Category Archives: Hunks

Apron of the Day: Gammy’s Garden

I’m easing back into the blogosphere with an easy post — my newest Apron of the Day. I’ve been neglecting my apron industry as well — among the mishaps of the the Week from Hell was a close encounter between the big toe of my sewing foot and a full bag of ice.

I’m  calling this Farm Kitchen apron “Gammy’s Garden” because my grandmother, among many things, was the doyenne of a working farm. These pretty prints remind me of her old-fashioned flower garden.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Here’s the fabric close-up — I knew I’d find just the right place to use those two old daisy buttons.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Oh, how I wish I’d bought a few more yards of this fabric! He’s pretty in pink, no?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

So, en avant! No more sulking, limping and having my heart broken by a couple of tennis players.

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Filed under A yard of fabric, Apron of the Day, Cheap and Cheerful Object of the Day, Hunks, Sewing, Worth it anyway

The Spanish Armada: Spanish Men’s Tennis is Muy Caliente!

I apologize for including so little beef cake on this blog — Lou, Lloyd and the two Dales are worthy specimens, but it’s a big world out there ladies!

And it’s Labor Day weekend at the US Open, one of the premiere opportunities for some guy watching. In fact, I’m not even going to include the whole Men’s Draw, even the megahunk Roger Federer. I’m going to focus, laser-like on what my daughter calls “the biological miracle that is Spanish Men’s Tennis.”  These five caballeros are through to the Round of Sixteen; they can all play tennis. One of them, Rafa Nadal, is ranked number one in the world, and I’ve spoken before of my conflicted Mama/Mrs. Robinson feelings for him. But he’s not the only slice of torta de carne in Iberia. Not by a long forehand passing shot. Does the excellent Spanish tennis system screen little kids not just on talent but on their potential to be models for the covers of paperback bodice rippers?

Where to start? Well, there’s nothing not to love about Feliciano (Andy Murray’s mother calls him “Deliciano”) Lopez, world # 25.

Moving down in tennis rankings to #41, consider the dreamy face of Tommy Rebredo —

There’s nuthin’ #41 there in the masculine pulchritude draw.

Thank you, SIL John, for snapping a shirtless David (that would be Dahveed) Ferrer. Heavy sigh, and some heavy breathing too. He’s ranked #12.

Even my Federer – loving daughter admitted that Dahveed was pretty darn breathtaking to watch at practice.

You may have seen Fernando Verdasco in considerably fewer clothes when he was modelling undies for Calvin Klein — now that ad campaign was a 140 mph ace down the T! Here he is in GQ. (Photo credit: Nathaniel Goldberg.)

I had the pleasure of watching Rafa Nadal’s match today, and the greatness of his game can almost make me forget the greatness of his guns and buns. Most of his photos show him as the sweet “Carravagest seraph”  nino he is. Not this one — thank you, New York Magazine.

I mean, let’s look at our homegrown guys. Andy Roddick’s good-looking. John Isner and Sam Querry are skinny cheerful giants. I like them all, but puhleeze.

All this heavenly Spanish man flesh has been posted with a higher ulterior motive. Watch tennis, learn tennis, love tennis. Hey, maybe even PLAY tennis! And if you just want more peeks at some of the hottest men in the world, I suggest you go to http://www.gototennisblog.com/ and scroll down until you see a feature on the right hand side: Tennis Hunks.

Gee, this was fun. Vamos!


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Filed under Body, How Cool is That?, Hunks, Sports, Tennis

The Countdown to Lloyd

I’ve met Lloyd exactly twice — in corporeal form. The first time was in Montreal in the dim dark days beyond recall: 1970? The second was when he crashed with us in Chicago in, I think, 1975. Then there was a twenty year gap, until the internet brought us together again. God bless the internet.

