Matching Outfits Quotes

Without Mona, Hanna felt like a great outfit without matching accessories, a screw-driver that was all orange juice and no vodka, and an iPod without headphones. She just felt wrong.

Nothing said Clothes to Wear When You Want to Impress a Guy You Initially Shot Down, But Now You Realise You Like Him and Want to Get Him Back. Where was the outfit for that?

I've been a Christian since I was a little girl. But my Christianity is a muddy mess of thoughts and opinions and making God into what works for me-like going shopping at the mall and picking out whatever I want, putting together faith like I would an outfit. Somehow I don't think the Creator, the I AM, the savior of the world is something we can mix and match to out liking.

Please. I was held captive in a damn cell with massive masked men who wanted to eat me alive for seven days and then sell me to the highest bidder. A girl with no emotion and nothing to lose can be a very dangerous weapon up against girls who care entirely too much about what shoes match what outfit.

It was seven-thirty. The dance started in half an hour. And I was buck-naked. Which probably would have made an interesting night, but the last time I'd checked I was neither a porn star nor a prostitute. I'd already tried on every half-decent outfit, every quarter-decent outfit, even every limit-of-f-as-decent-approaches-zero-is-infinity outfit.

The lady sitting next to me makes eye contact and smiles. She’s grandma age and wearing a statement glam necklace. “How long have you been together?” I choke on water. Full-on spit up all over my dress. “We’re not,” I cough. “Sure, sweets. Sure.” I blame the matching outfits.

Rue carried her mother's parasol, which was too ugly to match any of her outfits, but was more sturdy than any of her fashionable ones. This one, felt Rue, could really cause damage to a noggin if applied with enough enthusiasm. Somehow this made her feel more secure about life in general.

Perhaps our matching black outfits - even Phoebe wears dark colors - convince him that we are lesbian Buddhists

Is this what she thinks a family is? People who hang out all the time and wear matching outfits? I’m pretty sure that’s called a cult.

The blond's booming voice was well-educated British, but his outfit didn't match it. His hair was the only normal thing about him--close cropped and without noticeable style. But his T-shirt was crossed with enough ammunition to take out a platoon, and he had a tool belt slung low on his hips that, along with a strap across his back, looked like it carried one of every type of handheld weapon on the market. I recognized a machete, two knives, a sawed-off shotgun, a crossbow, two handguns--one strapped to his thigh--and a couple of honest-to-God grenades. There were other things I couldn't identify, including a row of cork-topped bottles along the front of the belt. The getup, sort of mad scientist meets Rambo, would have made me smile, except that I believe in showing respect for someone carrying that much hardware.

For a six-year-old, she’s got some talent, and this drawing is among her better ones, in a way. The six figures actually resemble us—Patrick, Steven, the twins, me, and Sonia. We’re all standing in our garden, holding hands under a tree that’s blooming with white stars. She’s got the twins in matching outfits and she’s drawn something that looks more like a suitcase than a briefcase in Patrick’s free hand. Steven wears his new pin; my hair is pulled back into a ponytail. Around my wrist and Sonia’s are bracelets: red for her and black for me. We’re all smiling under a sun she’s decorated with orange hearts. “Beautiful,” I say, taking the drawing. But I don’t think it’s beautiful. I think it’s the ugliest fucking thing I’ve ever seen.

Brodie had dressed in yellow and dark brown to match the cakes, and I’d worn a matching outfit – brown leggings under an oversized yellow t-shirt that read ‘Pick Brodie.’ My blonde pigtails were decorated with cherries. We were totally ready to sell Brodie to the casting directors.

Before he could start asking, a family joined them in the wait for the elevator, the daughters running around, the parents looking like they were stuck in a version of hell that smelled like bubble gum, and was populated by short demons in matching fairy princess outfits that asked for ice cream every three minutes.

I saw the northern lights once. In upper Alberta. I booked a trip with this outfit called See the Northern Lights! I had wanted the northern lights to fill me with wonder. And they did. They filled me with wonder. Which was a big letdown because they exactly matched my expectations of them. They did exactly what I'd paid for. Let that be a lesson to you.

outfit for work that day. She matched the colors of the Washington Wolves perfectly. She was all sleekness and shine with her black dress, white jacket, red shoes, red lips, and a silvery white bob that fell

I restrained the urge to slam my door. On the right stood a teenage guy with thick chestnut hair, chocolatey brown eyes, and the kind of perfectly square jaw I thought only existed on models. He wore khaki pants and a white shirt - classic preppy gear, though on him it looked incredibly hot. The man on the left had black hair with wings of pure white at the temples, and unbelievable blue eyes the color of the Caribbean. Not that I've ever seen the Caribbean, but I swear you could have cut and pasted his eyes right into an ad for the Bahamas. Meanwhile, I looked like I didn't know how to operate a washing machine. My shorts had a glob of strawberry jelly on them from breakfast, my wrinkled gray T-shirt looked like it had been slept in (which it had), and my Seattle Mariners baseball hat had a dark ring around the brim. Grandma practically winced as her gaze traveled up and down my outfit. Her taste runs toward matching velour tracksuits, so I don't usually worry about her opinion much. Still, this time I think she was right.

