WC boy of week and my war against (some) small children

World Cup and Armani underwear ads….What do the two have in common?

Cristiano Ronaldo, the 25-year-old who  has assisted in the efforts today to help me beat jet lag and stay awake during a long and grueling day of herding international cats and planning a very, very exciting military exercise.

Let’s just be honest, he is my eye candy of the week, an easy way to explain my love of a good male underwear ad and my tendency to fancy shirtless men.  I had fully intended on writing a post about Germany and the game this weekend and who I could stalk from a far for the week leading up to the game but let’s be honest….Germany does not produce such lookers as Mr. Fuck Me Six Ways til Sunday Ronaldo.  In fact, I think he’s sent me into some sort of heat.  At least I’m not sleeping in the middle of the day, which is what I was doing about 20 minutes ago.  Anyway, analyzing the sex tunnels (you know what I’m talking about) displayed on young footballers at your desk is not an optimal situation when you are surrounded by coworkers and are waiting to do your own security clearance interview, but whatever.  I cannot control my urges and today it’s all Ronaldo, all the time.

Also worth noting is that I think I have the same taste in men as whoever does the Armani underwear campaign and oh, every gay male between the ages of 18-27, just a guess.  I’ll have to ask my expert in all things gay and see if he agrees with my need to lick Ronaldo today.

I should note that another reason I’m discussing this is not really just my need to see penis in strategically tight underwear, as I’m not a stalker of all underwear campaigns and I don’t even live near a billboard….it’s just that earlier this month we discussed my love of David Beckam, which led me to HIS Armani underwear campaign and well now look at this one.  Feel free to refer back to that blog post and let me know whose underwear campaign is yummier.  I may still stick with Becks, winner by accent only in this case.

Now one last pic of Mr. Rinaldo to prove my point and then we’ll move on.  I mean really?  Is this picture my gift of the day? I’m in awe.  That kid has like six inches between his belly button and his cock where as I don’t even have that much space from my knee to my ankle and I really can’t stop evaluating his belly to goodies ratio.   Oh, Cristiano, I want to do very bad things to you and at the very least, I just want to keep my hands out of my own pants right now.  Yummy, yummy World Cup boys.  Ok, we really have to move on.  There are other things to discuss than foreign cock.

In other news, I met a celebrity of sorts yesterday, and I was excited until he made me hate him and that’s where we stand.  That’s almost ruining the story, but here we go.

So I’m sitting in my window seat 13A on British Air from Boston to London to Stuttgart.  I notice some kid, he’s maybe eight, maybe six, they are bred big these days, who knows, and I can’t get it out of my head that I know him from somewhere.  I am staring at him so intently that I think I catch his mother staring at me like I’m a creep at the airport.  Whatever, I’m not a creep so I keep staring.  Where the hell do I know this kid from?  And why do I feel like we have a bond and I love him?

Oh yes!, I know where he’s from, it comes to me in a flash and I am PUMPED.  He’s David!! David from the Dentist!  David, the kid who coined my favorite line: “Is this real life?”  God, I wish I had come up with that one.  Anyway, for those of you that aren’t in the almost 63 million people that have seen him, here is his youtube video for you to watch and understand my love for this kid.  Or loved.

So I’m thinking to myself, how do I confirm this because he now has a luscious bowl haircut, he’s older, and in the video it appears he might like Florida, be from Florida, who knows, and he was coming from Boston.  Seems to be the same kid, though, I’m sure of it almost, and so I am thinking of a way to break the ice with this eight year old like we’re at a goddamned cocktail party and I’m not 30 when his bowl cropped head pops over the seat to stare at me.  I stare back, I am a master at the mind games of children.

“Are you David?”  I asked him.  I did not show emotion, not wanting him to think I cared.

“Yeaaaaaaaah.” God, he was a whiner.

