Polka Dot Dress Quotes

How You Doing, Little Lucy?” His bright tone and mild expression indicates we’re playing a game we almost never play. It’s a game called How You Doing? and it basically starts off like we don’t hate each other. We act like normal colleagues who don’t want to swirl their hands in each other’s blood. It’s disturbing. “Great, thanks, Big Josh. How You Doing?” “Super. Gonna go get coffee. Can I get you some tea?” He has his heavy black mug in his hand. I hate his mug. I look down; my hand is already holding my red polka-dot mug. He’d spit in anything he made me. Does he think I’m crazy? “I think I’ll join you.” We march purposefully toward the kitchen with identical footfalls, left, right, left, right, like prosecutors walking toward the camera in the opening credits of Law & Order. It requires me to almost double my stride. Colleagues break off conversations and look at us with speculative expressions. Joshua and I look at each other and bare our teeth. Time to act civil. Like executives. “Ah-ha-ha,” we say to each other genially at some pretend joke. “Ah-ha-ha.” We sweep around a corner. Annabelle turns from the photocopier and almost drops her papers. “What’s happening?” Joshua and I nod at her and continue striding, unified in our endless game of one-upmanship. My short striped dress flaps from the g-force. “Mommy and Daddy love you very much, kids,” Joshua says quietly so only I can hear him. To the casual onlooker he is politely chatting. A few meerkat heads have popped up over cubicle walls. It seems we’re the stuff of legend. “Sometimes we get excited and argue. But don’t be scared. Even when we’re arguing, it’s not your fault.” “It’s just grown-up stuff,” I softly explain to the apprehensive faces we pass. “Sometimes Daddy sleeps on the couch, but it’s okay. We still love you.

I could see why the discovery of a six-foot-tall white girl in a polka-dot dress in the corner of a cave filled with skulls would be an Instagrammable moment.

Every time I saw Lacey, she'd gained five more pounds. She was turning into the kind of obese girl who does her hair like a forties pinup and wears bright red lipstick, a blue polka-dot dress with a white doily collar, colorful tattoos across her huge, smushed cleavage, as if these considerations would distract us from how fat and miserable she'd become.

There was a diet center that sported a plywood cutout of a pink pig wearing a brick-red polka-dot dress. The bubble coming from the pig’s mouth held this phrase: A New Way To Lose Weight Without Starving To Death.

I go into the depths of the shed, where the keel curves down to the pointed prow, and there it is, the pencil drawing I made when I was four, the three of us in an upside-down boat surrounded by moons and stars. I'm wearing my favourite red-and-white polka dot dress. Dad calls it my cave painting, created in a distant past, at the very birth of the world. I coloured it in with crayons and it was very bright, almost luminous. I trace it with my fingers. I brush away some dust. Each year it's there, but each year a little more dull, more faded. How old will I be when at last it’s gone?

Like all of my important memories, it has a potency that has influenced the pocket of time that holds it, so I can remember that particular Saturday afternoon, even though in many ways it was no different from any other. I can remember, for example, what van der Glick was wearing as she stepped out of the elevator, which was a dress covered with clownish polka dots. Rainie would make these heartbreaking stabs at femininity; indeed, she still does. It's not that she doesn't possess a woman's body now, and didn't posses a girl's body then. But clothes never seemed to fit her correctly, and the more girlish they were, the worse they would hang.

Just then a lady with a poufy blonde wig and a disheveled polka-dot blouse walked up to us. “Have you seen my teeth?” she asked. “I think I left them on the side table here.” My mouth dropped open, but Josephine pointed at the woman in the maroon dress who was now sitting in a chair watching the television, which wasn’t on. “I think Betty over there has them.

Sometimes kids at school called her mean. She wasn’t mean. She just saw reality clearly, and she shared it without dusting it in sugar and rainbows first. One day, when Anna was in first grade, she’d come home crying after her best friend had suddenly refused to sit with her at lunch. Her mother had tried to comfort her. “When someone asks you if you like their dress, say yes,” she said. Anna had sniffed, tears rolling down her face, and said, “But I didn’t like it! Why should I lie?” And her mother had sighed. “Because it’s what we do, to be nice.” Anna had decided, at that moment, that honest was more important than nice when it came to purple polka dots. She’d been fighting the world ever since.

Next, wearing a dark-green dress with white polka dots, Michael’s mother, Ethel, entered the room. As she reached the chair, she turned and embraced the matron, who choked up and left the room. The guards dropped the leather mask over her face. The first of the three standard shocks was applied at 8:11. “She seemed to fight death,” The New York Times reported. “She strained hard against the straps and her neck turned red. A thin column of grayish smoke rose from the upper side of her head. Her hands, lying limp, were now clenched like a fighter’s.” After the standard three shocks of electricity, one short and two long, doctors approached to check her heartbeat and discovered that Ethel was still alive. Her straps were readjusted and a fourth shock was applied. Once more, she strained against the straps. A fifth current was required before the doctors pronounced her dead.

You're beautiful." The words dropped from his lips before he could stop them. She was wearing a cherry red dress with white polka dots that hugged all her curves and dipped low at the top, giving him a delicious glimpse of the soft swell of her breasts. "Thank you." Her gaze dropped and she pulled her phone out of a small red purse that matched her shoes. Liam had never thought much about a woman's shoes before, but Daisy's shoes demanded to be noticed. Curvy and round with bows on top and a big, graceful heel that made his mouth water, they were sweet and sexy all at once---the kind of shoes a man could admire when his lover was bent over his table in her fancy dress, skirt flipped up, and... fuck, why had he locked his helmet to his bike? Shrugging off his leather jacket, he held it discreetly in front of him and forced his mind back to the conversation because, holy hell, when had he ever let his Daisy fantasies get this out of control?

