Oklahoma Girl Quotes

Oh, my poor, sweet cousin from Oklahoma,” Tonya said, shaking her head. “You, my dear, are in big trouble.” “I am?” Kylie asked, turning to her friend, wearing her panic all over her face. “You’re in love. And as I’ve said before, this shit ain’t for amateurs.

When a man that attractive licks his lips, a girl's got to look. And imagine...

I come to Oklahoma, thinking that it’ll be hard to write about the dead, but it has proven harder to write about the living, about those who’ll have to read themselves through my eyes.

Harris had done exactly what he had been told to do by the sexy dame from Oklahoma. After he had removed all of his clothes, he smirked at her. "Will I do?" Willy, still fully dressed in her steel-tipped cowboy boots, smiled and said, "Oh, yes. Come here, big boy." As soon as he got close enough, she hauled off and kicked him as hard as she could, and Harris fell to the floor, clutching his pride and joy and screaming in pain. Willy calmly strolled over and picked up his shoes and all of his clothes and threw them out the twenty-second-floor window. She left him lying on the floor, naked and writhing in agony. Willy never told a soul what she had done, but she figured it was the least she could do for Fritzi.

After a month my thinking processes had so changed that I was hardly recognizable to myself. The unquestioning acceptance by my peers had dislodged the familiar insecurity. Odd that the homeless children, the silt of war frenzy, could initiate me into the brotherhood of man. After hunting down unbroken bottles and selling them with a white girl from Missouri, a Mexican girl from Los Angeles and a Black girl from Oklahoma, I was never again to sense myself so solidly outside the pale of the human race. The lack of criticism evidenced by our ad hoc community influenced me, and set a tone of tolerance for my life.

Athletes, by and large, are people who are happy to let their actions speak for them, happy to be what they do. As a result, when you talk to an athlete, as I do all the time in locker rooms, in hotel coffee shops and hallways, standing beside expensive automobiles—even if he’s paying no attention to you at all, which is very often the case—he’s never likely to feel the least bit divided, or alienated, or one ounce of existential dread. He may be thinking about a case of beer, or a barbecue, or some man-made lake in Oklahoma he wishes he was waterskiing on, or some girl or a new Chevy shortbed, or a discothèque he owns as a tax shelter, or just simply himself. But you can bet he isn’t worried one bit about you and what you’re thinking. His is a rare selfishness that means he isn’t looking around the sides of his emotions to wonder about alternatives for what he’s saying or thinking about. In fact, athletes at the height of their powers make literalness into a mystery all its own simply by becoming absorbed in what they’re doing. Years of athletic training teach this; the necessity of relinquishing doubt and ambiguity and self-inquiry in favor of a pleasant, self-championing one-dimensionality which has instant rewards in sports. You can even ruin everything with athletes simply by speaking to them in your own everyday voice, a voice possibly full of contingency and speculation. It will scare them to death by demonstrating that the world—where they often don’t do too well and sometimes fall into depressions and financial imbroglios and worse once their careers are over—is complexer than what their training has prepared them for. As a result, they much prefer their own voices and questions or the jabber of their teammates (even if it’s in Spanish). And if you are a sportswriter you have to tailor yourself to their voices and answers: “How are you going to beat this team, Stu?” Truth, of course, can still be the result—“We’re just going out and play our kind of game, Frank, since that’s what’s got us this far”—but it will be their simpler truth, not your complex one—unless, of course, you agree with them, which I often do. (Athletes, of course, are not always the dummies they’re sometimes portrayed as being, and will often talk intelligently about whatever interests them until your ears turn to cement.)

Achild acquires stuffed animals throughout their life, but the core team is usually in place by the time they’re five. Louise got Red Rabbit, a hard, heavy bunny made of maroon burlap, for her first Easter as a gift from Aunt Honey. Buffalo Jones, an enormous white bison with a collar of soft wispy fur, came back with her dad from a monetary policy conference in Oklahoma. Dumbo, a pale blue hard rubber piggy bank with a detachable head shaped like the star of the Disney movie, had been spotted at Goodwill and Louise claimed him as “mine” when she was three. Hedgie Hoggie, a plush hedgehog Christmas ornament, had been a special present from the checkout girl after Louise fell in love with him in the supermarket checkout line and would strike up a conversation with him every time they visited. But Pupkin was their leader.