Amir, you look hideous.” My fiancée, Samirah al-Abbas, stared at my outfit in horrified disbelief. “Really?” I looked down at myself. “But it’s a tux!” “A baby-blue tux!” “With a matching ruffled shirt and floppy bow tie,” I said defensively. “My uncle loaned it to me. I think it’ll impress your grandparents, don’t you?” “It’s Jid and Bibi’s fiftieth wedding anniversary!” Sam sputtered. “You can’t wear—” “Samirah.” My father emerged from the kitchen. “He is pulling your leg.” Sam’s reddish-brown eyes blazed dangerously, and I suddenly realized that playing a practical joke on a Valkyrie might not be the best idea I ever had.

No, but they certainly don’t include ruining a nice dinner with discourtesy,” Vivian said coolly. “You should buy a nice set of manners to match your suit, Mr. Russo. As a luxury goods CEO, you know better than anyone how one ugly accessory can ruin an outfit.

Me: We adopted Bellamy last night. Obviously we need some time to adjust to parenthood. Daddy: I’m too young for grand sugar babies. Me: It’s too late. No take backs. You’re a grand sugar daddy now. Daddy: Imma buy my boys matching father-son outfits. Me: I approve. Make sure his says “mini me” on it.

I looked exactly like the female version of George Costanza when I was in sixth grade… I insisted on dressing myself in monochromatic outfits. All my shirts had an animal performing an action on them. I had a pink sweater with penguins knitting to match my pink ribbed leggings. A hunter green shirt with dogs painting.

Her insanely high Christian Louboutin stilettos made a click-clacking sound on the airport floor. Amber rolled a small Louis Vuitton luggage bag behind her. She wore a baby-blue Chanel skirt suit, which made her look like an elegant celebrity. Her hair was long and blond today and pinned up into a perfectly smooth up-do. A pair of gold earrings in the shape of four-leaf clovers and a matching pendant completed the outfit.

What had she meant by that? I asked myself time and time again, but mostly I didn’t give two flying fucks about the fates, instead just wishing she’d texted I love you, Mer before safely going to bed that night. Finally I had my answer. Yes, Claire had met a boy in New Orleans. Just not one for herself. “Stephen,” she’d decided back when we were still young enough to match our outfits and joke about who I would marry someday. “His name will be Stephen!

Anna? Anna,are you there? I've been waiting in the lobby for fifteen minutes." A scrambling noise,and St. Clair curses from the floorboards. "And I see your light's off.Brilliant. Could've mentioned you'd decided to go on without me." I explode out of bed. I overslept! I can't believe I overslept! How could this happen? St. Clair's boots clomp away,and his suitcase drags heavily behind him. I throw open my door. Even though they're dimmed this time of night,the crystal sconces in the hall make me blink and shade my eyes. St. Clair twists into focus.He's stunned. "Anna?" "Help," I gasp. "Help me." He drops his suitcase and runs to me. "Are you all right? What happened?" I pull him in and flick on my light. The room is illuminated in its disheveled entirety. My luggage with its zippers open and clothes piled on top like acrobats. Toiletries scattered around my sink. Bedsheets twined into ropes. And me. Belatedly, I remember that not only is my hair crazy and my face smeared with zit cream,but I'm also wearing matching flannel Batman pajamas. "No way." He's gleeful. "You slept in? I woke you up?" I fall to the floor and frantically squish clothes into my suitcase. "You haven't packed yet?" "I was gonna finish this morning! WOULD YOU FREAKING HELP ALREADY?" I tug on a zipper.It catches a yellow Bat symbol, and I scream in frustration. We're going to miss our flight. We're going to iss it,and it's my fault. And who knows when the next plane will leave, and we'll be stuck here all day, and I'll never make it in time for Bridge and Toph's show. And St. Clair's mom will cry when she has to go to the hospital without him for her first round of internal radiation, because he'll be stuck iin an airport on the other side of the world,and its ALL. MY FAULT. "Okay,okay." He takes the zipper and wiggles it from my pajama bottoms. I make a strange sound between a moan and a squeal. The suitcase finally lets go, and St. Clair rests his arms on my shoulders to steady them. "Get dressed. Wipe your face off.I'll takecare of the rest." Yes,one thing at a time.I can do this. I can do this. ARRRGH! He packs my clothes. Don't think about him touching your underwear. Do NOT think about him touching your underwear. I grab my travel outfit-thankfully laid out the night before-and freeze. "Um." St. Clair looks up and sees me holding my jeans. He sputters. "I'll, I'll step out-" "Turn around.Just turn around, there's not time!" He quickly turns,and his shoulders hunch low over my suitcase to prove by posture how hard he is Not Looking.

