Riding the train of thought to the end of the line, with musical accompaniment

And I can see our days are becoming nights
I could feel your heartbeat across the grass
We should have run
I would go with you anywhere
I should have kissed you by the water

You should have asked me for it
I would have been brave
You should have asked me for it
How could I say no?

"I Still Remember" -- Bloc Party

So I’ve got this song stuck in my heart. I keep hitting the back button on the CD player so I can hear it again. While I was recovering from surgery, on of my BILs gave me a mixed CD with some cool music. I have no idea what’s going on in the world of alternative or any other kind of music, so I didn’t’ recognize any of the artists. Among the songs was one by Bloc Party called “I Still Remember.” You can hear it (and watch it) here. If YouTube drives you nuts sometimes, you can go to their MySpace page and select it. What is it about this song? I have no vocabulary to talk about music, but the chorus . . . shimmers. It’s wistful, regretful, but celebratory too: You may be the one that got away, but I can sing about it. The victory of art.

What do I think about when I listen to it? My own adolescence. The song is happy, and my adolescence was crap, so I don't know why it takes me in that direction. High school was a bad time for me. I can remember willing myself to not remember portions of it. Just don’t’ remember—-some day everything will be different and you won’t need this anyway. “This” could be an incident at school, or emotions, or my mother’s craziness and my dad’s temper. I don’t remember, so I suppose my experiment was at least partially successful. What I remember, what I don't remember.

I remember that I was always boiling over with tension from anger and loathing, which I kept under control by cutting myself. This makes me sound as if I were a very dour kid, but when I look at photos of myself from that time, I can’t believe the discrepancy between my self-loathing and dislike of almost everyone around me and how wholesome and sweet and even sunny I looked. I smiled a lot. Well, you're supposed to.

I was an outsider and I hung out with everyone else on the fringes. Being an outsider has its advantages. I could observe the various courtship/mating rituals around me. I had been raised to be good. For girls that means silent and sexless. At the same time, I knew this moral code was nothing more that what they had heard from their parents. Still, I didn’t approve of my classmates. I thought they were nuts, getting obsessed over each other as if it mattered. Fumbling around secretly as if there were nothing more important to do. I’m sure I had the requisite hormones, but I didn’t like the idea of “natural” urges, as they called them in sex ed. “Natural” was such a crock.

Sometime around 15, I became obsessed with Brideshead Revisited. I think I reread that book every year until I was into my 20s. I still own the miniseries. The religious theme didn’t much interest me then. I thought the protagonists took the religious thing a bit too far, and I didn’t really like the second half of the book, when everyone grows up and gets serious and pious. But the first half, which is about the adventures of Charles Ryder and Sebastian Flyte living it up in Oxford and dreaming away months at Brideshead--it was enough to make me want to become British. I thought Charles and Sebastian belonged together forever.

In fact, I wanted to be Sebastian Flyte. And I did try, within the rather limited means at hand. My hair was already short. Silk shirts were out of the question, so I had to settle for button downs with flannel trousers and wing-tip oxfords. I did not look even remotely androgynous, which was what I was aiming for. I was stubbornly curvy and feminine. Not that I actually wanted to be a man--I didn’t feel I had been born with the wrong body, to the extent that I thought about having a body at all. Usually I felt like ectoplasm in a casing. But every once in a while there was an unpleasant reminder that I did in fact have a woman's body--being pinned to the wall by some guy staring at me, or whispering, or whistling, or whatever.

I told my best friend that I would rather be a gay man because it was much better than being a woman. At least two men would be equals, and men already wielded more power than women, not to mention they got the better stories. How could a woman submit to her body being invaded by a man? Were they crazy? It was . . .icky, I mean, demeaning.

I also adored the films If... and Another Country, which got me thinking about the collusion between the petty authorities in schools, and The Authorities, like the loser president sending money to the Contras. I wasn't eloquent in my thinking. Probably something along the lines of: all adults are petty tyrants and yet they are also puppets and they don't know it but I do, so Hah! I see through it all! I am so perceptive!