What does one wear to a ranch early in the morning? I wondered. I was stumped. I had enough good sense, thank God, to know my spiked black boots--the same boots I’d worn on basically every date with Marlboro Man thus far--were out of the question. I wouldn’t want them to get dirty, and besides that, people might look at me funny. I had a good selection of jeans, yes, but would I go for the dark, straight-leg Anne Kleins? Or the faded, boot-cut Gaps with contrast stitching? And what on earth would I wear on top? This could get dicey. I had a couple of nice, wholesome sweater sets, but the weather was turning warmer and the style didn’t exactly scream “ranch” to me. Then there was the long, flax-colored linen tunic from Banana Republic--one I loved to pair with a chunky turquoise necklace and sandals. But that was more Texas Evening Barbecue than Oklahoma Early-Morning Cattle Gathering. Then there were the myriad wild prints with sparkles and stones and other obnoxious adornments. But the last thing I wanted to do was spook the cattle and cause a stampede. I’d seen it happen in City Slickers when Billy Crystal fired up his cordless coffee grinder, and the results weren’t the least bit pretty. I considered cancelling. I had absolutely nothing to wear. Every pair of shoes I owned was black, except for a bright yellow pair of pumps I’d bought on a whim in Westwood one California day. Those wouldn’t exactly work, either. And I didn’t own a single shirt that wouldn’t loudly broadcast *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* *CLUELESS CITY GIRL!* I wanted to crawl under my covers and hide.

So what did you and Landon do this afternoon?” Minka asked, her soft voice dragging him back to the present. Angelo looked up to see that Minka had already polished off two fajitas. Damn, the girl could eat. “Landon gave me a tour of the DCO complex. I did some target shooting and blew up a few things. He even let me play with the expensive surveillance toys. I swear, it felt more like a recruiting pitch to get me to work there than anything.” Minka’s eyes flashed green, her full lips curving slightly. Damn, why the hell had he said it like that? Now she probably thought he was going to come work for the DCO. Even if he wanted to, he couldn’t, not after just reenlisting for another five years. The army wasn’t the kind of job where you could walk into the boss’s office and say, “I quit.” Thinking it would be a good idea to steer the conversation back to safer ground, he reached for another fajita and asked Minka a question instead. “What do you think you’ll work on next with Ivy and Tanner? You going to practice with the claws for a while or move on to something else?” Angelo felt a little crappy about changing the subject, but if Minka noticed, she didn’t seem to mind. And it wasn’t like he had to fake interest in what she was saying. Anything that involved Minka was important to him. Besides, he didn’t know much about shifters or hybrids, so the whole thing was pretty damn fascinating. “What do you visualize when you see the beast in your mind?” he asked. “Before today, I thought of it as a giant, blurry monster. But after learning that the beast is a cat, that’s how I picture it now.” She smiled. “Not a little house cat, of course. They aren’t scary enough. More like a big cat that roams the mountains.” “Makes sense,” he said. Minka set the other half of her fourth fajita on her plate and gave him a curious look. “Would you mind if I ask you a personal question?” His mouth twitched as he prepared another fajita. He wasn’t used to Minka being so reserved. She usually said whatever was on her mind, regardless of whether it was personal or not. “Go ahead,” he said. “The first time we met, I had claws, fangs, glowing red eyes, and I tried to kill you. Since then, I’ve spent most of the time telling you about an imaginary creature that lives inside my head and makes me act like a monster. How are you so calm about that? Most people would have run away already.” Angelo chuckled. Not exactly the personal question he’d expected, but then again Minka rarely did the expected. “Well, my mom was full-blooded Cherokee, and I grew up around all kinds of Indian folktales and legends. My dad was in the army, and whenever he was deployed, Mom would take my sisters and me back to the reservation where she grew up in Oklahoma. I’d stay up half the night listening to the old men tell stories about shape-shifters, animal spirits, skin-walkers, and trickster spirits.” He grinned. “I’m not saying I necessarily believed in all that stuff back then, but after meeting Ivy, Tanner, and the other shifters at the DCO, it just didn’t faze me that much.” Minka looked at him with wide eyes. “You’re a real American Indian? Like in the movies? With horses and everything?” He laughed again. The expression of wonder on her face was adorable. “First, I’m only half-Indian. My dad is Mexican, so there’s that. And second, Native Americans are almost nothing like you see in the movies. We don’t all live in tepees and ride horses. In fact, I don’t even own a horse.” Minka was a little disappointed about the no-horse thing, but she was fascinated with what it was like growing up on an Indian reservation and being surrounded by all those legends. She immediately asked him to tell her some Indian stories. It had been a long time since he’d thought about them, but to make her happy, he dug through his head and tried to remember every tale he’d heard as a kid.

