Pantsuit Quotes

Pretty much all women who wear pantsuits are evil. Kat's head tipped to the side. Okay. I do have to agree with that.

Bleep if I was going to stage a rescue in a freaking pantsuit.

I strolled into a downtown parking garage, wearing a black pantsuit and matching heels. I’d pulled my dark, chocolate-brown hair up into a high, sleek ponytail, while black glasses with clear lenses covered my cold gray eyes. I looked like just another corporate office drone, right down to the enormous black handbag I carried.

I am the barrier between the bullshit that falls from the sky and the humans who do not want bullshit on their pantsuits. In eight days of riding around, that's what I've discovered. It's raining bullshit. Probably all the time.

What nuns don’t realize is that they look better in nun clothes than in J. C. Penney pantsuits.

She was wearing a black pantsuit with a pale pink turtleneck underneath, a painfully aspirational look for a stripper.

Justine hated pantsuits. Whenever she saw one, she had an urge to tell the owner some scandalous fortune, loudly enough to be heard everywhere: 'The father of your next-to-last baby has run off with a cigar-smoking redhead.

The little woman, wearing a pink and black zigzag-striped pantsuit over a black turtleneck, resembled a skinny zebra who'd OD'd on Pepto-Bismol.

Some of the most intense white fragility erupts regularly on progressive Facebook groups such as Pantsuit Nation when white women are challenged racially.

Naomi Wolfe, journalist and author of The Beauty Myth, writes, “A culture fixated on female thinness is not an obsession about female beauty but an obsession about female obedience. Dieting is the most potent political sedative in history. A quietly mad population is a tractable one.”31 Wolfe strategically illustrates how body-shame social messaging is used as a means of controlling and centralizing political power. We need look no further than the 2016 U.S. presidential election to see Wolfe’s thesis in action. Candidate Hillary Clinton was exhaustingly scrutinized about her aesthetic presentation. Outfits, makeup, hairstyles were all fodder for the twenty-four-hour news cycle. Even the pro-Hillary, hundred-thousand-plus-member Facebook group Pantsuit Nation chose her penchant for eschewing skirts and dresses as the name of their collective, inadvertently directing public focus to her physical appearance rather than her decades of political experience.

As a nine-year-old, I was sorry for everything. "Sonie, you left the refrigerator open!" "Sorry." "Sonya, why is your coat on the couch?" "Sorry." "Sonya, did you get grape jelly on the white pantsuit I paid good money for?" "Sorry, sorry, sorry..." A litany of apologies for my ever clumsy, messy, forgetful self, who spilled evidence of such all over the house. "Sorry" was my way of gathering up the spill.

I may have smiled to myself as I watched the familiar pattern of the town pass, the bus cruising through shade to sunshine. I'd grown up in this place, had the knowledge of it so deep in me that I didn't even know most street names, navigating instead by landmarks, visual or memorial. The corner where my mother had twisted her ankle in a mauve pantsuit. The copse of trees that always looked vaguely attended by evil. The drugstore with its torn awning. Through the window of that unfamiliar bus, the burr of old carpet under my legs, my hometown seemed scrubbed clean of my presence. It was easy to leave it behind.

God, she was a sight. Just watching her made his heart beat faster. Did she have any idea how beautiful she was, or had a life of working in pantsuits and facing down society’s violent assholes left her unaware of her own feminine appeal?

Her hand shot out, smacking my leg. And what the heck was that? She—that evil woman in a pantsuit—didn’t mention anything about that. Pretty much all women who wear pantsuits are evil. Kat’s head tipped to the side. Okay. I do have to agree with that, but can we focus?

She wore a black pantsuit with a white silk shirt that had an almost metallic sheen to it. He wondered whom she had already gone into mourning for; then he reminded himself that she was the type of woman who mourned damaged reputations and lost opportunities, not human beings.

