I know, I know. Y'all are miserable without my constant Internet presence and I continue to disappoint. Well, at least in that I am consistent. Please accept my sincerest of apologies.
There's been a lot going on round these parts. Most of it centers around my 15 year old daughter. I think when I told her the fucking world didn't revolve around her she took it as a challenge. And oh boy! did she rise to the occasion. But I ain't about to air that dirty laundry here.
Here's the Cole's Notes on the goings on of one Eyvi Sprite.
On Friday night I will participate in an all night walk to raise money for cancer. Me. The girl who routinely falls asleep at house parties at 11 pm. On the couch. In the middle of the party. The girl who falls asleep on her husbands first night home after a -insert appropriate time frame here- deployment. The girl who wanted to get a tattoo with Agent Blonde and then go bar hopping and then came home and promptly fell asleep half-way through beer number one (and had absolutely no problem whatsoever blaming the tattoo artist because he told AB she couldn't wear a bra). Oh yeah, all night walk was a brilliant idea! Jeebus! Just for the record; I can and have partied/stayed up all night. I am not a stick-in-the-mud! In fact, it's all part of my master plan. Make 'em believe I'm a wet blanket and then party like a rock star!
I've been bitten. I was warned. I never take these things seriously. Eyvi, of the addictive personality. I want another tattoo. Many more. I have wee bit of a problem though. I don't mind tattoos. Obviously. I'd be a mighty big hypocrite if I said I did. But I'm gonna go ahead and be a little bit of one anyway. I want to be able to hide my tattoos. If you've seen my tattoo, it's because I chose to share (please don't spout off about my FB/twitter pics, I reiterate - it was my first, it needed to be shared!). I know, I shouldn't really give a rat's ass what everyone else thinks and I don't. Like I told the Spinster at work (yeah, she deserves a title) when she asked me why I didn't get it where every one could see it, what was the point of getting a tattoo nobody could see? I told her I got it for me, because I loved it, not because I wanted everyone else to love it. That's why. If you are permanently marking your body with the hopes that everyone else is going to love it then you need to stop it. Now. The chief consideration in the placement of your 'tat' should not be the number of people that can see it. Sorry, I'm feeling ranty it seems. So this is my solution, I'm going to ink the crap outta my torso. When I run out of room, if I still have the fever I'll have to include appendages out of necessity. Works, right?
I've been reading, of course! When am I not? I've read Wuthering Heights, loved the prose, hated the actual story. I started a series based on a friend's recommendation, Bitten or Bound or some such by Kelly Armstrong. I'm reconsidering that friendship. I bought all four books in A Song of Ice and Fire for a wicked, awesome deal. I'm almost done the second book. They're good but I kind of don't like it when a book requires an index to keep all the freakin' characters straight (seriously, there is literally an index).
I've been watching teevee! Guess what I have been watching! Sons of Anarchy. If you haven't seen this show, you need to. Right now. Seriously. Go! It is full of awesome. Who knew Peggy Bundy could be oh so much more than a ditz? And the English kid that plays Jax? Mmmm mmm, good! Ron Perlman? I can't help it, if I close my eyes, he's Hellboy.
I quit smoking. Again. More on that when I feel like success is a reality instead of wishful thinking.
Finally ( I think. Honestly, I had a lot more to say than I thought I did, and y'all are hanging off my every word, aren't ya?), since I started my job a little more than a year ago, I've lost 40lbs. I haven't really made much of an effort, to be honest. I'm no longer sitting on my ass all day refreshing Pajiba and Crackbook, my job requires that I actually move, I was smoking half a pack a day and halfheartedly trying to eat well. Now that I've actually lost some, I want to lose more! About 40 more, maybe 50. That may be a bit too much though. If I lose 50lbs I may be all hands, knees, veins and ass. Not pretty, eh? I aiming for 40, see what it looks like when I get there. So here's my plan, I'm going to wholeheartedly try to eat well and exercise regularly. I started Saturday. I woke up, got in my gear and proceeded to do a half an hour of circuit training. It was awesome! By Saturday afternoon I was walking like a sixty year old. Sunday morning I crawled out of bed and nearly cried when I tried to sit on the toilet to pee, my thighs hurt so much. Not so fucking awesome. My ridiculously out of shape ass is not giving up though. I will reach and maintain a suitable weight. And when I do, I'm gonna get a tattoo to reward myself!
Nite folks!
Monday, June 13, 2011
Friday, March 4, 2011
Birthday Bash!
About 2 months before my birthday I realized I was having a hard time dealing with the fact that I was about to turn 33. As I've said before, 30 came and went and I was not phased. But random 33 had me freaking out. So many things I've yet to do! So much procrastination! Life was happening and I was not at the helm, I was a passive-aggressive passenger watching it fly by and the list of things I must accomplish had very few items checked off. I'm starting to loathe my self-appointed rule of Procrastination Island. I have begun to seriously contemplate abdicating the throne.