Most girls dream of a bell-shaped wedding gown, a towering cake, and a groom who adores her. I never think of any of that. Well, maybe the groom, but mostly I fantasize about the smell. My bouquet will consist of only Granada buds, sweet sunset-colored roses, and the church will be filled with Oklahomas, Elles, and Memorials. Those with allergies need not attend. But now with the wedding a reality, I think I’ll bring dead roses. And revel in their stench.

If we can skillfully create something out of nothing and emotionally touch readers, we have done our JOB as #writers and #authors ~ Jodi Lea Stewart

girls running around this old

Ellie, the eleven-year-old who'd been her papa's favorite, wiped the tears from her freckled cheeks, her voice trembling slightly. Tori’s insides twisted. So easy to feel sorry for the little girl. “No, darling, we won’t have a place to live if we stay here. The letter came from the bank today. We have

Now let me get this plan for adult living straight. Suppose it is 11 o'clock at night, and I am in my room with my girl and a bottle of bourbon. What..." "Well, that surely is a happy thought, isn't it?" -An exchange between a University of Oklahoma student and President George Lynn Cross, mid 20th century

Guess I should go.” He kisses Poppy on her forehead, and she makes a sound of contentment. She kisses him back but ends up slobbering all over his cheek until he laughs. “Be a good girl, okay? Don’t give Gabs trouble at naptime.” He’s standing so close, I get a good whiff of his shampoo or body wash. Whatever it is, it smells masculine and clean, and I’d like to rub my face against his chest. I don’t, obviously. “Kick Oklahoma’s ass.” I look up at him, and when our eyes connect, electricity runs through my limbs. My heart thumps hard in my chest. “Call me if you need anything,” he says. It isn’t until he speaks that I realize I’m staring at his lips. “We’ll be fine. Go.” Before I scale you like Mount Everest. Stepping away, I take a breath, and then another. When I shut the door behind him, I collapse back against it while Poppy clings to me. I look up to find Sienna staring at me. “Holy shit. I almost got pregnant watching you two just now. I’ll be right back. Gonna go take my birth control.” She’s convinced Rider and I are going to end up naked together. As tempting as that sounds, I’m not sure I could handle one of Rider’s drive-bys. If we have sex, I’ll get attached and get my heart broken all over again.

paint me like one of your French girls. Or rather, paint me like one of your Oklahoma storm-chasing girls.

Nab Negro for Attacking Girl in an Elevator.” In eight words a single newspaper established final say over truth and justice, law and order, life and death. The mob acted of its own volition, but the trusted voice of the daily paper incited the violence. No retraction could clear away the spilled blood. No editorial could change the fact that black America’s lone refuge, the Greenwood District, was now ash and dust.

Most girls dream of a stunning wedding gown, a towering cake, and a groom who adores her. I never think of any of that. Well, maybe the groom, but mostly I fantasize about the smell. My bouquet will consist of only Granada buds, sweet sunset-colored roses, and the church will be filled with Oklahomas, Elles, and Memorials. Those with allergies need not attend. But now with the wedding a reality, I think I’ll bring dead roses. And revel in their stench.

A few years ago I heard that a girl I knew from my hometown of Broken Bow, Oklahoma, had lost her husband to a brain tumor. They were high school sweethearts, prom king and queen, the perfect love story. His death devastated her, and her life fell apart for a while. But one day while in Broken Bow to visit my family, I happened to bump into her. I met her new husband and saw pictures of their two lovely kids. She'd found happiness and had a nice life. What about all those prayers for her first husband? The pleading and begging for God to save him while the tumor marched through him and put him in the ground? What if any of those prayers had been answered positively? Two children would not exist.

Did he just call me “Oklahoma”? Well if I have to carry the banner for the Sooner State, don’t mind if I do. Whatever, J. Crew! And she propped her boots up so he could not miss them.

Oklahoma,

Out of the Dust is a story about a lanky piano-playing girl named Billie Jo whose mother is gone, whose father’s heart and soul are disappearing into the dust that blankets their Oklahoma town, and even though the first 59 pages rain down hard on you, when you get to page 60 the monsoon comes and the book is unputdownable.

I’ve been called names you probably don’t even know the meaning of. And you can keep throwing your bitchy-ass attitude in my face every time I breathe too close to you if that’s what you need to do to be happy. I’ll smile. And I might even wink or blow you a kiss. I’m from Oklahoma, honey. I can bless your heart and hate your crazy ass all at the same time. But if you ever, and I mean ever, make another comment about Trace, his drinking or otherwise, then I promise, you won’t be able to whistle fucking Dixie when I’m through with you.” She watched as Mia took a step back. Clearly, she’d gotten her point across. So she winked. “Anyways. Lovely chatting with you. As usual. See you at dinner.