Who do you think is angriest right now? In our country, I mean.” I shrugged. “African Americans?” She made a buzzing noise, a sort of you’re-out-but-we’ve-got-some-lovely-consolation-prizes-backstage kind of a sound. “Guess again.” “Gays?” “No, you dope. The straight white dude. He’s angry as shit. He feels emasculated.” “Honestly, Jacko.” “Of course he does.” Jackie pointed a purple fingernail at me. “You just wait. It’s gonna be a different world in a few years if we don’t do something to change it. Expanding Bible Belt, shit-ass representation in Congress, and a pack of power-hungry little boys who are tired of being told they gotta be more sensitive.” She laughed then, a wicked laugh that shook her whole body. “And don’t think they’ll all be men. The Becky Homeckies will be on their side.” “The who?” Jackie nodded at my sweats and bed-matted hair, at the pile of yesterday’s dishes in the sink, and finally at her own outfit. It was one of the more interesting fashion creations I’d seen on her in a while—paisley leggings, an oversized crocheted sweater that used to be beige but had now taken on the color of various other articles of clothing, and purple stiletto boots. “The Susie Homemakers. Those girls in matching skirts and sweaters and sensible shoes going for their Mrs. degrees. You think they like our sort? Think again.

He spared a glance at her distressed face and knew it to be a mistake instantly. He was momentarily arrested because...man, six feet away she was pretty. Up close like this? Total gut-shot. Of course, having just seen all of her unmentionables didn't help matters. Unmentionables? Whoever came up with that ridiculous term? Underwear that fantastic deserved to be mentioned on a regular basis. Shit, he wasn't going to think about her underwear. which, of course, only made him wonder what color she had on under those tight, distressed jeans and that thin T-shirt. Pink? Her outfit was pink. Women often matched their underwear to their outfits. At least that's been his experience. So...probably pink. Holy shit! He was not going to think about her underwear!

I wore an emerald long-sleeved dress by Vivienne Tam and a pair of tangerine Christian Louboutins. I had seen the same look in one of Emerald's Vogues and asked Giada to overnight it. I learned quickly, though I wasn't very original. I'd changed in a coffee shop next to my apartment, then hopped into a cab. "Next time we must coordinate outfits beforehand," Michael whispered as we sat down. "I was going for 'salt of the earth' today." "Oh, I wanted to match the décor," I said. Tellicherry felt like a sexy, sinister jewel box. A rich sapphire blue stained the walls in large, meandering splotches, like dye dropped into water. Bronze silk leaped and dipped in the cushions. The waitresses wore black dresses with seductive lace panels revealing flesh-colored bits, and the waiters slinked in semi-sheer pajama-like outfits, conjuring bedtime escapades, none of which involved sleeping.

Marcus had a natural arrogant air to him, thanks to his striking facial features, with his slim nose, square cut jawline and high cheekbones. He also had high arched brows with one that always seemed to be raised as if he was judging every single action you made. But those elongated red diamond shapes that ran through his eyes and curved slightly an inch above his brows reminded me of horns. The opposite ends were drawn down in long points that reached his jaw until they were nothing but a thin line. A set that mirrored the same triangular design starting from under his bottom lip. This thin red line continued all the way down his chin until it disappeared under the shadows of his long neck before it dipped under a crimson red cravat. A colour that matched his unusual hair, with its strands that were twisted back from his face into sections with the ends pointed with little bells attached. All of which adding to the theatrics that rest of his outfit provided. Piercing dark blue eyes studied me as I approached.

Back in L.A., I’d remained friends with my freshman-year boyfriend, Collin, and we’d become even closer after he confided in me one dark and emotional night that he’d finally come to terms with his homosexuality. Around that time, his mother was visiting from Dallas, and Collin invited me to meet them at Hotel Bel Air for brunch. I wore the quintessential early-1990s brunch outfit: a copper-brown silk tank with white, dime-size polka dots and a below-the-knee, swinging skirt to match. A flawless Pretty Woman--Julia Roberts polo match replica. I loved that outfit. It was silk, though, and clingy, and the second I sat down at the table I knew I was in trouble. My armpits began to feel cool and wet, and slowly I noticed the fabric around my arms getting damper and damper. By the time our mimosas arrived, the ring of sweat had spread to the level of my third rib; by mealtime, it had reached the waistline of my skirt, and the more I tried to will it away, the worse it got. I wound up eating my Eggs Florentine with my elbows stuck to my hip bones so Collin and his mother wouldn’t see. But copper-brown silk, when wet, is the most unforgiving fabric on the planet. Collin had recently come out to his parents, so I’d later determined I’d experienced some kind of sympathetic nervousness on Collin’s behalf. I never wore that outfit again. Never got the stains out. Nor would I ever wear this suit again.

