Hot Takes Quotes

“I love a man in uniform. And he's got a big hose. I'm getting hot just looking at it."
"I can hear you," Sam called out. "This is an office. Please keep the discussion to a PG level."
"How about you keep your dirty R-rated thoughts to yourself," Daisy retorted. "We're looking at a picture of a firefighter holding a hose on the street to cool people off on a hot summer day. In my innocence, I can't even imagine what you were thinking."
"I thought you were using a metaphor," Sam said. "But clearly I shouldn't assume..."
Layla glanced down at the picture. The firefighter was bare chested save for the suspenders holding up his fireman pants, which were unzipped in a way that suggested he wasn't on his way to a fire. "That's... some hose."
"I can still hear you."
"He's jealous," Daisy whispered. "He wishes he could have a big hose that makes women wet.”
― Sara Desai, The Marriage Game

“Every day, everyone is a hundred different people: who they are when they are alone and feeling fuckable, who they are when they are alone and feeling unfuckable, who they are when they are grief wrecked, when they are joy smacked.”
― Rivers Solomon, Model Home

“[I]t seems that everyone has fallen under the thrall of this idea that we’re all writers and dramatists now, that each of us has a special voice and something very important to say, usually about a feeling we have, and all this gets expressed in the black maw of social media billions of times a day. Usually this feeling is outrage, because outrage gets attention, outrage gets clicks, outrage can make your voice heard above the deafening din of voices squalling over one another in this nightmarish new culture—and the outrage is often tied to a lunacy demanding human perfection, spotless citizens, clean and likable comrades, and requiring thousands of apologies daily. Advocating
while creating your own drama and your brand is where the game is now. And if you don’t follow the new corporate rules accordingly you are banished, exiled, erased from history.”
― Bret Easton Ellis, White

“You wouldn't believe how many languages I had to learn to get my software engineering degree."
Sam's gaze drifted over Daisy's Riot Grrrl T-shirt. "I see English wasn't one of them.”
― Sara Desai, The Marriage Game

“It's a guy thing. We like euphemisms. He could just as easily have said doing the nasty, shagging, banging, screwing, humping, baking the potato, boning, boom-boom, four-legged foxtrot, glazing the donut, hitting a home run, launching the meat missile, makin' bacon, opening the gates of Mordor, pelvic pinochle, planting the parsnip, releasing the kraken, rolling in the hay, stuffin' the muffin, or two-ball in the middle pocket..." He trailed off when he noticed their shocked expressions. "Or sex," he added. "He could have just said that."
"No wonder you don't have a girlfriend." Layla gave him a withering look. "I can't imagine a woman who would stick around after you took her for a nice dinner and then said, Hey babe, let's go launch the meat missile , or my personal favorite, release the kraken."
"I didn't say I used them." Sam loosened his collar. Why was the restaurant so damn hot?
"You know them. That's bad enough."
Dilip tipped his head to the side. "What's a kraken?"
"That's what I'm going to do to Sam's head in about three seconds," Layla said.
Sam smirked. "A kraken is an enormous mythical sea monster."
"Are we in middle school?" Layla looked around the bare room in mock confusion. "Because I could swear you were just talking about the size of your-”
― Sara Desai, The Marriage Game

“The name is Mr. Mehta," Sam interrupted. "Sam is for friends."
"Do you have friends?" Daisy inquired. "You don't look the type."
"Of course I have friends." He'd lost touch with many of them after Nisha's accident, but he still saw John regularly at the gym, along with his sparring partner, Evan.
"Are they imaginary or real?" Daisy gave him a condescending smile. "I'm guessing imaginary because no one wants to be friends with a jerk."
Sam scowled. "This is a place of business. If you wish to socialize, I suggest you go elsewhere."
"He's cute when he's annoyed," Daisy said. "Maybe you should keep him around for eye-candy purposes."
Layla gave him a sideways glance through the thicket of her lashes. "Don't compliment him. His ego is already so big, his top shirt button is about to pop."
The women chuckled and Sam's jaw tightened. Women adored him. Men admired him. Employees detested him. But no one ever, ever dismissed him. "He is, in fact, sitting right here."
"We're very aware of your presence." Daisy flashed him a sultry smile. "It's hard to miss the steam coming out of your ears.”
― Sara Desai, The Marriage Game

