heart desire? "It desires just one thing more, though. A man who is going to die has a right to a personal fancy, and mine is that you should see why I have always been such a sulky brute to you, and so slow to forget old scores. Of course, though, you understand why, and I tell you only for the pleasure of writing the words. I loved you, Gemma, when you were an ugly little girl in a gingham frock, with a scratchy tucker and your hair in a pig-tail down your back; and I love you still. Do you remember that day when I kissed your hand, and when you so piteously begged me 'never to do that again'? It was a scoundrelly trick to play, I know; but you must forgive that; and now I kiss the paper where I have written your name. So I have kissed you twice, and both times without your consent. "That is all. Good-bye, my dear" Then am I A happy fly, If I live Or if I die

When she finally was able to order a martini, the first sip nearly knocked her head off. It was so strong. And how surprised she was that scotch tasted more like iodine than butterscotch candy. Two of the great disappointments in her life.

The three of us exchanged glances but said nothing. After all, what was there to say? The truth was that hookers did take credit cards—or at least ours did! In fact, hookers were so much a part of the Stratton subculture that we classified them like publicly traded stocks: Blue Chips were considered the top-of-the-line hooker, zee crème de la crème. They were usually struggling young models or exceptionally beautiful college girls in desperate need of tuition or designer clothing, and for a few thousand dollars they would do almost anything imaginable, either to you or to each other. Next came the NASDAQs, who were one step down from the Blue Chips. They were priced between three and five hundred dollars and made you wear a condom unless you gave them a hefty tip, which I always did. Then came the Pink Sheet hookers, who were the lowest form of all, usually a streetwalker or the sort of low-class hooker who showed up in response to a desperate late-night phone call to a number in Screw magazine or the yellow pages. They usually cost a hundred dollars or less, and if you didn’t wear a condom, you’d get a penicillin shot the next day and then pray that your dick didn’t fall off. Anyway, the Blue Chips took credit cards, so what was wrong with writing them off on your taxes? After all, the IRS knew about this sort of stuff, didn’t they? In fact, back in the good old days, when getting blasted over lunch was considered normal corporate behavior, the IRS referred to these types of expenses as three-martini lunches! They even had an accounting term for it: It was called T and E, which stood for Travel and Entertainment. All I’d done was taken the small liberty of moving things to their logical conclusion, changing T and E to T and A: Tits and Ass!

I was supposed to be having the time of my life. I was supposed to be the envy of thousands of other college girls jut like me all over America who wanted nothing more than to be tripping bout in those same size seven patent leather shoes I'd bought in Bloomingdale's one lunch hour with a black patent leather belt and black patent leather pocket-book to match. And when my picture came out in the magazine the twelve of us were working on - drinking martinis in a skimpy, imitation silver-lamé bodice stuck on to a big, fat cloud of white tulle, on some Starlight Roof, in the company of several anonymous young men with all-American bone structures hired or loaned for the occasion - everybody would think I must be having a real whirl

I don’t crave martinis the way I do, say, an economy-size bag of chocolate-covered pretzels, but when I need a warm blur to descend on me, and fast, it’s my elixir of choice.

Some car had hit it after all, because it hadn’t had the courage to honor its own correct instinct. And I began to cry because I had this thought about people, that they do this all the time, deny the wise voice inside them telling them the right thing to do because it is different. I remembered once seeing a tea party some little girls had set up outside, mismatched china, decorations of a plucked pansy blossom and a seashell and a shiny penny and a small circle of red berries and a fern, pressed wetly into the wooden table, the damp outline around it a beautiful bonus. They didn’t consult the Martha Stewart guide for entertainment and gulp a martini before their guests arrived. They pulled ideas from their hearts and minds about the things that gave them pleasure, and they laid out an offering with loving intent. It was a small Garden of Eden, the occupants making something out of what they saw was theirs. Out of what they truly saw.

What did I want to do with myself? I wanted to do this! I wanted to drink martinis with showgirls, and listen to Broadway business talk, and eavesdrop on the gossip of boys who looked like girls! I wanted to hear about people's big sex lives!

