Tired And Tanned Quotes

It’s a sun lamp. I thought you might be tired of your pasty-pale complexion. (Chris) Christopher, I happen to be a Viking in the middle of winter in Minnesota. Lack of a deep tan goes with the whole Nordic territory. Why do you think we raided Europe anyway? (Wulf) Because it was there? (Chris) No, we wanted to thaw out. (Wulf)

I felt foolish and tired, as if I had been running to escape someone chasing me, only to look behind to discover there was no one there.

Georgie's mother had spectacular cleavage. Tan, freckled, ten miles deep. "Genetics," her mom said when she caught Georgie looking. Heather shoved a bowl of green beans into Georgie's arm. "Were you just staring at Mom's breasts?" "I think so," Georgie said. "I'm really tired--and she's kinda begging for it in that shirt." "Oh, sure," Heather said. "Blame the victim.

Sooo, I'm tired of people thinking I'm a freak. I know you can't relate to that but -" "Get over it already, will ya?" Candace stood. "You're not Smellody anymore. You're pretty. You can get hot guys now. Tanned ones with good vision. Not geeky hose jousters." She shut the window. "Don't you ever want to use your lips as something other than veneer protectors?" Melody felt a familiar pinch behind her eyes. Her throat dried. Her eyes burned. And then they came. Like salty little paratroopers, tears descended en masse. She hated Candace thought she had never made out with a boy. But how could she convince a seventeen-year-old with more dates than a fruitcake that Randy the Starbucks cashier (aka Scarbucks, because of his acne scars) was a great kisser? She couldn't.

Billy was walking up the hall, buckling his belt. His tanned face was now sallow and wet with sweat. "He says there's a bulge in my aorta. Like a bubble in a car tire. Only car tires don't yell when you poke em.

Involved. At least that was the right word, Alsana reflected, as she liftes her foot off the pedal, and let the wheel spin a few times alone before coming to a squeaky halt. Sometimes, here in England, especially at bus-stops and on the daytime soaps, you heard people say “We’re involved with each other,” as if this were a most wonderful state to be in, as if one chose it and enjoyed it. Alsana never thought of it that way. Involved happened over a long period of time, pulling you in like quicksand. Involved is what befell the moon-faced Alsana Begum and the handsome Samad Miah one week after they’d been pushed into a Delhi breakfast room together and informed they were to marry. Involved was the result when Clara Bowden met Archie Jones at the bottom of some stairs. Involved swallowed up a girl called Ambrosia and a boy called Charlie (yes, Clara had told her that sorry tale) the second they kissed in the larder of a guest house. Involved is neither good, nor bad. It is just a consequence of living, a consequence of occupation and immigration, of empires and expansion, of living in each other’s pockets… one becomes involved and it is a long trek back to being uninvolved. And the woman was right, one didn’t do it for one’s health. Nothing this late in the century was done with health in mind. Alsana was no dummy when it came to the Modern Condition. She watched the talk shows, all day long she watched the talk shows — My wife slept with my brother, My mother won’t stay out of my boyfriend’s life — and the microphone holder, whether it be Tanned Man with White Teeth or Scary Married Couple, always asked the same damn silly question: But why do you feel the need…? Wrong! Alsana had to explain it to them through the screen. You blockhead; they are not wanting this, they are not willing it — they are just involved, see? They walk IN and they get trapped between the revolving doors of those two v’s. Involved. Just a tired inevitable fact. Something in the way Joyce said it, involved — wearied, slightly acid — suggested to Alsana that the word meant the same thing to hear. An enormous web you spin to catch yourself.

I'm tired of this shit,' I say. I don't know why I say it. Maybe because I'm tried of driving, tired of the road stretching before me endlessly, Michael always at the opposite end of it, no matter how far I go, how far I drive. Maybe because part of me wanted her to leap for me, to smear orange vomit over the front of my shirt as her little tan body sought mine, always sought mine, our hearts separated by the thin cages of our ribs, exhaling and inhaling, our blood in sync. Maybe because I want her to burrow in to me for succor instead of her brother. Maybe because Jojo doesn't even look at me, all his attention on the body in his arms, the little person he's trying to soothe, and my attention is everywhere. Even now, my devotion: inconstant.