My husband told me about 6 weeks before D-Day that I should take the day after my birthday, a Friday, off. He was planning a surprise. Add the surprise to my early mid-life crisis and I start losing my shit (a drama queen too!). "A surprise!" You say. "Oh, Joy! Everyone loves surprises!" Not this girl. I'm a wee bit of a control freak so surprises aren't really my bag (I hate rainbows and unicorns too ( < --a lie)). And my imagination is on steroids. Tell me there is a surprise and I will work up to an unattainable crescendo and be disappointed with the actuality. I know, no one's fault but my own.
I spent the week of the surprise in a frenzy. I asked a bazillion questions. Is someone coming? Should I clean the clean you do when company's coming? Should I buy a new outfit? New shoes? Will there be a party? Do I need to pack? Will we need extra groceries? How much time do I have? WHAT IS GOING ON? My barrage of inquiries was such that I expected my husband's next response to be his rank and service number. But he did not break, the man is a vault. I intend to inform his boss that his talents are wasted as an airplane mechanic; our country's secrets should be entrusted to this man. And it's genetic! My daughter was in on the fun and equally elusive.
I vented to my cousin. I balked at the unfairness. My husband is well aware of my disdain for surprises and delights in my discomfort. My cousin sympathized, she too hates surprises. We listed all the things it could be. Was my sister coming? My Dad? I didn't even entertain the idea that it could be my cousin because her job security was in question at that particular moment and imagining her visiting cast a shadow over any other possibility. We began to concoct methods to discover the truth. Alas, my cousin is far sneakier than I and was willing to commit acts I was not (let's add wuss to the growing list of attributes). Do not underestimate the sneakiness, Sir! And so, I was still in the dark and worked up even more than before. The morning of my birthday arrived.
In anticipation of the impending event (which may or may not happen today. Grrr!) I wore real clothes to work instead of my usual uniform of scrubs (I'm allowed to wear either business casual or scrubs; usually a no brainer but there was the surprise to consider!). I spent the entire day with one half of my brain doing my job and the other alternating between allowing my imagination free reign and trying to suppress it. The effort was exhausting. During the drive home the division of my brain space changed in favour of the imagination game I had been playing all day and bare minimum attention was paid to the vehicle I was operating. I drove home, I know I did because I arrived. I just don't recall doing so. Now ask me what I imagined the surprise to be. And how hard I was squashing all the anticipation.
The walk from the garage to the back door is about 30 feet. To me, it felt like an eternity through the bowels of hell. I was so worried I was going to look into a window and see the object of the surprise and ruin the whole thing or I would be disappointed and do a horrific job of hiding my disappointment and crush my husband's heart. So I walked from the garage with my head down, eyes on my feet. I entered the house and announced my arrival, trying not to look around lest I spy some clue before the big reveal. I walked up the stairs, eyes on the stair in front me. Three steps from the top, I look up at my husband standing in the kitchen. He smiled the most infuriatingly smug smile and asked me how my day was. Fine, I said. Clipped and monotone. Because even still, knowing the surprise is about to come to pass, his smile says it all, I'm afraid to let annoyance or excitement have even a little ground or I may have lost my careful grip on the little control I did have at that point. He told me to follow him into the bedroom. I asked him why and he said to see the surprise. So, I followed him and half way down the hall he stopped and looked into our son's bedroom and made some nonsensical remark. I was about to ask him what the fuck and tell him to just get on with it already when I heard a voice behind me speak. I have no clue what the voice said because the words weren't important, it was the voice that was. My cousin! I screamed (literally) and did a little dance (one I do when I've been scared witless or when I've been incredibly surprised, apparently. Imagine Fred Flintstone's set up before he rolls the bowling ball, mix in a little spaz, some T-Rex and a hop and yeah). Then I ran over and we hugged and said something about how amazing this was and how surprised I was and then we hugged some more and maybe we even cried a little.
My 33rd birthday was perfect. A visit from my cousin, who will be known as Agent Blonde from here on out, was the b
est gift I could have gotten (even better than Jensen Ackles calling and leaving me a message, which he didn't do, by the way. Who was on that? You failed). And the quickest way to bring me out of my funk. We didn't do anything too crazy. We did a lot of talking, we ate, we drank, we listened to music. Oh and we got tattoos! Her fourth, my first. They're matching, cause we're nerds. But they sure are purdy!
Mr. Sprite and Agent Blonde are my favourite people. I'd like to give you both a heartfelt thanks for the best birthday ever. And a big sloppy smooch too!
My husband told me about 6 weeks before D-Day that I should take the day after my birthday, a Friday, off. He was planning a surprise. Add the surprise to my early mid-life crisis and I start losing my shit (a drama queen too!). "A surprise!" You say. "Oh, Joy! Everyone loves surprises!" Not this girl. I'm a wee bit of a control freak so surprises aren't really my bag (I hate rainbows and unicorns too ( < --a lie)). And my imagination is on steroids. Tell me there is a surprise and I will work up to an unattainable crescendo and be disappointed with the actuality. I know, no one's fault but my own.
