Spray Bottle Quotes

The ones who are not soul-mated – the ones who have settled – are even more dismissive of my singleness: It’s not that hard to find someone to marry, they say. No relationship is perfect, they say – they, who make do with dutiful sex and gassy bedtime rituals, who settle for TV as conversation, who believe that husbandly capitulation – yes, honey, okay, honey – is the same as concord. He’s doing what you tell him to do because he doesn’t care enough to argue, I think. Your petty demands simply make him feel superior, or resentful, and someday he will fuck his pretty, young coworker who asks nothing of him, and you will actually be shocked. Give me a man with a little fight in him, a man who calls me on my bullshit. (But who also kind of likes my bullshit.) And yet: Don’t land me in one of those relationships where we’re always pecking at each other, disguising insults as jokes, rolling our eyes and ‘playfully’ scrapping in front of our friends, hoping to lure them to our side of an argument they could not care less about. Those awful if only relationships: This marriage would be great if only… and you sense the if only list is a lot longer than either of them realizes. So I know I am right not to settle, but it doesn’t make me feel better as my friends pair off and I stay home on Friday night with a bottle of wine and make myself an extravagant meal and tell myself, This is perfect, as if I’m the one dating me. As I go to endless rounds of parties and bar nights, perfumed and sprayed and hopeful, rotating myself around the room like some dubious dessert. I go on dates with men who are nice and good-looking and smart – perfect-on-paper men who make me feel like I’m in a foreign land, trying to explain myself, trying to make myself known. Because isn’t that the point of every relationship: to be known by someone else, to be understood? He gets me. She gets me. Isn’t that the simple magic phrase? So you suffer through the night with the perfect-on-paper man – the stutter of jokes misunderstood, the witty remarks lobbed and missed. Or maybe he understands that you’ve made a witty remark but, unsure of what to do with it, he holds it in his hand like some bit of conversational phlegm he will wipe away later. You spend another hour trying to find each other, to recognise each other, and you drink a little too much and try a little too hard. And you go home to a cold bed and think, That was fine. And your life is a long line of fine.

The grass is never greener on the other side. You can only hope that with enough hard work, time, and luck that yours will become whatever shade the spray paint bottle said it would.

I initially wanted to hire a maid in hopes that she would become my replacement—that if Andrew fell in love with another woman, he would finally let me go. But that’s not why I hired Millie. That’s not why I gave her a copy of the key to the room. And that’s not why I left a bottle of pepper spray in the blue bucket in the closet. I hired her to kill him. She just doesn’t know it.

3 whole Catfish, Wrapped separately Veet (It’s for Shaving your legs Only you don’t Need A razor. It’s with all the Girly cosmetic stuff) Vaseline six pack, Mountain Dew One dozen Tulips one Bottle Of water Tissues One Can of blue Spray paint

Shimamoto was in charge of the records. She'd take one from its jacket, place it carefully on the turntable without touching the grooves with her fingers, and, after making sure to brush the cartridge free of any dust with a tiny brush, lower the needle ever so gently onto the record. When the record was finished, she'd spray it and wipe it with a felt cloth. Finally she'd return the record to its jacket and its proper place on the shelf. Her father had taught her this procedure, and she followed his instructions with a terribly serious look on her face, her eyes narrowed, her breath held in check. Meanwhile, I was on the sofa, watching her every move. Only when the record was safely back on the shelf did she turn to me and give a little smile. And every time, this thought hit me: It wasn't a record she was handling. It was a fragile soul inside a glass bottle.

I looked at the ornaments on the desk. Everything standard and all copper. A copper lamp, pen set and pencil tray, a glass and copper ashtray with a copper elephant on the rim, a copper letter opener, a copper thermos bottle on a copper tray, copper corners on the blotter holder. There was a spray of almost copper-colored sweet peas in a copper vase. It seemed like a lot of copper.

Fuck you!" Randy pulled a squirt bottle from his desk and sprayed us both. "Hush," he said. Jin winced "Now, that's just unprofessional!" "Quit bitching," I said, shaking the water off my face. "You may be used to taking shots in the face, but I'm not," he said. Okay, that was a good one. "Go fuck yourself," I said.

Look at them, the bugs. Humans have used everything in their power to extinguish them: every kind of poison, aerial sprays, introducing and cultivating their natural predators, searching for and destroying their eggs, using genetic modification to sterilize them, burning with fire, drowning with water. Every family has bug spray, every desk has a flyswatter under it… this long war has been going on for the entire history of human civilization. But the outcome is still in doubt. The bugs have not been eliminated. They still proudly live between the heavens and the earth, and their numbers have not diminished from the time before the appearance of the humans. The Trisolarans who deemed the humans bugs seemed to have forgotten one fact: The bugs have never been truly defeated. A small black cloud covered the sun and cast a moving shadow against the ground. This was not a common cloud, but a swarm of locusts that had just arrived. As the swarm landed in the fields nearby, the three men stood in the middle of a living shower, feeling the dignity of life on Earth. Ding Yi and Wang Miao poured the two bottles of wine they had with them on the ground beneath their feet, a toast for the bugs.

Raven mumbled something. “Eh? What was that? Speak up! Don’t mumble like a caterpillar.” “I said, I don’t want to scare them.” Baba Yaga picked up a blue spray bottle and squirted Raven in the face with water, making Raven blink. “This is how I train my cats not to jump up on my spell table. They learn after a while. Maybe you will, too.

I value my life more than yours. Sue me. We wouldn’t be in this mess if you hadn’t been so blatantly obvious with your sabotage!” “Fuck you!” Rudy pulled a squirt bottle from his desk and sprayed us both. “Hush,” he said. Jin winced “Now, that’s just unprofessional!

And once out, Eleanor thought silently, you can’t put it back any more than returning a mist of perfume to a bottle once it has been sprayed.

You got to hold still, I thought. Perfectly still. I concentrated, focused, felt my arms become rigid, stern and strong. I pulled back the trigger slowly, squeezing steadily. The bottle exploded, water shooting out in a wide fine spray. ‘Goddamn!’ Anne shouted. She was staring at me like I had stared at her earlier, her whole face open with pride and delight. Sexy, yeah. I pointed the barrel at the sky and let my mouth widen into a smile. ‘Goddamn,’ I said, and meant it with all my heart.

Here, take these." I held my hands open as she dropped something into my palms; succulent leaves. "Lay them on some soil. Give them a little bit of water in a spray bottle, not that much, and watch them grow." She closed my hand around the leaves. "We start small. A fine mist of water, a few good words to ourself, and we keep it up everyday. And one day, we want to believe wont believe what we've grown into.

There is a bus station in Henry, but it isn't on Main Street. It's one block north - the town fathers hadn't wanted all the additional traffic. The station lost one-third of its roof to a tornado fifteen years ago. In the same summer, a bottle rocket brought the gift of fire to its restrooms. The damage has never been repaired, but the town council makes sure that the building is painted fresh every other year, and always the color of a swimming pool. There is never graffiti. Vandals would have to drive more than twenty miles to buy the spray paint. Every once in a long while, a bus creeps into town and eases to a stop beside the mostly roofed, bright aqua station with the charred bathrooms. Henry is always glad to see a bus. Such treats are rare.

A dozen cobras moved as one, shattering their bottles. Wine and glass sprayed the room. The snakes sprang for Isyllt's attacker with fangs unfolded. He screamed high and sharp as they uncoiled, long slick bodies whipping through the air. She wasn't sure if their venom could survive death and pickling, but it didn't seem to matter. After several bites, he curled on the floor, weeping and trying to bat the undead snakes away.

We felt in control, even if the instruments of our protection only came in bottles: sunscreen, vitamins, insect repellant, and pepper spray.