The Earth keeps turning, night and day, spit-roasting all the tanned Tired icebergs and polar bears, making white almost contraband. The biosphere on a rotisserie emits a certain sound That tells the stars that Earth was moaning pleasure while it drowned. — "Poem by the Bridge at Ten-Shin

I learned about opening moves and why it’s important to control the center early on; the shortest distance between two points is straight down the middle. I learned about the middle game and why tactics between two adversaries are like clashing ideas; the one who plays better has the clearest plans for both attacking and getting out of traps. I learned why it is essential in the endgame to have foresight, a mathematical understanding of all possible moves, and patience; all weaknesses and advantages become evident to a strong adversary and are obscured to a tiring opponent. I discovered that for the whole game one must gather invisible strengths and see the endgame before the game begins. I also found out why I should never reveal “why” to others. A little knowledge withheld is a great advantage one should store for future use. That is the power of chess. It is a game of secrets in which one must show and never tell.

What are you doing?” “Coming to pick you up in a little bit,” he said. I loved it when he took charge. It made my heart skip a beat, made me feel flushed and excited and thrilled. After four years with J, I was sick and tired of the surfer mentality. Laid-back, I’d discovered, was no longer something I wanted in a man. And when it came to his affection for me, Marlboro Man was anything but that. “I’ll be there at five.” Yes, sir. Anything you say, sir. I’ll be ready. With bells on. I started getting ready at three. I showered, shaved, powdered, perfumed, brushed, curled, and primped for two whole hours--throwing on a light pink shirt and my favorite jeans--all in an effort to appear as if I’d simply thrown myself together at the last minute. It worked. “Man,” Marlboro Man said when I opened the door. “You look great.” I couldn’t focus very long on his compliment, though--I was way too distracted by the way he looked. God, he was gorgeous. At a time of year when most people are still milky white, his long days of working cattle had afforded him a beautiful, golden, late-spring tan. And his typical denim button-down shirts had been replaced by a more fitted dark gray polo, the kind of shirt that perfectly emphasizes biceps born not from working out in a gym, but from tough, gritty, hands-on labor. And his prematurely gray hair, very short, was just the icing on the cake. I could eat this man with a spoon. “You do, too,” I replied, trying to will away my spiking hormones. He opened the door to his white diesel pickup, and I climbed right in. I didn’t even ask him where we were going; I didn’t even care. But when we turned west on the highway and headed out of town, I knew exactly where he was taking me: to his ranch…to his turf…to his home on the range. Though I didn’t expect or require a ride from him, I secretly loved that he drove over an hour to fetch me. It was a throwback to a different time, a burst of chivalry and courtship in this very modern world. As we drove we talked and talked--about our friends, about our families, about movies and books and horses and cattle.

I glance up and nearly squeal in shock as the same hunky mechanic stares down at me. How did he see me back here? This spot is super secluded, and no one ever sits here. “Can I help you?” I ask, pulling my earbuds out and taking in the broad width of his shoulders. Today, Mr. Book Boyfriend is wearing blue jeans and a black, fitted Tire Depot T-shirt. He’s much cleaner than he was yesterday in his dirty coveralls that made me reconsider the profession of my current book hero. “You’re back,” he states knowingly, his stunning blue eyes drinking in my yoga pants, T-shirt, and a baseball cap. “I, um…had an issue with one of my tires. The guys are fixing it.” “Which guys?” he asks, crossing his tan, sculpted arms over his chest. I have to crane my neck back completely to even reach his face he’s so tall. “I’m not really sure.” “Okay, well, which car?” he inquires, running a hand through his trim black hair. Damn, he’s really got that tall, dark, and handsome thing down to a T. He looks almost Mediterranean. Le swoon! I swallow slowly. “Um…I drive a Cadillac SRX.” “A Cadillac?” He barks out a small laugh. “Isn’t that kind of an old lady car?” My brows furrow. “It’s not an old lady car. It’s a luxury SUV. It’s wonderful. I have heating and cooling seats.” “Well, if you have that kind of money to spend on a vehicle, you should look at a Lexus or a BMW. Much more sexy feel to the body. You’d look pretty damn hot driving a Lexus LX.” “Maybe I’m not trying to look hot. Maybe I like looking like an old lady.” That was a really unhot thing to say, but Book Boyfriend booms with laughter and squats down next to me.

