Luke Wilson gives me a ladyrection.

That is all.

Ride

I’ll openly admit to having a total girl crush on her… and a desire to steal most of her wardrobe from Mad Men. Scha-WING!

But anyway, back to the open letter. I agree with most of it. Especially points one and two:

“We love your body. If we’re in love with you, we love your body. Your potbelly, everything. Even if you’re insecure about something, we love your body. You feel like you’re not this or that? We love your body. We embrace everything. Because it’s you.

Speaking of your body, you don’t understand the power of your own smell. Any woman who is currently with a man is with him partly because she loves the way he smells. And if we haven’t smelled you for a day or two and then we suddenly are within inches of you, we swoon. We get light-headed. It’s intoxicating. It’s heady.”

But I’m not so sure about the whole, drinking scotch and not wearing tank tops bit. As long as a boy’s not ordering an Appletini or something I’m cool with it. And I think tank tops are cute – geek chic… though I think she might mean vests, in which case, I’ll give her that one, too.

What else would I put in my open letter? Probably this…

We think you are the bees knees – if we’re with you, it’s because we think you’re hot. If we stay with you it’s because we think you’re aces. We think you’re smart, sexy, funny, all of it. Don’t question why we do… just understand that we do. And like it.

We like it when you make a tit of yourself – so you got food on your face, danced in public & people laughed, or you said something stupid and we kind of pwned you. Vulnerable is good. It makes us feel better about being vulnerable too. But don’t overdo it; vulnerable’s one thing, needy is another

If you know we’re in the bathroom NEVER speak of it. We go to the loo. If you’re in the house/flat it is almost guaranteed that it will absolutely NOT be a No.2. But whatever it is, do NOT, under any circumstances mention it. We don’t want you to think about us on the loo. We want to be sex kittens in your eyes, not mortal women. Toilets do not factor… except on some, eh, specialist websites.

Now, I can’t be arsed thinking about any more and shall open the floor to my other lady friends. Girls? Any suggestions?

In the meantime, I’m going to look at some Christina pics and imagine myself slinking around in a slinky dress with stockings etc. Purrrrrrr

]]> http://curlydena.com/index.php/2010/07/05/christina-hendricks-very-sexy-and-kinda-wise/feed/ 1 http://curlydena.com/index.php/2010/06/21/taking-a-moment/ http://curlydena.com/index.php/2010/06/21/taking-a-moment/#comments Mon, 21 Jun 2010 12:52:22 +0000 curlydena http://curlydena.com/?p=980 Right now, I’m really happy. I am also a fuckwit.

I am a fuckwit because I get nervous about admitting that I’m happy . It’s as though, if I actually say the words aloud, it will somehow draw my happiness to the attention of some mystical being who has a really twattish grudge against me (probably because a) my hair’s way fucking cooler than theirs and b) I don’t believe in their existence) and that they will somehow reap vengeance upon me by turning things to shit.

I’m not a pessimist or anything, quite the opposite. It does, however, seem that I have an innate ability to worry. In an ideal world, this would mean that I was always annoyingly skinny. Living life on my nerves and all that jazz; but life, even when it’s brilliant, is just not that kind. Worrying makes me fatter. I don’t need to be any fatter. In fact I’m trying to get less fat, so there’s reason No.2 to stop the worrying about being happy.

Sometimes though, I give myself a swift (metaphorical) kick in the nads and tell myself to stop being such a cockweasel, and just be glad for what I’ve got. And I am. Annoyingly so, probably. I could pretend I was sorry about that, but frankly I’m too busy doing the Happy Dance to worry about people being annoyed about my big, ridiculous, smiley face.

So there you go. I’ve said it. I am happy.

(Rumours that I am currently partaking of several, farcical, surperstitious, “luck bringing” activities are totally unfounded by the way

The boy, the roof garden, the view & the moon

And oh yeah, I’m blogging again & shit.

I’ve been a bit shit at updating my blog over the last couple of months. In all honesty, I’ve been both too busy (in a good way) and lacking inspiration for anything to write about. My life is full of great stuff at the moment and I’m in a really good place; paradoxically this means I am utterly devoid of inspiration for things to write about.

This bothers me. I love my blog, for all its nonsensical silliness, and I don’t want to neglect it. I’ll try and update it again, more regularly. I’ll also try to make it funny again… can’t promise that though.

Hmm, I also don’t appear to have included any swearing in this post.

FUCKSHITPISSWANKBOLLOCKS

Aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah, that’s better.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve dabbled; had my bi-curious moments with green teas, fruit teas, white teas etc but like an errant lover, who realises that (although the tea may be) the grass isn’t always greener, I always come back to the one who truly holds the key to my heart:

A good, old fashioned, mug of tea

Now, I’ve heard tales of another. One that is smooth, dark, strong & alluring, with a heady, intoxicating aroma. I’ve heard tell of people unable to resist it’s charms. But this girl can. Coffee to me is like the tall, dark handsome man whose scent attracts you from afar, just for you to realise how nauseating he is up close – bitter and waaaaay too full of himself.

I’m an out and out tea girl I’m afraid. A one brew woman.

And I’m pretty specific about what makes a really good cup of tea. For starters it has to be made in a pot. Now, I’ll make it in a mug during work when lack of teapot dictates it to be so, but it’s never as good. Tea from a pot is, frankly, just better. It’s like comparing shagging on a fold-out camp-bed to a full on fuck-fest in a super-king four-poster. Ultimately you’re still pretty much getting what you want, but one is just a quicky that’ll serve scratch the itch, but the other stirs the senses, should be savoured and pretty much guarantees to hit the spot every time.

The pot must also always be scalded. You can’t just bung it all in the teapot & go. People, tea deserves better treatment!

And you can’t serve it in just any old vessel. It has to be the one that is perfect for you. Some people prefer china as it keeps the tea hot for longer, but not for me. I’m all about the big, solid, comforting mug. No matter how bleak the day, how miserable the weather, or low the mood, a delicious mug of tea will always make things better.

Everyone has their own way of making tea & enjoying it. Some like a good old builder’s tea, some like it weaker, some with sugar and some without. But however you enjoy it, enjoy it you shall. I know I will.

It’s fair to say, that in this regard, I am indeed the smitten kitten.

And then there was a rainbow right over work too.

Now, if I’m somewhat distracted today, it’s nothing to do with me scouring the grounds for a pot of gold or anything. Oh no…

Image via Fffound

Wahoo, it’s Pancake Day!

Everyone loves pancake day. Who wouldn’t? Well, Victoria Beckam probably, as I doubt a carb has passed her perma-pouty lips since 2001, but aside from that, who doesn’t love Pancake Day?!

I know I do.

Will I be giving anything up for Lent? No. Fortunately for me, I’m not affiliated with any kind of religion (though according to the last UK census, I’m a Jedi), so in true heretical style, I like to pick and choose which bits apply to me. Besides, I gave up giving stuff up a long time ago. I’m not a girl who believes in either/or; I believe in “and”.

So, I will have my pancakes and eat them. As for what will be on them? Just lemon & sugar. I’m a pancake purist. None of this syrup/ice cream/chocolate etc for me. Lemon & Sugar all the way. Nommy.

Enjoy yours… however you eat them

Mmmm, pancakes

[Image (c) Onesidezero via Flickr]

Just don’t go mad, eh…

www.youtube.com/watch?v=aczPDGC3f8U