For the Ladies...

[ozgirl]

Trust me this really is the for the ladies - unlike those other posts... unless you like sappy love stories.

In my boredom and current addiction to blogs I stumbled across this blog (she is a foodie) and there is a section on how she meet her husband.

I thoroughly enjoyed it so thought I would share..

I challenge you all to only read a 'chapter' a day.

http://thepioneerwoman.com/category/black_heelstractor_wheels/the_night_i_met_marlboro_man

[Legolas]

hovering over link...a bit too scared of getting hooked oz!!! will i click? won't i?

[ozgirl]

Legs you will LOVE it... set aside a couple of hours to read it all.

I read it in 4 this afternoon whilst answering a switch...

[Farty The Snowman]

Got through the first line ok.......


........but that was it!!


Warning gentlemen......this one is truly for the ladies!!!

[Legolas]

4 hours!! hell no!! what is a switch? and what did it ask you that required such a long answer?

[Bear]

You were warned Fartman. :D

[ozgirl]

LOL

Sorry Switchboard.... I did nothing but transfer calls - not allowed to take messages.... so i was reading it while being interrupted and on my little blackberry screen.

It is a lovely story - Truely!!!

Read a chapter a day... but I think you will be sooo hooked you wont be able to stop reading.

[ 17.03.2009, 10:58 PM: Message edited by: ozgirl ]

[ozgirl]

Okay I am going to post the first three chapters to get you started then if you are not hooked - oh well your loss :-D

The Night I Met Marlboro Man
As our eleventh anniversary approaches, I find myself reflecting on the circumstances that brought Marlboro Man and me together. So grab a Diet Dr. Pepper, hang on to your hat, and come along for the ride!

Forget this, I thought, as I lay sprawled on the bed in which I grew up. Home from L.A. on a self-imposed pit stop, I was drowning in a papery sea of LSAT study guides, marked-up drafts of my resume, printouts of available Chicago apartments, and a JCrew catalog, from which I’d just ordered a $495 wool gabardine winter coat in olive, not chocolate, because I’m a redhead. And, fuzzy wool gloves and a matching scarf in charcoal, just to mix things up and because Chicago, in all its big-city splendor, is butt-cold in the wintertime. I’d been at it all week—studying, searching, editing, shopping and ordering—and I was worn smooth out, my eyes watery from reading, my middle finger pruney from licking and flipping through pages, my socks dingy and rank from being on my feet for two days straight. I needed a break.

I decided to head down to the J-Bar, a local dive where I knew some old friends were meeting for a drink. I’d begged out earlier because of the monumental tasks on my list, but by now that Cape Cod seemed not only appealing but necessary. Mandatory. But I was a grody mess, the downside of not leaving one’s bedroom for over 48 hours. Not that I had anyone to impress. It was my hometown, after all, the place that had raised me, and though relatively picturesque and affluent, it wasn’t exactly the kind of town that required getting dressed to the nines to go out for vodka.

With this in mind, I washed my face, threw on some black mascara—an absolute must for any fair-skinned redhead with light eyes—and released my hair from its tired ponytail. Throwing on a faded light-blue turtleneck and my favorite holey jeans, I dabbed some Carmex on my lips and blew out the door. Fifteen minutes later, I was in the company of both my friends and the Cape Cod, feeling the kind of mellow buzz that comes not only from your first sip of the night but from the contentment of being with people who’ve known you forever.

That’s when I saw him across the room. He was tall, strong, and quiet, sipping bottled beer and wearing jeans and, most notably, cowboy boots. And his hair. The stallion’s hair was not only very short, but very, very gray—much too gray for the youth of his face but just gray enough to send me through the roof. Gracious, he was a vision, this Marlboro Man-esque person across the room. I inhaled deeply. My hiney tingled wildly. I needed to see his hands.

I casually meandered to the section of the bar where he stood, and not wanting to appear obvious, I grabbed four cherries from the sectioned condiment tray. I glanced at his hands; they were big and strong. Before I knew it, we were talking.