[...]You can take the pink hair dye out of the girl, but you never lose those roots." I took another sip of the martini. "You don't know me." At the end of the bar, the other customer lifted his face to Peter Jennings and smiled. "Maybe," Seven said, "but neither do you.

The widow of Michael Reardon was a full‐breasted woman in her late thirties. She had dark hair and green eyes, and an Irish nose spattered with a clichéful of freckles. She had a face for merry‐go‐rounds and roller coaster rides, a face that could split in laughter and girlish glee when water was splashed on her at the seashore. She was a girl who could get drunk sniffing the vermouth cork before it was passed over a martini. She was a girl who went to church on Sundays, a girl who’d belonged to the Newman Club when she was younger, a girl who was a virgin two days after Mike

At first glance, the stewardess appears to have been a reflection of conservative postwar gender roles—an impeccable airborne incarnation of the mythical homemaker of the 1950s who would happily abandon work to settle down with Mr. Right. A high-flying expert at applying lipstick, warming baby bottles, and mixing a martini, the stewardess was popularly imagined as the quintessential wife to be. Dubbed the “typical American girl,” this masterful charmer—known for pampering her mostly male passengers while maintaining perfect poise (and straight stocking seams) thirty thousand feet above sea level—became an esteemed national heroine for her womanly perfection. But while the the stewardess appears to have been an airborne Donna Reed, a closer look reveals that she was also popularly represented as a sophisticated, independent, ambitious career woman employed on the cutting edge of technology. This iconic woman in the workforce was in a unique position to bring acceptance and respect to working women by bridging the gap between the postwar domestic ideal and wage work for women. As both the apotheosis of feminine charm and American careerism, the stewardess deftly straddled the domestic ideal and a career that took her far from home. Ultimately, she became a crucial figure in paving the way for feminism in America.

There were elements of Mad Men at Newsweek, except that unlike the natty advertising types, journalists were notorious slobs and our two- and three-martini lunches were out of the office, not in...Kevin Buckley, who was hired in 1963, described the Newsweek of the early 1960s as similar to an old movie, with the wisecracking private eye and his Girl Friday. "The 'hubba-hubba' climate was tolerated," he recalled. "I was told the editors would ask the girls to do handstands on their desk. Was there rancor? Yes. But in this climate, a laugh would follow.

I was supposed to be having the time of my life. I was supposed to be the envy of thousands of other college girls just like me all over America who wanted nothing more than to be tripping about in those same size-seven patent leather shoes I’d bought in Bloomingdale’s one lunch hour with a black patent leather belt and black patent leather pocketbook to match. And when my picture came out in the magazine the twelve of us were working on—drinking martinis in a skimpy, imitation silver-lamé bodice stuck on to a big, fat cloud of white tulle, on some Starlight Roof, in the company of several anonymous young men with all-American bone structures hired or loaned for the occasion—everybody would think I must be having a real whirl.

I’ve kept a tally of the alcohol Ellie’s consumed—three martinis at the dinner reception and four whiskeys neat at the pub. She downs a fifth one like water. “You’re a Viking!” Henry encourages her. “Vikings!!!” Ellie shouts. When the Prince calls the bartender for another, I push my way through the crowd to Henry. “She’s had enough,” I tell him quietly. “She’s fine.” He waves his hand at the air. “She’s just a girl,” I insist. Ellie takes exception, poking my arm with her finger and slurring. “Hey! I resent that. I’m a matter adult. Mattur. Ma-ture.” She tilts her head, gasping. “Oh my God, I just realized that except for one letter, mature and manure are the same word! That’s so weird.” I turn back to Prince Henry. “Like I said . . . more than enough.” He leans across the bar towards Ellie, holding up two fingers. “Ellie, how many fingers do you see?” Ellie squints and strains, until finally she grabs Henry’s hand and holds it still. “Four.” “Brilliant answer!” “Was I right?” Ellie asks hopefully. “No—if you’d gotten it right, I’d be really concerned.” Then he bangs the bar with his palm. “Another round!” That’s when Ellie slides clear off her stool. I catch her before she hits the floor, but just barely. And then I glare at Henry. “Mmm . . . perhaps we have reached our quota for the evening.” He puts his hand on Ellie’s arm, lifting his chin a little as he says, “It’s always important to be able to actually walk out of the pub on our own two feet. Dignity and all that.” Ellie’s head lolls on her neck until she rests it on my shoulder, her puffs of breath brushing my throat. “M’kay