Taking quick looks behind him on the trail, Lew Basnight was apt to see things that weren’t necessarily there. Mounted figure in a black duster and hat, always still, turned sidewise in the hard, sunlit distance, horse bent to the barren ground. No real beam of attention, if anything a withdrawal into its own lopsided star-shaped silhouette, as if that were all it had ever aspired to. It did not take long to convince himself that the presence behind him now, always just out of eyeball range, belonged to one and the same subject, the notorious dynamiter of the San Juans known as the Kieselguhr Kid. The Kid happened to be of prime interest to White City Investigations. Just around the time Lew was stepping off the train at the Union Station in Denver, and the troubles up in the Coeur d’Alene were starting to bleed over everywhere in the mining country, where already hardly a day passed without an unscheduled dynamite blast in it someplace, the philosophy among larger, city-based detective agencies like Pinkerton’s and Thiel’s began to change, being as they now found themselves with far too much work on their hands. On the theory that they could look at their unsolved cases the way a banker might at instruments of debt, they began selling off to less-established and accordingly hungrier outfits like White City their higher-risk tickets, including that of the long-sought Kieselguhr Kid. It was the only name anybody seemed to know him by, “Kieselguhr” being a kind of fine clay, used to soak up nitroglycerine and stabilize it into dynamite. The Kid’s family had supposedly come over as refugees from Germany shortly after the reaction of 1849, settling at first near San Antonio, which the Kid-to-be, having developed a restlessness for higher ground, soon left, and then after a spell in the Sangre de Cristos, so it went, heading west again, the San Juans his dream, though not for the silver-mine money, nor the trouble he could get into, both of those, he was old enough by then to appreciate, easy enough to come by. No, it was for something else. Different tellers of the tale had different thoughts on what. “Don’t carry pistols, don’t own a shotgun nor a rifle—no, his trade-mark, what you’ll find him packing in those tooled holsters, is always these twin sticks of dynamite, with a dozen more—” “Couple dozen, in big bandoliers across his chest.” “Easy fellow to recognize, then.” “You’d think so, but no two eyewitnesses have ever agreed. It’s like all that blasting rattles it loose from everybody’s memory.” “But say, couldn’t even a slow hand just gun him before he could get a fuse lit?” “Wouldn’t bet on it. Got this clever wind-proof kind of striker rig on to each holster, like a safety match, so all’s he has to do’s draw, and the ‘sucker’s all lit and ready to throw.” “Fast fuses, too. Some boys down the Uncompahgre found out about that just last August, nothin left to bury but spurs and belt buckles. Even old Butch Cassidy and them’ll begin to coo like a barn full of pigeons whenever the Kid’s in the county.” Of course, nobody ever’d been sure about who was in Butch Cassidy’s gang either. No shortage of legendary deeds up here, but eyewitnesses could never swear beyond a doubt who in each case, exactly, had done which, and, more than fear of retaliation—it was as if physical appearance actually shifted, causing not only aliases to be inconsistently assigned but identity itself to change. Did something, something essential, happen to human personality above a certain removal from sea level? Many quoted Dr. Lombroso’s observation about how lowland folks tended to be placid and law-abiding while mountain country bred revolutionaries and outlaws. That was over in Italy, of course. Theorizers about the recently discovered subconscious mind, reluctant to leave out any variable that might seem helpful, couldn’t avoid the altitude, and the barometric pressure that went with it. This was spirit, after all.

There’s a reassuring sense of continuity in these 11s and 44s and 170s and 211s. Where outside the capital the service buses are clad in company colours, proclaiming that they belong to Stagecoach, Arriva, GoAhead and the rest, in London they’re still, whichever outfit provides them, uniformly red. They announce an allegiance not to some big commercial company but to the great world city they serve, much as they did when George Orwell, returning from the war against Franco in Spain, numbered them among the sights which brought him some kind of peace: ‘the huge peaceful wilderness of outer London, the barges on the miry river, the familiar streets, the posters telling of cricket matches and Royal weddings, the men in bowler hats, the pigeons in Trafalgar Square, the red buses, the blue policemen

Younger girls stand with their moms alongside countless girls our age in matching outfits—blazers and horseshoe necklaces and ballet flats.

It good thing to put make up on that will suit your personality and match your tone skin color,outfit for an example if you're a polite person us polite colors if you're vibrant or bubble person vibe colors is yours that will make you beautiful in a stylish way if it heppen that you want to booster apply bright colors it little touch up or lower adjust color little not with the way that will show.

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School used to be so easy. I belonged to everything without even trying. Now I’m barely hanging on to the edges of who I used to be, and when I catch my reflection in a window I hardly recognize the girl staring back at me. She’s in my clothes—the kind of formfitting top and tight jeans that Jake likes—but her hollow cheeks and dead eyes don’t match the outfit.

My high-waisted peach pants were loose and billowing, gathered at the ankles with velvet cuffs of bright gold. The long sleeves of the matching top were made of gossamer, also gathered at the wrists, and the top itself hung just to my navel, revealing a sliver of skin as I walked. Comfortable, easy to move in- to run. Feminine. Exotic.