He was a fourth-generation cattle rancher whose property was over an hour away from this cultured, corporate hometown of mine. His great-great grandfather had emigrated from Scotland in the late 1800’s, and gradually made his way to the middle of the country where he’d met and married a local gal and become a successful merchant. His sons would be the first in the family to purchase land and run cattle at the turn of the century, and their descendents would eventually establish themselves as cattle ranchers throughout the region.

Of course, I knew none of this as I stood before him in the bar that night, shuffling my feet and looking nervously around the room. Looking down. Trying my dangdest not to look too gazingly into his icy blue-green eyes. Trying not to drool, for goodness sake. And I had other things to do that night: study for the LSAT, continue refining my resume, polish all my black pumps, apply a rejuvenating masque, pick my toes. But suddenly an hour had passed, then two.

We talked into the night before this Marlboro Man announced abruptly that he had to go cook Christmas turkeys for the less-than-fortunate folks in his small town. Dang. He’s nice, too, I thought. And with that, his delicious boots walked right out of the J-Bar, his dark blue Wranglers cloaking a body that I was sure had to have been chiseled out of granite. My lungs felt tight and I still smelled his scent through the bar smoke in the air. I didn’t even know his name. I prayed it wasn’t DeWayne.

I was sure he’d call the next morning at, say, 9:34. It was a relatively small community; he could find me if he wanted to. But he didn’t. Nor did he call at 11:13 or 2:49 or any other time that day, or week, or month. If I ever allowed myself to remember his eyes, his muscles, his smoldering, quiet manner that had been so drastically unlike all the silly city boys I’d bothered with over the past few years, I’d feel a salty wave of disappointment. But it didn’t really matter anyway, I told myself. I was headed to Chicago. To a new life. And I really had no business getting attached to anyone around here, let alone some boot-wearing cowboy. Cowboys ride horses, after all, and they wear bandanas around their necks and pee outside and name their children Dolly and Travis and whittle on the back porch every evening. Talk about my polar opposite.

To be continued…

[ozgirl]

Six months earlier, I’d sat with James over sushi. “I’m just going home for a pit stop,” I told him. He took a nervous bite of salmon sashimi.

I’d been living in Los Angeles for six years, and I’d spent four of them with him. Since blowing into L.A. as a college freshman, I’d breathed in all the culinary, retail, and primal pleasures the city had to offer. Having come from the relative calm of the Midwest, I was an absolute kid in a candy shop. My four years at U.S.C. had been marked not just by grades, test scores, and achievement, but by celebrity spotting, multi-ethnic cuisine, and boys. By the age of 25, I’d experienced it all—partying on the Sunset Strip, running into Sean and Madonna at a movie, kissing James Garner in an elevator, and surviving the Rodney King verdict. And strangely, suddenly, as I sat at the sushi bar with James that night, I knew I’d had enough.

James, the sweet southern California surfer dude sitting before me, had no idea any American land existed east of the Mojave Desert. We’d been joined at the hip since my sophomore year and now I was announcing, in between mouthfuls of raw fish, that I was leaving Los Angeles. He’d just accepted a job in Palo Alto, 400 miles away from his home in Newport Beach. The assumption was that I’d move there with him; this seemed the logical next step for a couple who’d dated four years. But now, a week before we were set to move north, my better sense shook me violently by the shoulders.

“I’m not going,” I told him. “It just doesn’t feel right.” The onslaught of one-liners commenced.

“I just can’t follow you up there like this.”

“I have to learn to stand on my own two feet.”

“I just don’t know what I’m doing here anymore.”

The pathetic clichés spewed from my mouth as thick as the wasabi paste I smeared on my Spicy Tuna Roll. I hated the way I sounded. L.A. had done that do me.

“I’m going back home for awhile…to clear the cobwebs.”

James took a healthy shot of sake. “But then you’ll come right back, right?”

He never really quite got it.

