The story is apparently a big deal, because it got a piece of yesterday's Star Tribune front page, pointing alert readers to the full story on A2. And because it's such a big deal, I will quote it here, so as not to be accused of almosting this vital truth that the enquiring public has a right to know:
Olivia Wilde has received Maxim mag's greatest cultural honor: She has been named the hottest human woman alive. "I'm considered sexy even though I'm wearing a lab coat every day and seen as a doctor on TV," says Wilde, who tops Maxim's Hot 100 list. "That really says something. Playing someone who is not defined by her looks and being considered hot, that really makes me feel good." Others in the top five are Megan Fox, Bar Refaeli, Malin Akerman and Mila Kunis."
Let me say this about that:
1) Olivia? I hate to break the news to you (that's a lie...I'm kinda liking this), but your perception that you and/or your character's hotness is not defined by your and/or her looks is totally whacked. The reason the editors of Maxim think you're hot is that they're enjoying imagining what you may or may not be wearing under that lab coat.
2) Take a second look at that list of the top five hottest human women alive and commiserate with me in this one over-arching fact:
I.
Have.
Absolutely.
No idea who any of those honored women are.
My position on the cutting edge of popular culture has long ago been usurped by those younger, faster, and more disposed to actually giving a rip.
I'm always on the lookout for something in my life that I can stretch all out of proportion in order to make it chuckle-worthy. Many times, I'm the only one who sees the humor in the situation. Now the tables are turned.
Since last Thursday afternoon, I've had this...thing...going on in my life that everyone around me is laughing about, but I'm not so sure I get the joke.
I walked out my front door late Thursday afternoon, on my way to the garage to get the smoke-belching machine I refer to as the lawn mower, when above my head I heard a shuffling of feet ("Deal me in!") and a guttural, animalistic mruff. I tapped on the part of the roof that hangs directly above our front door and I thought whatever it was that was up there was going to crash through and clamp its jaws on my jugular. If that was a squirrel, it had the healthiest Napoleon complex on the planet.
Later, when Beloved brought me a glass of water, she just happened to mention that our next-door neighbor, who walks the streets (but not in that way) at strange hours, told her that there's a raccoon in the 'hood. At which point, the clouds parted, a harp glissando sounded, and the Truth burst upon my sight: "I think I know where the raccoon lives."
That night, it took us several hours to get to sleep as we listened to the squatter in our attic rearranging pieces of furniture and singing in the shower. I tapped on our bedroom ceiling with a yardstick and Rocky Raccoon answered back with the drum part from Wipeout.
Bleary-eyed and dragging, I was making animalistic noises myself as I arrived at work Friday morning and quickly did some research on the World Wide Wackfest to find a professional answer to my woes. My co-workers, of course, were quick to come up with a plethora of possible paths to take, but I just didn't think it was practical to put a cougar in my attic or a howitzer in my driveway.
The founder and CEO of Elmer's Varmint Gitters ("We git 'em dead or git 'em gone!") arrived at the homestead Friday afternoon and put a trap on the roof, next to the hole that "I've been meaning to get to once the weather got nice enough for the squirrels to be outside." The idea being, when the nocturnal critter leaves the attic to get some grub (or possibly, quite literally, some grubs), it will end up in a one-way crate to the wastelands of Farmington, free to infest someone else's attic.
As I write these words, it is Wednesday afternoon. The wire mesh connecting the hole to the trap has been peeled away, an additional escape has been made by a board being pried into the soffit, and we are no longer being kept awake by the sounds of scampering raccoon feet...
The sound robbing us of sleep now is guttural, animalistic laughter.
The continuing saga of my life as a temporary bachelor, while Beloved records the vocals for her 3rd CD (http://www.restinhimministry.com/).
Thursday, April 30
Lunch wasn't worth mentioning...except that I just did mention it as being not worth mentioning...which is not the same as being unmentionable...but nobody would eat unmentionables for lunch anyway.
I was handed a wonder-inducing bit of information today. A friend (on Facebook, of course) wrote to tell me that she was looking at baby names and found out that Dewey, according to http://www.babynames.com/, actually means "beloved." How freakishly appropriate is that, seeing as how that's what I call my wife...Beloved, not Dewey.
Had a great taco salad for dinner (thanks for the leftovers, AngelFace) and became one with the couch as I watched Marlon Brando and Yul Brynner ("Yuuuuuul Brynner watch out,. Yul Brynner not cry. Yul Brynner not pout. I'm tellin' you why...") in 1965's ManMovie, Morituri. Once again, I totally missed where the farnsworth that title came from...maybe it was made clear during the several minutes I was sleeping.
Friday, May 1
Very productive day: finished off the leftover taco fixings, made reservations at a bed & breakfast to celebrate my 30th anniversary with Beloved, completed the organize-the-CDs project, and still managed to change my language of choice on Facebook to "English (Pirate)." This be the actual, factual truth, mateys! My birthday is now listed as Arrrrgust 2. And instead of deleting anything, I now get to keelhaul it or send it to Davy Jones. How cool is that?
Tonight's movie, Operation Crossbow, starring George Peppard and Sophia Loren was good enough that I stopped it a little less than an hour from the end so I could actually be awake for it on Saturday.
Saturday, May 2
Good thing I was awake for the final 30 seconds of yesterday's ManMovie. That was the only time the phrase "Operation Crossbow" was actually used.
The joy of today was that both lunch and dinner were provided by my neighbors' celebration of their daughter's third birthday. I know I'm putting my reputation as a curmudgeon at risk, but I pretty much melt whenever I'm around her. (She effects global warming that much!)
The original intent of chronicling my exploits while Beloved is away was to encourage myself to actually accomplish some things. It doesn't appear to be working, though, because while I was telling myself that I absolutely must recaulk the shower, I navigated over to hulu.com and watched Thank You, Mr. Moto. Peter Lorre rocks my world.
ManMovie Report: Got started on A Bridge Too Far, but also got started on dozing off. Narcolepsy and movie marathons don't mix well.
Sunday, May 3
Thanks to some Swell People at my church, I am now 10% toward my fundraising goal for Amnion Pregnancy Center's "Life is Beautiful" Walk. Thanks to my feigned cynicism, I notice that 90% is still a long way to go in only 13 days.
The primo-supremo lunch of the whole adventure happened today: Skyline chili, lovingly ladled over a bed of pasta and caressed by a massive mound of finely-shredded cheddar cheese...lazily indulged in with a healthy helping of oyster crackers. Ack! sry, my kyebrd iz sotrhing owt...too mcuh druul...
Finished A Bridge Too Far. You sure can tell it was made in 1977 and not 1947. The war flicks from the 40s that I've been watching all week were all about victory in the face of overwhelming odds. This 3-hour, star-studded, cinemascopic event was all about the Allied troops biting off more than they could chew and being forced to back off in defeat. Was this a World War II movie or a Vietnam movie? Hmmmm...
Monday, May 4
Beloved returned today and the cans of Skyline chili are all nestled snug in their beds. The ManMovies are ready to be returned to their rightful residence. I have vacuumed and caulked and wiped-down and straightened-up. Time to get back to Real Life.
And make no mistake about it...I'm grateful.