The 5th Rangers were a wonderful outfit. It was lads like [Raaen] who our nation can thank for the beachhead it won on D-Day in Normandy. Believe me, they were the only reason that enabled an old crock like myself to shake fear loose and “roll on.” T/5 Tom Herring, Company C, 5th Ranger Battalion: Before Cota reached Schneider, a flurry of artillery fire caused him [Cota] to hit the dirt. I was lying to the left of Pfc. William Stump, also C Company. Stump asked me for a match, saying his were wet. “Mine too,” I said. Stump reached across my back and punched a soldier next to me and asked, “Hey, Buddy, you got a light?” As the soldier rolled onto his left side, the star on his jacket epaulet was visible to both Stump and me. Stump said, “Sorry, sir!” Cota reached into his jacket, pulled out a Zippo, flicked it, held it for Stump to light up and said, “That’s OK, son, we’re all here for the same reason.” T.Sgt. Herb Epstein, Intelligence NCO, Headquarters Company, 5th Ranger Battalion: I was lying on the sand next to Col. Schneider as Cota walked up and called for him. Schneider stood up and the two were standing there while all this firing was going on and General Cota said to him, “Col. we are counting on the Rangers to lead the way!” Schneider said, “yes sir!” and Cota walked back east.

One, I was an asshole in eleventh grade. Ask literally anyone…. Two is still that I was an asshole. I hadn’t given any serious thought to geopolitical realities. I was just talking big- and taking the stance that matched my outfits.

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The scene was odd; barely perceptible faces surrounded the little girl, like malevolent succubae. The more Lucie’s eye became acclimated, the more details she made out. Small feet shoved into socks; matching outfits, like hospital pajamas; a uniform floor that looked like linoleum. A parallel, latent world slowly took shape. Lucie thought of optical illusions—the image of a vase, for instance, that turns into a couple making love after you’ve stared at it for a moment. In the drop-down menu, Beckers selected the brightness and contrast option and opened a dialogue box on which he could play with the settings.

Charlie Gillett wrote that “folk existed in a world of its own until Bob Dylan dragged it, screaming, into pop,” and while folk fans might frame that the opposite way—Dylan had dragged pop, screaming very loudly, into their world—it was the iconic moment of intersection, when rock emerged, separate from rock ’n’ roll, and replaced folk as the serious, intelligent voice of a generation. In the process, rock fans adopted many of the folk world’s prides and prejudices: Rock ’n’ rollers had worn matching outfits, played teen-oriented dance music, and strove to cut hit singles. Rock musicians wore street clothes, sang poetic and meaningful lyrics accompanied by imaginative or self-consciously rootsy instrumentation, and recorded long-playing albums that demanded repeated, attentive listening. Those albums might sell in the millions, but they were presented as artistic statements, and by the later 1960s it was considered insulting to call someone like Jim Morrison or Janis Joplin “commercial.

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

This outfit makes me want to get my nose pierced and spend some time at the tattoo parlor,” I said, frowning at the clothing. “Hey, we can make that happen,” Nessa, joked. “That’s very funny, Nessa,” I said as I pulled out the knee high black combat boots and black fishnet stockings to match. “It is better than the plaid cowboy shirt and Wranglers they got me,” Noah said, as he held up the outfit complete with worn leather cowboy boots. “Oh, Nessa, we will pay you back dearly for this,” I said sarcastically.

The maid had described it as a sort of wrestling match that ended when the man took his pillock, “rather like a large boiled sausage,” she had described it, and stuck it up between the woman’s legs. Eva had never fancied the idea of having a boiled sausage shoved up between her legs and found her feet shifting together to press her thighs more tightly closed as she stood before the mumbling priest. Then her gaze dropped to the side of its own accord, to peer at the point where her husband’s boiled sausage would be. Although he normally wore his plaid, or had since she’d arrived, today Connall had chosen to wear the outfit she had seen him in at court for their wedding; a fine dark blue doublet and white hose. Eva was flattered that he had troubled himself to dress up for the occasion, but it meant that his figure was now rather on view and her eyes widened in alarm at the size of the bulge visible beneath the hose. Mavis had said that the bigger the bulge, the bigger the boiled sausage, and her husband appeared quite huge to her. Not that she had ever before seen a man’s sausage or troubled to notice the size of their bulge, but Connall’s bulge looked rather large to her anxious eyes. Eva squeezed her thighs a little tighter closed as she tried to imagine him wrestling her to the bed and assaulting her with his sausage. “Eva?