I spent the week of the surprise in a frenzy. I asked a bazillion questions. Is someone coming? Should I clean the clean you do when company's coming? Should I buy a new outfit? New shoes? Will there be a party? Do I need to pack? Will we need extra groceries? How much time do I have? WHAT IS GOING ON? My barrage of inquiries was such that I expected my husband's next response to be his rank and service number. But he did not break, the man is a vault. I intend to inform his boss that his talents are wasted as an airplane mechanic; our country's secrets should be entrusted to this man. And it's genetic! My daughter was in on the fun and equally elusive.
I vented to my cousin. I balked at the unfairness. My husband is well aware of my disdain for surprises and delights in my discomfort. My cousin sympathized, she too hates surprises. We listed all the things it could be. Was my sister coming? My Dad? I didn't even entertain the idea that it could be my cousin because her job security was in question at that particular moment and imagining her visiting cast a shadow over any other possibility. We began to concoct methods to discover the truth. Alas, my cousin is far sneakier than I and was willing to commit acts I was not (let's add wuss to the growing list of attributes). Do not underestimate the sneakiness, Sir! And so, I was still in the dark and worked up even more than before. The morning of my birthday arrived.
In anticipation of the impending event (which may or may not happen today. Grrr!) I wore real clothes to work instead of my usual uniform of scrubs (I'm allowed to wear either business casual or scrubs; usually a no brainer but there was the surprise to consider!). I spent the entire day with one half of my brain doing my job and the other alternating between allowing my imagination free reign and trying to suppress it. The effort was exhausting. During the drive home the division of my brain space changed in favour of the imagination game I had been playing all day and bare minimum attention was paid to the vehicle I was operating. I drove home, I know I did because I arrived. I just don't recall doing so. Now ask me what I imagined the surprise to be. And how hard I was squashing all the anticipation.
The walk from the garage to the back door is about 30 feet. To me, it felt like an eternity through the bowels of hell. I was so worried I was going to look into a window and see the object of the surprise and ruin the whole thing or I would be disappointed and do a horrific job of hiding my disappointment and crush my husband's heart. So I walked from the garage with my head down, eyes on my feet. I entered the house and announced my arrival, trying not to look around lest I spy some clue before the big reveal. I walked up the stairs, eyes on the stair in front me. Three steps from the top, I look up at my husband standing in the kitchen. He smiled the most infuriatingly smug smile and asked me how my day was. Fine, I said. Clipped and monotone. Because even still, knowing the surprise is about to come to pass, his smile says it all, I'm afraid to let annoyance or excitement have even a little ground or I may have lost my careful grip on the little control I did have at that point. He told me to follow him into the bedroom. I asked him why and he said to see the surprise. So, I followed him and half way down the hall he stopped and looked into our son's bedroom and made some nonsensical remark. I was about to ask him what the fuck and tell him to just get on with it already when I heard a voice behind me speak. I have no clue what the voice said because the words weren't important, it was the voice that was. My cousin! I screamed (literally) and did a little dance (one I do when I've been scared witless or when I've been incredibly surprised, apparently. Imagine Fred Flintstone's set up before he rolls the bowling ball, mix in a little spaz, some T-Rex and a hop and yeah). Then I ran over and we hugged and said something about how amazing this was and how surprised I was and then we hugged some more and maybe we even cried a little.
My 33rd birthday was perfect. A visit from my cousin, who will be known as Agent Blonde from here on out, was the b
est gift I could have gotten (even better than Jensen Ackles calling and leaving me a message, which he didn't do, by the way. Who was on that? You failed). And the quickest way to bring me out of my funk. We didn't do anything too crazy. We did a lot of talking, we ate, we drank, we listened to music. Oh and we got tattoos! Her fourth, my first. They're matching, cause we're nerds. But they sure are purdy!Mr. Sprite and Agent Blonde are my favourite people. I'd like to give you both a heartfelt thanks for the best birthday ever. And a big sloppy smooch too!
Sunday, February 20, 2011
Reasons I Love Supernatural
Sometime before Christmas I got it in my head that I should watch Supernatural. I don't remember if someone suggested it or if I read something or saw an ad and decided it would be up my alley. Which is funny because from what I had gathered it's about ghosts/urban legends/scary stuff in general and 1) I am nyctophobic (afraid of the dark), which leads to 2) I am weary of all things that go bump in the night. Just go ahead and try to tell a ghost story around me and see how fast I shove my sock in your gob! But you all know me and once I get my teeth into something I'm a little like a pitbull; I'm not letting go until I'm damn good and ready. So I asked the hubby to get the series for me for Christmas. He didn't. So, seeing as he was away for the whole month of January; I got it myself and started watching. And now I am hopelessly addicted.
Beyond here there may be spoilers.