On the SB5 Stanford-Binet intelligence test Isaiah’s reasoning scores were near genius levels. His abilities came naturally but were honed in his math classes. He was formally introduced to inductive reasoning in geometry, a tenth-grade subject he took in the eighth. His teacher, Mrs. Washington, was a severe woman who looked to be all gristle underneath her brightly colored pantsuits. Lavender, Kelly green, peach. She talked to the class like somebody had tricked her into it. “All

This is the worst idea ever,” Lend shouted from behind the closed door as Arianna finished pinning my hair under a brunette wig. “I’ve been having a lot of those lately, but one of us wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for my most recent one.” “Well, you look the part, at least,” Arianna said, standing back to admire her handiwork. I was in a fitted, sleek black pantsuit with a blouse underneath. The blouse was white. I hated it already. That, combined with the too-dark hair and colored eyebrows making my tragically pale skin even white, and I was not loving life. Still, sacrifices had to be made. Jack was lying on the bed with his head hanging over the side, his face slowly turning more and more red as the blood rushed to it. He looked phenomenally bored for someone about to break into a secret international high security facility. I slipped into my favorite stilettos, took one step, and fell over. “Ouch.” Shaking off the shoes, I rubbed at my still-tender feet. The stilettos were so not happening. That did it. If I didn’t already want to destroy the Dark Queen, the fact that she had ruined my ability to wear high heels put her at the very top of my hit list. She was so going down.

He wore pantysuits. Women's pantysuits. He wore high heels too, or medium heels at least. Panty hose. And angora sweaters. I never saw him in a dress or a skirt, but he loved those pantysuits. He used to sit in his office with a cigarette, striking a very masculine pose. But he had on a pantsuit with pantyhose–heavy beard–he was a very typical ex-marine, to some degree. He had a very deep voice, physical mannerisms like a man and he was totally ludicrous. Yet he was completely at ease. He was a very self-confident man. He said that he was already into being a transvestite by the time he enlisted in the Marines. And when he was making a landing in the Pacific, he was wearing bra and panties under his uniform.

I left the building as soldiers cleared a path for Mayor Briggs. She wore a white pantsuit and a matching fedora, similar to the other members of the city council. Unique clothing, well styled. That contrasted with the everyday people, who wore…well, basically anything. During the early days in Newcago, clothing had been

Devil,” he whispered, and to him, maybe I did look like the demons from his legends. I wore a red pantsuit with a matching jacket and heels, my hands covered in my own blood. “Actually, it’s Dianna.

Atlanta, Georgia—a city where little girls in $50 smocked dresses romp around on filthy playgrounds. Where every freshly birthed Southern baby gets two names and women wear pastel pantsuits to lunch. These ladies instinctively understand closed-toed shoes and slips and no-white-after-Labor-Day-unless-it-is-winter-white.

I approach this one gently, because you are my beloved sisters, but I call to the witness stand high-waisted jeans. They were bad the first time and are now repeat offenders. (Watch early episodes of Friends if you need to be reminded.) I can’t get behind a sixteen-inch rise. Three more inches and it’s a strapless pantsuit. Heaven help if you have even a tiny pouch of belly flesh; high-rise jeans are basically a display case for your butterball. Sure, your waist looks tiny up in your rib cage, but your butt is half the length of your body. It looks like my Grandma King’s backside, and all due respect to Grandma and may she rest in peace, but that is not a compliment. (Grandma, you had a great rack. We all have different strengths.)

So it was a pretty good indication of how high the profile of our case was when, less than an hour later, a smart young woman fresh out of Stetson Law School showed up to represent Victor Chapin. She wore a very nice business pantsuit, the latest Hillary Clinton model. She walked with a swagger that said she was the Avatar of American Justice, and she carried a briefcase that probably cost more than my car. She took it and her attitude into the interrogation room and sat down across from Chapin and, laying the briefcase on the table, she said crisply to the guard, “I want all the microphones and recording devices turned off, and I mean now.” The

I drove to the Riverbelle with a few minutes to spare. I wore a black pant-suit, my most expensive

Hillary stopped. A cell phone vibrated in her pantsuit jacket pocket. She had earlier obtained a spare cell phone in case of an emergency, having left her BlackBerry back in Whitehaven to prevent it from being tracked. Somehow, she knew she wasn’t going to like what the other person on the line would say. “—llary,” The voice of President Obama came through as she pressed the spare cell phone to her ear. “I gave you express orders—

In fact, she realized when they finally found their table and sat down, every single woman at the banquet was dressed in some variation of back. Black silk, black chiffon, black with beads, black with rhinestones, short black cocktail dresses, black evening dresses, and even black pantsuits. All black. There was no way she was going to get lost in this crowd, not in her pink-and-orange poppy print

There’s a consensus catching on between the different walks of life:  whether bare-foot or wing-tipped, the shop doors close behind them; whether sundress or pantsuit, the chairs are pulling back; whether uniformed or tank-topped, the generic filing system plays out.  Only-a-second becomes only-a-year; only-a-year becomes a five-year-plan; the five-year-plan turns into one-in-the-chamber. 