I did have a “boyfriend.” He was remarkably useful because I was not in the least attracted to him, and if he was attracted to me, well he was too conflicted to deal with it. I didn't have to worry about any advances from him. So, as I said, he was useful. Everyone thought he was a freak, so I had that stand-up–for-the-underdog impulse. But mostly he kept me from having to worry about dates or other boys or the pity of the other girls. He was gay, of course, although how much of that he understood at the time I don’t know. Everyone else knew instinctively, so he was tormented on a pretty consistent basis. That sounds very premeditated, that I found him useful, but really it was unconscious. I’m sure I was very useful to him as well, particularly after that British boy enrolled.

But I didn’t spend all my time in self-destruction and pondering the balance of power between the sexes. I spent a good amount of time giggling with my friends over the cutest rugby players (we watched a lot of Australian football) or--I cringe admitting this--Rick Springfield. We had a list of the three most gorgeous actors (we called them the Triumvirate). Who were they, I wonder? These were safe, since I wasn’t going to encounter any of them in real life. Then there was a my mad, unrealistic crush on the boy in my Latin class, unfortunately unavailable but such a tease, and my first kiss, which I thought was. . . icky.

In the larger world there was the strange man who approached me during a school field trip, a man old enough to be my father. And the man who exposed himself when I visited my brother in Philadelphia (this I don’t remember—-my sister-in-law filled me in several years later). Every day of school I could hear how the boys talked about the girls, crudely, openly, as if it were a great joke. Then there was my father, who filled me with such inexplicable revulsion that I used to hide when he came home from work and hope that he would forget I existed.

Don’t make too much of that last sentence. When I was in the poetry program in NY, I remember how a teacher's comment startled me and I felt like cold water had been dumped over me, because I realized that everyone sitting around the table thought I had been the victim of sexual abuse. I had to go back and reread all my poetry, and yeah, there were a lot of images of grown ups violating kids. Violation of the mind and heart I knew, that was an everyday occurrence, but nothing else.

Revulsion is such a strong word, but it's the right one. The moment I heard his car I jumped up in a panic and hid in the closet or under my bed. And yet he never did anything to me. I just flat out loathed him and tried to stay off the radar. I’ve heard of a term called “emotional incest”--I’m sure someone made some money thinking up that one. You too can be a victim--incest isn't just physical anymore. But I suppose it describes my house of origin as well as anything else. Being utterly powerless, knowing that my mother would go through my drawers and read my diaries, the constant tug of war between my parents for my affection and loyalty. The invisible doctors who spoke to my mom. Her tirades about being the subject of a joint CIA-Russian experiment, and her certainty that my friends were conspiring against me, or we were conspiring against her. My father’s threats to have her locked up, or to walk out. His disgusting attempts to win my allegiance so that we could gang up against my mother. Accusations flew around that house that I still don’t understand to this day. There was no getting away from any of it.

Not long ago a therapist suggested hypnosis as a possible way to work through some of this, but I cannot be hypnotized—I’m too well defended.

And this is the last station. Isn't it odd where you can end up listening to a happy little pop song?

How I Spent My Birthday

First I went to see the oncologist. My surgeon referred me because the ductal carcinoma they examined was hormone responsive. So I have to consider taking tomoxifin, which blocks estrogen. The oncologist told me there was a huge European study that showed no benefits and a huge American study that showed significant benefits. The risk of recurrence for me is small, but tomoxifin would cut that risk in half. So I have some thinking to do.

Second stop was my primary care physician, because I have a sinus infection. Again. If this keeps up I'll have to see an allergist, or an ENT, or something. Dear Husband has seen and ENT and needs surgery, but the ENT referred him to an immunologist, who drew six vials of blood and is testing him for every auto-immune disorder known to man, because he thinks Dear Husband has an auto-immune disorder triggered by the environment. I don't want to think about what direction we would have to take if they did find such a thing. Dear Husband wonders if we should move to Colorado Springs.

Side note: My doctors are very good-looking. It's kinda distracting.

Then on to summer camp to drop off paperwork. We had lunch in there somewhere, and we were taking a nap when the auto repair shop called to tell us that the repair to Dear Husband's car would cost $800 because Mazda would have special order it from Japan. The think this will fix the problem.