A week later, I walked through the front door of my parents’ house. Throwing down the last of my California bags in the foyer, I darted upstairs and plopped, face-down, onto the bed of my youth. I fell asleep and hardly left the solace of my 300-thread-count sheets for a week. My Retarded Brother, Mike, sat with me sometimes. He had nothing better to do. He’d pat my head and tell me how pretty I was, and share with me whether he’d had biscuits and gravy or a “ch-ch-ch-cheese omblett” for breakfast that morning, and I’d take it all in as if I were listening to the State of the Union address. It was so good to be home. Then Mike would ask me to give him a ride to Fire Station No. 3, his regular hangout, but I’d tell him no, I was way too busy. Then he’d leave in a huff and I’d go back to sleep for awhile.

I’d awaken occasionally, long enough to pick my toenails and pluck tiny, light hairs from my forearms with tweezers, and spend a great deal of time staring at my taupe floral wallpaper, mentally reordering all the delicate flowers until their arrangement finally brought me some sense of peace.

I cried a lot, too. Because the truth was, I’d given James so, so much. As young and self-possessed as I’d always wanted to believe I was, I’d still pathetically allowed myself to become dependent on him. I was ashamed I’d allowed myself to settle into that groove, that deep pit of insecurity and dependence and fear into which most all women, regrettably, are doomed to plunge at least once in their lives. Once if they’re lucky. I also cried as a response to the sheer relief I felt, as if 80,000 pounds of compressed emotional air had been let out of my gut. I exhaled for days and days. And it kept coming out in a steady, hissy stream. I cried, too, because I’d left James, not the other way around, which really would have ****ed.

And I cried because he was so dadgum cute. And I missed him.

In no time at all, though, I sprang out of bed. What did I have to mope about? I had a nice little wad of money in the bank and no real expenses, thanks to my new cushy, rent-free digs on the second floor of my parents’ home on the golf course. And James? He was over 2,000 miles away. It didn’t take long before the reality of my youth hit home and caused me to wonder, when it came to boys, what else might be out there.

Tracy was my first voyage into non-James dating. He was a hunky attorney whose endearingly immature sense of humor would have made me fall completely in love with him had I been even remotely interesting in falling completely in love with anyone at that time. We had our share of silly fun, giggling on the phone and trying to outdo each other’s George Herbert Walker Bush impersonations. Tracy took to calling me Stormy; I’m still not sure why.

When it came to real relating, though, our age difference reared its ugly head; seven years, I learned, is much more glaring at 25 and 32 than it might be later in life. One night over dinner, for instance, Tracy asked my opinion about a mutual acquaintance who’d recently applied for a position in his law firm. Since I’d briefly dated said person in high school, the only judgment I felt qualified to offer was “Oh, Gawd. He’s, like, the worst kisser…ever!” I knew instantly how spectacularly stupid the comment had been, but the damage had been done. My face grew steamy and hot as Tracy answered, “Well… that’s not…quite…the information I was looking for.” I was a complete idiot.

Truth is, aside from the countless hours of giggling, Tracy and I probably weren’t the best match. In the end, there really wasn’t much wrong with Tracy and me, except word on the street was that a wayward chipmunk had recently taken residence in Tracy’s closet and was known to scamper wildly across his bed in the dead of night. At 25, I was much too young to worry about such things.

Plus, I was beginning to miss city life. As eager as I’d been to flee L.A., the big city—any big city—was really where I belonged. I missed the conveniences, the coffee shops on every corner and the bookstores open ‘til midnight. And I really missed the freaks. Oh, there were plenty of freaks in my parents’ town, yes. But they were more in the category of White Collar Freaks, like the lady with the bad face lift in the women’s locker room or the man with the 42-DD boobs on the driving range. No, the freaks I longed for were the whacked, crazy freaks, the people with clinical mental illness or tragic life circumstances or addiction or all of the above, not that I reveled at all in their plight. But I loved observing how life challenges shaped these people, observing all the bizarre, latent qualities that came rushing to the surface once all the pretense of living a normal life had been stripped away. These were the people with imaginary pet wombats, beards down to their navels, and plenty of bizarre things to say to whatever dimwit would listen.

I would always listen.