Supernatural is a show about two brothers, Dean and Sam Winchester, who travel the country hunting and ridding the world of the things nightmares are made of. Their relationship is not an easy one. Hunting is a family business and Dean accepts the family legacy, balls to the wall. Sam, on the other hand, has almost succeeded in escaping the family business and the family, for that matter. He's off at college, has a girlfriend and is resolutely ignoring anything that reminds him of his past, white picket fence in sight. Until he's awoken by a bump in the night. He investigates, discovers someone lurking and ass kicking ensues. The lurker turns out to be Sam's big brother, Dean. Dean tells Sam their father has gone on a hunting trip, hasn't returned and he needs Sam's help to find him. Sam reluctantly agrees as long as he's back in time for the interview of a lifetime. They go, they search, they hunt, they rid a town of "A Woman in White"(the pilots creepy du jour). Sam returns home in time for his big interview only to find his girlfriend draped to the ceiling, her midsection sliced open. The ceiling catches fire and Sam's girlfriend is consumed. This is the exact same way Dean and Sam's mother died 22 years earlier. Sammy has the carrot he needed to begin hunting again and Dean has his brother.
Eric Kripke, the shows creator, has said he wanted each show to be "a different horror movie every week". For the most part he succeeded. There were many a night the bathroom light was left on. Initially, I could have started watching anytime and would have had no problem following along. There's a backstory, of course, but I didn't need to know it to enjoy. It quickly evolved though and it became necessary to know the backstory to understand what was going on much of the time. Which is fine by me, because I watched the entire series in about 3 weeks (plenty of late nights and bleary eyed mornings), so I'm in the know.
Let me tell you about the things that got me hooked. Besides the actual story, because that's pretty good but I think if you took any of the following away, I wouldn't enjoy Supernatural nearly as much as I do. More or less in order of importance.
The Soundtrack
The soundtrack kicks all kinds of classic rock ass! Zepplin, AC/DC, Cream, Nazareth and so, so many more. My Dad would love it. It's the soundtrack to my childhood and my informative years. Every once in awhile I'll hear a song on the show I had completely forgotten about. I have stopped the show to YouTube whatever has caught my fancy. Fanfreakintastic! Season 6 is coming up a little short, though. The ear candy has diminished and that makes me sad. For your listening pleasure (also, the Ginger in the video? Oh God, The hair! Wow! And the lead singer? Does he remind you of this guy?)
Jeffrey Dean Morgan
I know, I know! He's already gone. And that is tragic. Jeffrey Dean Morgan is talented, adorable and oozes charisma
. On the show he played Dean and Sam's Dad, John Winchester. John's idea of parenting makes me quiver. The therapy bills that would be the result of being reared up by him would make a wealthy man weep. In his single minded determination to find the demon responsible for his wife's death he's used one son's unquestioning devotion to turn him into an obedient little soldier (Dean says Yes, Sir, more times that I'd like, and I cringe, every time). The other son, he's alienated all to hell (heh). Sadly, the powers that be felt the need to have his character bite the dust. And I know why. Javier Bardem. Jeffrey Dean Morgan got a job Javier Bardem didn't and Señor Bardem couldn't have that, so he hired a hit and Jeffrey Dean Morgan is hiding out. <--- The previous statement is not in the least factual.
Misha Collins
Beyond here there may be spoilers.
Supernatural is a show about two brothers, Dean and Sam Winchester, who travel the country hunting and ridding the world of the things nightmares are made of. Their relationship is not an easy one. Hunting is a family business and Dean accepts the family legacy, balls to the wall. Sam, on the other hand, has almost succeeded in escaping the family business and the family, for that matter. He's off at college, has a girlfriend and is resolutely ignoring anything that reminds him of his past, white picket fence in sight. Until he's awoken by a bump in the night. He investigates, discovers someone lurking and ass kicking ensues. The lurker turns out to be Sam's big brother, Dean. Dean tells Sam their father has gone on a hunting trip, hasn't returned and he needs Sam's help to find him. Sam reluctantly agrees as long as he's back in time for the interview of a lifetime. They go, they search, they hunt, they rid a town of "A Woman in White"(the pilots creepy du jour). Sam returns home in time for his big interview only to find his girlfriend draped to the ceiling, her midsection sliced open. The ceiling catches fire and Sam's girlfriend is consumed. This is the exact same way Dean and Sam's mother died 22 years earlier. Sammy has the carrot he needed to begin hunting again and Dean has his brother.
Eric Kripke, the shows creator, has said he wanted each show to be "a different horror movie every week". For the most part he succeeded. There were many a night the bathroom light was left on. Initially, I could have started watching anytime and would have had no problem following along. There's a backstory, of course, but I didn't need to know it to enjoy. It quickly evolved though and it became necessary to know the backstory to understand what was going on much of the time. Which is fine by me, because I watched the entire series in about 3 weeks (plenty of late nights and bleary eyed mornings), so I'm in the know.
Let me tell you about the things that got me hooked. Besides the actual story, because that's pretty good but I think if you took any of the following away, I wouldn't enjoy Supernatural nearly as much as I do. More or less in order of importance.
The Soundtrack
The soundtrack kicks all kinds of classic rock ass! Zepplin, AC/DC, Cream, Nazareth and so, so many more. My Dad would love it. It's the soundtrack to my childhood and my informative years. Every once in awhile I'll hear a song on the show I had completely forgotten about. I have stopped the show to YouTube whatever has caught my fancy. Fanfreakintastic! Season 6 is coming up a little short, though. The ear candy has diminished and that makes me sad. For your listening pleasure (also, the Ginger in the video? Oh God, The hair! Wow! And the lead singer? Does he remind you of this guy?)