The smell of books is one of my favorite smells ever. I would like to bottle it up and spray it on myself daily.

Then it was as though someone had uncorked a bottle of effervescent hatred and directed the resulting spray at me.

7. Ant Spray: FAST FIND: A nontoxic spray which can be used anywhere. Ingredients: 2 tablespoon of peppermint essential oil 2 cup warm water 1 spray bottle.   Method: In the spray bottle, add essential oils and water. Shake well to combine the ingredients. Spray on ant trails or around areas where you don’t want ants to go. Shake well before use. Ants do not like the smell of peppermint and this will act as a strong deterrent.

That Mossberg," Boris said to me, accepting the bottle passed over the front seat. "Evil dirty thing. Sawed off--? sprays pellets here to Hamburg. Aim it way the fuck away from everyone and still you will hit half the people in the room.

champagne, n. You appear at the foot of the bed with a bottle of champagne, and I have no idea why. I search my mind desperately for an occasion I've forgotten - is this some obscure anniversary or, even worse, a not-so-obscure one? Then I think you have something to tell me, some good news to share, but your smile is silent, cryptic. I sit up in bed, ask you what's going on, and you shake your head, as if to say that nothing's going on, as if to pretend that we usually start our Wednesday mornings with champagne. You touch the bottle to my leg - I feel the cool condensation and the glass, the fact that the bottle must have been sleeping all night in the refrigerator without me noticing. You have long-stemmed glasses in you other hand, and you place them on the nightstand, beside the uncommenting clock, the box of kleenex, the tumbler of water. "The thing about champagne," you say, unfailing the cork, unwinding its wire restraint, "is that it is the ultimate associative object. Every time you open a bottle of champagne, it's a celebration, so there's no better way of starting a celebration than opening a bottle of champagne. Every time you sip it, you're sipping from all those other celebrations. The joy accumulates over time." You pop the cork. The bubbles rise. I feel some of the spray on my skin. You pour. "But why?" I ask as you hand me my glass. You raise yours and ask, "Why not? What better way to start the day?" We drink a toast to that.

After you died I could not hold a funeral And so my life became a funeral. Oh, return to me. Oh, return to me when I call your name. Do not delay any longer. Return to me now. After you died I couldn't hold a funeral, So these eyes that once beheld you became a shrine. These ears that once heard your voice became a shrine. These lungs that once inhaled your breath became a shrine. The flowers that bloom in spring, the willows, the raindrops and snowflakes became shrines. The morning ushering in each day, the evenings that daily darken, became shrines. After you died I couldn't hold a funeral, so my life became a funeral. After you were wrapped in a tarpaulin and carted away in a garbage truck, After sparkling jets of water sprayed unforgivably from the fountain. Everywhere the lights of the temple shrines are burning. In the flowers that bloom in spring, in the snowflakes. In the evenings that draw each day to a close. Sparks from the candles, burning in empty drinks bottles.

make some rose water. Take the petals of six or seven organic roses, place these in a pot and add enough distilled or spring water to cover them. On a medium-low heat, bring the petals to a simmer and cover with a lid for twenty to thirty minutes, until the petals have lost their color. Strain the mixture and pour the liquid into a glass jar. Decant this mixture into a spray bottle, then shake it and use it on your skin or to cleanse your altar, mirror or ritual tools—or pretty much whatever you like.

I had tried to make it beautiful with a spray of golden and orange autumn leaves in an empty green wine bottle on the floor by the hearth, with a string of tiny mouse skulls and soft white dove feathers hanging above my bed, and a cluster of dried rose hips pinned behind the door.

But where should he begin? - Well, then, the trouble with the English was their: Their: In a word, Gibreel solemnly pronounced, their weather. Gibreel Farishta floating on his cloud formed the opinion that the moral fuzziness of the English was meteorologically induced. 'When the day is not warmer than the night,' he reasoned, 'when the light is not brighter than the dark, when the land is not drier than the sea, then clearly a people will lose the power to make distinctions, and commence to see everything - from political parties to sexual partners to religious beliefs - as much-the-same, nothing-to-choose, give-or-take. What folly! For truth is extreme, it is so and not thus, it is him and not her; a partisan matter, not a spectator sport. It is, in brief, heated. City,' he cried, and his voice rolled over the metropolis like thunder, 'I am going to tropicalize you.' Gibreel enumerated the benefits of the proposed metamorphosis of London into a tropical city: increased moral definition, institution of a national siesta, development of vivid and expansive patterns of behaviour among the populace, higher-quality popular music, new birds in the trees (macaws, peacocks, cockatoos), new trees under the birds (coco-palms, tamarind, banyans with hanging beards). Improved street-life, outrageously coloured flowers (magenta, vermilion, neon-green), spider-monkeys in the oaks. A new mass market for domestic air-conditioning units, ceiling fans, anti-mosquito coils and sprays. A coir and copra industry. Increased appeal of London as a centre for conferences, etc.: better cricketeers; higher emphasis on ball-control among professional footballers, the traditional and soulless English commitment to 'high workrate' having been rendered obsolete by the heat. Religious fervour, political ferment, renewal of interest in the intellegentsia. No more British reserve; hot-water bottles to be banished forever, replaced in the foetid nights by the making of slow and odorous love. Emergence of new social values: friends to commence dropping in on one another without making appointments, closure of old-folks' homes, emphasis on the extended family. Spicier foods; the use of water as well as paper in English toilets; the joy of running fully dressed through the first rains of the monsoon. Disadvantages: cholera, typhoid, legionnaires' disease, cockroaches, dust, noise, a culture of excess. Standing upon the horizon, spreading his arms to fill the sky, Gibreel cried: 'Let it be.

into the trees when the occasional car went past them.  When he reached his vehicle, a new Jeep Wrangler, he had put her inside, cautiously buckling her into the passenger seat.  In a case from the rear he had removed another bottle of the special spray he had used at the Whitelaw compound.  He had used more of the spray to disperse their scents. Finally he

She blamed herself and hated herself and punished herself because that’s what women are taught to do. Blame themselves. Blame the victims. Tell themselves that since the Angela Dunleavys and Taylor Morrisons and Madeline Forresters of the world had sat through the same lessons on assault, received the same tiny bottles of pepper spray, and endured the same self-defense classes, it must have been their fault they were attacked. Or raped. Or killed. No one tells women that none of it is their fault. That the blame falls squarely on the awful men who do terrible things and the fucked-up society that raises them, molds them, makes excuses for them. People don’t want to admit that there are monsters in their midst, so the monsters continue to roam free and the cycle of violence and blame continues.

Over the years, I went through like two bottles of it. One day I forgot to spray it on and didn’t realize it until I was in the middle of a scene, so I asked our second AD [assistant director] to grab my cologne from the bathroom. I had to have it. And I know that makes me sound like a crazy person, which is somewhat true, but everyone’s process is what it is. And then you become kind of superstitious.

Once we have our details—our white-hot places of experience he calls them—we have to choose one and write about it. ‘Not in sentences but in bursts of feelings—phrases, words, don’t worry how they relate just get them out. You are vomiting here.’ I circle my mother’s bathroom and start writing about it—the greasy face lotion, the dry shampoo spray, the heavy razor, the amber bottle of Chanel No. 5—and all the things that became mine the day she left.