In the meantime, I met Mr. B. at the country club. He was sixteen years older than me. Wealthy. Three handicap. Short, which normally would have been a dealbreaker, but hey, I wouldn’t be there much longer. Plus, he wasn’t a half-bad smoocher, and that’s basically the extent of what we did together—smooched. Mr. B. kissed like he’d never known the concept before me, and my lips were in a constant state of chap. It was great, though; there were no strings, no risks, no great rewards. After a month, though, I was frankly tired of having to buy so much Carmex, so I delicately broke things off.

Problem was, sometime during the course of the month, Mr. B. had decided that I was The One, the answer to all of his never-married prayers. He’d figured we’d wind up getting married, he said, and he just couldn’t believe I was breaking up with him when we were so clearly perfect for each other. He’d already begun planning our marriage, apparently, right down to the reception menu and the middle name of our stubby thirdborn child. He was so sure I was the one, he told me, he’d added me to his life insurance policy as the sole beneficiary, God rescue me from this torment. He carried on and on and cried—blubbered—for two whole hours. And as I listened, trying my best to be gentle and compassionate, I found myself missing James. James, who never was much the kissing type or the demonstrator-of-love-and-affection-type, but on the other hand wasn’t prone to making illogical, ridiculous plans or breaking down in tears.

That’s when Kev called. Kev. My first love, my first obsession with anything that wasn’t related to Billy Idol or Hello Kitty. We’d dated in high school and had remained in deep, abiding love, off and on, for the previous eight years. Sure, we’d been involved with other people during that time. But Kev had always, always been there. He’d been mine, after all, before he’d been anyone else’s. And I’d been his. And seeing his name on Caller ID the evening I broke things off with Mr. B. was like lifeblood being pumped into my veins.

Kev—what a brilliant idea! He’d just graduated from law school and was most likely trying to decide where he was going next. Of course: Kev. Finally, we were adults now, and we were familiar and free. The possibilities rushed wildly into my imagination, and within seconds it all became perfectly clear to me: Kev and I, together, could be the perfect solution. I already knew everything there was to know about him; there’d be no nasty secrets hiding under the surface, and we wouldn’t even have to go through that nettlesome flirtation/courting stage, which was beginning to sound appealing after the 7,000 dates I’d had over the past few months. Kev and I could, literally, pick up where we’d left off; I could be packed within two days and join him in whatever big-city locale he’d picked. Lord knows I was ready for the city. I had to get away from Mr. B.’s life insurance policy. And Tracy’s chipmunk. And Jeremy’s dog.

“It’s Kev,” the voice on the other end of the line said. He sounded exactly the same.

“Kev!” I said, with a combination of excitement, anticipation, nostalgia and hopefulness.

“Guess what?” he said. My imagination ran wild: He’s gotten a job in New York and wants me to come with him. Or Philadelphia, perhaps? Maybe. Boston. London. I’ve always loved Chicago. Go ahead, Kev. I’m ready. And the answer is yes.

“I’m getting married,” Kev said. “Her name’s Barbara.” My knees went weak.

The next day, I began making plans to move to Chicago.

To be continued…

[ozgirl]

I’d always intended for my time at home to be a pit stop, and Chicago would be my new L.A. I’d always loved it there—the pulse, the cool climate, the cute Catholic boys. Moving there seemed so natural to me. I’d work there while applying to area law schools, because the world needed another lawyer, I reasoned. And it would be a great step toward separating permanently from James, who was still in the picture, albeit from a distance.

I decided to stick around my hometown through my brother’s wedding, and would leave for Chicago a couple of weeks after. James, meanwhile, was calling and pressuring me to move back to California—something I knew wasn’t going to happen. James wanted to be together again, wanted to make it work, wanted to work toward getting married. Work toward getting married. There was something about the use of the word “work” in that context that just didn’t seem to fit. But James kept at it; he wanted things back to the way they’d been. Somehow, though, that didn’t seem like the best deal for me.

