Hot Manz!

Oh mah god, what lady doesn't love them hot manz?

And before you say, "Um, duh, LESBIANS" I say, HA! Got you there! One of W. and B.'s moms once told me that she was pretty sure W. was going to grow up to look like [pre-homeless] Colin Farrell, and that that was 100% okay with her, because Colin Farrell was SO HOT! and then W. would grow up to be sexy and catch mad honeys.

Maybe she didn't say "Mad honeys" exactly, but you catch my driftwood.

So anyway, it has come to my attention that I occasionally have different taste in my Hot Manz than many out there. In fact, I could summon so little enthusiasm (despite all my efforts) for the ice-tipped boy-men of my elementary days that my best friend pulled me aside at the tender age of grade five to ask, "Jordan. Um. I notice you don't really have crushes on boys. Are you, like, um, a lesbian?" (verbatim)

To which I responded, "NO I AM NOT, not that there's anything wrong with that anyway, you hormonally-charged vehicle for adolescent humiliation!" (less verbatim)

Some might even say that my taste in men runs disturbingly daddy-complexed and hairline-deficient end of the spectrum. I say, "NO IT DOES NOT, not that there's anything wrong with that, and my daddy doesn't look anything like him in that light, so who cares anyway?"

Without further ado, my highly specific List of Hot Manz Who Make Me Think Dirty Thoughts (celebrity edition, duh. I still love you, The Boy.):

5) SPIKE from Buffy:

He was undead, he was British, he was hilarious, he was wildly and passionately in love. He made stalking, smoking, and rough (and occasionally invisible!) sex hot. He did this affectionate head-tilting thing that was beyond adorable (best video ever on that link!). He was brooding and drunk and wore tight (but not questionable tight [notthatthere'sanythingwrongwiththat, aka NTTAWWT]) shirts over an eye-popping body and raw sexuality that sent my 15 year-old self into a tailspin.

Plus, my unbridled love for him gave my family the best opportunities for mocking me since my plastic pony days (love you, Grand Champions!): "Honey, why are you sitting alone in the dark? Oooo, it's because it makes your boyfriend die, right?" "Why so sad, sweetie? Oh, did someone let slip that vampires aren't real? Darn it!"


4) CAPTAIN JEAN-LUC PICARD OF THE STARSHIP ENTERPRISE:

Nuff said. The man who INVENTED the Daddy-Complex (or even the grandpa one, which is way dirtier, NOT THAT I HAVE ONE, NTTAWWT).

3) PETER SARSGAARD:

There is just something about this man that is so, so sexy. Somewhere between the monotone, the sly, bedroom eyes, the slight drawl and the soft but sleek body, he just oozes sex. He just gives off pheromones that seem to say, "I love sex. I love having it, talking about it, and I want it with you."

And I'm all like, "Okay, Peter!" Plus he kissed Liam Neeson that one time. And is Jake Gyllenhal's brother-in-law. His hawtness pedigree is impeccable, his confidence infectious (he does a full-frontal gay scene right after the above shirtless shot), and his sexuality fun and relaxed, but passionate. DROOL.


2) DAVID DUCHOVNY/FOX MULDER:

Oh my god, what to say about Fox Mulder? LOVE OF MY LIFE, right here. As Rebecca Traister writes on Salon.com: "[Fox Mulder is] the brilliant, wounded, lonely man... And it didn't hurt that Duchovny was basically a walking pheromone, all languid eyes and long-necked eroticism... Mulder was hot, and made you want to heal and help him and go with him to the Andes in search of the yeti or whatever it was he planning to do with his three-day weekend."

He didn't look too shabby topless.

He was a joyous, ovary-twinging father.

And he was madly, passionately, soul-crushingly and body-meltingly in love with Agent Dana Scully (aka ME). Siiiigh. I still watch them onscreen together and feel myself light up at the sight of them, even on the shittiest day. That's love, baby.


1) CHRISTOPHER MELONI:

If Mulder was a walking pheromone, Christopher Meloni is a walking hard-youknowwhat-on. He gives me dirty thoughts I didn't know I had. He LOVES sex, and has said so on many occasions. I would like to give him an opportunity to display this love. I think it's the charitable thing to do. Seriously though, this man reaches into the darkest bits of my psyche and makes me want to write fanfiction involving dark alleys, handcuffs, his dirty, dirty grin, and biting his neck. I don't know why I want to bite his neck so badly, I just really, really need to bite his neck like NOW THANKS.

Plus, any man who can do MANY gay love scenes with his best friend and make it SO DAMN HOT, PRESENT YOUR NECK NOW, is a man I want to know better. In the dirty, dirty Biblical sense.

As well, any man who can look SO GOOD in THESE deserves our appreciation and our hurled panties:

Dear Chris Meloni: let me bite your neck now? Thanks, and see you soon. In my bed.


So there you have it. Here are my (celebrity) manz. Who are yours? Want to share mine? Let's get droolicious together.


Oh SO happily now,
Jordan

PS: This is my other Manz, looking blond and outdoors-y and yummy without a shirt on. My life is pretty good! And this one lets me bite his neck for sure, no questions asked.

Someone Call 911 On This Pity Party

Have you ever encountered something in you that you just can't overcome?

So, this isn't the heavy stuff I meant to post about, but here's some other sort of heavy stuff instead, prompted by recent events. So, here goes.

I get sick. A lot. Among myriad other unidentified health problems I have going on, I have a disease, that wandered into my life for the first time when I was twelve. It's not fatal, or even maiming. It is, however, stigmatized, incurable, recurrent, and limitedly treatable.