Jeffrey Dean Morgan
I know, I know! He's already gone. And that is tragic. Jeffrey Dean Morgan is talented, adorable and oozes charisma
. On the show he played Dean and Sam's Dad, John Winchester. John's idea of parenting makes me quiver. The therapy bills that would be the result of being reared up by him would make a wealthy man weep. In his single minded determination to find the demon responsible for his wife's death he's used one son's unquestioning devotion to turn him into an obedient little soldier (Dean says Yes, Sir, more times that I'd like, and I cringe, every time). The other son, he's alienated all to hell (heh). Sadly, the powers that be felt the need to have his character bite the dust. And I know why. Javier Bardem. Jeffrey Dean Morgan got a job Javier Bardem didn't and Señor Bardem couldn't have that, so he hired a hit and Jeffrey Dean Morgan is hiding out. <--- The previous statement is not in the least factual. Misha Collins
Misha Collins plays Castiel, the angel that pulled Dean out of hell and occasionally divinely intervene
s. His character amuses me greatly. As an angel, he's often ignorant/envious of the ways of humans or "hairless apes" as humans are endearingly called by the majority of the celestial inhabitants. His deadpan is fantastic. One problem and it has nothing to do with the show. When I was "doing research" for this post I checked out the actors I wanted to write about. Sometimes, I find it difficult to separate the person from the talent. Misha Collins played Paul Bernardo in a movie called "Karla". That strikes a chord. I was born and raised in Toronto. I was a teeny-bopper during Paul Bernardo's reign of terror. I remember the fear The Scarborough Rapist incited. I remember watching or reading the words of the parents of Kristen French and Leslie Mahaffy. I'm not sure a movie about Karla Homolka needed to be made. And I'm having a hard time reconciling an actor I like with a role. But he Tweets. A lot. So, that's something.
Jim Beaver
Mr. Beaver plays Bobby Singer, fellow hunter and father-figure to Dean and Sammy. You know why I like hi
m so much? His character is the shit. He's all full of wisdom and snark and love. Awww. Need some info on some obscure demon? Call Bobby. Need to be ripped a new one? Bobby will do what needs doin'. Need to be reminded why you're fighting the good fight. Bobby knows and he's got no problem bringin' your ass up to speed. Mr. Beaver seems like he's pretty fantastic in real life too. Father, author, actor and he still seems like the kind of guy you could invite into the backyard for a beer and shoot the shit for an hour or so. And he Tweets, too. Also, he's wearing a Sturgis hat.
Jared Padalecki
Jared Padalecki is a cutie-patootie. And he has a gorgeous smile. And he's possibly half-giant. He's 6'4, fercryinoutloud! That's an inch sh
y of a foot taller than I am. Geez. Jared plays one half of our dynamic duo, Sammy. The little brother. He's a sweet boy, the rational one, the one with the conscience. The one that was fed demon blood as an infant (about a minute and a half later the demon doing the feeding pins Mommy to the ceiling, rips her open and sets her ablaze) and so, he has a freak streak a mile wide. And he is just tormented because of it. Which is my chief complaint with Jared's character. Sometimes, I wanna slap him he's so whiny. And then he went and lost his soul for a little while and he was kind of fun (what? I got a bad boy thing, alright?). And then he got his soul back and he's whiny again. And maybe it's just me, because I've been around the military so long now, but he ALWAYS has his hands in his pockets. And he slouches. Lots of tall dudes do, a bad habit formed when they were taller than everyone else in 7th or 8th grade, (and I imagine he is still taller than everyone else) but still. I wanna ask him if his hands are cold? And tell him "Take your damn hands out your pockets and stand up straight, son" (and now, I'm my mother). I didn't get the sex symbol thing either. I mean he's adorable, but that's just it, he's got a baby face. And then I saw this on an episode not lo
ng ago and I did a spit-take. Coffee everywhere. Cause the last thing I was expecting was for him to invoke anything other than "Awwww". You see the hips? You see the grooves? What are they called? I only know the dirtiest name for that portion of a fit mans anatomy and I'm feeling a little like a prude (a very little) just now so, I won't write it. But SWEET JESUS. Have some bloody mercy, would ya? It's not so easy to get coffee off a monitor and outta the keyboard. The keys stick.
Oh and just for fun, Sammy's last words are going to be "Dean, I get it. I do. But..."
