Sentences with phrase «like everything under the sun»

Not exact matches

If you are feeling a little more mild - mannered and would like to present this gravy in a more decorative party vehicle, then I recommend pouring it over some skillet biscuits and topping it with everything under the Sabra sun.

I've tried everything under the sun and nothing works like this.

It's ok for him but he'd get everything bad under the sun if he stopped swimming......... just like every one else.

I'm still searching, but I tend to have a philosophy: eat a delicious variety of healthy foods, with a focus on restricting refined carbs, like sugars, grains, potatoes, corn and rice, while enjoying just about everything else under the sun, without feeling limited in any way.

December has been a very busy month filled with holiday meals and parties, activities with the kids, holiday shopping, and what has felt like everything else under the sun.

As STD rates rise, health experts say many people miss a golden opportunity to lower their risk of contracting herpes by simply broaching the subject with a potential partner — like when first chatting online about everything else under the sun.

It is very interactive, and you get to enter everything under the sun about yourself, from what type of exercise you like, if you have pets, what your ideal night is, and more.

Our chatrooms are full of members just like you, waiting to talk about everything and anything under the sun.

Siamese cats are extremely vocal, and we like to go through the day with our humans by chatting away about everything under the sun.

Just like humans, dogs can have allergies to anything and everything under the sun.

, you are lying on the floor of your place looking up, a small draft runs through the room, between the door and the window, and all things seem perfectly still, wind only disturbs concrete in imperceptible ways, or it may take millions of years to be noticed and, as the air runs through the space, all your plants move and all is animated and all is alive somehow, and here are the thoughts of all men in all ages and lands, they are not original with me, and that wind upon your plants is the common air that bathes the globe, and we have no ambitions of universalism, and I'm glad we don't, but the particles of air bring traces of pollen and are charged with electricity, desert sand, maybe sea water, and these particles were somewhere else before they were dragged here, and their route will not end by the door of this house, and if we tell each other stories, one can imagine that they might have been bathed by this same air, regrouped and recombined, recharged as a vehicle for sound, swirling as it moves, bringing the sound of a drum, like that Kabuki story where a fox recognizes the voice of its parents as a girl plays a drum made out of their skin, or any other event, and yet I always felt your work never tells stories, I tend to think that narrative implies a past tense, even if that past was just five seconds ago, one second ago was already the past, and human memory is irrelevant in geological time, plants and fish know not what tomorrow will bring, neither rocks nor metal do, but we all live here now, and we all need visions and we all need dreams, and as long as your metal sculptures vibrate they are always in the Present, and their past is a material truth alien to narrative, but well, maybe narrative does not imply a past tense at all and they are writing their own story while they gently move and breathe, and maybe nothing was really still before the wind came in, passing through the window as if through an irrational portal to make those plants dance, but everything was already moving and breathing in near complete silence, and if you're focused enough you can feel the pulse of a concrete wall and you can feel the tectonic movements of the earth, and you can hear the magma flowing under our feet and our bones crackling like a wild fire, and you can see the light of fireflies reflected in polished metal, and there is nothing magical about that, it is just the way things are, and sometimes we have to raise our voice because the music is too loud and let your clothes move to a powerful bass, sound waves and bright lights, powerful like the sun, blinding us if we stare for too long, but isn't it the biggest sign of love, like singing to a corn field, and all acts of kindness that are not pitiful nor utilitarian, that are truly horizontal as everything around us is impregnated with the deadliest violence, vertical and systemic, poisonous, and sometimes you just want to feel the sun burning your skin and look for life in all things declared dead, a kind of vitality that operates like corrosion, strong as the wind near the sea, transforming all things,

Here in Washington State, everything under the sun has been linked to global warming (local TV and newspaper reports, seems like almost daily); and we've had a couple of cold years as I was able to confirm from a recent report from our state's climatologist (not just my perception).

In an ideal world the Mary Poppins bag would exist and I could carry everything under the sun to the office with me without looking like the crazy bag lady.

Perhaps because I remember days before we had kids when it felt like there were many more silver linings to long distance — nights on the couch to myself watching movies I knew he wouldn't like, more late nights reading in bed, uninterrupted Saturdays in which to write, always drinking my favorite white wine instead of red, lazy Skype dates during which we'd talk about everything under the sun.