Despite all this, Dear Husband still brought home an ice-cream cake for me. Sweetie. But we are now faced with a bad car situation. We do not have $800 to repair the car, this after paying $300 previously for what they thought would fix it. And what next? More problems, more repairs? Our best chance is to roll our current upside-down note into the purchase of another car.

Isn't that pathetic? Because we can't pay for a repair, we have to trade in for another car, because that's the only credit we have at the moment. And our credit rating is only fair. And we have to buy it this weekend, because Dear Husband's car will eventually just not start. Dear Husband managed to find a good deal, and now I'm waiting the dreaded call to go sign off on the paperwork. He signed off on his part yesterday, so this is supposed to be simple. Right.

But this weekend he took me to an Ethiopian restaurant for dinner. Ethiopian cuisine is one of my favorites and I was in heaven. The two Ethiopian beers helped, too.

Today Dear Husband is off with the girls watching Shrek III, and I'm trying to finish up editing a children's book on the Little Rock Nine. More about that later, perhaps, since it got me thinking. But I keep getting distracted by YouTube, where I go to watch clips of tango dancing. Really, my mind jumps around a lot lately.

Forty-One

DramaQueen: Happy Birthday, Old Person. (Thinks a moment.) You're older than Dad but he's taller than you.

Firecracker: And he has a big, big tummy!

Candy Crisis Averted

I finally found some nice Brazilian woman's recipe that made some modifications and cleared up something. I guess in Brazil, Nesquick is just cocoa powder, not the noxious drink we stir up for our kiddies. With real cocoa, a microwave, and a touch of cornstarch (bless you lady, wherever you are--you're a genius), I was able to whip up the brigadeiros and DramaQueen sold every last one of them. They were using "Brazilian bucks," so I'm not sure what benefit that was to us. But it's done.

And now the shocker--school's out on Wednesday. I had completely forgotten this, despite getting the notice of Firecracker's "moving up" ceremony and the other various notices and warnings. It was the packet from summer camp that finally put me in my right mind. And reminded me that there's a gap of two days between when school ends and camp starts. Why--are the public schools and daycare in cahoots? I have a list of items to purchase for camp (and this isn't sleepaway camp) and all sort of forms to fill out, and I'll have to get the uncooperative pediatrician to print out the immunization forms (they can't be bothered to fax them). When did I think I would do all this? I haven't even asked if I can take the morning for Firecracker's ceremony.

And on my birthday, I get to visit the oncologist, to see if I need to be on something nasty to keep these hormone receptive cells from appearing in the other breast. I also have a sinus infection and my right side hurts when I sleep. My doctor has me doing "nasal irrigation" which although it isn't painful is really weird. It would be nice if the oncologist could do double duty and prescribe an antibiotic while I'm there.

On the positive side, and something I forgot to mention while I was in the land of percoset and valium, DramaQueen gave Dear Husband a hand-made birthday card that began: "Dear Old Person".

Friggin School Projects

So, DramaQueen has been learning about Brazil. For weeks they've been earning "Brazilian bucks"--for doing what I don't know. So we get this notice that the lessons will culminate in a Brazilian Market, and that each child should bring in 25 (yes, 25) homemade items to sell. And you should have seen some of the suggestions: paste a picture onto cardboard and cut it up to make a jigsaw puzzle. Yeah, right. That's going to be a busy booth. Or I imagined trying to help her make 25 paper flowers, or 25 bookmarks, or 25 painted rocks, or 25 anything.

Well, Dear Husband has some experience with Brazilian culture (or should I say, with Brazilian women), and he told me about this sweet called a brigadeiro. He even found a recipe. Cool--it has only 3 ingredients: sweetened condensed milk, butter, and Nesquick cocoa powder. How could I go wrong?

Well.