“You're certainly not dressed like you're running a business."
Eyes blazing, she glared. "What's wrong with how I'm dressed?"
"An apron and a pink tracksuit with Juicy written across the ass are hardly serious business attire and they certainly don't scream swipe right on desi Tinder."
Sam didn't know if there was such a thing as Tinder for people of South Asian descent living abroad, but if it did exist, he and Layla would definitely not have been a match.
Layla gave a growl of frustration. "You may be surprised to hear that I don't live my life seeking male approval. I'm just getting over a breakup so I'm a little bit fragile. Last night, I went out with Daisy and drank too much, smoked something I thought was a cigarette, danced on a speaker, and fell onto some loser named Jimbo, whose girlfriend just happened to be an MMA fighter and didn't like to see me sprawled on top of her man. We had a minor physical altercation and I was kicked out of the bar. Then I got dumped on the street by my Uber driver because I threw up in his cab. So today, I just couldn't manage office wear. It's called self-care, and we all need it sometimes. Danny certainly wouldn't mind."
"Who's Danny?" The question came out before he could stop it.
"Someone who appreciates all I've got going here-" she ran a hand around her generous curves- "and isn't hung up on trivial things like clothes." She tugged off the apron and dropped it on the reception desk.
"I'm not hung up on clothes, either," Sam teased. "When I'm with a woman I prefer to have no clothes at all."
Her nose wrinkled. "You're disgusting."
"Go home, sweetheart." Sam waved a dismissive hand. "Put your feet up. Watch some rom-coms. Eat a few tubs of ice cream. Have a good cry. Some of us have real work to do.”
― Sara Desai, The Marriage Game

“It also says here that you're a good girl." His voice dropped to a sensual purr and he leaned toward her. "Are you a good girl, Layla? You seem very bad to me. If you need a husband who can keep you in line, you'll have to up your game.”
― Sara Desai, The Marriage Game

“I was hoping you had a secret kinky side. If you ever want to know what I fantasize about, I'll be more than happy to share."
Layla groaned. "I'm not interested in hearing about your aspirations to be a dancer in the Broadway production of A Chorus Line.”
― Sara Desai, The Marriage Game

“If you're worried that her wheelchair is an issue," John said, "I'll just remind you that your personality handicap hasn't stopped us from being friends."
Puzzled, Sam frowned. "What personality handicap?"
"Your inability to see things that are staring you in the face.”
― Sara Desai, The Marriage Game

“Have I told you lately about the general direction in which I would like you to fuck?
Ouch. You're really not a morning person.”
― Stacey Ballis, Out to Lunch

“I would appreciate it if you'd turn it down."
He tries to wrestle out of Pen's grasp. "It's a free country."
"I'm actually aware of that," Pen says. "Which means you are free to choose self-preservation and turn down your god-awful music. As long as one of you idiots can manage to find the volume knob. It's the little round thing about the size of your brain.”
― Laekan Zea Kemp, Somewhere Between Bitter and Sweet

“How's your girlfriend? Sorry I didn't stay for an introduction."
"She's not my girlfriend. We worked together on a downsizing."
Layla lifted an eyebrow. "What exactly did you downsize that involved the removal of your pants?”
― Sara Desai, The Marriage Game

“I'll drive." Sam held out his hand.
"It's my car. I'll drive."
Sam bristled. "I'm the man."
"So?"
"The man drives. That's a man's job. Just like fixing things, building things, taking out the trash, proposing marriage, mowing the lawn, barbecuing, carrying heavy furniture..."
Layla snorted. "Wake up. It's not the '50's anymore. No one drives this woman's Jeep. I can build anything from IKEA without help, and if I ever do find someone I want to marry, I'll ask the dude myself. However, if you want to take out the trash or fix the leaky faucet in the restroom, knock yourself out."
"How about Layla takes her Jeep and Sam takes his car and I promise not to tell anyone that you two single-handedly destroyed the environment?" Daisy suggested.
"That's ridiculous," Sam snapped. "We're going to the same place for the same reason. We only need one vehicle."
"This is my gig," Layla said. "I'm driving my car. If you can't get over your traditional sexist patriarchal controlling self, then I'll meet you there.”
― Sara Desai, The Marriage Game

“Goodness," said my mother. "This is a tight fit. If you girls end up keeping these men longer than usual, we'll need to get a bigger table."
I let it go, but Rachel has more energy than me. "Are all relationships just opportunities for home furnishings, Mom?"
Mom shrugged. "Mostly, Rachel. Yours don't usually last long enough for furniture, though, do they?" She smiled at Richard, as if that made up for what she'd just said. "Maybe you're a keeper, though, Dick."
"Or maybe I'm just a dick," he shot back, "but hopefully I'm a keeper.”
― Abbi Waxman, The Garden of Small Beginnings

