They way journalism should always be*

Here we have Spain’s captain, Iker Casillas, kissing his reporter girlfriend. You know, when Spain was stunned by Switzerland, a bunch of fans tried to blame HER for the loss, because she was in South Africa, reporting on the World Cup, and apparently her feminine wiles “distracted” Casillas into letting Spain score, right right right. Well, you know how I feel about BS like that. “Never mind what haters say, ignore ‘em till they fade away” – as the immortal genius of T.I. would have us know.

Love is beautiful. I love love. I love love even more when it has football stirred in.

* – OK, I exaggerate. But not by much. Not really.

The mandatory feel-good animated gifs post

Because I’ve been in trouble as of late – for serious this time – I thought I’d put together this post, both for myself and for anyone who has wandered by this blog in search of some sort of comfort (I have no idea why you’d look for it here, but it’s true that we all do get help from strange places, sometime – like, I’ll never forget this really shitty birthday I was having back home in Charlotte one year, and the random hot guy who randomly bought me cake).

One of these I’ve featured before, but must absolutely include in this collection.

This may crash your browser, but it will still be totally worth it: Continue reading

An enchanting little portrait of my perfect mate

I read this post by Jill at Feministe, and realized that – holy complacency levels, Batman – I do not have a ready composite of traits I love to whip out at this precise occasion, and haven’t had one for a while.

Is there something wrong with me? Am I not in charge of my life somehow?

I mean, yeah, it’s on the record that my ideal man is Jean-Luc Picard. But he’s off kicking ass across the universe somewhere, and I’m stuck with, well, reality.

So then I sat down and, forcing myself to think extra, extra hard (so hard that the roots on my blond hair started coming in quicker – bmmm tshhh), and came up with this:

Someone who loves what he does and does it well, who smiles at random children on the sidewalk and has the sort of shoulder I can easily rest my head on. Also, it helps if he’s had enough crappy jobs while young to both tell funny stories about later and to figure out who he doesn’t want to be.

Is that enchanting? I can’t even tell.

Spring in Moscow: Eric Northman’ll show you how it’s done

“Yes, it’s spring alright,” said the babushka selling flowers by the metro entrance today, casting a sly eye in my direction. Lady, I couldn’t agree more. And if I had any cash left in my pocket, I would have bought all your flowers off of you, and brought them home, stuck them in a vase, and ran my fingers over the petals as I watched the sun go down over the Moscow River. But since I’ve done all of that in my head, it must count for something. Surely.