Hemingway, pulling up to the Ritz with two truckloads of his French irregulars, told the bartender, “How about seventy-three dry martinis?” Later, after he and several companions had dined on soup, creamed spinach, raspberries in liqueur, and Perrier-Jouët champagne, the waiter added the Vichy tax to the bill, explaining, “It’s the law.” No matter: “We drank. We ate. We glowed,” one of Hemingway’s comrades reported. Private Irwin Shaw of the 12th Infantry, who later won fame as a writer, believed that August 25 was “the day the war should have ended.” To Ernie Pyle, ensconced in a hotel room with a soft bed though no hot water or electricity, “Paris seems to have all the beautiful girls we have always heard it had.… They dress in riotous colors.” The liberation, he concluded, was “the loveliest, brightest story of our time.” *

The story we are told of women is not this one. The story of women is the story of love, of foundering into another. A slight deviation: longing to founder and being unable to. Being left alone in the foundering, and taking things into one's own hands: rat poison, the wheels of a Russian train. Even the smoother and gentler story is still just a modified version of the above. In the demotic, in the key of bougie, it's the promise of love in old age for all the good girls of the world. Hilarious ancient bodies at bath time, husband's palsied hands soaping wife's withered dugs, erection popping out of the bubbles like a pink periscope. I see you! There would be long, hobbledy walks under the plane trees, stories told by a single sideways glance, one word sufficing. Anthill, he'd say; Martini! she'd say; and the thick swim of the old joke would return to them. The laughter, the beautiful reverberations. Then the bleary toddling on to an early-bird dinner, snoozing through a movie hand in hand. Their bodies like knobby sticks wrapped in vellum. One laying the other on the deathbed, feeding the overdose, dying the day after, all heart gone out of the world with the beloved breath. Oh, companionship. Oh, romance. Oh, completion. Forgive her if she believed this would be the way it would go. She had been led to this conclusion by forces greater than she. Conquers all! All you need is! Is a many-splendored thing! Surrender to! Like corn rammed down goose necks, this shit they'd swallowed since they were barely old enough to dress themselves in tulle. The way the old story goes, woman needs an other to complete her circuits, to flick her to fullest blazing.

Gran handed me her now warm Coke, and I took a sip, almost gagging at the sweet taste. “I don’t know how you drink that stuff, considering that your cocktail of choice is a martini that’s been shown a picture of vermouth.

pomegranate martini.

Did this man just come to my rescue with a caramel snickerdoodle martini? I love him. We’re getting married. I’m having his monster babies.

My grandmother sat in the chair, looking for all the world like a TV gran with her floral dress and neat white bun—as long as one ignored the martini glass in her hand.