¡Poto! Dicen que no sé escribir. No sé de ortografía. No todas las palabras tienen letras mudas. Pensaba que la ortografía se escribía con h, pero no, estaba completamente equivocada. La letra h es muda y tonta. Se me tupen los acentos y las comas, pero sobre todo confundo el significado de las palabras. Mi mamá me dice que soy tonto. Generalmente confundo el significado de todas las cosas. No sabía que no saber escribir era tan malo. Cuando mi mamá me pilla jugando con las cosas me pega y me dice que es malo, que hay cosas que son pecado. Es pecado jugar con la comida y quedar como una muñequita japonesa con los labios rojos de tanto comerse las guindas. Es pecado darle besos a la Chuminga. Parece que en el mundo de los grandes todo es pecado. Es pecado no querer jugar con mi hermanos y encaramarme a los árboles con mis amigas; ser tan divertidas como la ésta, que se subió a lo más alto de la higuera y con la cara sucia dijo: “no-venir-ningún-yanqui”. Como si pudiéramos entrar y salir de las películas, meternos en la tele y ocupar el lugar de los actores sin correr el riesgo de chocar de frente con algún viejo enojón que me tire el pelo, o a pelarme las rodillas al pasar por los bordes de la tele, o de que me dé la corriente y morirnos de la risa porque ahí nadie nos puede hablar de pecado. Jugar a ponerse seria para decir cosas divertidas es lo más chistoso que hay. Pero es pecado entender las cosas mal. Al revés. Jugar a estar en otro lugar y no quedarse pegada a la tierra, eso es pecado. No jugar a la pelota con mis hermanos para ir a comer moras, es más pecado todavía. Todavía, dicen que se escribe con v corta porque hay letras mudas, largas y cortas. Es más pecado que llenarse la guata de tanto comer y jugar a refregar las moras por la cara, hasta quedar cholitas y reírnos hasta hacernos pipí. Hacerse pipí y tirarse peos es pecado. Pero cuando como repollo no me puedo aguantar los peos. Aprender a leer y a escribir sirve para saber del pecado… -Claudia Rodríguez

We lay on our backs on hot sand and baked in the sun. Salt-crusted, preserved. Later, in the darkness of the green dome I felt his hand brush against my thigh, and with it the same electric pulse of need there had always been. Silence descended; everything stopped; I didn’t move, afraid to ignite a want that wouldn’t be satisfied, or lose a hope I’d held on to forever. He hesitated for a long moment, his hand stretching hot against my cold skin, a moment that hung between us in an unanswered question. Days passed. Clouds moved in from the south-west, white rolling cumuli disappearing inland. Winds changed direction: damp and light from the west; dry and cooling from the east; colder from the north-west, carrying hints of another season soon behind; then gently from the south, summer not quite yet spent. The heat reflected off the flat rocks, less jagged than those that surrounded them in the cove. We dried clothes on them, sat the stove flat on them to cook limpets, cracked an egg on them in the hope that it might fry, but when it didn’t, scraped it up and scrambled it, picking out bits of sand and grit. We lay on them, crisping to leathery brown. Bodies that fourteen months earlier were hunched and tired, soft and pale, were now lean and tanned, with a refound muscularity that we’d thought lost forever. Our hair was fried and falling out, our nails broken, clothes worn to a thread, but we were alive. Not just breathing through the thirty thousand or so days between life and death, but knowing each minute as it passed, swirling around in an exploration of time. The rock gave back the heat as it followed the arc of the sun, gulls called in differing tones as the tide left the shore and then returned, my hands wrinkled with age and my thighs changed to a new shape with passing miles, but when he pulled me to him and kissed me with an urgency that wasn’t in doubt, with a fervour that wouldn’t fail, time turned. I was ten million minutes and nineteen years ago, I was in the bus stop about to go back to his house, knowing his parents weren’t home, I was a mother of toddlers stealing moments in a walk-in wardrobe, we were us, every second of us, a long-marinated stew of life’s ingredients. We were everything we wanted to be and everything we didn’t. And we were free, free to be all those things, and stronger because of them. Skin on longed-for skin, life could wait, time could wait, death could wait. This second in the millions of seconds was the only one, the only one that we could live in. I was home, there was nothing left to search for, he was my home.