First, there was a certain vagueness about how long to cook the mixture. "Until you see the bottom of the pan." Hello--we're working with condensed milk, you can see the bottom from the start. So the first batch I cooked for maybe 10 minutes, and that didn't set up at all, so I shoved it back into a pan today and cooked it for about a half hour more. Then I started a second batch, trying to match the increasing viscosity of the first batch. Seemed to get thicker. So, rather than about 10 minutes, as one recipe suggested, I cooked it for nearly an hour. Poor DramaQueen gave out after about 10 minutes of constant stirring.

I had a bad feeling about waiting until tomorrow so DramaQueen could help roll them into shape. I just finished trying to roll the goop into balls and roll them into jimmies and cocoa powder. Fine as long as they're chilled, then they just spread out like a lake. Finally I popped them into little cupcake cups. Someone said they tasted like tootsie rolls. In a pig's eye. Dear Husband says the taste is about right. Obviously his tastes were unformed at the time of his interaction with the Brazilian "community".

Well, to me it tastes like really sweet sticky milky goop. I'm nuking the hell out of the rest of it just to see what happens. I estimate that it would take two hours of conventional cooking to get to the tootsie roll stage. Maybe kids will like it. It's full of sugar and messy. If I lived in New York, I would have done the sane thing and located an actual Brazilian bodega (or whatever the appropriate Portuguese word is) and avoided this whole nonsense.

An Hour Later:

This is a total mess--completely unusable. And BTW, never try to nuke the hell out of a caramel mixture. Now I have tomorrow to come up with a suitable substitute. At least it doesn't have to actually have anything to do with Brazil. I'm so not doing Brazil nuts--blech. So the dollar store it is. Any suggestions?

DramaQueen is not going to be happy.

Browsing in Dream Bookstores

I awoke this morning with another vivid dream. Unfortunately, this one did not involve David Krumholtz or God. Instead I dreamed about bookstores.

I walked into a used bookstore and started to browse. The salesman was very friendly and talkative, and I was alarmed to realize that he was assuming I was going to buy every book I casually glanced at, since he was gathering them together. And yet I couldn’t bring myself to protest. I left, promising to come back.

Next I walked into what was obviously a gay and lesbian bookstore. I walked to the back, where there were clothes, of all things. “These really are cute,” I thought, “and they come in my size.” Then the owner came over to welcome me and gave me a form to fill out, which I reluctantly did. But there were abbreviations I didn’t understand. What did “C” mean? Closeted? But there didn’t seem to be a letter that could mean “out.” What about “M”? Married? If I marked that would they assume I was married to a woman? Should I just mark it anyway? Would they hate me if they found out I was married to a man? Why was I here at all?—I was such a fraud. Then I realized that she was ringing up a book she thought I wanted to purchase—it was a copy of the Childcraft book of stories from many lands that I loved as a child. (I used to make my mother read “Nannette and the Chateau” to me every night. I re-read this as an adult and, boy howdy, Freud and Jung could have had a field day.)“But I already have that,” I thought, “and it’s expensive--$51.” But again I couldn’t seem to decline.

The dream ended there.

To top things off, I woke up with an old Lloyd Cole and the Commotions song running through my head: “Perfect Skin.” “She’s got cheekbones like geometry and eyes like sin, and she’s been sexually enlightened by Cosmopolitan.” This was particularly annoying because I always preferred his song “Rattlesnakes” from that album.

God

Some Good News

Well, the doc says Dear Husband does not have shingles but a really really bad yeast infection. I think his words were, "Even women don't get it this bad." Or, if it doesn't go away in a few days with treatment, the doc says, then it's shingles after all.

Sometimes the clarity of medical science is just amazing.

Numbers is on tonight!

Oh, as if stage 0 cancer weren't enough for one family

now Dear Husband appears to have shingles. In a very sensitive area, right in the groin (all you men go "ouch"). I've had shingles (over my eyes--had to go to ER on Christmas Eve to make sure I didn't go blind). My first husband had shingles, too. Wow. I'm kind of a foci of shingles.

Now, let's see--Dear Husband is in excruciating pain (and it's only going to get worse--I should know! and I still can't lift anything over 5 pounds.

Perhaps I should stay part-time for another week.

Day 2 of work and some fanciful rambling about nothing much

I'm going to go take a nap. Really. I'm drinking a big glass of water, which is good for you, and that's the only reason I'm sitting at my computer instead of resting like a good girl.