Truth is, I was over James by then. My eclectic assortment of dates over the previous few months had only served to clarify that I wasn’t at all ready to settle down, and any passion I’d felt for James during the first year or so of our relationship had long since been replaced by my need for stability during my time in Los Angeles—a city which, in between all the parties and the shopping and the all-night glitz, can sometimes be a terribly lonely place. I found myself occasionally haunted by the rugged Marlboro Man-type apparition I’d met in the J-Bar that Christmas, but I continued to tell myself it was a good thing he’d never called me. I didn’t need anything derailing my move back to the big city.

This was all crystal clear to me by now, the week before my brother’s wedding. I penned a long, drippy letter to James, uninviting him to the wedding he’d made plans to attend and euphemizing all the reasons I thought we should end things for good. The weekend of the wedding, I hung out with Walrus, my brother’s best friend from Connecticut. Bespectacled and affectionate, Walrus turned out to be just the fun diversion I needed that weekend. We sat together at the rehearsal dinner and joked around at the party afterward, and stayed up late that night talking. During the ceremony itself, Walrus smiled and winked at me. I smiled back, mostly because I was occupying my mind with visions of Chicago. The Starbucks I’d devour. The pumps I’d wear, pumps that would surely be an improvement over these aqua satin monstrosities on my feet that had shrunk two sizes during the dyeing process. The culture, the hustle-bustle. The blessed freaks on the street.

Walrus was just what the doctor ordered, though, if only for that weekend. We’d known each other for awhile and this wasn’t the first time we’d paired up out of convenience. But Walrus, cute as he was, was a pothead, and I hated the stuff. My only college experience with marijuana had ended very, very badly, with a $115 food charge on my U.S.C. dining card and a wicked, week-long bellyache. And now, after my brother’s wedding ceremony, I’d made the strategic mistake of thinking I could handle it better the second time around. I was wrong. I rolled into the reception two hours late, just about the time the dreaded Pot Paranoia struck. I spent the rest of the party asking all the elderly people in attendance why they were so mad at me. Pot isn’t something I’d ever recommend.

Still, Walrus had been a great weekend date. So when all the wedding festivities were over and my phone rang late that Sunday afternoon, I was sure it had to be Walrus calling from the airport to say a quick goodbye, and maybe go on and on about what a great time he’d had with me all weekend, maybe even go into detail about how cool and awesome and nice I was. You know. Stuff like that.

The strong male voice on the other end said, “Ree?”

“Hey, Walrus!” I shrieked enthusiastically. There was a silent pause.

“Walrus?” I repeated.

The deep voice continued, “Ree? We met at the J-Bar last Christmas?”

It was the Marlboro Man.

To be continued…

[Bear]

Spam. tongue.gif

[karen97]

Too many words!

[ozgirl]

Ahhh I suppose you just have to be bored out of your mind..........

[SA]

My eyes glazed over after the first sentence.. that's a new record!!

tongue.gif

[Silverwitch]

I looked it up and in my half slumber and being too tired to get out off the lounge and go to bed ..I read it and then had to keep reading.. a bit Mills and Boonsy but nice ( in a girly way) to read. I then had a look around the website... The things we do when we should be doing other stuff...like getting around to doing some research and reading for my 2nd task for Uni!! tongue.gif

[ 18.03.2009, 12:07 AM: Message edited by: silverwitch ]

[Polaris]

blah blah blah.............

[Polaris]

blah blah........

[SA]

blah...

[SnoWhite]

Originally posted by SA:
My eyes glazed over after the first sentence.. that's a new record!!

tongue.gif Call me a cynic, but I had trouble staying awake through the first sentence. In the vague hope that it might actually get better I continued reading until midway through the first sentence of paragraph two. Silly me. :rolleyes:

[skichic]

You're a cynic! tongue.gif

[SnowSnow]

Originally posted by karen97:
Too many words! What she said! :D

[ozgirl]

Actually the 'heroine' is the cynic... which is what make it so funny - and so good....

I will be a dork and say it gives me hope....

Just as long as he is a skier/boarder... how could any non believers survive being with us....

[Silverwitch]

Don't worry ozgirl about the opinion of others! If you like something and you relate to it and it means something to you at some level then you are not a 'dork'. Thats what makes people interesting and makes us all different. Too many people in this world are very judgemental, critical and love to knock things that they can't see merit in but I say live and let live.

