THE MANNEQUIN IS GONE. For all it’s creepiness, I’m strangely bereft, and also very puzzled: where, exactly, did it go? It wasn’t garbage day. Did one of the neighbours take it and, if so, what are they doing with it? It’s also strangely unnerving because when it was behind my house I knew where it was. Now, it could turn up anywhere. It’s like when your toddlers are underfoot and they’re noisy and messy but at least you know where they are. When they sneak off silently to another room, you do not know the carnage that awaits. This is how I feel about the mannequin; also, I never got to dress him up in a jaunty hat and scarf to take a photo.
Today I made the monumental decision to buy myself and the boys new socks. This sounds like a nothing kind of decision, but honestly, I hate buying socks with a weird, irrational passion. There is no explanation for this. I tend to wear my socks until they are literally falling apart, and then I just hoard them like a weird sock-wearing squirrel in my sock drawer. Then – because I only wear black socks – the socks inevitably get mixed together and I wear slightly mismatching socks, or one normal sock with one almost-worn-out sock and…I don’t know. I have a closet full of clothes, drawers full of sweaters, panty drawers full of attractive panties, and yet my sock drawer is a disaster. There may be some psychological explanation for this, but I don’t know what it is.
Anyway, today I had enough. I threw out ALL my socks, because they are all nearly destroyed, and all the boys’ socks, because of the same situation, and bought a total of twenty-four pairs of cheap socks. Now we all have nice socks, and I promise on my honour not to hoard them when they are worn out.
What a weird thing to be cheap about, I know. I don’t understand it either.
So People magazine came out with the Sexiest Man Alive and it’s Chris Hemsworth. Honestly, I’m just excited that I actually recognize a celebrity. All that action-movie-watching with my children has finally paid off! To be honest, Thor isn’t my type, really, but I can appreciate him as an excellent physical specimen. I’m sure my husband will have something to say about this, the way he did when I said that Adam Levine is not attractive, but he just got back from a business trip late last night and so I haven’t had a chance to divulge the very important information regarding the 2014 Sexiest Man Alive.
Wouldn’t it be fun to make a list of the Sexiest Man Not Alive? I tried to think of some but only came up with Almanzo Wilder.
Oh, Manly. You save the town from starvation, you save Laura’s sanity by rescuing her from red-rum, red-rum Mrs. Brewster’s house, taking her home by sleigh in minus 40 degree weather when she said she wasn’t interested in you, you purchase a pretty hair comb set and anonymously leave it for Laura at the town Christmas tree, you buy her a pretty brooch and surprise the bejesus out of her on a totally separate Christmas Eve, you build her the cutest house with cupboards because you know a woman won’t love you without a proper kitchen. And yet, you actually turn into a pretty lame duck, what with your amassing massive debt, your inability to farm, your crippling diphtheria. And again, I regret every minute I spent reading The First Four Years, a truly depressing book. Why didn’t I leave off at These Happy Golden Years? Regrets, I have a few.
Anyway, I keep trying to think of deceased men that would be considered sexy and I can’t think of any! This is wrong. There must be someone! I’m having dead-sexy-men writer’s block, people. Any suggestions?
Maybe someone will get you your very own mannequin for Christmas.
My number one pick for cute deceased guy is Fred Astaire. I know, it’s an unconventional choice, but someone about the way he squires the ladies around with total confidence is just…dreaaaaaaamy.
Also potentially hot: Shakespeare. I mean, he’d probably have terrible teeth and smell like a wild boar, but imagine the wooing. SWEET.
Also: Hemsworth is dreaaaaaamy. Solid choice this year.
Dead but still hawt: Gene Kelly, Michael Hutchence, Clark Gable (yes, I realize he would have had terrible cigar breath but I do not care.)
And you KNOW how I feel about Almanzo Wilder, 19th century hottie. He did end up being a little bit of a disappointment, I guess, but by all accounts he really & truly loved Laura with as much old-timey passion as he could muster. He didn’t like being away from her, even briefly. AND THAT KITCHEN. Please. Someone. Anyone. Woo me with a kitchen proportioned for my shortness.
Nikola Tesla is always my go-to hot dead guy – I’d put an image here but cannot figure out how to do so. He was both good looking and super intelligent. It’s like catnip for nerdy ladies like myself!
James Dean, HELLO. And Clark Gable, hell yes.
So did Almanzo Wilder really have a stroke, or did the tv writers just make that up for dramatic affect.
And yeah. That mannequin is totally in your crawlspace. Be afraid. Be very afraid.
No stroke, but he nearly died of diptheria, and it left him permanently disabled. Hard to be a farmer when you have a terrible limp.