Cocktail là toàn cầu cực kỳ đa dạng mẫu mã, sinh động cùng rất rất một số loại thức uống đầy Màu sắc, từ cách pha chế cho đến tên gọi phần nhiều dẫn đến sự yêu thích đối cùng rất tất cả. Nhắc mang đến cocktail bên cạnh các cái tên “nổi đình nổi đám” cũng như Sexy Girl, Pina Colada, Margarita, Martini, blue Hawaii, I Love U, Kamikaze,… thì giới sành cocktail cạnh tranh Rất có thể bỏ lỡ loại cocktail “bom tấn” B52. chúng ta nghe B52 xuất hiện quen không? Đây chính là tên của một một số loại máy bay ném bom tầm xa của Mỹ, thể hiện khí công của loại cocktail này “không nên dạn vừa” đâu. B52 hay Bifi phần nhiều là tên gọi chỉ một số loại cocktail phân tầng đẹp mắt bao gồm một phần rượu hương cà phê, 1 phần rượu Baileys Irish Cream với một phần rượu hương cam Grand Marnier. B52 là nhiều loại cocktail lời yêu cầu công nghệ cùng tay nghề của Bartender yêu cầu cứng để Rất có thể tạo ra 1 cốc cocktail đẹp mắt, cùng rất hương vì chưng bùng nổ. cơ mà chúng ta sẽ Rất có thể làm cho tại nơi bạn ở nhà bạn cùng với các chia sẻ trong bài xích sau đây. Chỉ cần chuyên chú một ít, chúng ta có thể pha chế ra 1 cốc cocktail B52 với thừa nhận ấn cá nhân rõ rệt. Hãy cùng tham khảo và chơi ngay nhé, đảm bảo ban đang vô cũng thích thú với ly cocktail thành phẩm đấy. Nguyên liệu: 10ml rượu hương cafe (Tia Maria hoặc Kahlúa. Cơ mà chuyên sử dụng rượu Kahlúa). 10ml rượu Baileys Irish Cream. 10ml rượu hương cam Le Grand Marnier. cốc Shooter hoặc cốc Sherry. Thìa (đã được có tác dụng lạnh). công thức B52: Bước 1: ban đầu chúng ta rót phần rượu hương cà phê Kahlúa vào dưới đáy ly, thành lập tầng bước đầu. Bước 2: Tiếp cho là rót thật lờ đờ rượu Baileys Irish Cream vào ẩn dưới 1 chiếc thìa nhỏ dại và được làm cho lạnh, chuyển thìa này lại gần ly, tránh làm lẫn lộn với loại rượu rót trước. Cách 3: phương pháp rót Grand Marnier cũng tương tự. Khi rót bạn nên nghiêng cốc một góc chặng 45o. Nếu cũng như thành phẩm là một ly cocktail B52 phân làm 3 tầng nâu, trắng, kim cương thì xem cũng như chúng ta đã thành tích. Về phần chiêm ngưỡng một số loại cocktail này Rất có thể chia thành 2 “trường phái”, nếu như phương Tây chỉ là uống khan đã từng lớp, khuấy lên rồi uống cùng với đá, thì người Á Lục biết cách thưởng thức lâu công hơn, chúng ta đốt lửa trên bề mặt của cocktail mang đến nóng, dừng ống hút để uống hết trong 1 hơi. nhưng lại, để đối B52 bạn phải cụ Grand Marnier bởi các loại rượu có độ rượu cồn cao hơn. Bài toán đốt rượu này cũng tiềm ẩn các bất trắc cho nên lời khuyên là nếu cũng như các bạn còn thiếu gan hay new làm lần đầu không nên thử để tránh cháy và nổ bên cạnh mong nhé. cũng tương tự như nhiều loại cocktail khác, sau thời gian đều chung sự biến dạng để thêm sinh rượu cồn, phong phú. Bạn có thể đột phá hương vì bằng phương pháp cộng thêm nhiều loại rượu nhưng người thân đắm đuối như Vodka – B53, thêm Amaretto – B54, bổ sung Absinthe có ngay B55.

I need a martini in my hand and a girl in my bed.

I think it must've been because of Bobby that Rusty came around at first. Rusty was a scrawny, rat-faced dandy of a kid who acquired his nickname by virtue of his rust-coloured hair. I mentioned Bobby was beautiful in a way that even guys who went around with girls noticed and Rusty was not the sort to go around with girls at all and so was even more likely to pay his respects to Bobby's beauty.

To nerdy girls and geeky boys. Love what you love, and love it hard, especially if it sets your soul on fire.

something sharp sticking out of my dress. The pin. The booty-shorts girl had used an oversized safety pin to attach the balloon to my dress. It must have come loose while Chad was ramming his groin against me, and poked him in the… “I’ve been stabbed,” Chad choked out, his words so strained I almost couldn’t make them out. His face reddened and he dropped to the ground, still holding his man bits. “My dick!

It’s natural to need some time and space to process that information,” Hazel said. “But now we need you to get your head out of your ass so you can fix this and bring our girl back,” Nora said.

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