I finally dug through more email to find that my boss had asked a number of people to review and return stuff to me by yesterday. Thankfully I did find everything, eventually. Except my center. Well, the plastic surgeon did reorganize my mid section. My center may have migrated. It's probably in the wrong chakra now, and that's why I dream about David Krumholtz. Could be worse. Only now to get centered . . . well, never mind.

A little chocolate, and then a nap. Bless the church lady who brought me this ginormous block of Hershey's milk chocolate. And I'll admit that sometimes I snitch my kids' candy. They have tons of the stuff from Easter. Bad Mommy.

Oh Crap

And this was just a half day. I came home and slept until 5pm. I had 500 emails in my inbox. And my pay will be short about $400 because of unpaid leave. Whee. Thank you God for people who want to bring us casseroles, and for our church, who sent us a love offering.

Oh, and the pollen count is sky high and I feel like I have feathers in my throat.

Hi Ho Hi Ho It's Back to Work

So after my super duper revelatory previous post, it's back to the mundane.

I'm going back to work tomorrow. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday I'll work half days and then start back full-time next week if all goes well, meaning I don't collapse or something along those lines.

I've discovered something. I like not working. I've always been a working mother type--get out there and have my own career.

But that sucks.

And I don't really have a career. I have a job I stumbled into that luckily is decent and has decent people. I'll be very very busy and rather bored at the same time. I'm bored because there is a constant bombardment of email every day. We have response time rules--within an hour for the Powers that Be, shorter if possible, and within a day for outsiders. That means that at all times I have to interrupt my work to scan for A Really Urgent Matter that Takes Precedence.

Then I'll rush off to daycare and pick up my kids. I will have maybe two and a half hours to spend with them getting them fed, checking homework, getting them read to, bathed, and to bed. If I take the time to go to the gym, I'll have less than an hour (not that the gym is in my future for a few months). In the morning I'll have to move them along like a dictator to get them to daycare on time. By the weekend I'm tired and limp while they have boundless energy.

What can I say? My income is higher than Dear Husband's. He's staying at a job he doesn't like for the free tuition. Then he wants to go to nursing school. Last month I think we paid nearly $300 in prescription medicines alone. This month there will be at least $300 in visits to specialists.

On a positive note, you may remember in a previous post that I complained about DramaQueen's teacher. Well he has mysteriously vanished (been removed or removed himself, the principal can't say for reasons of confidentiality--meaning so no one can sue the school) and someone else is taking over. I told her some of my concerns (SNL skit sneaking into educational video, weird and humiliating nicknames for the kids) and she told me to put it in writing. I really did like him, but after Christmas he seemed to go off his rocker.

Update on Surgery, dreaming of David Krumholtz, and St. John of the Cross--All in One Post!

Well, I was planning to continue my eye candy theme, since I realized I had left out a few deserving individuals, but blogger did not cooperate yesterday with images and I'm not in the mood to tangle with it again. So straight text it is for now.

For those of you who have followed my surgical adventure, I am almost ready to go back to work. Actually, I'm not. I'd rather not ever go back to work but Dear Husband insists this is necessary. I'm starting with half days next Wednesday.

On Tuesday the plastic surgeon removed my last two surgical drains. Yahoo. Now I can actually wear clothes. She also injected the first dose of saline. You may wonder how an expander works. Or not. Doesn't matter cause I'm going to tell you anyway. The surgeon placed this empty sack with a metal disk under some tissue in my right chest (or maybe it's muscle--sure feels like muscle). The metal disk is there so the surgeon can use a magnet to find where to inject the saline. Every few weeks I go back to be inflated a bit more. At some point some decisions will have to be made about when to put in the implant and what to do to make the other breast match. More surgery. Sooo Hollywood.

Right now, I look like hell. There are crosshatches across my right chest, which has a slight bulge to it. I've decided to call it Frankentit. I also have a very long scar along my abdomen, since the surgeon did attempt the tram flap. My midriff is numb as a result. I have to do exercises with my right arm, walking it up the wall, because the muscles along that side of my chest are very angry with me and would like to go on strike.