A Man Adrift On A Slim Spar" A man adrift on a slim spar A horizon smaller than the rim of a bottle Tented waves rearing lashy dark points The near whine of froth in circles. God is cold. The incessant raise and swing of the sea And growl after growl of crest The sinkings, green, seething, endless The upheaval half-completed. God is cold. The seas are in the hollow of The Hand; Oceans may be turned to a spray Raining down through the stars Because of a gesture of pity toward a babe. Oceans may become gray ashes, Die with a long moan and a roar Amid the tumult of the fishes And the cries of the ships, Because The Hand beckons the mice. A horizon smaller than a doomed assassin's cap, Inky, surging tumults A reeling, drunken sky and no sky A pale hand sliding from a polished spar. God is cold. The puff of a coat imprisoning air: A face kissing the water-death A weary slow sway of a lost hand And the sea, the moving sea, the sea. God is cold.

She cracked open a Diet Mountain Dew. We watched the movie in silence. In the middle, I fell back asleep. • • • OCTOBER WAS PLACID. The radiator hissed and sputtered, releasing a sharp vinegary smell that reminded me of my dead parents’ basement, so I rarely turned on the heat. I didn’t mind the cold. My visit to Dr. Tuttle that month was relatively unremarkable. “How is everything at home?” she asked. “Good? Bad? Other?” “Other,” I said. “Do you have a family history of nonbinary paradigms?” When I explained for the third time that both my parents had died, that my mother had killed herself, Dr. Tuttle unscrewed the cap of her value-size bottle of Afrin, twirled around in her chair, tilted her head back so that she was looking at me upside down, and started sniffing. “I’m listening,” she said. “It’s allergies, and now I’m hooked on this nasal spray. Please continue. Your parents are dead, and . . . ?” “And nothing. It’s fine. But I’m still not sleeping well.

When the Down Days first came swinging, the government hired workers in plastic suits to spray the streets each week. Everyone was told to wash their hands with chlorine, disinfect with bleach. Within six months the shelves at your local shop were filled with new brands, plastic bottle after plastic bottle promising all sorts of miracle properties. Some people took the ads to heart, started cleaning like their salvation depended on it. A few suckers even started drinking diluted bleach, thinking it would cure them from the inside out.

To the wreck hunters," Orion said, raising his water bottle, "And to whale songs." "To truthing," said Liv. "To tea leaves," said Felix. We kept toasting: To Fidelia and Ransome. To the rest of the Lyric passengers whose bones has been picked clean by fish. To adventures. Our voices overlapped and were indistinguishable. To baseball caps, to Patsy Cline. To whiskey and blow jobs and cunnilingus, birth control, treasure, no treasure, sleeping bags, bug spray, headphones, and crosswords. "To family," I called. "Surviving," said Sam. "Please can you keep it down!" yelled a voice from inside the kayakers' tent. "To angry, reluctant chaperones," Mariah stage-whispered. We all collapsed into stifled giggles, then put out the fire and trekked down to the beach to stage an impromtu, perfectly imperfect reading of Cousteau! by cell-phone light. Same had brought the latest printout of the script with him. That night, it didn't matter what had come before and what was going to come after. In that moment, we were the last true poets of the sea, and what mattered more than anything else was our quest.

working from the center of the dough out, gently roll it back and forth until it stretches to 15 inches long. Place the loaves, seam-side down, on the kitchen towel dusted with flour and cover with plastic wrap or a damp kitchen towel. Let the loaves rise at room temperature for the final time, until they have doubled in size, about 35—45 minutes. Meanwhile, preheat the oven to 475°F. Carefully place the loaves on a baking sheet. Brush them with water using a pastry brush. With a sharp razor blade and swift motions, make 4 or 5 diagonal slashes along the length of each baguette. To do this successfully, do not drag the entire edge of the blade through the dough—use just the tip. Just before you are ready to slide the baking sheet into the oven, spray the inside of the oven with water using a spray bottle or plant mister and close the door immediately. This will create steam, which promotes a good crust. Put the bread in the oven and spray the walls of the oven two more times within the first minute of baking. Bake for 15—20 minutes or until the bread makes a hollow sound when you knock on the bottom of it with your knuckles. Transfer the bread to a rack and allow it to cool before slicing (or tearing apiece off).

Parks waits a long while, until he’s absolutely certain that Justineau’s monologue is finished. The truth is, for most of the time he’s been trying to figure out what it is exactly that she’s trying to tell him. Maybe he was right the first time about where they were heading, and Justineau airing her ancient laundry is just a sort of palate-cleanser before they have sex. Probably not, but you never know. In any case, the countermove to a confession is an absolution, unless you think the sin is unforgivable. Parks doesn’t. “It was an accident,” he tells her, pointing out the obvious. “And probably you would have ended up doing the right thing. You don’t strike me as the sort of person who just lets shit slide.” He means that, as far as it goes. One of the things he likes about Justineau is her seriousness. He frigging flat-out hates frivolous, thoughtless people who dance across the surface of the world without looking down. “Yeah, but you don’t get it,” Justineau says. “Why do you think I’m telling you all this?” “I don’t know,” Parks admits. “Why are you telling me?” Justineau steps away from the parapet wall and squares off against him – range, zero metres. It could be erotic, but somehow it’s not. “I killed that boy, Parks. If you turn my life into an equation, the number that comes out is minus one. That’s my lifetime score, you understand me? And you … you and Caldwell, and Private Ginger f**king Rogers … my God, whether it means anything or not, I will die my own self before I let you take me down to minus two.” She says the last words right into his face. Sprays him with little flecks of spit. This close up, dark as it is, he can see her eyes. There’s something mad in them. Something deeply afraid, but it’s damn well not afraid of him. She leaves him with the bottle. It’s not what he was hoping for, but it’s a pretty good consolation prize.

Molten Chocolate Cakes Makes 4 single-serve cakes Ingredients 1 stick unsalted butter 6 ounces semisweet chocolate chips 2 egg yolks 2 eggs ¼ cup sugar 1 teaspoon vanilla extract 2 tablespoons all-purpose flour Directions 1. Preheat the oven to 450°F. 2. Spray the insides of 4 ramekins with baking spray. Put the ramekins on a baking sheet. 3. Microwave the butter and chocolate chips in a microwave-safe bowl for 1 minute. The butter should be almost all melted. The chocolate won’t be completely melted. 4. Whisk the butter and chocolate mixture until smooth. 5. Separate two egg yolks from their whites: Crack both eggs into a bowl without breaking the yolks. Then take an empty, disposable plastic water bottle, squeeze it, hold the opening to a yolk, and then release to suck the yolk into the bottle. Repeat with the second yolk. Then deposit both yolks into a clean bowl by squeezing the bottle and pouring them out. 6. Beat the egg yolks, eggs, sugar, and vanilla extract in an electric mixer on high or with a whisk until the mixture is thick. 7. Fold the butter and chocolate mixture into the egg mixture. 8. Add the flour to the mixture gradually. Don’t overmix. 9. Divide the batter into the 4 ramekins. 10. Bake the cakes for 8 to 12 minutes or until the cakes have risen over the sides of the ramekins and the tops of the cakes no longer jiggle when the baking sheet is given a little shake. The cake centers should still be soft. 11. Remove the cakes from the oven and let them cool for 1 minute. 12. Cover the cakes with upside-down dessert plates, flip the ramekins over, and remove the ramekins from the cakes. Eat immediately!