[Bear]

Nothing wrong with being a "dork". :whistle: ;)

[slavegirl24]

I guess im a dork as well lol,I sat down and read it in between keeping my 2 year old happy and doing house work and i must admit it was a good read, i liked it.

[ozgirl]

Thanks Silverwitch (and Bear :) )and slavegirl24 glad you enjoyed it.

I enjoyed it and just wanted to share.

[Farty The Snowman]

:GovernorArnoldsVoice:

Bear, stop being a girly man.....

[karen97]

Originally posted by Farty The Snowman:
:GovernorArnoldsVoice:

Bear, stop being a girly man..... Do I need to bring out the pic of Bear in his fishnets? graemlins/cold.gif graemlins/big_laugh.gif

[skichic]

Originally posted by karen97:
</font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by Farty The Snowman:
:GovernorArnoldsVoice:

Bear, stop being a girly man..... Do I need to bring out the pic of Bear in his fishnets? graemlins/cold.gif graemlins/big_laugh.gif </font>[/QUOTE]hmmm given a choice of
(a) Bear in fishnets
(b) Bear in the spa
(c) Rednuts bum

graemlins/cold.gif

[Bear]

Originally posted by Farty The Snowman:
:GovernorArnoldsVoice:

Bear, stop being a girly man..... Exactly why am I being a girly man? :confused:

[Farty The Snowman]

Originally posted by Bear:
</font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by Farty The Snowman:
:GovernorArnoldsVoice:

Bear, stop being a girly man..... Exactly why am I being a girly man? :confused: </font>[/QUOTE]OzGirl gave you a pat for reading it.....I thought she must have had a PM or something, telling her that you'd read it! ;)

[Farty The Snowman]

Originally posted by SC:
</font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by karen97:
</font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by Farty The Snowman:
:GovernorArnoldsVoice:

Bear, stop being a girly man..... Do I need to bring out the pic of Bear in his fishnets? graemlins/cold.gif graemlins/big_laugh.gif </font>[/QUOTE]hmmm given a choice of
(a) Bear in fishnets
(b) Bear in the spa
(c) Rednuts bum

graemlins/cold.gif </font>[/QUOTE]I have seen "b" and "c".............do I dare ask for "a" to be posted..........mmmmmm

[Farty The Snowman]

Actually I needed therapy after "c" graemlins/cold.gif

[SnoWhite]

Originally posted by silverwitch:
Don't worry ozgirl about the opinion of others! If you like something and you relate to it and it means something to you at some level then you are not a 'dork'. Thats what makes people interesting and makes us all different. Too many people in this world are very judgemental, critical and love to knock things that they can't see merit in but I say live and let live. I agree wholeheartedly with you silverwitch. I just expressed my opinion. You know I remember seeing the movie Pretty Woman and everyone was crying over it because it was so romantic that she was rescued by the knight on his white horse, etc. I just sat there feeling so sad because I thought it was utter crap. ****s to be me sometimes, but there you go. :(

[skichic]

Well that's it! No more chicky flicks for you SW ;)

I like everything Julia has done smile.gif

[skichic]

...though Richard Gere doesn't do it for me...Hugh Grant on a white horse now.... graemlins/cold.gif

Heck Hugh Grant on, in anything does it for me :D

[skichic]

it's the bad boy thing...I'll go take a shower now graemlins/outtahere.gif

[Podlettte]

val kilmer or johnny depp on a white horse..... or Robby williams in that video ;)

[Podlettte]

oh and I liked the overall story, though the writing was a bit sappy

[skichic]

Originally posted by Podlettte:
.... or Robby williams in that video ;) another shower coming up graemlins/outtahere.gif

[Polaris]

definitely a girls thread........

nothing to see here, move on everyone ;)

[Podlettte]

or perhaps a bath in a claw foot tub on a verandah with snow in the background SC? ;)

[skichic]

with Robbie? :D

damn.... graemlins/outtahere.gif

[Bear]

Back to the cold shower for SC me thinks. ;)

[karen97]

So can I have a bath with Robbie too?