“And you’re in that video?”  I smiled, showing him I was happy, almost ready to clap like a seal and tell him how much I loved him and I didn’t want want an autograph or anything insane like that, especially since I was sure he hadn’t even finished penmanship classes.  Well, that’s not true.  He could have.  I think I finished learning cursive when I was eight, haven’t used it past the age of twelve and maybe he and I could discuss that after we discussed the wonderful world of sedation and loopy drugs, mutual hatred for the dentist, and then probably whatever he felt like discussing, as he was the one with 63 million followers, not me.  But then he went and got mouthy.

“Yeaaaaaaaaaaah.  SOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO.”  And then he smirked at me, dismissed me and turned back around to tell his mother that the flight to Netherlands was actually going to Belgium and the fact that he knew both countries existed annoyed me.  That little eight year old just dismissed me like I was some crazy and he was not at all interested in my conversation.  Well I’ll be damned.

Actually, maybe it wasn’t the same kid.  I hope it was some imposter, acting like a small jerk for no reason because the David I wanted to meet was going to be awesome and this kid was a douche in training.  Doesn’t seem quite right.

Ugh, either way, I wanted to pinch him and every small children that used that smirky, squinty-eyed, I’m going to stick my tongue out at you, look at adults when their parents aren’t looking.  The one that your mom would say when you were younger, “You better wipe that look off your face before I slap it off.”  I don’t remember my mother actually ever saying that phrase, but I am going to start using it.  I don’t care if it’s wrong.  Sometimes, kids just deserve a good, hard pinch under the arm to teach them a lesson about being bad.

Or maybe I need to stop pouting about an eight year old who was too fantastic to give me the time of day. Speaking of fantastic kids, let’s all check out this video again of Pearl, The Landlord, which I love, love, love.

This child I would not pinch under her arm.  I would plop her on the couch with me and we would share many hours of bonding together.

So those are the things that kept me going today as I battled jet lag and narcolepsy.  Later this week I will do a recap of my Maine visit….maybe when I can stay awake for more than twenty minutes.

Maine-bound and why I am breaking up with Tom Brady

So this is pretty timely, me talking about Tom Brady, considering I touch down in Boston TOMORROW AFTERNOON!   Woo hooo, I am so excited to head back home for 9 days.  I haven’t been home in almost 9 months and I am beyond tickled that I get to spend some time with my family and friends ON THE WATER.  Yes, I have really been missing the water. In fact, we’re all having lobster on the beach tomorrow night when I get in (picture to the left is the view from the restaurant, I cannot WAIT!). 

While in Maine, I will do my typical home during the summer routine, which simply involves a rotation of excessive lobster eating (excessive butter intake), no shoes in the grass walking, Dunkin Donuts iced coffee binge drinking (3 a day), outlet shopping (one paycheck at least), Fort Foster visits (my most favorite place on earth), Eastern Mountain chinese takeout (ohdeargod there is nothing better than EM chinese, sweats and hanging at Katie’s), Portsmouth drinking (tequilla shots at TJs), and lots and lots of time with the family and my girls.  That and I’ll have plenty of downtime for reading, writing and relaxing in the land of The Way Life Should Be.   It should be a fantastic nine days.

Now, moving on to something that has been bothering me all week but I have NOT had the time to address it. First, let’s take a look at this picture of Mr. Brady in green.   I never thought it’d have to come to this but seriously, Tom Brady is pissing me off.  I won’t even get into his performance on the field or the fact that his little injury two seasons ago has almost singlehandidly RUINED two falls in a row and we KNOW how much I love the fall.  Ruined.  And then he marries the most beautiful person on earth, has kids, all of which I think distract him from his job, which is winning me more Super Bowl rings, and then he goes and does this.   

What in the living fuck is he doing?  Has he lost his mind?  He is not 21, a surfer, in a boy band, a fraternity, or anything else ridiculous that would make this ok.   What is ok is the OTHER picture I posted.  That is ok, Mr. Tom girls around the world want to lick you in public undress you every Sunday with my eyes you have an amazing ass Brady.  This shit you are pulling while galavanting in public looking like that tiny little girl faced singer Justin Bieber is outrageous and I insist you get your shit together by August.  I do not like pretty men and he is prettier in this picture than I’ve been in months and that is shit.