I take her to the rocks that Zeke, Shauna, and I go to sometimes, late at night. Tris and I sit on a flat stone suspended over the water, and the spray soaks my shoes, but it’s not so cold that I mind. Like all initiates, she’s too focused on the aptitude test, and I’m struggling with talking to her about it. I thought that when I spilled one secret, the rest would come tumbling after, but openness is a habit you form over time, and not a switch you flip whenever you want to, I’m finding. “These are things I don’t tell people, you know. Not even my friends.” I watch the dark, murky water and the things it carries--pieces of trash, discarded clothing, floating bottles like small boats setting out on a journey. “My result was as expected. Abnegation.” “Oh.” She frowns. “But you chose Dauntless anyway?” “Out of necessity.” “Why did you have to leave?” I look away, not sure I can give voice to my reasons, because admitting them makes me a faction traitor, makes me feel like a coward. “You had to get away from your dad,” she says. “Is that why you don’t want to be a Dauntless leader? Because if you were, you might have to see him again?” I shrug. “That, and I’ve always felt that I don’t quite belong among the Dauntless. Not the way they are now, anyway.” It’s not quite the truth. I’m not sure this is the moment to tell her what I know about Max and Jeanine and the attack--selfishly, I want to keep this moment to myself, just for a little while. “But…you’re incredible,” she says. I raise my eyebrows at her. She seems embarrassed. “I mean, by Dauntless standards. Four fears is unheard of. How could you not belong here?

I’ll find out who’s inside. Wait here and keep alert!’ Hallam rasped. He skirted the main path to skulk towards one of the shuttered windows on the building’s eastern wall. There was a crack in the wood and he gently inched closer to peer inside. There was a hearth-fire with a pot bubbling away and a battered table made of a length of wood over two pieces of cut timber. A small ham hung from the rafters, away from the rats and mice. He couldn’t see anyone but there was a murmur of voices. Hallam leaned in even closer and a young boy with hair the colour of straw saw the movement to stare. It was Little Jim. Thank God, the child was safe. Snot hung from his nose and he was pale. Hallam put a finger to his lips, but the boy, not even four, did not understand, and just gaped innocently back. Movement near the window. A man wearing a blue jacket took up a stone bottle and wiped his long flowing moustache afterwards. His hair was shoulder-length, falling unruly over the red collar of his jacket. Tied around his neck was a filthy red neckerchief. A woman moaned and the man grinned with tobacco stained teeth at the sound. Laughter and French voices. The woman whimpered and Little Jim turned to watch unseen figures. His eyes glistened and his bottom lip dropped. The woman began to plead and Hallam instinctively growled. The Frenchman, hearing the noise, pushed the shutter open and the pistol’s cold muzzle pressed against his forehead. Hallam watched the man’s eyes narrow and then widen, before his mouth opened. Whatever he intended to shout was never heard, because the ball smashed through his skull to erupt in a bloody spray as it exited the back of the Frenchman’s head. There was a brief moment of silence. ‘28th!’ Hallam shouted, as he stepped back against the wall. ‘Make ready!

So I know I am right not to settle, but it doesn't make me feel better as my friends pair off and I stay home on Friday night with a bottle of wine and make myself an extravagant meal and tell myself, This is perfect, as if I'm the one dating me. As I go to endless rounds of parties and bar nights, perfumed and sprayed and hopeful, rotating myself around the room like some dubious dessert. I go on dates with men who are nice and good-looking and smart - perfect-on-paper men who make me feel like I'm in a foreign land, trying to explain myself, trying to make myself known. Because isn't that the point of every relationship: to be known by someone else, to be understood? He gets me. She gets me. Isn't that the simple magic phrase? So you suffer through the night with the perfect-on-paper man - the stutter of jokes misunderstood, the witty remarks lobbed and missed. Or maybe he understands that you've made a witty remark but, unsure of what to do with it, he holds it in his hand like some bit of conversational phlegm he will wipe away later. You spend another hour trying to find each other, to recognise each other, and you drink a little too much and try a little too hard. And you go home to a cold bed and think, That was fine. And your life is a long line of fine. And then you run into Nick Dunne on Seventh Avenue as you're buying diced cantaloupe, and pow, you are known, you are recognised, the both of you. You both find the exact same things worth remembering. (Just one olive, though). You have the same rhythm. Click. You just know each other. All of a sudden you see reading in bed and waffles on Sunday and laughing at nothing and his mouth on yours. And it's so far beyond fine that you know you can never go back to fine. That fast. You think: Oh, here is the rest of my life. It's finally arrived.

Christine's heart is thumping wildly. She lets herself be led (her aunt means her nothing but good) into a tiled and mirrored room full of warmth and sweetly scented with mild floral soap and sprayed perfumes; an electrical apparatus roars like a mountain storm in the adjoining room. The hairdresser, a brisk, snub-nosed Frenchwoman, is given all sorts of instructions, little of which Christine understands or cares to. A new desire has come over her to give herself up, to submit and let herself be surprised. She allows herself to be seated in the comfortable barber's chair and her aunt disappears. She leans back gently, and, eyes closed in a luxurious stupor, senses a mechanical clattering, cold steel on her neck, and the easy incomprehensible chatter of the cheerful hairdresser; she breathes in clouds of fragrance and lets aromatic balms and clever fingers run over her hair and neck. Just don't open your eyes, she thinks. If you do, it might go away. Don't question anything, just savor this Sundayish feeling of sitting back for once, of being waited on instead of waiting on other people. Just let our hands fall into your lap, let good things happen to you, let it come, savor it, this rare swoon of lying back and being ministered to, this strange voluptuous feeling you haven't experienced in years, in decades. Eyes closed, feeling the fragrant warmth enveloping her, she remembers the last time: she's a child, in bed, she had a fever for days, but now it's over and her mother brings some sweet white almond milk, her father and her brother are sitting by her bed, everyone's taking care of her, everyone's doing things for her, they're all gentle and nice. In the next room the canary is singing mischievously, the bed is soft and warm, there's no need to go to school, everything's being done for her, there are toys on the bed, though she's too pleasantly lulled to play with them; no, it's better to close her eyes and really feel, deep down, the idleness, the being waited on. It's been decades since she thought of this lovely languor from her childhood, but suddenly it's back: her skin, her temples bathed in warmth are doing the remembering. A few times the brisk salonist asks some question like, 'Would you like it shorter?' But she answers only, 'Whatever you think,' and deliberately avoids the mirror held up to her. Best not to disturb the wonderful irresponsibility of letting things happen to you, this detachment from doing or wanting anything. Though it would be tempting to give someone an order just once, for the first time in your life, to make some imperious demand, to call for such and such. Now fragrance from a shiny bottle streams over her hair, a razor blade tickles her gently and delicately, her head feels suddenly strangely light and the skin of her neck cool and bare. She wants to look in the mirror, but keeping her eyes closed in prolonging the numb dreamy feeling so pleasantly. Meanwhile a second young woman has slipped beside her like a sylph to do her nails while the other is waving her hair. She submits to it all without resistance, almost without surprise, and makes no protest when, after an introductory 'Vous etes un peu pale, Mademoiselle,' the busy salonist, employing all manner of pencils and crayons, reddens her lips, reinforces the arches of her eyebrows, and touches up the color of her cheeks. She's aware of it all and, in her pleasant detached stupor, unaware of it too: drugged by the humid, fragrance-laden air, she hardly knows if all this happening to her or to some other, brand-new self. It's all dreamily disjointed, not quite real, and she's a little afraid of suddenly falling out of the dream.

BASIC MIX DIRECTIONS Fill a spray bottle with 1 cup water and 1/ 4 cup white distilled vinegar. Note: For added scent, you can infuse the vinegar with citrus peels in a jar for a couple of weeks, prior to diluting it.

When I was only 17, I wanted desperately to be a writer. My early efforts did not meet with much success, and my relatives discouraged me. At that time I was living and working in the Channel Islands in the UK. Late one evening, when I was feeling particularly discouraged, I went for a walk along the seafront. The tide was in, the sea was rough; and the wind, which was almost a gale, came pouring in from the darkness like a mad genie just released from his bottle. Great waves crashed against the sea-wall, and the wind whipped the salt spray across my face. I was alone in a wild wasteland of wind and water. And then something touched me, something from the elements took hold of my heart, and all the depression left me, and I felt free and as virile as the wind— quite capable of building my own fort, my own pavilion of words. And I spoke to the genie in the swirling darkness and said, ‘I will be a writer, and no one can stop me!

