The W Magical List of Women Bloggers: notice anyone’s name missing?
Hmm. Maybe I’m not on there because I can’t, for the life of me, figure out why we actually need a list of women bloggers. That’s so… sexist!
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The iPod didn’t arrive today. VH is coming down with a cold. That means the snoring is un-freaking-believable, and I feel too sorry for him to bop him on the head until he stops making noise. So, deprived of my ability to read in bed for 2 hours with absolute peace and quiet, I find I can’t sleep.
In the interest of marital harmony — and staying out of prison — I mosied downstairs to the sofa thinking I’d nod off there. VH has done it before, after all, so why not return the favor? Ten minutes later I remembered why: our sofa cushions are feather-stuffed, and I’m allergic to feathers. Usually it doesn’t bother me - I seldom spend much time on the thing - but it certainly rules out any chance of falling asleep on it.
So here it is, 1:37 a.m. and I’m on the deck where, surprisingly, I’m not sneezing. Oh, I’m a bit chilled, and I’m wishing I’d remembered to put down some plastic before sitting on the chair, considering the downpour of rain we had earlier. But at least I can’t hear the snoring out here provided the breeze keeps blowing the right direction.
Dear God, that man can snore!
All of which is to say that I’m awake well past my bedtime and that, my friends, means I’m grumpier than usual. Scary, isn’t it?
These are the times I find myself thinking “Big Empty Thoughts”™, like:
Discuss.
A couple of days ago, a birthday present that De Doc ordered for me through Amazon arrived. My birthday was in June, and his gift was a book that I’d been waiting for the author to complete. Now that Susan Wise Bauer’s History of the Ancient World
I confess, I’m turning into a geek when it comes to ancient and medieval history.
This isn’t an entirely new thing. Back in college I’d initially majored in history, with an emphasis on ancient cultures. Then, as is so often the case in the study of history, I had two entire semesters of some of the most dull, uninspired and monotonous professors ever to have darkened this earth. Thus I became an English Literature major, and the rest is… well… history.
Nowadays, with a number of degrees under my belt, I have little interest in returning to college. (Well, that’s not necessarily true: I still dream of pursuing a doctorate in history but very much doubt that I will ever find the time or finances to do it.)
These days, I’m more into self-education which, until lately, had consisted of sitting in my stuffy little basement office pouring over one book after another, my Timetables of History
Lately, though, I’ve been hooked on the History Channel, which I now TiVo to watch when VH is busy with his computer game. But even that might not make me necessarily geeky… until the other evening while watching a show about the Goths when I realized I’d filled the position formerly occupied by Simon Cowell on My List with this man.
I’m such a geek.
Finally, a list I’m happy to be excluded from: John Hawkins’ 21 Most Annoying People on the Right in 2006. Then again, only one female made the list. I’d cry “chauvinist,” but I happen to agree with most of the names on there.
Over at NaNoWriMo there’s a forum seeking input on a good playlist to write chick lit. I gave my ideas, but that got me to wondering: what would you suggest? I’m not looking for grrrrrl power songs. Those make me want to go kick somebody’s ass, not sit down and write.
So what songs would you nominate as the 50 Most Depressing (non-Sucky) Songs? Submit ones that make it to my playlist and if my novel gets published I’ll be sure to include your name in the acknowledgments!
UPDATE: Please don’t suggest entire albums. (Ooops… just showed my age, didn’t I?) I’m looking for particular songs, folks.
It’s no secret how much I love lists: making them, reading them, ignoring them. With Listography, I can do that with my own lists, or with other people’s. Neat!
Fans of the t.v. show, Friends,
Anyway.
“The List” is a running joke in my household. That is to say, the Venomous Hubby will put a female celebrity on his list and I — due to my inexplicable bouts of fascination with gossip mags — will produce some juicy tidbit that gets Female A booted from his “List” in favor of Female B.