Daniel and the Pelican As I drove home from work one afternoon, the cars ahead of me were swerving to miss something not often seen in the middle of a six-lane highway: a great big pelican. After an eighteen-wheeler nearly ran him over, it was clear the pelican wasn’t planning to move any time soon. And if he didn’t, the remainder of his life could be clocked with an egg timer. I parked my car and slowly approached him. The bird wasn’t the least bit afraid of me, and the drivers who honked their horns and yelled at us as they sped by didn’t impress him either. Stomping my feet, I waved my arms and shouted to get him into the lake next to the road, all the while trying to direct traffic. “C’mon beat it, Big Guy, before you get hurt!” After a brief pause, he cooperatively waddled to the curb and slid down to the water’s edge. Problem solved. Or so I thought. The minute I walked away he was back on the road, resulting in another round of honking, squealing tires and smoking brakes. So I tried again. “Shoo, for crying out loud!” The bird blinked, first one eye then the other, and with a little sigh placated me by returning to the lake. Of course when I started for my car it was instant replay. After two more unsuccessful attempts, I was at my wits’ end. Cell phones were practically non-existent back then, and the nearest pay phone was about a mile away. I wasn’t about to abandon the hapless creature and run for help. He probably wouldn’t be alive when I returned. So there we stood, on the curb, like a couple of folks waiting at a bus stop. While he nonchalantly preened his feathers, I prayed for a miracle. Suddenly a shiny red pickup truck pulled up, and a man hopped out. “Would you like a hand?” I’m seldom at a loss for words, but one look at the very tall newcomer rendered me tongue-tied and unable to do anything but nod. He was the most striking man I’d ever seen--smoky black hair, muscular with tanned skin, and a tender smile flanked by dimples deep enough to drill for oil. His eyes were hypnotic, crystal clear and Caribbean blue. He was almost too beautiful to be real. The embroidered name on his denim work shirt said “Daniel.” “I’m on my way out to the Seabird Sanctuary, and I’d be glad to take him with me. I have a big cage in the back of my truck,” the man offered. Oh my goodness. “Do you volunteer at the Sanctuary?” I croaked, struggling to regain my powers of speech. “Yes, every now and then.” In my wildest dreams, I couldn’t have imagined a more perfect solution to my dilemma. The bird was going to be saved by a knowledgeable expert with movie star looks, who happened to have a pelican-sized cage with him and was on his way to the Seabird Sanctuary.

Several times, I woke to the sound of him tapping his grey nails against the steering wheel.  When I opened my eyes to look at him, I could see his elongated canines.  At those times, I wanted to reach over and pat his leg, but I held myself back. When I woke to see his ears pointed too, I quietly studied him for a few minutes.  I knew I was the cause of his agitation.  He’d sensed my withdrawal.  I hadn’t wanted him to see my confusion.  I wanted to talk to Sam first, before saying anything to Clay.  But my approach obviously wasn’t the right one.  Clay had stuck by me through everything.  I needed to trust that he wouldn’t turn away from me after I revealed what had happened. “Clay...” He paused his tapping. “Could you pull over for a minute?” He glanced at me, lifted a concerned brow, but did as I asked.  The tires crunched on the snowy shoulder.  He stopped the car then turned toward me. A sad smile lifted my lips.  I hated to see him like this.  I tapped my lips.  I needed affirmation that we still had our connection, and he needed assurance I was fine. His tight grip on the steering wheel loosened, and he shook his head in amusement.  I held my breath as he leaned toward me. Clay cradled my face in his hands and kissed me tenderly.  I clutched his shirt, dragging him closer.  When he opened his mouth to nip my bottom lip, I groaned and willingly let him in.  We steamed the windows.  My lungs burned for air.  Finally, I had to pull away to catch my breath.  He wrapped his arms around me and placed small gentle kisses on the top of my head. His neck hovered in my line of sight.  I could give him what he wanted.  A quick bite and I wouldn’t need to worry about other potential Mates.  I could Claim him as my own.  But I didn’t want to hurt him anymore.  Physically or emotionally.  I pulled back from our make-out session. Clay gave me one last kiss on the lips then put the car in drive.  The smooth, tan skin of his very human ears called my attention, as did his clean, pink nails.  He looked content, no longer tapping his fingers while he stared ahead at the snow-covered roads. I