“I fill Grant in on my boring day of bids, the embarrassment of the staff meeting where Murph called me out for signing off on the Rick Bayless restaurant bathrooms without noticing that we installed the women's room door on the men's bathroom. "Apparently our little Anneke can pee in a urinal with no problem, so it didn't occur to her that the other ladies might not have such great aim." This was received with a roomful of laughter, and Liam jumped right in. "Well, she does have bigger balls than you, Murph." It took five minutes before everyone stopped laughing and poking fun, and I sat there smiling and chuckling as if it didn't matter. And then I said that my balls were perfectly delicate and ladylike, but my dick was definitely bigger than Murph's, and the room went totally silent in that way where you can almost hear the needle scratching violently across the record, and he glared at me and curtly told me to get the hell over there and fix it and apologize to Rick for the error. Lucky for me, Rick Bayless is a very kind gent, and pals with Grant, so we laughed about it and he made a delicious torta that he has been experimenting with and we split it and talked about Grant's new place, and he sent me off with a bag of warm churros, so the day was somewhat saved.”
― Stacey Ballis, Recipe for Disaster

“The situation is simple. If you want to keep our business, we'd like a different project manager. One who doesn't act like she thinks we're stupid, or insufferable. Someone who doesn't act like she hates working with us."
A red haze falls over my eyes. I've never been anything but respectful with these jackasses. I've been friendly and calm and accommodating. But this? This running to my bosses and tattling like spoiled children? Asking to have me removed because I told them that I want to build their stupid house so that it doesn't fall down? This is major bullshit, and my blood pressure soars. My carefully-fought-for bit of restraint that I've been struggling so hard to maintain shatters into a zillion pieces. And before I know it, words are flying out the front of my head.
"Mr. and Mrs. Manning, everyone here at MacMurphy wants you to be happy with your experience. And you should absolutely work with someone you connect with. I recommend Liam Murphy, he's your kind of ass-kissing suck-up guy. He will tell you what you want to hear, one hundred percent of the time. He will built your monstrous tasteless house and fill it with your cut-rate special-deal fell-off-the-truck fixtures that your buddies pawn off on you. He'll never tell you that you are building something with built-in lack of resale value due to your appallingly bad taste, and that you are doing it at a price nearly twice what the market in that neighborhood will ever bear. He can be the one to ignore your calls in two years when your screening room walls sprout black mold and your ghastly gold-flecked marble backsplash cracks in half as the kitchen settles six inches into your unstable leaky basement. As for your perception that I act like I think you are stupid and insufferable and I hate working with you? Let me assure you. That? Is no act.”
― Stacey Ballis, Recipe for Disaster

“Anneke, I don't know what the FUCK just got into you, but if you want to have a job here, I suggest you go home now and think about what you want to say to us tomorrow to make us want to keep you."
I look him dead in his beady little eyes and with a deep sense of calm, I unload, pretty as you please with honeyed tones. "You don't have to worry, Murph. I don't want to have a job here. I'm tired of the bullshit kowtowing to entitled crap-buckets like the Mannings. I'm tired of you and Mac never giving me my due or having my back. I'm tired of you feeding all the good stuff to your obsequious cousin Liam and leaving me all the shit. I'm tired of your endless series of talentless legs and boobs and hair extensions that you like wandering around here despite their general incompetence. I'm finished. I'm the best you had and the only one you should have trained to replace you in three years when you want to retire and still draw income. And you've never once done anything to show that you know it. So, since it's clear that you will always take the word of the client over someone who has been a valuable employee for nearly a decade, I am fucking done." I never raise my voice; the smile never leaves my face. I deliver this blow with as much grace as I can muster, throw my bag over my shoulder, grab the small box of my personal effects, and push past him before he can even close his gaping jaw.
I head out of my office, feeling flushed and nervous, but also giddy. Liam is standing next to the front desk, chatting up Pinky Tuscadero Barbie.
"That's a lot of yelling back there, Annamuk." He leers at me. "That time of the month?"
The Barbie giggles.
"Hey, Liam? A word to the wise. That fancy truck? Doesn't mean you don't HAVE a tiny little dick. It just means that you want the WHOLE WORLD to know it."
And with that, I open the door wide, letting the frigid wind blow through, leaving them both gape-jawed in a tornado of papers.”
― Stacey Ballis, Recipe for Disaster

“Serving chocolate outside?"
"Ice cream in the summer. Cioccolata calda in the winter. And bicerin."
"Bicerin? That's only served in Torino."
"Why not? Is there a law?"
"Of course not, but this is Amalfi."
"The tourists will love it." She turned around. "And I told you I don't want that grouch in here."
"Caffè napoletano," Lauro muttered as he straightened a table. "And cappuccino freddo in the summer."
"What?"
"I should go. Let me know if you need more help in the kitchen."
Wincing at his choice of words, Lauro hurried from the shop before she could respond. Glancing over his shoulder, he saw her watching him. Her lovely lips parted in surprise.”
― Jan Moran, The Chocolatier