And last but most definitely not the least,
Jensen Ackles
Jensen Ackles is a whole lotta pretty. Distractingly so. But I'll get to that. Jensen plays Dean. And Dean is a bit of a ba
dass. He drives the hottest car since The General Lee (no, The General Lee didn't do it for you? How 'bout Nic Cage's Eleanor?)He's kicking ass and taking names. He's getting down to business. He's lovin' 'em and leavin' 'em (well, mostly). And he's dripping with sarcasm the whole time. But he's got a soft spot (mostly for Sam, don't get me started on the co-dependance/unintentional homoeroticism. The show actually makes fun of itself, regularly). I adore him. Lately, he's softening up a little more, which I can dig because you know, he's been through a lot, but if he turns into Sam, I am going to cut someone. Be warned. Back to the pretty. There are a dozen or so parts of this mans anatomy that I could sing the praises of. The eyes, the lips, the teeth, to name a few. But the sexiest thing he possesses? His voice. Oh. My. God. It's aural orgasm. Seriously. Move over Sean Connery, you've been replaced as the man with the sexiest voice alive. It's that good (my husband disagrees, to which I say; Oh reeeeeally?). So, um, I got a birthday coming up (I'll be 33 on Thursday *pout*) and if anyone knows how to get this boy to call me, I'm all ears. I don't even want to talk to him. I want him to leave me a message. A long one, but that's it. And then, I can listen to it whenever.... um, later. I can listen to it later. And as many times as I want. And now I've said too much. A girl can dream, right? Here, have a listen. It's not all Jensen, but it's fun anyway.
Friday's a new episode folks! The boys will be in an alternate reality where they are Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki. Too meta? Jumping the shark? Or, pretty freakin' funny? I think y'all know where I stand.
I almost forgot. Jensen Ackles should play Eddie Dean in The Gunslinger. He's essentially got all the character traits down. But can he play a strung-out heroin addict? I have faith. From my lips to Ron Howard's ears or Stephen King's. Whatever gets the job done. Also, I don't think Javier Bardem should play Roland. Not because I'm Team Jeffrey or anything, I don't think either of them should. I don't think either is right for the part. I'm going to go with the majority on this one and throw my vote in for Viggo Mortensen. I'll get back to you with my opinion on who should play the balance of the characters in My Favourite Book Series.
s. His character amuses me greatly. As an angel, he's often ignorant/envious of the ways of humans or "hairless apes" as humans are endearingly called by the majority of the celestial inhabitants. His deadpan is fantastic. One problem and it has nothing to do with the show. When I was "doing research" for this post I checked out the actors I wanted to write about. Sometimes, I find it difficult to separate the person from the talent. Misha Collins played Paul Bernardo in a movie called "Karla". That strikes a chord. I was born and raised in Toronto. I was a teeny-bopper during Paul Bernardo's reign of terror. I remember the fear The Scarborough Rapist incited. I remember watching or reading the words of the parents of Kristen French and Leslie Mahaffy. I'm not sure a movie about Karla Homolka needed to be made. And I'm having a hard time reconciling an actor I like with a role. But he Tweets. A lot. So, that's something.Jim Beaver
Mr. Beaver plays Bobby Singer, fellow hunter and father-figure to Dean and Sammy. You know why I like hi
m so much? His character is the shit. He's all full of wisdom and snark and love. Awww. Need some info on some obscure demon? Call Bobby. Need to be ripped a new one? Bobby will do what needs doin'. Need to be reminded why you're fighting the good fight. Bobby knows and he's got no problem bringin' your ass up to speed. Mr. Beaver seems like he's pretty fantastic in real life too. Father, author, actor and he still seems like the kind of guy you could invite into the backyard for a beer and shoot the shit for an hour or so. And he Tweets, too. Also, he's wearing a Sturgis hat.Jared Padalecki
Jared Padalecki is a cutie-patootie. And he has a gorgeous smile. And he's possibly half-giant. He's 6'4, fercryinoutloud! That's an inch sh
y of a foot taller than I am. Geez. Jared plays one half of our dynamic duo, Sammy. The little brother. He's a sweet boy, the rational one, the one with the conscience. The one that was fed demon blood as an infant (about a minute and a half later the demon doing the feeding pins Mommy to the ceiling, rips her open and sets her ablaze) and so, he has a freak streak a mile wide. And he is just tormented because of it. Which is my chief complaint with Jared's character. Sometimes, I wanna slap him he's so whiny. And then he went and lost his soul for a little while and he was kind of fun (what? I got a bad boy thing, alright?). And then he got his soul back and he's whiny again. And maybe it's just me, because I've been around the military so long now, but he ALWAYS has his hands in his pockets. And he slouches. Lots of tall dudes do, a bad habit formed when they were taller than everyone else in 7th or 8th grade, (and I imagine he is still taller than everyone else) but still. I wanna ask him if his hands are cold? And tell him "Take your damn hands out your pockets and stand up straight, son" (and now, I'm my mother). I didn't get the sex symbol thing either. I mean he's adorable, but that's just it, he's got a baby face. And then I saw this on an episode not lo
ng ago and I did a spit-take. Coffee everywhere. Cause the last thing I was expecting was for him to invoke anything other than "Awwww". You see the hips? You see the grooves? What are they called? I only know the dirtiest name for that portion of a fit mans anatomy and I'm feeling a little like a prude (a very little) just now so, I won't write it. But SWEET JESUS. Have some bloody mercy, would ya? It's not so easy to get coffee off a monitor and outta the keyboard. The keys stick.Oh and just for fun, Sammy's last words are going to be "Dean, I get it. I do. But..."