That is why I’m breaking up with Brady.  I’m sure he’s heartbroken.

My wedding registry is bullshit, I know

I will admit that my wedding registry is complete bullshit.  I hated doing it.  It was unlike any Christmas or birthday list I’ve ever put together because I had to agree with someone else on things I do not care about and so I spent most of my time pouting, sighing and then just changing the registry back to my preferences when Chris wasn’t looking.

All that nonsense they show you in magazines and fluffy wedding tv shows that involve couples flitting around a store with some fancy gun, smiling and molesting plateware, smiling at their reflection in stemware?  Didn’t happen and for the record, that behavior is gross.  There was no hand holding, full of bliss, we don’t need anything but each other moment at my house.  There was a lot of “You don’t need that” or “A pistachio green mixer, Heather, is for people who actually bake things” or “Oh, we don’t need four sets of sheets.  Really?” or “I have never seen you make guacamole in my life, let’s not pretend you’re going to start now.”  And so my registry is a mess that includes enough glasses to drink from and troubleshoot a few wine glass dropping incidents, a china set I may or may not use but it is yellow and pretty if nothing else, a few vases for my blumen, some picture frames, and a few globes for my office because I feel like I deserve them. 

I spent half of the time reassuring Chris that this was the only chance we have to get the gifts we want and if they sit in our parent’s basement until we buy a house back home, then so be it.  Just because we live here does not mean I am getting screwed out of a fantastic knife set.  Chris said he felt like we were acting homeless, like the stuff we had wasn’t enough or that we just couldn’t ask for anything, considering we could afford what anything on the list.  Well, newsflash, Captain Selfless, our food will taste better when we use the $400 knives I hope my mother buys me. 

Must I explain everything in Heather terms?

Now that I have admitted that I hate everything on my own registry, let’s talk about the one thing I truly want in life.  Ritz Carlton sheets.  Let’s be honest, I want the whole Ritz bedroom set,  but considering the sheets cost $400 themselves, I’ll take it easy and start small.  Now, there was no way to actually register for said sheets, but I have made a few announcements strategically and I’m not kidding when I say that my life will be complete when my ass gets to shimmy up and down a set of these bad boys every night.  These sheets are luxurious and there is not a chance I’d ever put clothes on again to sleep in bed.  In fact, the times I’ve slept on them, a week at the Half Moon Bay Ritz Carlton, I would sneak up to my room just to take off all my clothes, roll around in bed and squeeze in a nap or a magazine.  I could diddle one out to the thought of those sheets.  That’s how great they are.  Don’t take my word for it, go to  Ritz and roll around yourself. 

I would even voluntarily shower EVERY night before bed like a normal person if I knew that softness was going to hug me every night as I drifted off to sleep.  So, just in case anyone is interested supporting my Ritz sheet addiction….

http://www.ritzcarltonshops.com/default.cfm?fuse=productdetails&browse_by=brand&brand=RITZHOM&product_type=RITZSL&product_category=all&base_product_name=R658ABC

Unexpected gifts

In trying to keep up on my regular postings, I have to catch up on a few posts that have been pushed aside due to working, jetsetting, mojito drinking and general laziness/narcolepsy.  And, since I posted a light and somewhat entertaining piece yesterday about wanting to screw Becks senseless (which was the point of that story) and my expert opinion on the creation of the soft taco, I’m going with a serious post today and then on Tuesday I will be ready to post about something petty or outrageous like midgets or miniature ponies or how Parisian men creep me out.  You know, things I find normal to bring up in conversation.  So, on to the serious.

I received a gift last week when I arrived home from Montenegro from my cousin Chad, someone I haven’t seen in at least twenty years, maybe more.  I had been expecting his gift for a few weeks and it was the source of some anxiety and when I arrived home from my flight from Podgorica, it was waiting for me on the hutch in the living room, addressed to me, looking plain and simple and of the manilla envelope variety.  Seemed harmless from the outside, but I already knew what was in the package.