¡Ay mi México, mi México malherido, mi México que se conforma con tan poco! ¿Es posible que creamos aún en la eficacia del gobierno cuando, a la hora de la hora, quien hizo todo fue la gente? Ayer todavía, en la calle se mostraba agradecida porque los autobuses de la Ruta 100 fueran gratuitos, el teléfono gratuito, aunque tuviera que romper las tomas de agua en la calle porque no llegan las pipas. Pide tan poco, se contenta con muy poco. La población, en estos días, se hace cargo de sí misma. De todos modos los de abajo están acostumbrados a que ni se les tire un lazo. La absoluta inoperancia del gobierno no es cosa nueva. Son tan distintos del aparato en el poder, tan espectadores inermes de las decisiones gubernamentales, tan hechos a un lado que uno piensa que no hablan el mismo lenguaje. [...] Al pueblo, aunque hablen tanto de él, nunca le han concedido más papel que el de extras; los jefes siempre han estado ahí para obstaculizar, para paralizar, para cerrar el paso, para cultivar la antesala. Si no, ¿por qué no están aquí los protagonistas de la tragedia? ¿Por qué en vez de oír a la costurera, a un damnificado, a un socorrista, tenemos que oír al político de siempre, al burócrata, al funcionario de coche y chofer?

I want you. All of you. I adore seeing you writhe beneath me. Feeling you come undone in my arms. I’ll never tire of that.

I’m tired of men. I wish they weren’t simultaneously so easy and the most difficult, dangerous thing in the world. His brown eyes are wide with feigned innocence, but I can see lies scrawled across his tanned face. “Thank you so much. I’m sorry for taking your time.

As soon as Cat-girl releases me, I whirl around to face her. "You should've let me claw her face off!" I growl. She regards me coolly. "Perhaps." Then she turns to leave, pausing first to add, "I am getting tired of that sneer." The comment - almost humorous - disarms me, and I watch her go in silence. Damp hair cascades in a tousle to the low dip of her back. Her bathrobe has come off one shoulder to reveal a curve of smooth tanned skin, rosy-brown. I gave her the nickname Cat-girl because of the shape of her eyes, the keen, feline intelligence in them. But the way she moves is catlike, too. My eyes track her shifting hips, an unfamiliar warmth turning my belly.

ver a la maglia rosa y a la negra, a la estrella y al estrellado. Al verdugo y la víctima. Así que existirá una lucha enconada por terminar rodando tan lento como se pueda. Lo nunca visto en el deporte... No piensen que era fácil, la vida es dura cuando intentas ser pésimo. Tienes que reunir una serie de condiciones básicas. Encanto personal, por ejemplo, ese que te permite entrar en casas ajenas a comer en plena competición, y así perder media horita adicional. Huesos de acero, no romperte nada cuando te tires deliberadamente a la carretera fingiendo una caída (de la que siempre acabas recuperándote). Dotes casi de espía para esconderte detrás de árboles, en una cuneta, agazapado por las lindes de los campos. Ah, y dignidad, eso siempre. El último, si va derrotado, arrastrándose por las sendas, nos produce compasión. Si, en cambio, pasa pavoneándose, exhibiendo sonrisas, diciendo, eh, aquí estoy yo, comienza lo bueno... entonces el sentimiento es muy parecido al orgullo.

Why are you so unhappy?” It had been a long time since I had someone to talk to, someone willing to listen. My caution—so carefully cultivated here—thawed in the spark of his warmth. “Each morning when I awaken, I don’t want to open my eyes,” I began haltingly, unused to unburdening myself. “Maybe you should sleep more if you’re so tired.” He grinned but I scowled at him, in no mood for humor. How silly I was to think he might have cared. I grabbed the cloak and bucket ti leave, as he scrambled to his feet. “I’m sorry,” he said stiffly, as though unaccustomed to apologizing.”I shouldn’t have made fun of you when you were trying to tell me something important.