Despite the fact that her parents had both died when she was barely nine, and she’d had no mother to educate her in these matters, Eva was not ignorant on the subject of men and women. Mavis had seen to that. The girl spent most of her time working in the kitchens when not pressed into service as her lady’s maid, so it was in the kitchen with the rest of the servants that she slept, though she occasionally had slept in the great hall if Cook was in a mood. Sleeping there with all the rest of the servants, Mavis had seen—and eagerly recounted to Eva—much of what went on between a man and woman—at least among the servant class. The maid had described it as a sort of wrestling match that ended when the man took his pillock, “rather like a large boiled sausage,” she had described it, and stuck it up between the woman’s legs. Eva had never fancied the idea of having a boiled sausage shoved up between her legs and found her feet shifting together to press her thighs more tightly closed as she stood before the mumbling priest. Then her gaze dropped to the side of its own accord, to peer at the point where her husband’s boiled sausage would be. Although he normally wore his plaid, or had since she’d arrived, today Connall had chosen to wear the outfit she had seen him in at court for their wedding; a fine dark blue doublet and white hose. Eva was flattered that he had troubled himself to dress up for the occasion, but it meant that his figure was now rather on view and her eyes widened in alarm at the size of the bulge visible beneath the hose. Mavis had said that the bigger the bulge, the bigger the boiled sausage, and her husband appeared quite huge to her. Not that she had ever before seen a man’s sausage or troubled to notice the size of their bulge, but Connall’s bulge looked rather large to her anxious eyes. Eva squeezed her thighs a little tighter closed as she tried to imagine him wrestling her to the bed and assaulting her with his sausage. “Eva?

Hey, Shell-bell," I say, leaning over her and wiping her face with a napkin. "It's the first day of school. Wish me luck." Shelley holds jerky arms out and gives me a lopsided smile. I love that smile. "You want to give me a hug?" I ask her, knowing she does. The doctors always tell us the more interaction Shelley gets, the better off she'll be. Shelley nods. I fold myself in her arms, careful to keep her hands away from my hair. When I straighten, my mom gasps. It sounds to me like a referee's whistle, halting my life. "Brit, you can't go to school like that." "Like what?" She shakes her head and sighs in frustration. "Look at your shirt." Glancing down, I see a large wet spot on the front of my white Calvin Klein shirt. Oops. Shelley's drool. One look at my sister's drawn face tells me what she can't easily put into words. Shelley is sorry. Shelley didn't mean to mess up my outfit. "It's no biggie," I tell her, although in the back of my mind I know it screws up my "perfect" look. Frowning, my mom wets a paper towel at the sink and dabs at the spot. It makes me feel like a two-year-old. "Go upstairs and change." "Mom, it was just peaches," I say, treading carefully so this doesn't turn into a full-blown yelling match. The last thing I want to do is make my sister feel bad. "Peaches stain. You don't want people thinking you don't care about your appearance." "Fine." I wish this was one of my mom's good days, the days she doesn't bug me about stuff. I give my sister a kiss on the top of her head, making sure she doesn't think her drool bothers me in the least. "I'll see ya after school," I say, attempting to keep the morning cheerful. "To finish our checker tournament.

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A cricketer who hits a century in one match may score zero in the next, if he does not have the same outfit, shoes and bat that he used in the first match. In fact, many sportsmen keep some kind of talisman in their pocket that acts as a lucky charm for their game. Here the talisman or the outfit doesn’t possess any magical power that helps the player to perform better. But it is their own subconscious reliance on the charm, that makes them give their best.

He must know how to dance or at least be willing to learn. He needs to be able to handle a sword and defend what is his. Good humored, of course, and must cater to my interests. Maybe even let me dress him up and wear matching outfits with me. And he has to be fiercely loyal and feel honored by the mere fact he is allowed in my presence. Is that too much to ask for?

You could use a haircut,” she said. “It’s almost the same length as mine.” She frowned. “It makes us look like we coordinated it.” Aedion snorted, stroking the dog’s head. “So what if we did?” Aelin shrugged. “If you want to start wearing matching outfits as well, I’m in.” He grinned. “The Bane would never let me live it down.

You should buy a nice set of manners to match your suit, Mr. Russo. As a luxury goods CEO, you know better than anyone how one ugly accessory can ruin an outfit.

This time next month, we could be double dating and wearing matching couples’ outfits in Times Square.” Dante grimaced. “I’d rather cut off my arm and feed it through a grinder.

To kill it you must finding your body shape with tailors help or tape measurements and follow it with your outfit like clothes that match your body structure .

Austin Forbord, a San Francisco businessman whose family company, DZINE, is the local pioneer of what one might call “bespoke staging”—outfitting hyper-luxury spec homes with hundreds of thousands of dollars’ worth of art and high-design furniture manufactured specifically to match that particular project

There was a Barbie doll with the pink hair, but she didn't wear any little replica outfits this time. Instead, down the length of her body, down her arms, legs, and even across her forehead, the same word was scribbled over and over. MINE. Then, just in case we didn't get the message, there was a box of matches and a pair of mud-crusted, black lace panties. The same pair I'd been wearing that day with Archer before we went to Wisteria. The same ones I'd kicked off on the side of the road and left behind in the rain and mud. No one spoke.

