Puzzled

I am doing a 2000 piece puzzle.

It's mammoth, the largest puzzle I've ever done--39 by 30 inches. I love all sorts of jigsaw puzzles, but this one is really something. It's taking forever.

I love it.

I've been pretty busy lately, so I only allow myself a few minutes with the puzzle here and there. On the weekends, I indulge and spend and hour or two with it instead of the daily sudoku. Even so, I've studied it so closely that I've gotten to know it in a very intimate way. It's become a character in my life. I am fascinated by it. I am so familiar with the image that I'll be walking by the puzzle table, see a glint of color and say, "aha!" then pluck that piece from the hundreds of pieces on the table and fit it perfectly into the image. That drives my kid nuts.

The image is "Allegory of Sight" by Jan Brueghel the Elder and Peter Paul Rubens painted in 1618 (oil on wood).


My puzzle version is cropped on the right and does not have the picture of the garlanded Virgin and baby. Oh well.

Clementoni, Ravensburger and Springbok are my favorite brands. I'm very particular about the images on the puzzles. I like museum art images and I also love big colorful fun puzzles to do with my kid--particularly food and candy images. Her and her friends had a ball with School of Fish, which is a great puzzle as it has big simple pieces and smaller ones as well. I love a puzzle with a sense of humor.

I would pay $100 for a 1000 piece puzzle of Mike Rowe or Rally Caparas naked. And I'd want to get it with just a partial photo--so I could be surprised as I completed the puzzle (although I think everyone knows which parts I would fit together first).

Oh Rally!

My word, Mr. Rowe!

Wishful thinking. In the meantime, I'm saving up for this.

Menchesters

I love men's chests. I love them and love them and love them. I love the hair and the nipples. I love the landscape of their stomachs. I love their armpits and backs. Men's chests are so erotic to me that I can't understand why men can drive me crazy walking around shirtless. Who decided that men's chests are not too sexual for public display but women's are?

Dummies.


The Goat's chest is the most perfect manchest imaginable. And believe me, I put it to good use. It would be entirely inappropriate to detail all the ways I interact with the Goat's chest herein. But whenever he walks through the kitchen shirtless, I get a goofy smile on my face, drop the spatula in the batter, and approach him with fingers splayed and I put my hands on his chest.

It is beautiful ironic and funny to me that I can feel up the Goat's naked chest in public 24 hours a day and it's okay, but men aren't allowed to play with boobies like that.

Tee-hee! No public boobies for you!

Of course I stare endlessly at chests of other men whenever I can.


This is why every woman in the world wanted to screw Burt Reynolds in 1972, although I'm sure Reynolds could round up his share of randy dandies today. I've heard shitty things about Burt Reynolds, but his affair with Dinah Shore and the Lewis character in Deliverance make up for alot.

Goddamn I love men's chests.


Holy hell, look at Mike Rowe. Now, I wrote this column tongue in cheek, but I've told the Goat that if Rowe shows up here and wants me to sit on his chest, it's pretty much a done deal. For some reason, the Goat did not express concern. Hm.


This guy's chest is a real hall-of-famer. The picture doesn't do the Survivorman Les Stroud any justice, but it was the best I could find. Although we do get to see that nice man-crease that points a lovely vee to the Promised Land.

Now I am so happy I'm going to bake cupcakes!

Rainy Day Woman, vol. 1

An open letter to Mike Rowe, wherein I challenge him to the dirtiest job around.

Got something to say about it? Email the Free Times.

The short list

"If Rally Caparas comes here and wants to have sex, it's pretty much a done deal," I say to the television, from whence the Weather Channel is broadcasting the Travel Update.

"Ol' Rally made it to the short list, did he?" says my husband from behind the newspaper. "What if there's a logistical miscalculation and he comes here when I'm home?"

"You can go for a nice walk," I say.

"Mmm-hm." He yawns, folds up the Metro section and picks up the business section.

Obviously, my husband is not intimidated by the short list, a term he coined that represents my list of fantasy men. I don't know why he is so unconcerned. No collection of Brad Pitts and Ben Afflecks will you find here. No, no. This group is populated by illustrious sexpots such as meteorologists and local mechanics and, admittedly, a few token movie/tv/rock stars.

Here is the complete short list as of November 2005 in no particular order:

1. Rally Caparas

2. Bob Woodruff

3. James Carville

4. The Guy Who Works at Midas Muffler

5. That One Stilt Performer Guy from the Parade Last Summer

6. Jim Cantore

7. Anthony Kiedis

8. Vincent D'Onofrio

9. George Clooney

10. Antonio Banderas

And then there is (purrrrrrrr) these two guys:

11. The Dirty Jobs guy and

12. The Scrubs guy.

I am not delusional. I realize that my chances with The Guy Who Works at Midas Muffler (whose embroidered name patch said "Vince") and That One Stilt Performer Guy from the Parade Last Summer may not be all that good, but they are infinitely better than my chances with, say, Antonio Banderas or George Clooney. And am I wrong to believe that setting your sites on a travel forecaster glitters with some vague hope of possibility?

So, Rally baby, if you've got your ears on, drop me an email.