I had intended for this blog to be a place where I share my dazzlingly witty musings, and share my tales of growing up gayby. Yet, as you can see, so far I have a post about a mop.
I thought of reviewing new sites I like, but when simplynoise.com (a site that provides free white noise) tops that list things are bleak.
So, onto things that are happening:
Nick, my husband, has started calling me a “cultural necrophiliac,” because of an article he read concerning Downton Abbey ( http://www.bbc.co.uk/news/entertainment-arts-16609589 ). Basically, I enjoy a show that glorifies dead traditions and people. Really, though, is that so bad? In reality, if I am going to be called a “cultural necrophiliac” it should be for enjoying websites that list hot people throughout history like: http://bangabledudesinhistory.blogspot.com/ which basically lists dudes and ladies from the history books that can be described as “bangable.” My friend Tim and I discovered the site after spending our night trolling google images for dead artists we thought were hot, as drunk art historians do. During one of our many scrolls through the google, my eyes landed on this gem :
The fine glass of water before you is, Leon Bonnat (1833 -1922), painter of things. Responsible for images like this:
Arguably, not as hot.
Arguably, muy hot.
This just goes to show that drunk google -ogling can be educational.
I whispered at a mop today.
I’ll give you a minute to just soak that in (accidental pun and all).
I’m trying to think of how the context of the situation might save me; but no matter how I spin it, I get caught up on the “whispered” part. This means I chose to communicate at a low decibel specifically for the benefit of the mop, and the mop alone.
I turned and realized a strange women had overheard me say, “I regretted not buying you, since the moment I didn’t buy you.”
As she ushered her child away, I realized my behavior may have been a bit over the top.—Before you judge, it was refillable spray mop with microfibers.
I have to admit, this type of situation really does make one take stock of their life though.When did I become such a domestic? And when did I become prone to whispering? All things to good things to consider…. another day.
"I forgive you, Cassandra. I forgive you." *Weeps, then quickly absorbs tears.
I am both cowardly and lazy – a terrible mix for blogging. Yet, in a bit of a New Year’s fervor I’ve decided to just commit to the task of sharing my thoughts with world, which basically means typing into the never ending ether that is the internet. The thing is you can’t just write a blog anymore, you need a theme or catch; something to hook a book deal with. I can’t say that my goals are anywhere near that lofty because, again, I am lazy and cowardly. However, here are some small goals for this blog:
- I would love to start the internet rumor that Colin Firth has a bread fetish. The problem is it nearly impossible to find any images of Colin Firth with food, much less bread. After many searches I found one image of Mr. Firth with a bar of chocolate. Following that, I found only one other image which pictures him sitting next to food at his favorite table. This is seriously odd, considering that a search of nearly any other celebrity eating will grant you a sea of images worthy of its own fetish. (Traipse on over to www.celebrities-eating.com to see what I mean.) The absolute lack of images of Firth eating makes me wonder if he has a gone out of his way to not be photographed while stuffing his face hole. What is he hiding? Answer: A bread fetish.
- My secondary goal would be to score a celebrity lunch with David Sedaris, Tina Fey and Mary Roach. By the end of the luncheon they will be convinced that I am a brilliant young talent and they will take me under their collective wing. Then we will ride off into the sunset on a single steed.*
In short, it’s the simple things that I’m after.
"Shit, they're on to me."
* Realistically, a lunch like this can only end in tears. David will say that my lunch choice is “unacceptable,” and Tina Fey will be insulted by my insistence on calling her by her full name. Roach would just be embarrassed by the whole ordeal and then write a book about it. They will all leave in a huff, but not without exchanging contact information and becoming the best of friends; bonding over their mutual hatred for me.