DON’T ABUSE ME, I’ve never flown one of these things before.” Richard Reiss put the tip of his tongue between his teeth and squinted at the controls. While he did this, building blocks, tree limbs, and swirling leaves scudded past the plastic windscreen. Chaison stared at the ambassador. “Richard, why are you dressed as a clown?” Ballooning pantaloons and a polka-dotted top spilled out around the edges of Reiss’s seat; he had red smudges on his cheeks that he’d obviously been trying to rub off. The ambassador turned with great dignity, fixed Chaison with a steely eye and said, “It is a very long story, and one I find I would rather not relate.

I didn’t consciously fall asleep; it’s just that the chair was soft and comfortable, the room was dark and warm, and maybe it was the protection of those black eyes that reflected the blinking of the silly lights. Those eyes were not looking into the small darkness outside the double-paned windows; they were looking farther and to a place about which I did not know. There was nothing that would overtake us tonight that those eyes would not see, nothing that would not deal plainly with a king not in his perfect mind. I must have slept longer than I thought. I didn’t remember waking up, and maybe that’s what he had intended by starting to tell me the story while I was asleep. I remember hearing his voice, low and steady, coming from some place far away, “After the war. Her family were Basquos from out on Swayback, Four Brothers.” He paused to take another sip of his bourbon. “My gawd, you should have seen her. I remember lookin’ over the top of Charlie Floyde’s ’39 Dodge when she came out on the porch. Her hair was black and thick like a horse’s mane.” He stopped with the memory; the only other sound in Lucian’s apartment was the scorched-air heating. His two rooms weren’t any different from any of the others in general design, but they had all the style and mass of the Connally ancestral furnishings. I shifted my weight in the overstuffed horsehair chair and waited. “It was summertime, and she had on this little navy blue dress with all the little polka dots. The wind held it against her body.” It took him awhile to get going again. “She was the wildest, most beautiful thing I’d ever seen in my entire life. Hair, teeth . . . We sparked that whole summer before her father tried to break it up in the fall. They wanted to send her away to family, keep us from each other, but it was too late.” I looked at him, and the night in my head seemed darker. “We used to tremble when we touched each other. She had the most beautiful skin I’d ever seen. I would forget from night to night. She wasn’t like American girls; she was quiet. She’d speak if spoken to but only then. Short,

Sex just once in his mother’s sweltering apartment and that would be it. When they opened the door, however, the apartment wasn’t sweltering at all. It was cool, the air-conditioning humming in every room, though Emma was certain she had turned it off before leaving for Ilha Grande. Raquel must have come by and forgotten to turn it off, Marcus said. Come here. He pulled at her hips until she tilted toward him. If they’d been standing anywhere but in front of her author’s bookshelves, the titles she’d run her fingers over for years like sacred scrolls, Emma was sure she would have had more restraint, would not be lifting her own dress this way over her head. When Marcus slid her polka-dot underwear down over her knees, she murmured something about thinking about this a little more. But she didn’t want to think. She wanted to fling her underwear down the hall with her toe. So she did, and the motion was divine. Now there was nothing in the way.

Basically, Lady bugs kick ass in style, all dressed in polka dots!

That’s when they saw-- SPOOK NUMBER THREE! WH-O-O-O WH-O-O-O-O As the campers and Pa shivered and shook, Sis opened an eye and took a good look. She saw something strange: a yellow hat on a pumpkin head, Pa’s red pajamas and a polka-dot dress that looked exactly like…MAMA’S! “Just having fun!” The voice--it was Mama’s. Then her head poked out of Papa’s pajamas. “Teaching Papa a lesson like this was just too good a chance to miss!” “It’s a double ghost lesson,” said Jane with a grin. “There are no such things! There never have been! “But just as sure as night follows day-- it’s fun to be scared of them anyway!

Placing an arm on Billy’s seatback, Hunter ran a finger up and down her sleeve. Fourteen years and five babies had made some changes, but his love and passion for her had grown to even greater heights. He ran an appreciative gaze over her form. She was all frocked up in one of her city dresses. This one had blue polka dots with a row of blue bows along the hem. “You look mighty pretty today,” he whispered.

Discipline was rigorous: you wore a uniform, a black regulation dress, a white embroidered collar, a blue bow with polka dots and black stockings. On the right sleeve of the uniform and on the blue coat, you had the embroidered initials of the school L.F.2 (Girls' High School No. 2) and your personal number sewn on. A navy beret with the embroidered initials of the school, too. Anybody who saw you in the street after 7 p.m. or at a movie or theater, which was not permitted to students, could call the school and have you expelled. Of course, one of the cardinal sins was to be seen with a boy in the street.

She pulled out her green-and-white polka-dot dress with the satin ribbon that tied at the waist, and the matching satin trim that ran along the hem of its ruffled skirt. She would normally only wear a dress like this to a wedding, or on Easter Sunday, but if she was going on this outing with Lottie to Maison Blanche, she had to look the part of someone who belonged there. Because she did belong there. She was just as good as anybody else who set foot in that establishment, and she was going to make sure everyone who was there knew it. Tiana pulled the dress over her head and pinned the barrette Ms. Rose had given her as a gift behind her ear. It had tiny gardenias attached to it, adding an elegant touch to her ensemble. She swished around from left to right in the mirror, admiring the way her dress twirled about her legs.

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They both wore short dresses, one in red polka-dot, the other lace-fringed, with the slightly faded, slightly ill-fitting look of vintage shop finds. It was, in some ways, costume. They ticked the boxes of a certain kind of enlightened, educated middle-classness, the love of dresses that were more interesting than pretty, the love of the eclectic, the love of what they were supposed to love. Ifemelu imagined them when they traveled: they would collect unusual things and fill their homes with them, unpolished evidence of their polish.