Hollywood conspiracy theories

Sitting by my desk at work, doing the usual Monday+procrastination routine, I started roaming the web. It didn't take me long to find something to drool over, and that picture is the one below. Please enjoy. However, in order to at least seem to be doing something, I had to move the cursor every now and then, and that's when it hit me. There's definitely something fishy going on in Hollywood... How can there be two drop dead gorgeous men like these two alive at the same time? As if only one of them weren't blessing enough?

Whammo!
Another of my momentary lapses of insanity came rushing head on.

Theory #1
(Yummy, yummy btw)
Hollywood sexy-men retail store?
Somebody had better tell me where to place my order!

Theory #2
Contemporary look-alikes makes me think....
....cloning?
Maybe even robotics?

Theory #3
Time travelling?
Where do I buy my ticket?
And how expensive is plastic surgery in the future? Anybody know?

Turning into my mother

It's early morning. Well, early according to my standards.
Huddling inside the freezing car, I can't wait to really wake up. The cold doesn't quite do it. It takes one thing to do that properly. The one thing I'm without for the moment. My vices - my cigarettes. Stressed out and delayed, as usual, I run into the store, giving a recognizing nod to the girl at the counter. She knows what I'm after, I've been in here nearly every morning. Grunting a hoarse 'thank you' to the her as she hands me my lifelines, I catch a glimpse of myself in the reflection on the window glass of the store. Slowing down, on my way out of there, I take another, harder look.

At first I couldn't understand what it was that caught my attention. The reflection showed nothing new. A half crazed woman in splendid morning grumpiness, desperately clutching to her pack of cigarettes. Eyes wild, body moving sort of gangly, as if still asleep. Oversized fleece jacket to keep the cold away, glasses on the verge of falling off from the tip of her nose, hair in a bun. Think crazy librarian, and you've got it. Sure, it doesn't paint a pretty picture, but that's not the point. That is hands-down how I look in the mornings, and I'm used to it. So, why the sudden self-interest?

Back in the car, racing for work, it hits me. God, in that oversized, badly fitting fleece, I look just like my mother. *Shudder*

Post-it!

Web-loot of the day. Link in the list to the right for those who need more than just one post-it. (Things we forget)

Today's the day

To get back my youth I would do anything in the world, except take exercise, get up early, or be respectable.

- Oscar Wilde

Otto

Ladies and Gentlemen; Meet Otto.

According to the web page for the animal shelter closest to me, he's an elderly mutt, born circa 1996. Otto has a heart problem, but he’s generally a happy and active dog whom like both cats, other dogs and children. Sounds like the perfect dog right? Well, apart from the expected life span, of course.

The sad thing is he'll never know how much he's wanted. Ever since I saw his photo, I’ve been in love with the damned thing. Me, the cat person extraordinairé, pining after a dog. Madness, I say, Madness!

But for whatever reason, I can't seem to shake the feeling that's MY dog. The one who'd fit perfectly into my family. A happy companion for my daughter, an appreciative tail-wag at the end of the day for me (probably along with irritating hair shedding and disgusting slobbering, but hey, who said you could have everything?) and a gentle companion for the boyfriend. (Me, having unrealistic expectations of a dog I haven’t even met? Naah...)

So what’s holding me back? Two things really. Well, mostly anyway.

First; Morning walks. Neither me nor my daughter are what you’d call early birds. It’s imperative that the boyfriend handle those, and since he’s yet not living with us, I hold him totally and solely responsible for the incompleteness of this family. Well, no, I really don’t. But I could. And sometimes, I’d really want to.

Secondly: What you’ve been thinking all along. 14 years old AND a heart problem. He’d probably not survive the drive home.

Mongrel: cur; mutt; mixed breeds; dogs of unknown ancestry and questionable parentage.

New and exciting

The web's a wonderful place. Always something new to discover. Today my random browsing led me to 'A softer world'. There's a link in the list to your left if you like my selection. Photography and ironic philosophy, a noteworthy mix of two of my favorite things.

LOL

I'm afraid not...

Dreams

Det har varit mycket vanligt med bizarra post-apocalyptiska drömmar as of late. Ofta kämpar jag mig igenom stadruiner på jakt efter skydd eller rent vatten med dottern, gubben och mina vänner i släptåg. Muterade zombieapor eller kannibaler våra ständiga förföljare och jag den ihopbitne, trötte ledaren, tagen direkt ut en Rambofilm.

Den senaste episoden utsppelade sig i vattenfyllda katakomber. Vi vadar genom smutsigt, snuskigt vatten fyllt av skelett och döda råttor. Gubben vid handen för han är blind, Elinor håller facklan. Vi anländer till ett halvtorrt lagerrum, och efter att säkerhetskontrollerat det smygandes med min överdimensionerade machete kollapsar vi i en grön gammal möglig soffa i ett hörn. Jag tänder lamporna (jag vet, att drömma konsekvent är aningen svårt) och som jag gör det hör jag hur stegen av nån i högklackat närmar sig oss. I panik tittar jag upp i taket. Eluttaget ovanför soffan fungerar inte, och utan tillräckligt med ljus kommer gubben aldrig få sin syn åter. Skumma lampor vajjar sakta i taket och sänder djupa skuggor över hotande lådor och bråte. Ingenstans finns nån extra lampa att hänga över soffan för att hålla mina käraste trygga. Jag biter ihop, macheten i högsta hugg, beredd på vad som helst. När jag ser vem det är som kommer trippandes, en kvinnlig Hitler i läderoutfit, slappnar jag av. Våra ögon möts i samförstånd, hon räcker mig en bordslampa, och går vidare. Men det som inte blir sagt är ändå sant. Bordslampan är tillräcklig att ge honom synen åter, men han kommer ändå aldrig att riktigt se.

Igen, it all makes perfect sense to me.

Will, Ella Wheeler Wilcox

“Will”

There is no chance, no destiny, no fate,
Can circumvent or hinder or control
The firm resolve of a determined soul.
Gifts count for nothing; will alone is great;
All things give way before it, soon or late.
What obstacle can stay the mighty force
Of the sea-seeking river in its course,
Or cause the ascending orb of day to wait?
Each well-born soul must win what it deserves.
Let the fool prate of luck. The fortunate
Is he whose earnest purpose never swerves,
Whose slightest action or inaction serve,
The one great aim.