Everybody's Girl

Sweet Jesus.

Nobody told me Ian Thorpe had a line of underwear. 

I've linked to the Oxygen t-shirt page, because it's a slightly sleepy-faced, mussed up Thorpe, at the edge of (my) bed.  Hot.  But fellas, take note:  Those boxers are way sexy.  Please wear them next time you're over, hm?

In the meantime, I'll just keep clicking Add to wishlist.

Substance

Ask me no questions, I'll tell you no lies
The past is your present, the future is mine
- New Order

My friend comments on how thin this man in front of us has become.  You say he's healthy, and advise us not to worry.  "Some people just have a naturally low weight, that their body feels most comfortable at." 

You ask for a lighter.  I pass you the torch. 

But I resist the urge to tell you:  I have measured this man's weight, countless times, without balance or gauge.  I can estimate body mass with the tips of my fingers, and count muscle groups with my toes.

Instead, I just smile that smile, and say: "Well, good then!"  A display almost perfected, almost convincing. 

Then I grow another scale or two, and bite my tongue til it bleeds.

I used to be charming, but so it goes.
Charming is, as charming does
- or doesn't, I suppose.

Now, this might feel a little blasphemous...

Brilliant.  Picasso goes to Auburn Hills.  From WizzNutzz.

Oh - and if anyone can find me a still shot of Austin Croshere holding Artest back in the middle of that brawl? I'd be eternally grateful.  Put that photo right next to my bed, I would. 

George is to LA, as girl27 is to...

Damn!  It happened again.

I just got better looking. 

Wishful thinking

When I walked in the front door, I could hear someone on the bicycle trainer.  I went upstairs, and Greg Lemond was warming up in the kitchen.

It was a good half-second til I realised the shaggy fella was a friend of Paolo and Davide's, and most certainly not the three-time winner of the Tour de France.  Turns out, I just watch way too much bike racing (who knew?) and am now starting to project/hallucinate in the off season.   

I'm hoping Miguel Indurain shows up to fix the furnace this week.

To the new girl in apartment #2

It's a big old house - plenty big for two small girls. But there you go, with your flushing, and your dishes, and the laundry, and the handwashing. I never met anyone who turned the taps on and off as much as you.

Bitch, I am in the shower. Don't make me get out.   

your neighbour,

twenty seven

PS:  Did you used to tapdance? Because I heard something up there. I do that same shuffle-ball-step (fl-ap heel-heel) under my desk at work sometimes.

It wasn't the cough that carried her off...

Lately, I sort of miss that there's no one to tell me I look nice before I leave the house. No one asks what time I'll be home, or worries when I'm late. No one will feed the cats if I'm in a rush, or feed me when I run out of tuna.

I've been laid out with a nasty cold this week. Last night, through all the coughing, I was a bit concerned that I might actually die in my sleep. I'd give up all the niceties listed above, just to have someone in bed next to me, who could wake me up at 3am and say, "Sweetie, you're choking on your lung, there. Be careful."

Ne pleurer pas, maman.

Wee Richard Virenque retires, and hangs up le maillot pois for the last time.

King of the Mountains. Darling of the French housewife. Poster boy for redemption. And the first man to show me the Alps.

Au revoir, Richard. Et merci.

Whew.

You've wrestled a bear? Crawled through the jungle on your hands and knees? Saved three small children from a flaming car wreck?

I just went four weeks without the interweb at home.

Beat that, hot shot.