Your body fat levels can increase through means that are beyond your control. Pollution is a major culprit here because it’s been shown to contain obesogenic compounds that promote the accumulation of body fat. And these compounds are making their way into our air and rivers. Pesticides also increase body fat as they run off into lakes and rivers after being sprayed on the food we eat. And, you encounter a large number of chemical body-fat-promoting compounds, referred to by scientists as obesogens, through plastic bottles, Styrofoam, shampoo, paints, carpeting, food preservatives, artificial ingredients, plastic shower curtains, antibacterial soap and Teflon cookware. Artificial obesogens are found in the special paper used for ATM and cash register receipts and even in the chemicals found in a new automobile that give it that “new car smell.

TRAVEL CHECKLIST 1. SMOOTHIE: protein packets (1.5 per day), a shaker bottle, and a zip-top bag of chia seeds 2. MINI FAT PACKS: nut butters, coconut butter, and coconut oil 3. BRIDGE SNACKS: individual nut packs, chopped veggies, and approved bars (Bulletproof or Primal Kitchen) 4. SLEEP: earplugs, eye mask, and lavender essential oil 5. SKIN: calendula oil, lip balm, and hydration spray

The ingredients you will need are: 1 cup of baking soda, ½ cup of corn starch, ½ cup of citric acid, 2 ½ tablespoon of sunflower oil or you may use almond oil, ½ to 2 teaspoons of essential oils, ¼ teaspoon of borax, ¼ teaspoon of Vitamin E oil (this is optional but still recommended — this is an antioxidant, thus, this helps in the preservation of the other oil ingredients), vegetable or other natural colorant (however if these are not available, a few drops of food coloring will work as well), witch hazel in a spray bottle, and the very important ingredient — ¾ tablespoon of water.

All-Natural, All-Purpose Cleaner Combine 1 teaspoon borax, ½ teaspoon washing soda, and 1 teaspoon liquid Castile soap in a spray bottle. Add 2 cups warm distilled water. Add a few drops of the essential oils of your choice (such as lemon, lavender, or orange). Put the spray top on the bottle and shake well. Use on bathroom surfaces, kitchen counters, and elsewhere. —courtesy of Katie Wells, Wellness Mama4

Twenty-eight courses?" Dylan mused. "Get comfortable," Grace said with anticipation. They came on little spoons, tiny plates, in small glasses, atop mini-pedestals even speared and hung, suspended on custom-made wire serving devices like little edible works of art, which was entirely the point: mint-scented lamb lollypops, osetra and oysters on frothed tapioca, beet gazpacho and savory mustard shooters, foie gras porridge with a sweet ginger spritz in an atomizer, ankimo sashimi on house-made pop-rocks, plums in powdered yogurt, goat cheese marshmallows, venison maple syrup mastic, warm black truffle gumdrops with chilled sauternes centers. Foamed and freeze-dried, often accompanied by little spray bottles of fragrance and tiny scent-filled pillows, the food crackled and smoked and hissed and sizzled, appealing to all the senses. Thin slices of blast-frozen Kobe carpaccio were hung on little wire stands to thaw between courses at the table. All sorts of textures and presentations were set forth. Many were entirely novel and unexpected renderings of traditional dishes. Intrigued and delighted by the sensory spectacle, Dylan and Grace enjoyed the experience immensely, oohing and aahing, and mostly laughing. For as strange as each course might be, as curious as the decorative objects that presented them, each one was an adventure of sorts, and without exception, each one was delicious, some to the point of profound. And each one came with an expertly matched extraordinary wine, in the precisely correct Riedel glass.

Lt. Denice Barnum at the helm gave a sigh, then replaced her nail file on the control panel, beside her spray bottle of nail varnish and "like steel" hardener. "Sir?" "What's wrong with this picture?" he said, pointing at his plate. The youth looked. He looked at Marnetti. "Nothing, sir...looks normal to me, sir." "Look again." He looked harder. He squinted. "Sir?" Marnetti sighed. "This is stewed Kwarracks, isn't it, son?" “Yessir." The lad nodded. "Well, as far as I know, Kwarracks is supposed to be dead when you eat it, not so?" "Yessir." He agreed. "This one's still waving its tentacles.

Pesticide for ants 1 teaspoon liquid soap 1 quart water Mix in a spray bottle. Use Vaseline or dish soap to block up entry holes.

Max felt like he was floating on his back in the middle of the ocean without a care in the world as he reached toward Molly and brushed the sea spray from her lips with a tender touch of his thumb. He wanted to bottle this moment, like a handwritten message cast out to see=a, so he could come back to it again and again- the delicious burn of anticipation, the promise of what came next. He remembered an old sea myth he'd read once in one of the duty hardbound books in his uncle's study: a kiss from a mermaid would protect a sailer from drowning. Some even said such a kiss could grant the ability to breathe underwater. Ridiculous, really. A myth wasm by its very nature, false. But the pounding of Max's heart told him he just might be a believer and his mouth lowered toward hers.

So I reach into the pocket of my jeans. And I pull out the bottle of pepper spray I found in the bucket.

There’s nothing quite like a perfectly stocked maid’s trolley early in the morning. It is, in my humble opinion, a cornucopia of bounty and beauty. The crisp little packages of delicately wrapped soaps that smell of orange blossom, the tiny Crabtree & Evelyn shampoo bottles, the squat tissue boxes, the toilet-paper rolls wrapped in hygienic film, the bleached white towels in three sizes—bath, hand, and washcloth—and the stacks of doilies for the tea-and-coffee service tray. And last but not least, the cleaning kit, which includes a feather duster, lemon furniture polish, lightly scented antiseptic garbage bags, as well as an impressive array of spray bottles of solvents and disinfectants, all lined up and ready to combat any stain, be it coffee rings, vomit—or even blood. A well-stocked housekeeping trolley is a portable sanitation miracle; it is a clean machine on wheels. And as I said, it is beautiful.

with tattoos down both arms stomped over with a spray bottle and squirted them both in the face.

As the song faded out, there was a spray of bullying laughter from the street below, then the pop and smash of a glass bottle shattering, followed by cursing, laughing, footsteps running away. “Nice,” grumbled Doug. Then the Little River Band came on, making it all right.

Do you still have the pepper spray I bought for your birthday last year?” “Yes. Thanks for that, by the way.” I’d wanted a new camera bag, but Josh had bought me an eight-pack of pepper spray instead. I’d never used any of it, which meant all eight bottles—

faster but the picture remained entirely static. The stillness of a deserted office descended and held steady as time rushed by. “When do the cleaners come in?” Reacher asked. “Just before midnight,” Froelich said. “That late?” “They’re night workers. This is a round-the-clock operation.” “And there’s nothing else visible before then?” “Nothing at all.” “So spool ahead. We get the picture.” Froelich operated the buttons and shuttled between fast-forward with snow on the screen and regular-speed playback with a picture to check the timecode. At eleven-fifty P.M. she let the tape run. The counter clicked ahead, a second at a time. At eleven fifty-two there was motion at the far end of the corridor. A team of three people emerged from the gloom. There were two women and a man, all of them wearing dark overalls. They looked Hispanic. They were all short and compact, dark-haired, stoic. The man was pushing a cart. It had a black garbage bag locked into a hoop at the front, and trays stacked with cloths and spray bottles on shelves at the rear. One of the women was carrying a vacuum cleaner. It rode on

He slept until noon on Christmas Day, until Josh came in and sprayed him with one their mom’s salon water bottles.