I’m thinking about it,” she mused, almost to herself. “The building burned. . . . There was a DNA match. I recall the report. There were some typos in it, remember?” Claire duBois was older than her adolescent intonation suggested, though not much. Short brunette hair, a heart-shaped and delicately pretty face, a figure that was probably very nice—and I was as curious about it as any man would be—but usually hidden by functional pantsuits, which I preferred her wearing over skirts

Joshua took another small sip from his wine glass as his gaze and his thoughts drifted away from the flat-screen television mounted above the marbled fireplace to ponder a roomful of sports jackets and pantsuits and in some cases cocktail dresses but only of neutral tones and minimal detailing if for no other reason than to avoid becoming the subject of the next petty scandal that would nevertheless send shockwaves through their haughty and insular world. The way they stood in their intimate clusters. Their drink glasses held in various poses of sophistication. And whenever they did bring glass to mouth in accordance with judiciously preset intervals it was also for show, as he believed was true of their subdued conversations, which, from where he was sitting, appeared to be nothing more than the unintelligible murmurings of barely moving lips. A whole list of observations came to mind. Not one of them flattering in any way. The atmosphere thick with that certain stuffiness and elitist redolence of an ivy league alumni fundraising gala. Of course, he readily admitted to himself that out of everyone in the room he was very likely the most materially bereft and least credentialed and that this stinging truth undoubtedly inflamed his plebeian impulse. But that’s not what was bugging him.

Another method to identify misogyny is to picture a well-known politician as belonging to the opposite sex and see where that takes you. For instance, imagine Donald Trump as a woman. Let's call her Donna. During the 2016 presidential election, Donna Trump said the exact same things as her male twin, Donald, did in real life. Orange-faced, sporting a fantastically cantilevered helmet of yellow hair, she hid her weight under baggy, navy-blue pantsuits. Bellowing from the podium, she was angry, boastful. Only SHE could save the country. She called people nasty names, made fun of handicapped reporters and Gold Star Families, and refused to turn over her income tax returns. She lied and/or exaggerated on a daily basis. She had been married three times and cheated on all three husbands. She bragged about grabbing unsuspecting men's penises. Would Donna Trump have been viewed as blunt, honest, and refreshing? Would SHE have won the election?

She was a steely woman in a pantsuit who

Oh, wisht. You think you can work in the business of love this long and not get some of the gaydar? I've known some brides in my day who shouldn't have been marrying grooms, that's for sure. You still get the odd one here and there who doesn't know it yet, poor dears. I try and give them a hint, you know, subtle, would you not like a nice pantsuit, dear. That sort of thing.

Well, don't you look all pleased with yourself, Baby Prince," Naina Kohli said. She had known Vansh his whole life and had the only voice on earth that had this particular impact on him. A potent combination of reprimand and amusement that made Vansh want to wipe his face like a toddler caught eating dirt, while also making him feel like no one else ate dirt quite as impressively as he did. "And don't you look resplendent, Knightlina," he said, raising his glass of celebratory bubbly at her. A flash of anger slipped past her guarded brown eyes. She hated her given name---enough to have legally changed it at eighteen. Vansh was the only person on earth who got away with using it anymore. And he only used it when that tone of hers made the otherwise nonexistent orneriness bubble up inside him. Then she smiled and did a quick half turn showcasing her charcoal-gray silk pantsuit. "Not bad for the spurned ex, ha?" she offered. "Not at all bad for the spurned fake ex," he countered.

her, he said, “Dr. Whitney, again thank you for joining us. Please know this meeting is informal but confidential. Its real reason—we need your help.” Surprised, she blurted, “Commissioner Jarvis, that I didn’t expect.” All three men laughed, and Keith said, “After all you’ve been through, we understand. Now, please relax. We’re all on a first-name basis here. May we call you Sue?” “Considering you know how I take my coffee, I suspect we’re beyond a first-name relationship.” Henry smiled. “Very good, Sue. You understand FBI tactics. We never ask a question without knowing its answer. But let me second Keith’s welcome. The FBI is anxious to acquire your help.” Unseen beneath the table’s edge, she wiped the moisture from her palms onto her pantsuit and said, “I’m pleased to help, if I can. But I need more details.” Keith said, “Indeed, and that’s what we plan to discuss. If you agree, our attorney, Bob Parker, is here to answer any legal concerns you might have.” “OK, I’m ready.” “The health department’s focus is on high-quality medical care, but a few bad apples outsmart us, work around us, employ new technology that confuses us, or simply submit fraudulent claims for payment.” Sue said, “I’ve seen my former colleagues do the same thing. I blamed it all on medicine becoming a business rather than a profession.