For instance, Jennifer Aniston used to be on Hubby’s list until the day I commented that her drastic weight loss during the series left her face (IMVO) looking more like a guy with long hair than the gorgeous sex kitten she initially was. Two nights of reruns later, the Venomous Hubby nixed Ms. Aniston from his List in favor of Jessica Alba. And, although he won’t budge on Heather Locklear’s Numero Uno List position, I otherwise applaud his other four entries (no pun intended).
He, however, does not understand — and therefore scoffs at — the five men on my list.
Perhaps that’s because my five nominees rotate on a regular basis, depending on my mood, my then-predilections for sensitive vs. manly men, and my latest perusal of tabloid headlines indicating who’s single and who’s been seen with their hairstylist a bit too much of late.
Then, too, perhaps it’s because I have no identifiable type. Witness, for example, my list — in no particular order of preference — and the reasons therefore:
1. Matthew McConaughey: Although I’m not big on blondes, I do love Southern boys. I also like men who are, regardless of their politics, passionate about what they believe and down-to-earth. Oh, and guys who can pull off that “I-just-got-out-of-bed-and-threw-this-on-but-damn-I’m-stylish” look. This man is the poster-boy for that kind of man. Oh, and since he apparently likes brown-eyed brunettes, I figure I have a 0.02% chance for at least an evening of good conversation (which, in my mind and what I remember of my pre-marital experience, is quite often more entertaining than actual sex).
2. Anthony Bourdain: He cooks, he travels, he writes, he looks for bars with smoking sections. What’s not to like? Oh, and did I mention that he’s tall, thin, adventurous, cynical and from New York? He’s like a little slice of heaven fit into a 6-foot-something frame.
3. Ron White: Yep, the comedian. Or, as I like to think of him: one of those rare guys who drinks harder than I do (even if he drinks Scotch viz my more enlightened — and less odiferous — martinis) — and he’s also a Southern boy who still maintains that same sense of fuckyou-ness otherwise known as Venom. Sure, he’s got a few extra pounds on his frame, but so do I… and both of us are blunt enough to acknowledge that the poundage doesn’t prevent the other parts from working. The problem is — even if we managed to stumble into the same bar, much less three bar stools of each other — we’d probably spend most of an evening getting drunk and the rest of it seeing who could be better at insult comedy. (I’d win: girls fight dirty.)
4. Simon Cowell: My lust for Simon is no secret. It’s not just the pillow pecs and the accent that makes him sound more intelligent than the rest of us (read: you male) plebes, there’s also the added attraction of a guy who is quite possibly as blunt as I… without the alcohol-infused bite which no doubt would taint the fun of an evening with, say, Ron White and trigger the chew-off-my-own-arm-in-the-morning guilt/shame reaction of my youth. Oh, and besides adoring his whole square-shouldered contemptuously high-standard demeanor, I actually like the way he dresses. Surprise.
5. Viggo Mortenson: First, let me note that I lusted after this man long before he appeared in the LOTR series. And, yes, he’s another escapee from my usual “no blonds” rule. I was lucky enough to meet Viggo in Seattle during the late 80’s when I was working as a DJ for an alternative radio station and charged with promoting a show headlined by the band X. Since Viggo was married to Christine… er, I mean, Exene … Cervenka at the time, he’d tagged along with her (or, more likely, she insisted on his presence). And, since the band was busy performing, the rest of us non-headliners were left to, well, chat and remind ourselves that there were more interesting things to us than mere band accessories. An hour later, when I’d learned he’d not only spent a significant amount of time in New York but was also interested in poetry, photography and art (at which he needed a bit of work — and still does — but his name now sells sufficiently that I fear he’s lost his dedication — and he’d led a semi-nomadic childhood — well, I fell in lust. Watching him in Fresh Horses (which sucked) and a decade later in G.I. Jane (which didn’t) only cemented my lust.
So there you have it: my List… without rhyme, although with a modicum of reason.
But, more importantly, who’s on yours?