Otherwise they were dressed identically, and their outfits definitely belonged in a nightmare. They wore matching white slacks and gold buccaneer shirts with V-necks that showed way too much chest hair. A dozen sheathed daggers lined their rhinestone belts. Their shoes were open-toed sandals, proving that – yes, indeed – they had snakes for feet. The straps wrapped around the serpents’ necks. Their heads curled up where the toes should be. The snakes flicked their tongues excitedly and turned their gold eyes in every direction, like dogs looking out of the window of a car. Maybe it had been a long time since they’d had shoes with a view.

Piper’s view zoomed to the center of the temple. So many giants had gathered there it looked like a cocktail party for redwood trees. A few Piper recognized: those horrible twins from Rome, Otis and Ephialtes, dressed in matching construction worker outfits; Polybotes, looking just as Percy had described him, with poison dripping from his dreadlocks and a breastplate sculpted to resemble hungry mouths; worst of all, Enceladus, the giant who had kidnapped Piper’s dad. His armor was etched with flame designs, his hair braided with bones. His flagpole-sized spear burned with purple fire.

She pointed to a sundress with bright yellow lemons on it. "That's cute. I love lemons." Ay, Dios mio! Carolina cringed. She sounded like a fool. It was like Baby's "I carried a watermelon" line in Dirty Dancing. Why was she so awkward? "You'd look stunning in that." Enrique signaled to a woman who worked there. A saleswoman walked over to them from the back of the shop. She quickly and professionally assessed Carolina's body and then picked one of the bright dresses off the rack. "This should fit you. Shall I put it in a room for you, miss?" "Sure." Carolina followed her right to the dressing room. The dark hair on her arms stood at full attention and her heart raced. Nerves and anticipation swirled through her--- this whole day seemed like a fantasy, but it was tough for her to just live in the moment. She undressed and slipped the dress over her head. The soft fabric caressed her body, accentuating her curves. She stared at her figure in the mirror. She looked... sexy. Carolina had never seen herself as sensual, but in this dress, in the soft, warm glow of the dressing room lights, she was a knockout. The saleswoman had also placed some bright red pumps in the room. Carolina loved high heels and never had a problem walking in them, because she had spent so many years dancing with the Ballet Folklórico. Carolina's eyes practically bugged out of her head when she saw their bottoms, and she stroked the red soles--- they were Louboutins, an identifying detail she knew about from Blanca's endless fashion magazines. Blanca dreamed of owning a pair one day. She would be so jealous. Luckily, they were the same size, so Carolina would let Blanca borrow them. There was only one problem with Carolina's outfit--- her underwear didn't work with the dress. Her broad, wide bra elastics showed under the thin spaghetti straps, and her panties were too dark. She leaned out of the curtain. "Ma'am." The saleslady walked back over to her. "Can I get you something else?" "Yes. A bra and some panties." Carolina told the lady her sizes, and the lady went around the corner, returning later with an adorable matching yellow lace bra and thong. A thong. Her face crinkled. "Do you have anything with, uh, fuller coverage?" "Of course, dear. But not in the yellow. Do you want to match the bra?" Carolina did want to match the bra. It was such a cute set. She exhaled, stepping out of her comfort zone and into the lingerie. She again looked at herself in the mirror. She practically couldn't recognize herself--- a gorgeous young woman on a romantic day trip with a man whom she really liked.

No further evidence was ever found in my case, so my fate has remained unchanged. It was the perfect crime and the perfect set-up by whoever did this. I gave up hope a long time ago, yet for some reason, I thought on this day, maybe by some miracle, Sarah would walk in with a bombshell discovery to blow the lid off whatever conspiracy was sealing me in; my knight in shining armor here to save me. Her outfit certainly matched the part.

I look away when the Russian nurse comes in, holding a tray with Mom’s dinner on it. “Good evening, Mrs. Messing,” she says, her accent thick. Mom eyes her suspiciously. “I hope there’s plenty of sauce this time.” The nurse is polite and patient, even goes back to the kitchen to see if they have cracked pepper instead of the little packets. While Mom eats she talks about the parties she and Dad used to throw at the house. Those were the days, she says, sighing. Composers and producers; actresses like her and screenwriters like Dad, all of them vibrating with youth and beauty. The world was going to be ours. I readjust the napkin so that it covers a larger section of her blouse. How cute the two of you were in your matching outfits, she says about Emily and me. I refill her water cup, ask the nurse for more Parmesan cheese. Everyone said I was crazy to have daughters so close in age, but I thought one could watch out for the other. And you were always so mature, so it worked out. I dress her salad, tossing it with the flimsy plastic fork. Do you remember demanding white wine spritzers at your twelfth birthday party? Yes. I nod.

Okay, I’m just going to come right out and say it: A lot of women secretly hate Christmas. Now, don’t get me wrong. We love that picturesque moment in which the tree is lit, the fire is crackling, and children outfitted in matching candy-cane pajamas dance around the living room to Tchaikovsky, showing off armfuls of new toys while a twenty-pound ham bakes in the oven; we just hate the anxiety disorder we developed while attempting to produce it.