Hell. Before he could explain, apologize, even berate his best friend’s widow for not calling to let him know she was coming, Ella raised her keychain, and a sparkly pink bottle streamed pepper spray right into his eyes.

More than one Moscow banker told me of the day when the Russians entered the Champagne Wars. The music was blaring, and the girls had begun to undress when one Russian diner ordered champagne, Dom Pérignon, at three hundred dollars a bottle. He didn’t drink it. He shook the bottle and sprayed it all over himself. The gauntlet was thrown. At a nearby table another Russian followed suit. The Champagne Wars were not new—the French had been wasting money for show for years—but the Russians took the battle to heart. Soon they were dueling, each trying to spray more bubbly than the other. By the end of the lunch, in a restaurant that accepted only cash, the bill for the champagne hit thirty thousand dollars.

A guy has been asking the prettiest girl in town for a date and finally she agrees to go out with him. He takes her to a nice restaurant and buys her a fancy dinner with expensive wine. On the way home, he finds a secluded spot and pulls over to the side of the road. They start necking and he’s getting pretty excited. He starts to reach under her skirt and she stops him, saying she’s a virgin and wants to stay that way. “Well, okay,” he says, “how about a blow job?” “Yuck!” she screams. “I’m not putting that thing in my mouth!” “Well then... how about a hand job?” “I’ve never done that. What do I have to do?” “Well, remember when you were a kid and you used to shake up a Coke bottle and spray your brother with it?” She nods. “Well, it’s just like that.” So, he pulls out his dick and she grabs hold of it and starts shaking it. A few seconds later, his head snaps back against the headrest, his eyes roll up in his head, wax blows out of his ears, and he screams in pain. “What’s wrong?” she cries out. “Take your thumb off the end!!!

Stronger Shaft   A healthy scalp equals healthy hair.  Apple cider vinegar will cure your weak and brittle hair as your scalp will be able to absorb the nutrients it needs.  This can be done with the recipe below or by ingesting apple cider vinegar daily.  Healthy skin and hair are usually the first two benefits people notice when taking apple cider vinegar.  Often, after a few weeks, users begin to receive compliments about their skin or hair.  Strong, glowing hair all starts with a strong shaft.  The stronger and healthier the shaft, the longer the hair and the healthier it will look.  Often, hair is dull and brittle because the shaft of the hair is thin or damaged.  Apple cider vinegar will restore your shaft and promote healthy hair growth.   Apple Cider Vinegar Hair Recipes   1 part water 1 part apple cider vinegar   Start by rinsing and cleaning your hair with shampoo. Once you are out of the shower, add the mixture to a spray bottle.  Spray your hair and let it sit for 10-15 minutes.  Massage your scalp to make sure the apple cider vinegar is getting down to your skin.  Wash and once again shampoo to make sure you have removed all the apple cider vinegar.

I killed that boy, Parks. If you turn my life into an equation, the number that comes out is minus one. That’s my lifetime score, you understand me? And you… you and Caldwell, and Private Ginger fucking Rogers… my God, whether it means anything or not, I will die my own self before I let you take me down to minus two.” She says the last words right into his face. Sprays him with little flecks of spit. This close up, dark as it is, he can see her eyes. There’s something mad in them. Something deeply afraid, but it’s damn well not afraid of him. She leaves him with the bottle. It’s not what he was hoping for, but it’s a pretty good consolation prize.

Henny started to check things over—cables, speedometer, tire pressure, mirror adjustment—and then he sprayed the chain with WD40. He always does this, even if he’s going two blocks to the grocery. “Almost ready,” he said, when I thought he was all done. “I’m going to fill the water bottle and throw a bag of dried fruit into the seat pack.” Then he made one more trip for a bandage, just in case. When we finally got going, it was the hottest part of the day. I didn’t want to know how hot it was, but I knew Henny was going to tell me. “Did you check the thermometer?” he called up to me at the first intersection. “A hundred and five in the shade. It’s hot enough to uncurl your hair. We’ll die of heat exhaustion out here on the high-way. Can’t we go in something air-conditioned?” Henny never does anything without a few complaints. He has terrible things to say about trumpet lessons but he likes to play the trumpet. And then there are book reports. Henny reads the long, nonfiction books, the Yellow Pages, everything. Just don’t ask him to write up a report, because he will complain about it forever, and then turn in thirty pages.

Recipe 19: Honeydukes Chocolate Frogs Ah, the legendary Honeydukes! Honestly, that store is enough to drive a person with a sweet tooth absolutely bonkers! Honeydukes is like a Muggle candy store on steroids! Anyway, I made these chocolate frogs as an experimental Christmas present for my little nephew. He went crazy when he saw them and actually asked if I would take him to Honeydukes the next time I went there, the cute thing! Here’s the recipe and a few variations that you could make! Serving Sizes: 8 Duration: 1 hour List of Ingredients: For the Shell 1 big bar milk chocolate or 1 cup chocolate chips For the Filling Use anything from fruit to hazelnuts to peanut butter. If you are feeling particularly tricky, which is pretty much my constant mood, get some popping candy and make a sort of hybrid cross between a Chocolate Frog and a Fizzing Whizzbee. You will also need chocolate frog molds to get that froggy shape. These are easily available on Amazon. WWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWW Preparation: 1. First, melt the chocolate in your microwave at 30 seconds, till the chocolate is melted and smooth. Use a big bowl, you’ll soon see why. 2. Stir the chocolate until it is slightly cooler but still runny. 3. Fill a piping bag with the melted chocolate, this makes the entire process less messy! 4. Take your frog molds and lightly spray them with cooking spray to make the demolding easier. 5. Pipe chocolate around the mold and in the centre. Don’t worry about quantities but ensure that the surface of the frog is completely covered. 6. After you’ve filled all the molds in the tray, flip the tray over the bowl of melted chocolate to get rid of the excess chocolate inside each frog. 7. Place the mold inside the freezer for about 10-15 minutes and allow the chocolate to harden slightly. 8. In the meantime, choose your fillings. I usually use nuts and peanut butter as one option and popping candy as another. I make an assortment so that when someone bites into the frog, they get a pleasant fizzy surprise! If you intend to use peanut butter or something runny, use a piping bag or a small squeezy bottle to fill your frogs. 9. Next, get the mold out of the freezer and carefully fill with the desired filling. 10. Top the filling with more melted chocolate and smoothen out so that the mold is completely even and covered. 11. Return to the freezer for another 30-35 mins. 12. When the chocolate has hardened, remove from the molds and store in the refrigerator. So perfect for boxing up as gifts and so easy to make that you can probably go into the business of making Chocolate Frogs professionally!

crazies like the shoplifter who tried to bribe his way out or the guy who pulled a knife on Donna when she refused to cash his check without ID; and people doing things that might have a reason but looked pretty weird, such as buying forty-eight bottles of germkiller spray and a can of water chestnuts. What all these people had in common, as well as he could figure it out, was a kind of getting out of gear, out of synch. The engine made a noise but no power got to the wheels. They were stuck. They got nowhere.

No,” Brielle stated. “No cats. Kittens are cute, but they turn into cats eventually, and cats jump up on counters and you have to spray them with a spray bottle.

Pour ingredients into bottle and shake vigorously for 1 minute or until mixed. For best results, spray liberally in areas where fairy is not wanted. Will repel fairies and most flying insects for 23 years. Excess can be refrigerated and stored for up to 7 days for use as a zesty vinaigrette salad dressing.