[Bear]

Getting squishy in the bath with you 3 girls in there. tongue.gif

[skichic]

B*gger off Kaz, I saw him first :mad:

Oh Ok then, but I get to wash his front :D

[karen97]

Originally posted by SC:
B*gger off Kaz, I saw him first :mad:

Oh Ok then, but I get to wash his front :D Makesure he is all nice and clean for me then :D

[Shorty936]

lol the story is very engaging and well written i must admit

[Straight_Line]

hehehe, from what I have heard he would prefere to take that bath with bear.

[Bear]

Oi I don't swing that way. :mad:

[Podlettte]

Originally posted by karen97:
</font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by SC:
B*gger off Kaz, I saw him first :mad:

Oh Ok then, but I get to wash his front :D Makesure he is all nice and clean for me then :D </font>[/QUOTE]*ahem* *cough* Who mentioned Robbie first? I think you both need to stand back and wait your turn ;) or we need a bigger bath/spa ;)

[Polaris]

Originally posted by Podlettte:
</font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by karen97:
</font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by SC:
B*gger off Kaz, I saw him first :mad:

Oh Ok then, but I get to wash his front :D Makesure he is all nice and clean for me then :D </font>[/QUOTE]*ahem* *cough* Who mentioned Robbie first? I think you both need to stand back and wait your turn ;) or we need a bigger bath/spa ;) </font>[/QUOTE]the way you are all joining in, you'll need an Olympic swimming pool soon :rolleyes:

[Podlettte]

awwww didums, feeling left out Pol? graemlins/big_laugh.gif tongue.gif

[Legolas]

I have many friends that would shout a lot about this thread representing girls.

Mr Depp for me please (oh, and Liam Neeson, but it might not be appropriate to covet him ATM...).

then again, perhaps he needs comfort graemlins/outtahere.gif

[Polaris]

Originally posted by Podlettte:
awwww didums, feeling left out Pol? graemlins/big_laugh.gif tongue.gif got my own pool Pods tongue.gif

[Polaris]

swim anyone? :D

[SnoWhite]

Call me greedy, but I'd like Mr Depp, Mr Williams and what the hell, Mr Pitt too. :D

[Podlettte]

I'll have those 3 and raise you Mr Kilmer :D

[Silverwitch]

Hey Ozgirl-this post started slowly but has picked up and developed a mind of its own!

[Bear]

Straight to the gutter by the girls, as usual. ;)

[Legolas]

Who needs a pool when the gutter is flowing. Come on in bear! The water's fine!

Yup. I'd have Pitt if he was thrown at me.

But what do we think of ms gillard and work places eh?

[ozgirl]

LOL

It has taken on a life of its own!!

But thats okay I like the direction it has taken....

What a lovely birthday present a spa/pool filled with all the aformentioned men....

Damn we should have thought of this before!

[skichic]

Originally posted by Podlettte:
I'll have those 3 and raise you Mr Kilmer :D I'll raise you Mr McConaghy :D

[karen97]

Originally posted by SC:
</font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by Podlettte:
I'll have those 3 and raise you Mr Kilmer :D I'll raise you Mr McConaghy :D </font>[/QUOTE]Can someone chuck in a Ewan McGregor and Orlando Bloom for me please :D

[Polaris]

bloody hell :rolleyes:

even Elton John will get a gig at rate you girls are going

[24]

Hugh Jackman is my 'who would you turn for' dude.

[Bear]

That's ghey. graemlins/outtahere.gif

[24]

yeah, but what can you do, he has a hughjackman!

graemlins/cold.gif

[Podlettte]

hmm I like your style 24, how come none of us thought of Hugh? I'll add hugh to the mix smile.gif

Despite appearances pol, we are being picky ;)

[SnoWhite]

I think Daniel Craig needs to be added to the list.

And I want John Malkovich as he was in Dangerous Liaisons. And that lovely English actor who played Sir Guy in the BBC Robin Hood series.....no idea what his name is. A young Alan Rickman thrown in wouldn't go astray either.