Chad had sent me home videos of my father from 1966-1978, set to music, something I could keep.  Something tangible that won’t fade or get lost or leave or change.  Something no one can take from me and something I can put on when I want to see my father.  Granted, this is my dad before I knew him, before he knew me, but we’re from the same tree and sometimes, I just really miss his smile.

Chad’s isn’t the first video of my father I’ve received.  I have one that my stepmother’s best friend sent me the year my father died.  I’ve listened to it twice and then I hid it, primarily because as nice as that video was, I watched it during a time where downing a bottle of wine and smashing a glass against the wall out of desperation was  pretty standard.  I’ve watched Chad’s video now twice and now it’s in my collection of the important things I have left that I can touch and flip through–letters and birthday cards and chaotic and slanted handwriting, pictures I never thought to take more of and gifts I managed not to lose in my younger years.  Oversized teeshirts and sports memorabilia and stories I’ve written down because I’m afraid I will forget or crack my skull and get amnesia.  The collection is small and I don’t look through it too often, but with the new video, it’s more robust. 

The video, set to perfect music that captures a time and an era I was never a part of, is, well, perfect.  It captures all the things I miss the most about the person sometimes I still need the most.  It is full of my father smiling and acting like a jackass for the camera, dancing and waving his hands about like he’s in jazz class.  It catches him harassing his siblings and his crazy hair in the 70s, the brushed out curls that result in a trendy, white boy afro, something I’m all too familiar with.  It shows him laughing hard and wearing fantastic plaid pants and shirts he either forgot to button all the way or he was trying to make some sort of sexy statement. 

I’m mid-way between his birthday and Father’s Day (Hallmark can fuck themselves, in case anyone cares) and so this gift my cousin gave me was more than I ever could have asked for.  The video made me sick to my stomach with sadness and happiness and longing for another chance just to say goodbye or just one more hug.  I cried briefly but then smiled in knowing that Chad gave me a chance to again to do something I’m technically never going to do again, see my father.  I wish I had words to express what that has done for me. 

But I don’t have words, and so I just watched the video again and then I listened to the song Vincent, (http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=dipFMJckZOM) and I smiled, because I got to see my father again and that is all I could really ask for.   

Montenegro, Brits, when U2 does it better and tacos…

Yes, today I have decided to discuss the four topics above because I feel that since I’m so behind in my blog writing, I am going to post about anything random that has entered my mind lately.  This is going to be a long one.  To be fair to myself, I have just finished a 34 page story elsewhere that has taken me eight days to write, so it’s not like I’ve been sitting around doing nothing.  Now, on to all things Heather this week.

Let’s start with my most recent work trip.  Becici, Montenegro, or Budva, if you want to get all technical.  I’m not really sure to start with this trip.  So much happened and we all had such a great time, it’ll be kind of overwhelming to get into all of it.  I will say that it was probably the best trip I’ve taken this year, and I thought Sarajevo or Salzburg had that in the bag. 

Becici is one of the most beautiful places I have ever seen, and I’m sure it belongs in my top five but I have no idea what’s even in my top five anymore so I’ll have to definitely reevaluate for sure.  First of all, I was there for another planning conference, and as far as conferences went for my work, it was shit.  I’ve never seen more meltdowns and international tantrums and if something could go wrong, it did.  The only reason the actual conference was a success was that I got to work with my favorite people from Montenegro, hands down the best host nation, who by now I’m sure are happy to know that I’m back in Germany. I think I drove them crazy.  Here is a pic of us on the boat–me, Lu (with the pretty eyes) and Bozo (with the heart of gold).  They are the sweetest, most patient and most generous guys you could ever work with, as they are 100% more efficient and hard working than I’ll ever be… just ask them, and they’ll tell you themselves hahah.  And, who knew Montenegro was sister states with Maine back home? (http://www.eucom.mil/english/FullStory.asp?article=Montenegro-Maine-formalize-State-Partnership-ties) I told them one day I’ll be like the Ambassador of Maine, have them come visit and show them around–and of course introduce them to eating lobster in excessive quantities, that is also my job.  It’d be the least I could do to pay them back for everything they did for me while I was there. 

