Word: couched
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...finished my language orientation for the day and I headed over to my friend Danielle’s apartment for a cute French dinner. After dinner, I sat on her couch and watched Cruel Intentions until it was time to meet up with some other friends. Shortly after arriving on the Champs-Elysees, I met up with a friend from my program, Ashley, and we proceeded to VIP (or, as the French say, “veep?...
Heller still remembers the not-so-lovely first impression Mark made on her father years ago. The couple had fallen asleep on the couch downstairs after talking late into the night—and were startled awake at 3 a.m. by her father’s angry screaming...
Looking for inspiration to get yourself off the couch and into the gym? You may be in luck. British designer Stella McCartney has teamed up with Adidas on a new line of athleticwear for women. There's gear for running, swimming and training, with apparel prices ranging from $35 for low-rider swimsuit bottoms to $210 for a reversible warm-up jacket, all in McCartney's familiar palette of dusty pinks, shimmering grays and sandy yellows. The first collection hits Adidas sports shops and select Bloomingdale's and Nordstrom stores in February. So turn off the tube and get ready...
...character Albert is a post-puberty Max Fischer, with longer hair, a scraggly beard and none of the charm. Schwartzman opens the film by shouting a stream of obscenities; in person, he makes somewhat less of an impression. He balances his slight, thin build on a couch, sipping a glass of water and at one point sucking on a lemon. Schwartzman’s conversation—when he gets a word in edgewise amidst Russell’s freewheeling monologues—swings wildly from dull stories from the Huckabees set to an extended riff on the legacy...
...then place my hand, no the other way, tighten, release, hold this rope, open again, hold another rope, sit up on your hand, ok. The bull is still but for the vague vibrations of muscle and bone, and sitting on it feels like straddling the back of a suede couch with a massage setting and, incidentally, horns. My nerves boil over into panic, and I grasp for a question I haven’t asked yet—should I move back? In which direction? This time it won’t be a baseball and my finger...