“It's just- well, I don't want you to get hurt. Take it slow, that's my advice. Look, you're new to this, and it takes some experience dealing with..." Her sentence trailed off. "I mean, what do you really know about him?"
"Well, he's not married.”
― Mindy Friddle, The Garden Angel

“I must congratulate you on your new restaurant, Mr. Baker. I hear it's doing very well. And you are looking quite well. Much better than the last time I saw you."
Chris's mouth tightens as he takes her hand, clamping down a little harder than is necessary. "Thank you. I hear your play is going to be quite something. Seems you've found your niche, playing a woman destroying her own family. I wish you well with it."
She smiles in a way that suggests she'd love to do him violence.”
― Brianne Moore, All Stirred Up

“Did you want me to be grateful that you're leaving?"
Among other things. At first India didn't say it. Then she did.
Naina looked taken aback. "Like what? Having another woman steal what's mine?"
India stopped and turned to her. Was she for real?
Don't engage with her.
But the look on Naina's face was too superior, too entitled. "If indeed one of us is stealing what's not theirs, it isn't me.”
― Sonali Dev, Incense and Sensibility

“So you fill me full of pretty words and kiss me like your life depended on it, tell me to meet you, and then just disappear. Vanish from the earth. Without a note, a letter, a phone call---nothing. Just like your mom did to you."
His whole face tightened on that one, and Sidney feared she'd gone too far, but there was no going back now.
"So, what, you were just paying that forward?"
"That's a low blow," he said, his voice gruff.
"Well, that's what you shoveled out to me that night," she said. "And now---" Sidney laughed and raked her hair back. "Now I find out that before you ditched me, you actually watched me in my worst, most vulnerable moment ever. You watched me cry over you before you disappeared." She pointed at him. "You, sir, are a piece of work.”
― Sharla Lovelace, The Cottage on Pumpkin and Vine

“Hey bruha, about time you came to visit me. You been with Tita Rosie for what, two or three months now? And you're only coming around now that you need me for something?" She made a noise with her lips and gestured to Amir. "Even Mr. Big-Time Lawyer here knows how to make time for his family. What's your excuse?"
I pasted a smile on my face as I screamed on the inside. "Missed you too, Ate Bernie. And in case no one told you, I've been busy helping Tita Rosie and Lola Flor run the restaurant. Maybe if your ex-boyfriend stopped being trash and came to help his mom, I'd have more free time.”
― Mia P. Manansala, Arsenic and Adobo

“How is my freedom at stake and everything is still all about Lila?"
I froze, my own dessert spoon halfway to my mouth. "What? The only reason we're all gathered here tonight is for you. You're the one who asked me to investigate."
"Yes, to help me. And instead you're twisting it into some quest your beloved suitors need to fulfill in order to win you over. Spoiler alert, Lila: Nobody likes love triangles. Nobody.”
― Mia P. Manansala, Homicide and Halo-Halo

“As I turned around to head back to the outdoor patio, my elbow poked the guy next to me. Unlike Daniel, this guy had a higher squish-to-muscle ratio.
"I'm sorry," I squeaked as I maneuvered around him.
"Watch where you're going," he grumbled while looking me up and down. As I walked away, he muttered, "Stuck-up bitch."
My mouth fell open, searching for words. The alcohol clouded my brain, making it hard to know how to respond.
"The only stuck-up bitch here is you," Daniel said and walked closer to the aggressor. "She said she was sorry. I believe you owe her an apology."
"I don't owe her shit. You and your girlfriend can get the fuck outta my face." He turned to his entourage and made a face that made them laugh.
Why that seemed like the best time to jump into the conversation, I don't know, but it did. "Look, you walking Dockers pants model, I said I was sorry. And you're a fucking asshole to talk to someone that way----ANY human that way---in the holiest, Dolly-est place on earth, well, second to Dollywood." I wagged my index finger in his face. "I have another apology for you. I'm sorry you took an innocent bump of an elbow into your beer pooch and tried to turn it into a personal attack. And I'm sorry to your friends for having a loser who drags down their social circle.”
― Suzanne Park, So We Meet Again

“You always want to blame the person who gets hurt instead of the one who does the hurting. I guess that means you think I knew you when you were hooking up with Harland Henson behind my back?"
I let this long-held secret come tumbling out, one of many wounds Bitsy delivered during childhood. "My first boyfriend stolen by my only sister. How much more Jerry Springer does it get? You'd have taken Fisher too, if he had let you. I know all about how you tried to kiss him while I was getting dressed for prom.”
― Julie Cantrell, Perennials