Now, even though the work part was  by far the most dramatic and stressful conference I’ve worked, the trade off was the fun I had waiting for me most nights, whether I was out at 10 or 1am, it made all the craziness worth it.  Which brings me to best of:

Best hang out spot in Budva: Caffe Greco, which has wicked mojitos, which I drank for days until I had heartburn so badly that I actually reduced myself to acting like an 80 year old woman, slamming back white russians.  Yogi, the waiter there is awesome.  He knew us by name and the night we all wore our traditional dinner clothing in, first round was on him, just because we all looked so fancy. 🙂

Best lunch in town:  Diavlo pizza and a Nik’s, compliments of the Mediteran Hotel.

Best old town and shopping: Kotor, a nearby town that we went to for our cultural boat tour.  Kotor is really small and quaint and the mountains and water are really, really amazing.  And I bought my first pair of European heels (4 inch Italians, they are HOT) there, which is a milestone in itself.

  Best restaurant: Porto, in Budva.  Porto was the most romantic seafood spot on the water.  It had equally great restaurants surrounding it, but the inside was so nice, with trees and little white lights wrapping around the wooden beams.  The two nights I made it there to eat felt great, being able to kick my shoes off, relaxing with my friends, piles of mussels, hysterical conversation, the sounds of the waves crashing twenty yards from us and endless bottles of Vranac.

Now, also worth noting about Montenegro is that I had some fantastic down time.  For a week before I made it there, I was all worked up about being there alone on my dad’s birthday, May 30, feeling sad that another year was passing and all I had was pictures and memories of birthdays past.  I had a lot of anxiety about how I would spend the day, but the day sorted itself out.  I worked late, met friends down for mojitos until the sky opened up, at which point we raced back in the rain, soaked and splashing, looking ridiculous and feeling warm from the rum.  I the spent the last of the hours late into the morning sitting at the beach, lying on a wooden chair, watching the stars with my feet in the water and sand.  Between that and getting to wake up to the sound of the rain with my door open, breeze and the smell of the ocean, I really can’t complain.  Montenegro is kind of perfect and I’ll be back someday soon.

Now, about my “When U2 does it better” moment of the week….I have to admit, now that I’m actually writing this in print, I’m not sure if I can actually back myself, having listened to both versions today at least 93 times.  So I was on the plane home from Paris this afternoon (yes, I was in Paris again this weekend, but that’ll just have to wait until some other post…) listening to my iPod and on comes UB40’s “Can’t Help Falling in Love with You” and I had a lose my own mind moment.  To be fair, let’s recognize that “Can’t Help Falling in Love” is NO ONE’s version except Elvis’ but that’s beside the random points I’m going to make so we’ll just get that out of the way and move on.   Now, since I apparently haven’t heard that song in forever, I become instantly obsessed with it and so of course when I got home, I had to compare it to U2’s version, because that’s my thing lately.  You’d think I was doing a thesis on “Best love song covers ever recorded” or something equally gay, but rest assured, I’m not…but anyway, of course U2 had to go and make this version that’s not even really comparable and so now I’m conflicted.  I’ll let you all be the judge, and I’d like some feedback because now the song has me all worked up, making it my song of the day–“Can’t Help Falling in Love.”

UB40’s version:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ajp0Uaw4rqo&feature=related  Now if you can get past this hideous video that I’m sure saved UB40 tons of money, I’m sure this song will bring you back to slow dancing at a junior high dance, or maybe making out in the backseat of a car if you’re a tad older and wiser than I.  You’ll have to keep in mind that I was only 13 when this song came out and therefore it reminds me of my glasses and braces era where I spent most of my time reading books late at night while wearing headgear or crying over boys that called me four eyes.  Real romantic….Anyway, this version really is old school fantastic and my most favorite part is at minute 2:14, though the lead singer kinda ruins it by distracting me with that awkward hand thing he does.  Now, moving on to U2.