OK, time to drag myself out of the gutter and go off to a birthday party. Looking forward to a few wines.


graemlins/outtahere.gif

[skichic]

Always been a s.ucker for Hugh Grant myself, he's such a rougue ;)

In he comes *splash*

[Legolas]

this wet t-shirt competition just gets better and better (until SW threw in Malkovich (ick ick icky yuck yuck balh and that robbin hood woose).

If we were in schmaltzy mode I'd have Colin Firth for company.

But I'd absolutely be in the corner keeping Mr Mchoughnahy (who cares how it's spelled when it looks so good) company. (assuming Kaz lets him up for air!

[Podlettte]

kaz let's him up for air? graemlins/big_laugh.gif

I'm with you on Malkovich though, icky not in my spa! Sorry SW

Colin can stay smile.gif

[skichic]

Oi! I added Matthew...back off :mad:

[skichic]

McConaughey

http://www.oktat.com/pictures/img/matthew_mcconaughey_03.jpg

[Swede]

Knew there was a reason for the name of this thread graemlins/outtahere.gif

[Polaris]

pity they are behaving like pre pubescent teenage girls Swede ;) graemlins/outtahere.gif

[ 25.03.2009, 10:28 PM: Message edited by: Polaris ]

[Polaris]

not a "lady" to be seen :D

[Podlettte]

you're so mature polly tongue.gif how old are you again? *ducks for cover*

[Polaris]

mature is such a common word, I prefer "worldly wise" tongue.gif

[Legolas]

Originally posted by Polaris:
pity they are behaving like pre pubescent teenage girls Swede ;) graemlins/outtahere.gif they...they...

thinkin there's a little pre pubescent boy envy happening here.

Is that a zit on your neck Pol?

[Bear]

Originally posted by Legolas:
Is that a zit on your neck Pol? I think you will find it's a hicky. :eek: graemlins/outtahere.gif

[SnoWhite]

Originally posted by Legolas:
this wet t-shirt competition just gets better and better (until SW threw in Malkovich (ick ick icky yuck yuck balh and that robbin hood woose).

If we were in schmaltzy mode I'd have Colin Firth for company.

But I'd absolutely be in the corner keeping Mr Mchoughnahy (who cares how it's spelled when it looks so good) company. (assuming Kaz lets him up for air! OK, I can live with it, John's MINE!!!!! And gthe wooosey Robin hood bloke. You can keep your're colin firrth.


BUUUTTTT ........... we get to share matthew. :D

[SnoWhite]

Ohhh and beear and pol...........don';t you have somewhere else to go????????

[Legolas]

Originally posted by Bear:
</font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by Legolas:
Is that a zit on your neck Pol? I think you will find it's a hicky. :eek: graemlins/outtahere.gif </font>[/QUOTE]graemlins/big_laugh.gif

[Polaris]

Originally posted by Bear:
</font><blockquote>quote:</font><hr />Originally posted by Legolas:
Is that a zit on your neck Pol? I think you will find it's a hicky. :eek: graemlins/outtahere.gif </font>[/QUOTE]Geez that brings back distant memories :eek: graemlins/outtahere.gif

[skichic]

Hmmph pre-pubescent girls wouldn't know what to do with them tongue.gif

Us wimmin now .... :D

[Boardingbuny]

ooo I like this thread.

Ill agree with Orlando Bloom, Daniel Craig and Euan McGregor..

[Straight_Line]

Oh dear.... The chemicals required for that spa would keep a small factory running.

[Straight_Line]

hehehehehe, sorry ladies for ruining your fun and putting it all in perspective.

*** places some champagne by the spa to get the party going again ****

[Legolas]

ewwwwww straight line. I suddenly lost interest.

[Podlettte]

Way to kill a party Straight line tongue.gif

[Straight_Line]

hehehehe, excellent.

*** sits back in the empty spa by himself with bubbles blowing ***


*** throws the flat champagne away left behind by all the girly men and sips on a nicely aged glass of red --- waits for the snow ***