Popcorn is a whole grain that takes less than five minutes to prepare. A hot-air popper is another inexpensive, useful appliance. There’s an endless variety of savory, sweet, and spicy toppings you can use. I like the combination of chlorella and nutritional yeast. (In my family, the green color earned it the name “zombie corn.”) By lightly misting air-popped popcorn with a spray bottle, you can get dry seasonings to stick. I like to spritz with balsamic vinegar.

small out of his lab coat. It looked like an aerosol bottle. “Not so fast,” said Mr. Duderotti. He shook the bottle and then sprayed it right into the furry face of the oncoming giant squirrel. Squirrel Kong froze in its tracks. The beast snorted and then began to scrabble wildly at its nose with its front paws. Mr. Duderotti stood his ground as the beast finally let out a booming sneeze. His lab coat and ponytail blew straight back like he was in a hurricane.

initially wanted to hire a maid in hopes that she would become my replacement—that if Andrew fell in love with another woman, he would finally let me go. But that’s not why I hired Millie. That’s not why I gave her a copy of the key to the room. And that’s not why I left a bottle of pepper spray in the blue bucket in the closet. I hired her to kill him. She just doesn’t know it.

They think so little of us that they don’t even bother to disguise their plans for us, telling the Adventists everything. It’s like how you don’t need to hide the bottle of bug spray from the little critters.

Now get lost before I get a squirt bottle to spray you with like the irritating cat in heat you’re behaving like.

Aubrey just smiled and held up a small bottle of pepper spray. “Hoes before bros.

Experience the ultimate balance of nature and innovation with Tozad Beauty’s Balancing Face Toner. This gentle and refreshing toner, elegantly presented in a convenient spray mist bottle, is thoughtfully crafted to hydrate, tone pores, and seamlessly integrate into your skincare routine. Formulated with the highest quality natural ingredients, this toner is a true gem for all skin types, including sensitive skin.

And here’s the truth: I initially wanted to hire a maid in hopes that she would become my replacement—that if Andrew fell in love with another woman, he would finally let me go. But that’s not why I hired Millie. That’s not why I gave her a copy of the key to the room. And that’s not why I left a bottle of pepper spray in the blue bucket in the closet. I hired her to kill him. She just doesn’t know it.

Seamus Finnigan couldn’t control himself. He let out a snort of laughter which even Lockhart couldn’t mistake for a scream of terror. ‘Yes?’ he smiled at Seamus. ‘Well, they’re not – they’re not very – dangerous, are they?’ Seamus choked. ‘Don’t be so sure!’ said Lockhart, waggling a finger annoyingly at Seamus. ‘Devilish tricky little blighters they can be!’ The pixies were electric blue and about eight inches high, with pointed faces and voices so shrill it was like listening to a lot of budgies arguing. The moment the cover had been removed, they had started jabbering and rocketing around, rattling the bars and pulling bizarre faces at the people nearest them. ‘Right then,’ Lockhart said loudly. ‘Let’s see what you make of them!’ And he opened the cage. It was pandemonium. The pixies shot in every direction like rockets. Two of them seized Neville by the ears and lifted him into the air. Several shot straight through the window, showering the back row with broken glass. The rest proceeded to wreck the classroom more effectively than a rampaging rhino. They grabbed ink bottles and sprayed the class with them, shredded books and papers, tore pictures from the walls, upended the waste bin, grabbed bags and books and threw them out of the smashed window; within minutes, half the class was sheltering under desks and Neville was swinging from the candelabra in the ceiling. ‘Come on now, round them up, round them up, they’re only pixies …’ Lockhart shouted.

After you died I couldn’t hold a funeral, so my life became a funeral. After you were wrapped in a tarpaulin and carted away in a garbage truck. After sparkling jets of water sprayed unforgivably from the fountain. Everywhere the lights of the temple shrines are burning. In the flowers that bloom in spring, in the snowflakes. In the evenings that draw each day to a close. Sparks from the candles, burning in empty drinks bottles.

Carry a small spray bottle with water in it. While walking in a crowd of people pretend to have a large sneeze and spray the water bottle so the mist hits the back of peoples’ necks when you sneeze.

Hey.” He looked between us, though his eyes seemed to have trouble focusing. “I heard we’re fucking Shades now.” He dropped the bottle, shattered glass spraying everywhere. Definitely not a threat. “Oh, shit, I can clean that up,” he mumbled, kneeling clumsily in the shards. He was less than a threat. If anything, he was an active danger to himself.

Neem Oil: Neem oil (pictured above) is found in a lot of household items, ranging from soaps and shampoos to toothpaste and beauty products. However, you are going to want to buy pure neem oil for use in your hydroponic garden. Neem oil is made up of a lot of different components that together work as a form of all-natural pesticide. You can find a 16 oz container of pure neem oil for under $20 on Amazon, and your local gardening center is sure to carry some. You should also purchase a spray bottle while you are thinking about neem oil. Your local garden center will have spray bottles, but you can save a few dollars by going to a dollar store and getting one there. Distill neem oil into some water and fill up the spray bottle. Once a week, spray down your plants with this neem oil + water solution. Make sure to get it over the leaves and the plants themselves. This creates a coating that doesn’t harm the plants, but it makes them repellent to pests. If you find that you do have to deal with an infestation, then neem oil works as a part of a treatment routine, but it should already be a part of your weekly routine as a preventative measure.

Look at them, the bugs. Humans have used everything in their power to extinguish them: every kind of poison, aerial sprays, introducing and cultivating their natural predators, searching for and destroying their eggs, using genetic modification to sterilize them, burning with fire, drowning with water. Every family has bug spray, every desk has a flyswatter under it . . . this long war has been going on for the enitre history of human civilization. But the outcome is still in doubt. The bugs have not been eliminated. They still proudly live between the heavens and the earth, and their numbers have not been diminished from the time before the appearance of the humans. The Trisolarans who deemed the humans bugs seemed to have forgotten one fact: The bugs have never been truly defeated. A small black cloud covered the sun and cast a moving shadow against the ground. This was not a common cloud, but a swarm of locusts that had just arrived. As the swarm landed in the fields nearby, the three men stood in the middle of a living shower, feeling the dignity of life on Earth. Ding yi and Wang Miao poured the two bottles of wine they had with them on the gorund beneath their feet, a toast for the bugs.

Reading is an infection, a burrowing into the brain: books contaminate, metaphorically, and even microbiologically. In the eighteenth century, ships’ captains arriving at port pledged that they had disinfected their ships by swearing on Bibles that had been dipped in seawater. During tuberculosis scares, public libraries fumigated books by sealing them in steel vats filled with formaldehyde gas. These days, you can find out how to disinfect books on a librarians’ thread on Reddit. Your best bet appears to be either denatured-alcohol swipes or kitchen disinfectant in a mist-spray bottle, although if you stick books in a little oven and heat them to a hundred and sixty degrees Fahrenheit there’s a bonus: you also kill bedbugs. (“Doesn’t harm the books!”)

Someone said once, “If you want to fill a dozen milk bottles, you must not stand back and spray them with a hose. You can get them wet, but you won’t fill them. You must take them one by one.

He put one of his heavy crystal perfume bottles into her hand. A big one with an old-fashioned silk puffer spray. She looked at the label and saw it wasn't the one she'd sprayed on her wrist, but the first cap she'd smelled and hadn't liked so much. It was called the Darkest Hour. "I know you like Half Past Eight more," said Guy. "You think you're not a spicy-orientals girl, with your Celtic blood and your dry skin; I read your blog, I know about your fetish for chypre fragrances. It's the oakmoss and patchouli combo alongside the burned lemon you're responding to in Half Past Eight." Polly had to laugh. "Bang to rights," she said. "Halfway to chypre paradise...

