Puffy Jacket Quotes

After a horribly long day, I needed a mental break. I threw on my parka, with the raccoon fur around the hood, and I went to see a movie. But what to see? Something sweet and stupid and harmless. At the movie theater on Second Avenue and Twelfth, a title caught my eye. I thought, 'That seems good. Jodie Foster and a puffy, friendly farm animal, a butterfly.' I unzipped my jacket and headed inside to see a movie I'd heard the name of but knew nothing about. It was called Silence Of The Lambs.

Giveaway T-shirts stretched over monstrous beer bellies. Puffy NFL jackets and porky jowls. Granted, I'm in a bowling alley,but the differences between Americans and Parisians are shocking.I'm ashamed to see my country the way the French must see us. Couldn't these people have at least brushed their hair before leaving their houses? "I need a licorice rope," Cherrie announces. She marches toward the snack stand,and all I can think is these people are your future. The thought makes me a little happier. When she comes back,I inform her that just one bite of her Red Dye #40-infused snack could kill my brother. "God, morbid," she says. Which makes me think of St. Clair again.Because when I told him the same thing three months ago,instead of accusing me of morbidity,he asked with genuine curiosity, "Why?" Which is the polite thing to do when someone offers you such an interesting piece of conversation.

The Wanted poster had been based on the Westhofen intake records of December ’34, with the exception of the description of the clothing. But except for the jacket, the guard thought, nothing about this man coincided with the specifications he’d been given. This fellow could have been the fugitive’s father; the wanted man in the picture was his own age, a young fellow with a smooth, bold face, while this man here had a flat face with a thick nose and puffy lips. He waved them on. “Heil Hitler!

She unzipped her black puffy jacket and slid it off to reveal a white short-sleeved V-neck underneath. It dipped down in the front, showing the slightest hint of her round, perky cleavage. But I managed to keep my eyes above shoulder level. Mostly.

It was to these apartments that the boys in puffy jackets returned from their shockingly expensive prep schools in Manhattan or New England.

The first gift I opened was a striped scarf from Emma. It matched my pink and orange puffy down jacket perfectly. “Maybe you could drop that at the rink, too,” she suggested. “Yeah, just leave random items of clothing around there. See what happens,” Jones said. I lashed her with the scarf. “Shame on you. I’m not going to disrobe on an icy lake.” “Maybe not, but you’d find a date really fast if you did!” Jones said, and we were all laughing again.

couldn’t get warm. She wore thermal underwear and had one of those puffy jackets that made her look like a snowman, but it seemed nothing could defrost her bones. She blew warm air into her hands as she waited

She zipped her puffy jacket over a sweatshirt that in Manchester, England, had warmed the shoulders of five brothers before the sixth, a staunchly philanthropic six-year-old, had given it to his school’s Red Cross clothing drive so his mother would have to buy him a new one. At

I thought about the winter—how I used to run into Ivan sometimes walking through the snow-covered squad, a satchel strap crossing the front of his black puffy jacket. I remembered how we'd had so much time ahead of us.

She’s wearing a puffy winter jacket and a pair of tight pants that leave nothing to the imagination, not that it would stop me. She could be wearing baggy sweats and an old tee, and what lies beneath it would still be burned into my mind.

A black man in a puffy jacket peers in at us, whitest teeth I’ve ever seen. The whites of his eyes, too, look really white, the inside of his lip the baby pink of Mrs. Norkus’s petunias. He takes our measure—what can he be thinking, a priest traveling with all these women? He smiles, points, gives Mum a set of quick, easy instructions. From the back seat we three gape at him with our mouths half open. Anne pats my knee: Stop staring, sweetie. The puffy-coat man stands back after giving his big-smile directions: “Ya can’t miss it!” Mum will chuckle over this the whole day, repeating “‘Ya can’t miss it!’” as if to say, Mother of Mary, they talk just like us! She’ll shake her head. “That man was so nice. Wasn’t that man nice, girls? ‘Ya can’t miss it!’” And we don’t. Down this street, turn here, up that street, turn there, and look-girls-look: the White House, just where that nice man said.