Well, I like you in either form,” she said, giving me a shy smile. “In fact, sometimes I like your wolf form better. He’s more cuddly.” “Oh, too bad about that.” I shook my head. “I can change right now for you but I’m afraid it might ruin our plans for the evening.” “Plans?” She looked at me doubtfully. “We have plans?” “Uh-huh. How do you feel about salsa dancing?” She bit her lip. “Um… it sounds great but… you dance? Really?” I gave her my best mock offended look. “I’m not as much of a Neanderthal as you want to believe. Yeah, I dance. I’m pretty fucking good at it, if I say so myself.” “Well, I’m not any good at it but I’m willing to give it a try.” Her face fell. “Only I don’t have anything to wear.” “Yes, you do.” I went back out to the porch and picked up the package I’d left outside earlier. “Hope you like it,” I said as she ripped into it eagerly. “My sister picked it out. She owns a boutique in Tallahassee.” “Oh!” she exclaimed as the dress my big sister had picked came into view. It was a short, shimmery thing with a draped top and a low cut back. There were shoes to match too—strappy little heels that would make her long, lovely legs look like they went on forever. I couldn’t wait to see her in them. That is, if she would wear the clothes and shoes my sister had picked—I wasn’t so sure because suddenly Taylor had tears in her eyes. “You don’t like the outfit?” I asked anxiously. “I can send it back. I—” “No, no—I love it.” She sniffed and blotted her eyes with a paper towel from the holder. “It’s just… so sweet. And it’s the first time someone else has picked my clothes in years and got me something I really wanted to wear. Thank you, Victor.” She put the box with the clothes and shoes on the counter and stood on tiptoe to put her arms around my neck. “You’re so sweet to me,” she whispered in my ear. “So sweet and kind and generous.” “You deserve it,” I said gruffly, hugging her back.

In a blink, his avatar changed to fat guy wearing a cheap plaid suit and what my grandfather used to call the ‘Full Cleveland’ outfit: white belt and matching white shoes.

It’s amazing what some women are willing to do to tip luck in their favor. To everyone’s surprise, when the MC announces the bride will bestow the honor of future nuptials on one of the singletons, Aunt Carmelita nearly stampedes all over the women at the wedding. From the very back corner of the room, a slash of purple comes running—for my wedding, Carmelita decided that Barney purple would gather the most attention, and it did. Trust me, between the in-your-face shade of her dress, earrings, clutch and matching shoes, her frou-frou British-style hat, and the lime-green belt cinched at her waist contrasting with the whole outfit, it’s impossible to miss her.

The skirt swung around her ankles with a sexy little swish, and the blouse clung to her curves. She had to admit that the outfit made her feel feminine, as did his choice of sheer lace panties and matching bra. Are you going to sit there and think about me all night? His teasing voice seemed to caress her skin. Night! It had better not be night again, Mikhail. I’m turning into some kind of a night creature. And don’t flatter yourself. I was not thinking about you. It took great effort to lie blatantly. She was proud of herself. And you think I believe your nonsense? He was laughing again, and Raven found she couldn’t help giving in to her own sense of humor. It was fun to have someone to tease.

Around nine the next morning, the Carl Hayden team rolled Stinky into a UCSB pool reserved for practice. Other teams were scattered around the perimeter and glanced at the newcomers. The robots on display looked like works of art to the Carl Hayden kids. The competitors appeared to have all the things they didn’t: glass syntactic foam, machined metal, elaborate control panels, and cool matching outfits. Cristian was proud of his robot, but he could see that it looked like a Geo Metro compared with the Lexuses and BMWs around the pool.

Oh. My. God. Are the two of you wearing matching cardigans?" I had gotten so used to Longganisa dressing in cutesy outfits and doing multiple costume changes in a day that I had to glance down at her to remind myself of what she was wearing. "Yeah, Adeena has been obsessed with crochet lately and made these for us. It was Longganisa's birthday last month and this was her present. Well, one of them." Adeena, who loved colors and patterns as much as Ninang Mae did, had also been trying to get me to incorporate more color into my wardrobe. The chunky burnt orange cardigan with oversize buttons was a nice compromise for us, and looked absolutely adorable on Longganisa as well. She knew I couldn't turn down a cute matching outfit. Longganisa cautiously approached Cleo, who hadn't moved from her position at Quinn's feet. There was something regal about the older dog, as if she were waiting for Longganisa to present herself and curtsy. The two sniffed each other for a moment and, after a quick glance at me, Longganisa kneaded the blanket that Cleo was lying on into a little nest before curling up next to her. Cleo must've accepted her because she just laid her head on Longganisa and the two of them promptly fell asleep. Cue me and Quinn whipping out our phones to take pictures and trying not to sob from the cuteness.