Now, this brings me to a dream I had about David Krumholtz (see previous post). Actually, this doesn't bring me to any such thing but I can't think of an elegant segue. This was a very pleasant dream. You can interpret "pleasant," I imagine. But oddly, when I awoke it wasn't with a fuzzy warm afterglow but a sit straight up in bed "What the hell was that about" feeling. I don't usually remember dreams. When I do they don't seem important. But this one I wrote down because it puzzled me. I came up with these two approaches: 1) the dream simply means I'm not getting enough action 2) the dream is about being the bride of Christ.

Number 1 is true of course, given the surgery. Even when you feel like hell for an extended period there still part of your erotic nature egging you on "Get a move on, girl, things are getting boooring."

But number 2. Now don't laugh at such a high falutin' interpretation of what seems to be the most straightforward of dreams. And really, doesn't it make a certain amount of sense that a nice Jewish boy would stand in for Christ? I'm not divulging the details, since they have meaning only to me (unless you really want me explicate the Indian print skirt with the mirrors that I'm wearing in the dream--and believe me, I can), but the themes were defense, risk, surrender. I've been thinking about surrender a lot. What exactly does it mean to surrender yourself to Christ? People talk about this so glibly. "I surrender myself to Christ." How? What does that look like? How does that play out? What does that feel like? Do you just start acting as if you know what it means? You do some good things that Christ did and take it from there? Pray and keep going?

Defense. I am a well-defended person. You probably would not guess that from just speaking with me. I'm very open and friendly. I can make you laugh. I love conversation. I can be remarkably frank. I'll tell you my secrets, even. At least some of them. But I will keep them if I have to. I even keep secrets from my therapists. Would I tell my current therapist about this dream, even if I find it significant? Doubtful. When I was in college, I began to cycle through the campus mental health care system. During summer I was pretty happy, still a bit shy but also a bit of a party girl. Then the pendulum swung the other way. I went into yet another intake session and answered the usual boring questions, answering them in ways I knew would get me into actual counseling. The therapist was about to dismiss me when she noticed something. I was wearing long sleeves, and she caught a glimpse of the recent gashes on my arm, something I had quite deliberately not mentioned. I didn't think it was any of her business. I'm not sure I've ever told the complete truth to any therapist. In general, I know what to say to keep things moving along the way they need to go--yes, I still need the antidepressants and the mood stabilizer, thanks so much, and yes they are making me feel ever so much better. I'm taking these steps to accomplish x, and I've found that by doing a, b has become so much easier. I deflect. I can generally charm.

My current therapist once suggested hypnotizing me and I could feel myself start to freeze up. I don't hypnotize. It's been tried. I constantly monitor. My brain starts to analyze frantically: the soothing voice, the fact that I'm supposed to be relaxing, that sound from the air conditioning vent, the fact that nothing is happening, what is that scent? lavender? Nothing is happening. I'm still right here. My mind is still right here. Is there anything in there I should be afraid of? I don't know. Probably not. I don't think there are buried childhood traumas or anything like that. I just don't want anyone penetrating my mind.

Risk. Given my defensiveness, you would think that risk would play a relatively small role in my life. Avoidance at all cost. But there's that pendulum, when it starts to swing the other way--I jump. Sometimes it's benign--I spend all summer rallying for an antinuclear group. I join the college choir (well, the ones who could actually sing probably did not find that benign). I move to New York and write poetry. I fly courier to England get a student work visa and stay there for three months. Then there are the darker impulses--quite a few drugs, recklessness of various kinds.

Surrender. When I was about to graduate college, I saw an exhibit by Bill Viola at MOMA in New York City. One of the installations was called St. John of the Cross, someone I knew nothing about. The installation was a small room with a desk, a pitcher, and a video monitor with a still image of beautiful mountains. The room was tiny; it was supposed to be the size of his prison cell. It was lit from inside. The small room was in a large, dark gallery, filled with the sound of wind blowing, and the image of mountains projected on one entire wall, a jerky image, hard to watch. When you were close to the small hut, you could hear a voice speaking poetry quietly in Spanish. When I could, I searched out a book of his poetry in translation.