It's one of the fun ones that disappears for months at a time, and then rears its head at the most inopprtune moments (every family vacation for the last 8 years, during my first date, etc). *I* know that I didn't get it because I'm a slut or dirty or whatever. I know that it doesn't come on my lady bits (which, ohmyjonas thank you for that one thing). *I* know that. But the end result is that I can't tell anyone what's really wrong, because I know where their minds would go, and because of the real fun stigma around it.

YEAH, that's a fun one to grapple with when you're a chubby, furry adolescent who won't even be kissed for another four years.

When most people say that they're Capital S 'Sick', they mean puking like there's gonna be no more puke tomorrow. And while I do plenty of that (leading to about 5 pregnancy tests in the last 10 months, and a disproportionate number of BabyThoughts), I mean I've been struck by a bolt from hell with the above. So keep up, will ya?

And when I'm Sick, everyone around me has to distance themselves from me, for their own health. I'm left so tired that it feels like somebody opened my tap, left it running, and drained me out. I can't really talk to my friends about it. I can't tell the truth to my boss about it. So there we are, exhausted and in bad pain and full of self-loathing, and noboday can even lie down on the bed with you.

Even the Boy, who is kind and supportive and pretty damn sweet about all my little quirks (read: insanities), had a pretty major meltdown about it when I had a particularly bad bout just last month. See Horrifically Vague Post of DOOM for a Horrifically Vague Description of how this bascially just destroyed any dream I had of him being the one person in the world who would see the full extent of it and say, "Fuck it, I don't care, you're still the same, I still want to touch you and hold you no matter what." And that? Is a fairly fucking lonely situation.

Wow. Debbie Downer much? Consider this the cops arriving to break up the above mentioned pity party.

So, anyhoo, I got sick AGAIN on the weekend, only three weeks after the last bad run of it, and after taking a whole bunch of precautions. So, to explain why I didn't have much by way of blogging material, here's what I did for the last 48 hours (apart from the 24 of them that I was sleeping).

I stared at this:

Contents: my stuffed baby seal (toy, not actual seal, disappointingly); nerdy book that made me cringingly obsessed with Welsh names at the age of 13; bank statement; computer; purse.

And this:

Light fixture with cool shadows.

But finally help arrived in the form of this:
And now I'm back at work. Good thing? Not sure yet.

Anyhoo, I just wanted to put that out there for all of my 1.5 readers. It feels good to say though, in any medium. Consider this my sickly 'coming out', hope you can still say "I love my dead, diseased blogger!", and I'll be back with something more fun real soon.

Yours in sickness,

Jordan

Why Drink Coffee... When You Can Be Me!

Remember those old ads, that used to say "Why have coffeee... when you can have Coffee Crisp!" and the coffee would be shown to be hideously impractical and burning and basically the Devil's Liquid Indulgence, while the Coffee Crisp was handy and portable and crunchy and Beloved By the Lord?

Well, in your face, advertising moguls! Right at this very moment, in my cubicle, I am having BOTH!

I walk on the wild side.

I also got a thrill out of eavesdropping on co-workers as my coffee squirted from the machine (um, ew). They exclaimed on and on about Jon and Kate Plus 8, while I crunched on my candy bar and smirked to myself through the crumbs about how they knew nothing, NOTHING, about the show, while I have see every episode and BOTH hour-long specials. Fools!

... My life is fan-fucking-tastic these days, clearly.

Enthusiastically yours,
Jordan

P.S.: Oh, and I know I said meatier stuff today, and it is coming, after my therapy. Yes, that's right, I go to therapy.

Don't you just want to BE me?

The T.Dot

To avoid disappearing entirely while I wrestle over a few things in my over-thinking head, here are a handful of pictures of me trying to cope with the boring reality of a full-time job, and the sticky heat here in the city I love.

Sorry for the photo post. I always enjoy seeing other peoples', but I will be back with something a bit meatier as soon as I can.

Riding horses.

Navigating the transit system.

My younger cousin went to prom in a beautiful dress that made me feel like an old lady. Also, her justification for getting carded by the cashier at the liquor store: "Whatever, it was just cause I looked better than her anyway." And yet I rewarded her with glamour photography...

Hanging with peeps in the great outdoors. Above, in High Park...

Here, drunk on sangria in my backyard. Mmm, sangria...

Gorgeous after-the-rain sunsets.

A movie with my Main Man. (Holy crap, so good. Holy.)

Her Third Child

My mother is a fantastic gardener. She is also an obsessive one. Because of her tireless and occaisonally fanatical efforts, the backyard that I grew up in, a wide (for downtown Toronto), bumpy expanse of grass and bushes, is now a lush, dense garden that literally makes people walking by stop and stare. I can't count the number of mornings I've woken up, wandered around the house calling and calling for my mom, freaked out, dialed every number where I could conceiveably reach her, and then found her in the garden, bum in the air and hands in the dirt, happy as anything. I, on the other hand, complain bitterly about losing my childhood playground, where I used to "play baseball", "play tag" and "play croquet"

Er, for the above, read: "thwack at the t-ball stand and then cry," "run for two minutes, bang my knee, and then cry," and "sit on top of a pile of croquet balls and cluck like a chicken for 30 minutes, fall on my ass when they inevitabley roll away, spot a big bug, run inside, and then cry." I was an outdoorsy child, obviously.
But there are some summer evenings, where the garden and I can make peace, declare a truce, and give each other some happiness. And last night was one of those.

Maybe I'll learn to share *some* of my stuff with my leafy little sister. Eventually. One day. If she's good.