And last but most definitely not the least,
Jensen Ackles
Jensen Ackles is a whole lotta pretty. Distractingly so. But I'll get to that. Jensen plays Dean. And Dean is a bit of a ba
dass. He drives the hottest car since The General Lee (no, The General Lee didn't do it for you? How 'bout Nic Cage's Eleanor?)He's kicking ass and taking names. He's getting down to business. He's lovin' 'em and leavin' 'em (well, mostly). And he's dripping with sarcasm the whole time. But he's got a soft spot (mostly for Sam, don't get me started on the co-dependance/unintentional homoeroticism. The show actually makes fun of itself, regularly). I adore him. Lately, he's softening up a little more, which I can dig because you know, he's been through a lot, but if he turns into Sam, I am going to cut someone. Be warned. Back to the pretty. There are a dozen or so parts of this mans anatomy that I could sing the praises of. The eyes, the lips, the teeth, to name a few. But the sexiest thing he possesses? His voice. Oh. My. God. It's aural orgasm. Seriously. Move over Sean Connery, you've been replaced as the man with the sexiest voice alive. It's that good (my husband disagrees, to which I say; Oh reeeeeally?). So, um, I got a birthday coming up (I'll be 33 on Thursday *pout*) and if anyone knows how to get this boy to call me, I'm all ears. I don't even want to talk to him. I want him to leave me a message. A long one, but that's it. And then, I can listen to it whenever.... um, later. I can listen to it later. And as many times as I want. And now I've said too much. A girl can dream, right? Here, have a listen. It's not all Jensen, but it's fun anyway.Friday's a new episode folks! The boys will be in an alternate reality where they are Jensen Ackles and Jared Padalecki. Too meta? Jumping the shark? Or, pretty freakin' funny? I think y'all know where I stand.
I almost forgot. Jensen Ackles should play Eddie Dean in The Gunslinger. He's essentially got all the character traits down. But can he play a strung-out heroin addict? I have faith. From my lips to Ron Howard's ears or Stephen King's. Whatever gets the job done. Also, I don't think Javier Bardem should play Roland. Not because I'm Team Jeffrey or anything, I don't think either of them should. I don't think either is right for the part. I'm going to go with the majority on this one and throw my vote in for Viggo Mortensen. I'll get back to you with my opinion on who should play the balance of the characters in My Favourite Book Series.
Thursday, February 17, 2011
Judgey Much?
Valentine's is a bit of a trumped up holiday, don't you think? That isn't to say that I will refuse a gift on Valentine's, no, I would never do that. But the hubby and I don't usually subscribe to the accepted methods of celebration on the holiday reserved for lovers. Which partially explains why we chose to watch Machete during the time we set aside to observe the festivities.
Have you seen Machete? Oh, you should! It is 7 different kinds of cheestastic awesome. Unless, of course you have something against gratuitous violence. Then, umm, no, you really shouldn't. Little background, hmm? Machete started life as a trailer between the two movies that were the result of the Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez union, Grindhouse. That last brilliant decided it would be a good idea to make a full length motion picture out of the trailer, paying homage to the B Movie. The result? Glorious! Click here for the trailer. Don't worry, that you reveled in that little bit of cinematic beauty will be our secret.
Did you see the naked Eva Mendes wannabe at the beginning of the trailer? The one that asks "What's this long, hard thing?" To which Danny Trejo replies "My machete." ***SPOILERY TYPE STUFF AHEAD*** Somehow, she gets the jump on Machete (Danny Trejo's character), I don't remember how, it ain't important. But she does and when she does, she takes a step back, reaches down and pulls a cell phone OUT OF HER FUCKING VAGINA!!! And then makes a phone call on it. I mean, c'mon! Really? That is nasty. It wasn't no slim wonder of technology, either. This chick yanks out something like a first generation blackberry. I was appalled, and said so. My darling dearest laughed at my discomfort.
Fast forward. Machete is in the pool making out with Lindsay Lohan and another woman. Mr. Sprite makes a favourable comment on Lindsay Lohan's bangability. When the speechlessness has passed I ask him if he's kidding. He says that he's not and wonders why I should think otherwise. "Because she's a cum guzzling, coke whore, that's why!" (Thank you, from the bottom of my heart for that bit of eloquence, Dani. There was never a more fitting description). It's his turn to look appalled. Never one to be left speechless, he just comes right out and asks me how I can take issue with a woman pulling a cell phone OUT OF HER FUCKING VAGINA!!! but I have no qualms whatsoever with uttering the above mentioned phrase.
Honestly, I don't see the comparison. Ladies don't shove cell phones up their hooha's (I don't care how convenient a hidey-hole it is!) and Lindsay Lohan is a cum guzzling, coke whore. I'm speaking truths here, people! Am I right? ***END SPOILERY TYPE STUFF***
Have you seen Machete? Oh, you should! It is 7 different kinds of cheestastic awesome. Unless, of course you have something against gratuitous violence. Then, umm, no, you really shouldn't. Little background, hmm? Machete started life as a trailer between the two movies that were the result of the Quentin Tarantino and Robert Rodriguez union, Grindhouse. That last brilliant decided it would be a good idea to make a full length motion picture out of the trailer, paying homage to the B Movie. The result? Glorious! Click here for the trailer. Don't worry, that you reveled in that little bit of cinematic beauty will be our secret.