Lloyd’s gonna hop the Empire Builder from Seattle (he’s a Train Guy) and stay with us in our hovel in the ‘Ville for a week, in eleven days. This makes me happy in a special way I can’t describe: personal history, sure. The long attachment of — may I venture this: Soul Mates? Hmmm. He’s spent his life as a bookseller. He’s progressive, politically. He likes chamber music. He likes cats and architecture. Snap!

I met Lloyd through his sister Llyn, my bff at McGill and my travelling companion in Europe. She was my roommate at the Locanda Anna in Florence where I met my Chicago husband. She was the witness at my wedding. She flew in to Chicago to help when my baby was born. Then she disappeared, to me and her family. It breaks my heart.

Moving forward: When you know you’re having a house guest, the cataracts are peeled from your eyes. Good God, what a dirty dingy dump! We were planning on a new roof, but that can wait until after Lloyd leaves. I will hire a cleaning service. I’ll make new curtains for the guest room. For our anniversary on Tuesday we’ll go to the mall and buy a new set of cookware, new sheets and towels and have dinner out. I’ll dust the bookcases.

Lloyd, if you read this, know that you’re a force for good, although I’m sure you’ll find a dust hippo somewhere. Sometimes I need to get off my lazy ass and take care of the things I should always have been taking care of. Can’t wait to hear you and L, after a coupla beers, talking politics. You could head up a ticket together. As for me, I think Im going to look up upholstery cleaners. Or not.

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Filed under Born in Chicago, Home, Hunks, Into the Mystic, Travel

I Can Fly

As far as I can remember, “I Can Fly” by Ruth Krauss and Mary Blair was the first bedside story my father ever read to me. I blame that Little Golden tome for the sure knowledge that I’m going to watch more television in the next two weeks that I will in the other fifty combined. (There will be a spike during Wimbledon and the US Open.) You see, I’m a Winter Games geek . Also: I want to fly.

On the first page of “I Can Fly” our heroine in a red dress is standing up on a swing trying to catch as much air as she can, willing herself to fly. While I’m glued to the tube, my butt broadening every day, I’m flying vicariously.

(Note: I’m not crazy about commercial air travel without a muscle relaxant and a Johnny Walker, but that’s not flying — it’s taking an airborne Greyhound.)

The Gold Medal for the scariest aerial Olympic split seconds happens in pairs skating, when the man tosses his bodacious besequined partner  into the void. I hold my breath every time, terrified we’ll see a painful ignominious splat on the rink instead of that graceful gleaming landing on one blade.

Today was my introduction to a thrilling form of lunacy called Skateboard Cross. It’s a wild ride down a ramped, curving course dotted with, in the lingo, Features. I call them freakin’ huge flat-topped mountains, over which one , well, flies through the air. I’m so glad my daughter sticks to tennis, and I’m holding my breath and sending my prayers to other snowboarding parents as their kids take on the halfpipe.

Moguls: what the heck? (And Oh Canada!) What maniac came up with this one? I’m glad other people want to tear downhil, skiing in what appears to be an enormous, icy upside-down egg carton. They pause twice to launch themselves off ramps, fly and twist head over heels, stick a landing and ski tight and fast as hell. Thrills, spills and chills in about 25 seconds.

Sure, I want to fly, but I want to float like a butterfly, not cling to my coach at the  gate like a baby. For me, ski-jumping is like the gentlest floating, dreamlike in its beauty. I’m a true blue chicken, a Lady of a Certain Age, and I don’t think my ankles could survive the landing, but I’d love to, just once, look down a pristine mountain, hearing chilly silence, and fly.

I’m considering saving my allowance for the next big birthday and striking a bargain with Hot Air Balloons ‘R Us.

Winter Games Hunk Alert: I’ve never strapped on a ski. I’ve never been in a room with an actual gun. So why was a glued to the Men’s Biathlon yesterday? Because these dudes look like the heroes on the cover of some Nordic bodice-ripper, that’s why. So muscular, so fleet on the skis, so controlled with the gun, oblivious to frozen snot or anything but the wild beatings of their hearts…

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Filed under Body, Free, Hunks, Into the Mystic