If you dress up in a stylish pantsuit, going on and on about your own opinions, they freeze up. Just like that, their minds slam shut, and they don’t hear a thing. You’re better off wearing a skirt and sweater or something soft that old men might like, nodding along to whatever they feel like saying while gently guiding them toward what you think is best with a few quick and considered comments.” In other words, that was

The last thing I would do would be to cut my hair into a bob and put on a tasteful pantsuit and sit down on a morning-show set across from Meredith fucking Vieira and make money off my child’s misfortune.

a kind of “I’m-married-to-myself” fuck-you to the patriarchy. I hated that word now, “patriarchy.” All I could think of were overpriced graphic tees and white liberal mothers on Facebook updating their status to “WE’RE STILL WITH HER” and “PANTSUIT NATION!

Once, Lina’s mom had come home with a pantsuit for Lina, a Theodore knockoff. Lina had stuffed it in the back of her drawer. It mattered to her not to try.

If you Find A Wife, they say, your Favorability Rating will improve, because although you are neck and neck with Nancy Fucking Beavers, a middle-aged woman with an ass like two neighborly cast-iron skillets who wears those unbelievable pantsuits — Nancy Fucking Beavers is not fucking single.

At another point, Palin remarked, “When will they let us control our own care? When will they do to stop causing our pain, and start feeling it again? Well, in other words, um . . . is Hillary a new Democrat or an old one? Now, the press asks, the press asks, ‘Can anyone stop Hillary?’ Again, this is to forego a conclusion, right, it’s to scare us off, to convince that—a pantsuit can crush patriots?

I have never really liked this city. It was forced on me against my will by ambitious parents in search of greater opportunities and better lives. That’s why everyone comes here, to this seductive monument to self-advancement or at the very least, self-preservation. It’s a city that doesn’t take risks. Men wear boxy suit jackets over golf shirts tucked into khakis. Women wear sensible skirts, pantsuits and pumps. They all pull roller backpacks behind them because of subway ads enumerating the signs and evils of scoliosis as they walk to big-box buildings made of similarly colored sandstone. You can’t get lost here because there’s nothing to lose yourself in. These avenues, at least downtown, are not built for wanderers, and these monuments are constructed to inspire awe not contemplation. But things have changed if only to protect the desire to remain the same. The streets have more barricades because the streets have more impromptu protesters, a dismal lot with their posterboard signs and hoarse-voiced chants against the monster in power and his minions. There are more armored vehicles now and more police officers in tactical gear and body armor wielding large black guns. It’s a brave new world wrapped around the old one to make it great again.

Wearing pantsuits and respectably hemmed skirts of every imaginable pastel, she had verified, cross-checked, and researched her way into mediocrity

Renee was entering her acquisitions meeting with the air of Scarlett throwing the Yankees off Tara. Renee was all about going into battle. She wore a fitted gray BCBG pantsuit and her shaggy bob sleekly tucked behind her ears. She was Not Fucking Around.

I didn’t understand about alcoholism yet, how booze and drugs fed the wounded animal in Walter, I just thought that’s how life was. Unpredictable and insane. I’d show up to school the day after one of his episodes feeling shell-shocked and spaced out. I don’t know how I manifested this stuff outwardly, but I never talked to anyone about it. I just wandered around in a daze, stuck in a severe hangover. I had no idea how to deal with it. I was very conscious of the things I loved about my family—the freedom of all of us walking around the house naked, Walter being a musician, the amazing jazz I heard, the well-stocked book and record shelves, the bohemian aspects of our life. But I’d lie in bed at night and wish that I had a boring, normal, dumb family. One with no creativity. I wished my dad worked in a factory, and my mom was a conservative housewife who wore ugly pantsuits. I wished they’d have petty arguments and watch TV; the way Archie Bunker and Edith behaved on the TV show All in the Family, or like the Battaglias back in Larchmont. I equated creativity with insanity.

At this point, the only thing Lady Gaga could do that would shock  me is to come out onstage wearing  a sensible pantsuit from Talbots. @JENNYJOHNSONHI5