I hear from the sofa- ‘Wear a jacket, Karly!’ My mom thinks even when I’m dressed, I’m still half-naked. So, out the door, I see sis get on the yellow bus. Waving at me like a moron out the window! And the cold feels like a b*tch slap to my face, yet it is a good way to wake up. I got into the SUV that was wrecked the night before. Thinking that this thing is like a coffin to me, yet I could say anything, or Jenny would think I have completely lost my mind. So, we go down all the same roads, not stopping at any of the red or yellow lights or signs. When Liv gets into the car she leans forward and grabs my hot- chocolate, and the smell of her perfume is strawberry, it is a body spray she has been wearing devotedly ever senses she was twelve and her hips and boobs develop like the end of sixth grade, she buys like five bottles every time we go into Sally Beauty Supply. I know that she has it on her, so I ask her for a squirt, even though I am sick of it after all these years, and even though I don’t want to smell like her, I ask for it anyway, I don’t want to smell like balls! Even though it stopped being cool in seventh grade, to where kiddy stuff like she still does- I have to close my eyes, overwhelmed, and coffin as a puff of it surrounds me, or then what I asked for. Gross, I smell like a pre-teen after gym class now, just trying to cover it up. Closing my eyes was a horrible idea. One- I get to feeling car sick. Two- I can see where Jenny is driving, and the way it feels- it must be off the road. Three- I start to daydream about Marcel, plus heartsick over Ray still, even though I was done after what he did to me, I can stop having feelings for him, he was the first that took me from behind. Oh no, he was not my first love god no, I didn’t know what love was until I saw it in Marcel's eyes, but was it real? That is what I am afraid of- trusting my heart to a boy again. I could see all the flashes of sincere light within Marcel's home, I could see him holding as no boy has ever done with me. I could almost feel the tingle of his kiss on my lips. ‘Holy freaking crap balls,’ said Jenny. I snap my eyes open as Jenny swerves to avoid hitting a cuddly black cat, walking past. That is when I start to look out the window into the side mirror, and the glossy dark trees are flocking on either side of us like outlined ghosts in the navy-blue sky. I smell something hot. I said- ‘Yeah that’s just me.’ I hear Jenny shrieking not too long after I feel relaxed, and yet once more, I feel my stomach go to the bottom of my feet and back up, as the SUV rolls to the one side, tires wailing- ‘It was a family of deer this time, trying not to get murdered. You should have seen their faces. It’s like mine every time I ride in this SUV.

Dietrich grinned in the darkness. You’re going to have to do better than that, he thought as he edged forwards. Less than three metres to go before he was in position to strike. Just before he reached the corner, before he exposed himself to Kooi’s position, Dietrich would angle the AK and spray rounds through the pallets of bottles. Maybe he would aim low and try to incapacitate Kooi with bullets in the legs. Then he could have some fun with him. Two metres to go. Something clattered behind him and Dietrich spun around in the direction of the sound. His gaze swept from darkness into light focused and magnified by one of the convex mirrors. He grimaced, the light stinging his eyes with their dilated pupils and ruining his night vision. Purple spots blinded him. He pivoted back around, knowing he’d been tricked. There was an explosion of light and sound.

All-Natural, All-Purpose Cleaner Combine 1 teaspoon borax, ½ teaspoon washing soda, and 1 teaspoon liquid Castile soap in a spray bottle. Add 2 cups warm distilled water. Add a few drops of the essential oils of your choice (such as lemon, lavender, or orange). Put the spray top on the bottle and shake well. Use on bathroom surfaces, kitchen counters, and elsewhere.—courtesy of Katie Wells, Wellness Mama4

On a limited experimental basis, I have used an ET cannula to instill an aqueous corticosteroid from an intranasal steroid nasal spray bottle into the middle ear of adults and have had success in clearing a middle-ear effusion.

Inside was a wonder. The ceiling was entirely obscured by bunches of herbs, flowers, and sweet rushes hanging to dry. Shelves lined every spare inch of wall, filled with bottles of potions, salves, and powders of all colors. A friendly fire blazed out of a flagstone hearth. Farthest away from this, in the back where it was cooler, was a dairy pantry filled with cheese, milk, and butter. All goat, probably. Growing through a window was a healthy spray of roses that looked like a neighbor poking her head in for news and a good gossip.

All-Natural Furniture Polish Ready In: 10 minutes INGREDIENTS: 1 cup olive oil, 1/ 2 cup lemon juice DIRECTIONS: Add the ingredients together in a bowl or spray bottle. Then use a clean cloth to vigorously apply small amounts to the affected area. Wipe dry with another clean cloth.

GLASS CLEANER Ingredients: 1/4 cup vinegar and 4 cups warm water. Directions: Add into a spray bottle, use to clean glass or mirrors with a piece of newspaper or dry, clean cloth.

That is part of why I wrote this book—to help PKs make sense of, sort through, and express those bottled-up frustrations and pains. What happens too often is bottling up, suppressing them until we get shaken just enough and the lid blows off and the hurt sprays everywhere.

When we walk in, everybody turns to look at us. Pres looks down at our joined hands and then looks to Knox. I open my mouth to say something, but he beats me to it. Of course he does. “Yo. Little announcement here. Violent Violet and I are together. She’s my old lady and I’m her old man. Yada yada yada, we’re getting married. So there’s that.” I look at him, and I feel my jaw pop open. “Did you just yada yada your proposal to me?” Knox shrugs like it’s no big deal. “Wasn’t going to let you tell me no.” The big scarred-up guy comes over and gives him a high five. “Best way to do it,” he says and pats Knox on the back. “About time you made an honest man out of him,” Pres says, walking over and giving me a hug. I feel Knox’s hand tighten, and he doesn’t let it go while I awkwardly try to hug the guy back. “We’re all a family here now, and it’s going to stay that way. We agreed that you’re patched in, regardless if you marry this nerd or not.” I lean into Knox and laugh. “Thank you.” “Welcome to the Ghost Riders,” Pres says, and suddenly I hear a champagne cork pop and we’re all being sprayed with suds. I try to turn into Knox’s chest, but he holds me in front of him so I get covered. As more champagne is popped and more bottles get poured, Knox spins me in his arms and raises me up so we are at eye level. “I love you, baby,” he says, kissing me on the lips. ‘Love you, too,” I mumble as I wrap myself around him. I’m finally at peace with myself and my life, and I’ve got someone to always make me feel safe. It was a long time coming, but it was worth the wait. And now we’ve got the rest of our lives to do this thing we call love.

but I’m a supermarket own brand multi-surface cleaner girl really. I just decant it into the nice brown glass bottle so that people will think I’m wholesome and care about the planet and probably steep my own cleaning sprays with home-grown lavender. Not that I don’t care about the planet of course, it’s just that it all takes up such a lot of time, doesn’t it? And when you’ve got a full-time job, two children, two cats and a husband who doesn’t even own any grout and tile deep cleaner, there isn’t a lot of time left for steeping things.

I looked at the ornaments on the desk. Everything standard and all copper. A copper lamp, pen set and pencil tray, a glass and copper ashtray with a copper elephant on the rim, a copper letter opener, a copper thermos bottle on a copper tray, copper corners on the blotter holder. There was a spray of almost copper-colored sweet peas in a copper vase. It seemed like a lot of copper.

After you died I couldn't hold a funeral, so my life became a funeral. After you were wrapped in a tarpaulin and carted away in a garbage truck. After sparkling jets of water sprayed unforgivably from the fountain. Everywhere the lights of the temple shrines are burning. In the flowers that bloom in spring, in the snowflakes. In the evenings that draw each day to a close. Sparks from the candles, burning in empty drinks bottles