Bee Rides and Monkey Mahem

I am alive. Just busy at work these days and we all know that posting from la travail is my favorite place from which to do it for it looks like I am actually working but I am not-- I am writing to you, my people. So when I actually DO have to work at work, I find that it kind of mucks things up and not only am I not able to blog but I am unable to keep up with other people’s blogs, online gossip columns, the daily news etc… nor am I able to make any attempts at resurrecting my love life. Because goodness knows I cannot possibly do any of that on my own time.

No, no, no… That would be cutting into my ME time in the evenings and as it is I find that there is just not enough ME time in the day anyway, let alone if I used said ME time to work on the above mentioned computer related activities.

Anyway, I had a lovely weekend which included kayaking with my English Chemist, desperately craving a chicken burger and being told that definitely a place with an Italian sounding name did not serve Italian food, but pub food which would include, but not be limited to chicken burgers only to find out that it really was really only logical that a restaurant with an Italian sounding name would absolutely be an Italian restaurant and would not be caught dead serving anything remotely close to pub food which includes, but is not limited to chicken burgers… And then of course there was the Game on Sunday where I completely forgot my oath to support the team that I did not want to win in hopes that the team that I did want to win would win… I guess we all know who I was cheering for.

But it was an interesting game to say the least. Made even more interesting by Zizou’s head butt which, according to him, was caused by his Mother and Sister being thrice insulted by Marco Materazzi in the last few minutes of the game. Now, call me crazy. I don’t KNOW Zinedine Zidane, nor do I ever think I will ever be so fortunate as to be even remotely close to being in the presence of Zinedine Zindane… but if you were to ask my opinion on the matter, I would have to say that insulting the man's female relatives not once, but three times, would probably not get you onto his Christmas list. I would not even so much as insult the tiniest hair on his head. He has no hair and I would still not insult it. If asked, I would tell the man that he had the most magnificent mane in all the land.


Three words:


Look at this man** Note that I tried like a bazillion times to upload a picture... stupid blogger... here is the pic!!! Hottie though he may be, his stone-face did not even crack when he practically dislocated his shoulder. He walked it off, la-la-la…and was back in the game as if nothing had happened. In my girlish FIFA fantasies, of which I have many, I do not even imagine his face cracking a smile even whilst in the throngs of passionate of love-making. Much different than how I imagine my little Crouchie, who during our date, was all smiles and laughter… Ok, so we never went on a date, but I had a DREAM that we went out on a date. That’s how I know we are MFEO… because we got along so great in my dream. He was like SO into me… He even did The Crouch…

I digress.

What the heck was I talking about???

Damn you Peter Crouch!!!

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