Did you see the naked Eva Mendes wannabe at the beginning of the trailer? The one that asks "What's this long, hard thing?" To which Danny Trejo replies "My machete." ***SPOILERY TYPE STUFF AHEAD*** Somehow, she gets the jump on Machete (Danny Trejo's character), I don't remember how, it ain't important. But she does and when she does, she takes a step back, reaches down and pulls a cell phone OUT OF HER FUCKING VAGINA!!! And then makes a phone call on it. I mean, c'mon! Really? That is nasty. It wasn't no slim wonder of technology, either. This chick yanks out something like a first generation blackberry. I was appalled, and said so. My darling dearest laughed at my discomfort.
Fast forward. Machete is in the pool making out with Lindsay Lohan and another woman. Mr. Sprite makes a favourable comment on Lindsay Lohan's bangability. When the speechlessness has passed I ask him if he's kidding. He says that he's not and wonders why I should think otherwise. "Because she's a cum guzzling, coke whore, that's why!" (Thank you, from the bottom of my heart for that bit of eloquence, Dani. There was never a more fitting description). It's his turn to look appalled. Never one to be left speechless, he just comes right out and asks me how I can take issue with a woman pulling a cell phone OUT OF HER FUCKING VAGINA!!! but I have no qualms whatsoever with uttering the above mentioned phrase.
Honestly, I don't see the comparison. Ladies don't shove cell phones up their hooha's (I don't care how convenient a hidey-hole it is!) and Lindsay Lohan is a cum guzzling, coke whore. I'm speaking truths here, people! Am I right? ***END SPOILERY TYPE STUFF***
Sunday, February 13, 2011
I Have Commitment Issues
You know, in case you hadn't noticed. Seriously though, life has been one chaotic shit storm after another. And like the good little Pisces that I am, when the going gets tough, I amp up the escapism. So I have spent the past couple of months immersed in one obsession after another, doing my damnedest to avoid real life. Reading (a dozen or so books since we last met), movies (not as many of these as I'd like), TV(the latest obsession: 5 seasons of Supernatural in just under 2 weeks), music (whatever, whenever, wherever), creeping you on Facebook (no worries, my stalker is well fed). You name it, nothing really productive, just whatever it takes.
My 14 year old daughter is trying on every teenage stereotype in existence. So far, we haven't killed each other, but we've come close once or twice. My husband may run screaming, so much are the estrogen and stubborn. Or he may end up killing us both. No judge would convict him. Just in case you read that last paragraph in a literal sense instead of heaped in sarcasm, as it was meant to be read; I love my daughter dearly, but, wow! Were we all like this? Jesus, we were unbearable!
Female Rep hockey is the bane of my existence. That's all I got to say on that subject. For now.
The month of January, 2011 has done little else except convince me that it is indeed a fabulous idea to retire in a warmer location. You know what? Why wait, I say we relocate! Holy Snow, Batman!
Finally, I will be 33 in a couple of weeks. I think I may be having trouble dealing. Yeah. I hate to say it, because 30 came and went and I was a cucumber. But I'm staring down the barrel of 33 and feeling a little shit balls retarded. If I were a dude, I'd trade my new car in for an older, sportier model, like this:
Or I'd trade my hubby in for a younger, newer model. No, never mind, I don't think I would. I don't have the patience for that. Besides, younger men kind of seem like they may be a little too metro for me. I like my men, well, manly. If you've used more wax than I have since the new year or you've got your hair stylist on speed dial, you need not apply.
Aaaand, I've just proved that I am indeed old. Just shoot me now.
Anyway, Imma try to pay more attention to my little slice of Internet heaven.
My 14 year old daughter is trying on every teenage stereotype in existence. So far, we haven't killed each other, but we've come close once or twice. My husband may run screaming, so much are the estrogen and stubborn. Or he may end up killing us both. No judge would convict him. Just in case you read that last paragraph in a literal sense instead of heaped in sarcasm, as it was meant to be read; I love my daughter dearly, but, wow! Were we all like this? Jesus, we were unbearable!
Female Rep hockey is the bane of my existence. That's all I got to say on that subject. For now.
The month of January, 2011 has done little else except convince me that it is indeed a fabulous idea to retire in a warmer location. You know what? Why wait, I say we relocate! Holy Snow, Batman!
Finally, I will be 33 in a couple of weeks. I think I may be having trouble dealing. Yeah. I hate to say it, because 30 came and went and I was a cucumber. But I'm staring down the barrel of 33 and feeling a little shit balls retarded. If I were a dude, I'd trade my new car in for an older, sportier model, like this:
Or I'd trade my hubby in for a younger, newer model. No, never mind, I don't think I would. I don't have the patience for that. Besides, younger men kind of seem like they may be a little too metro for me. I like my men, well, manly. If you've used more wax than I have since the new year or you've got your hair stylist on speed dial, you need not apply.
Aaaand, I've just proved that I am indeed old. Just shoot me now.
Anyway, Imma try to pay more attention to my little slice of Internet heaven.
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