U2’s cover” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QG9wJu1Fm2A&feature=related  God, Bono really doesn’t tragically in love really well.  I have no idea what the fuck is up with his tranny clown face makeup, I’ll guess it was the drugs, but he’s doing that aching desperation thing again that makes me want to take off my pants.  Especially right in the beginning at second 32, the whole, “Shall I stay” part..ugh, Bono, you sexually frustrate me.

Now in other news about taking my pants off, this is a great transition into my thoughts about the British lately.   Well, let’s not get all excited.  I’m talking about David Beckham, not the male population in England as a group.  Fuck me, did anyone see Becks last night at the game?  Jesus christ, I wanted to see that suit on my floor.  I mean, really??  That is one vision I logged to use at a later date.  And I’m serious, he can park his slippers under my bed any day of the week.  I don’t typically get all jazzed up about famous penis like I do with Beckham.  That’s not even taking into account what would happen if we had a conversation and he used his panty dropping accent on me.  He could read me football scores  or talk to me about his underwear campaign or read me the weather report for the next week and it wouldn’t matter, I’d probably sit there with my stupid mouth open, picturing what he looks like without those fancy little Armani skivs of his (you’re welcome, ladies).  And so that brings me to the game last night.  Though it would have been nice to make the Queen cry in her tea, I’d rather take a draw than go to bed last night knowing those mouthy Brits had one more thing to harass me about.  If I hear one more time this year, “You’re welcome for your country.  We didn’t want you…”, I am going to freak out.  Fucking Brits. 

And now lastly, tacos.  I know, random, but I had this thought today and I figure I’ll just throw it out there and see if anyone has an answer.  So I’m eating a soft taco today for lunch at my house and when we run out of soft tacos, Chris brings out hard taco shells and really, who the hell eats hard tacos anymore? I’m kind of appalled I even have any in the pantry.  So anyway, he’s filling up the shell and we’re talking about how it’s useless unless you were looking to scrape the hell out of the roof of your mouth and then I think,

Why the hell did none of us as kids know that soft tacos existed until we were in high school and found out by going to our first Mexican restaurant and by restaurant I clearly mean Taco Bell. I mean, really, think about it.  In doing some preliminary research, I find that at least three people my age (in the 27-35 age range) also had no idea soft tacos existed until they had lived at least 14 years.  Now what I want to know is why the hell were our parents holding out on the soft shells and torturing us with mouth scrapers for years?  Now I’m from the generation that ate the fuck out of american chop suey and shepard’s pie and so I see the savings in paying for the hard tacos  but really?  Were the soft tacos THAT much more expensive?  I assume my parents based most of our evening dinners on the opportunity to buy in bulk and save money or maybe soft tacos didn’t exist until 1995, which therefore would make sense and I would not be upset that my parents cheaped out on introducing me to the soft taco, which is the only type of taco I’ve ever eaten since.  Obviously.  I know this isn’t something to get that crazy about but really, think about it.  You probably weren’t dining on the fancy soft taco either, were you?  I didn’t think so.  And so to take it to the next, Heather is out of her mind like normal, level, I googled “history of soft taco”  and we can all thank the writing of this, Tortilla Taco History http://whatscookingamerica.net/History/Tortilla_Taco_history.htm, for letting me know that the taco dates back to at least the 1400s and I’ll be damned if the soft and hard taco weren’t both being sold in the 1960s, at least twenty years before I was born and so there is no reasonable excuse as to why I never had a soft taco until I was 14.

So, that should do it for today.  Now that I’m home for a week, I’ll attempt to catch up on the posting but then again, I have family in town this week and I’m off to Nuremberg for work for two days and then the States for ten days so who knows….we shall see.