There was this from Living Flame of Love:

O living flame of love
that tenderly wounds my soul
in its deepest center! Since
now you are not oppressive,
now consummate! if it be your will:
tear through the veil of this sweet encounter!

and this from Dark Night of the Soul:

7. When the breeze blew from the turret,
as I parted his hair,
it wounded my neck
with its gentle hand,
suspending all my senses.

8. I abandoned and forgot myself,
laying my face on my Beloved;
all things ceased; I went out from myself,
leaving my cares
forgotten among the lilies.

He's having sex with God, I thought. How'd he get away with writing this anyway? Oh, yeah, the "soul" is in "union"--it just sounds like sex, if you're profane. Better minds than mine have written about the erotic content of mystical writings, and the bride and bridegroom imagery, the Song of Songs and so on. No doubt reading it all would make my head hurt.

In my dream, I was a virgin, and he told me that if I spoke three words, I would be his betrothed, and that I should not speak them until I was sure.

Having Nothing Better to Do, Some Eye Candy

Well, actually I do, but this is more entertaining--I decided to rank the sexiest men I can think of (except Dear Husband, who beats them hands down. Of course.) I don't have his picture here to prove it, but he is a cutie.


Actually, this isn't a ranking, since I'm not putting these fellows in any particular order, but thought I would just ramble aimlessly until I ran out of steam. So to speak.

First, there is Colin Firth. Those of you who fondly remember the wet shirt episode in the BBC miniseries Pride and Prejudice, know how very effective understatement can be in conveying a . . . mood. I also unabashedly love the Bridget Jones movies, much to Dear Husband's disgust. (Really, he's one to talk, given that he ogles the Victoria Secret models.) One of my coworkers told me that her sisters actually have an adjective--firthy--to describe a particularly good looking man.









Next, there's Alan Rickman. To my delight I have discovered that there are whole websites devoted to Slytherin House and Severus Snape. Just proves that a bad boy is always attractive. But I first saw him in An Awfully Big Adventure, which also featured Hugh Grant, who will not be included in my list, as I do not find him wildly attractive. Rickman was also in Sense and Sensibility, and if that little snippet had any taste she would have seen from the first that he was much preferably to that fellow with the tight perm. This photo is probably rather old--I skipped the ones in which he's starting to look like Yoda, but he still manages to look dangerously appealing as Snape.












I move on to Hugh Laurie. I adore this actor. I have the BlackAdder series, in which he plays the nincompoop Prince of Wales (not the current one, but the one under Mad King George), and I've rarely laughed harder. House is now one of my current favorite TV shows. He's so mean and sarcastic--inaccessible men are just madly attractive. I had a teenage crush on Sherlock Holmes, for example, and you can't get more inaccessible than that.













Not too long ago I saw the movie Amazing Grace. What a great film. Couldn't figure out the timeline at all. Couldn't figure out how a woman could spend an entire night in conversation with a man without ruining her reputation. Couldn't figure out why Rufus Sewall didn't get a haircut, or why he suddenly appeared in one scene walking through the fields holding a baby. Was it his child? Or was he just taking a friend's infant out for a discourse on nature? Anyway, this entire film was about the incredibly gorgeous Ionn Gruffud. I mean, it was about abolition, too, and that Wilbeforce was one terrific guy, particularly since he looked like this:












Finally, my latest acquisition. I've always been a fan of Numbers. I love the way shows like Numbers and CSI have to casually insert huge swathes of explanation to move the plot forward, all the while making the delivery look natural, and none of it makes sense but somehow you feel that you understand it. David's character is always having brilliant breakthroughs that make no sense at all, but he's so cute explaining them. They need to stop fiddling with his hair, though. Geniuses are supposed to have messy hair, for petes sake. But, I think it was his performance as Mr. Universe in Serenity that landed David Krumholtz on my list of extremely attractive men. How could you not love a man who with his last breaths provides essential information to his comrades by recording it on his life-size electronic love doll? Sheer genius.