Hello campers, it’s Tuesday which means it’s time to find out

What Miss Plumcake is…

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Full disclosure: I am a bit biased when it comes to Wales. My people are Welsh. The line in my family I most strongly resemble physically and in temperament are Welsh. I have a Welsh name, Welsh coloring, Welsh features…I’ve even been accused –graciously– of having a Welsh Character because of my all-consuming love of language, mysticism and brooding.

I can also get around Welsh pronunciation fairly well. For this reason I was put in charge of any and all communication IN Wales because asking a gay man from the American South to inquire what bus goes from Aberyswyth to Machynlleth and whether we have to transfer at Llanymawddwy or Dolgellau — although highly entertaining– is considered “cruel, inhuman or degrading treatment” and thus puts you in violation of the 1975 Geneva Convention. Oops.

Back to the boyos.

Wales, at least the parts we were in, is rural. I mean really rural, and for Kirk and I –two fun-loving career girls from the big city– it meant one thing: Hot Boys On Tractors.

I don’t know WHAT they were farming and I don’t care. By the time Kirk and I got on our ferry to Dublin, we both had concussions from the repeated thwonking our heads took on the bus windows every time we passed some inevitably pouty, well-muscled farm boy, his dirt-streaked skin glistening in the sun while his shirt clung to his rippl…well, you get the picture.

Sadly, we did NOT get pictures of the hot sweatsy menssesses (yes, our vacation was pretty much a seven day version of a Men on Film sketch. don’t act like you’re surprised) so you’ll have to settle for the famous ones.

There aren’t just a ton of really famous Welshmen but don’t think a little thing like that will stop me from bringing you some A+ hotness from the land of my people.

But first, we have to get one thing out of the way:

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Reading: Tales of the Alhambra by Washington Irving. If Ichabod Crane is all you know of Washington Irving, you’re missing out. Somewhere between the Arabian Nights and a travelogue, this is a fantastic and entirely-too-neglected classic. Plus you can read a chapter or so a night, so it’s handy to have by the bed.

Watching: Juliet of the Spirits. Fellini at his trippiest, it’s not merely a surreal masterpiece from my very favorite director –some would say the female version of 8 1/2– it was and continues to be a hugely influential movie for designers not just for Gianni di Venanzo’s luscious cinematography but for Piero Gherardi’s over-the-top costume confections. Beautiful, strange and surprisingly empowering. It was Galliano before Galliano was. Brilliant.

Hearing: Etta James At Last. Do you not own this album? How do you not own this album? Plus it’s available as a $5 download from Amazon.

Smelling: Inis Or. This actually smells awful on me, but it’s a decent little inexpensive juice if you like fresh but not too sweet aquatic fragrances.

Loving: Proper Vegetables. The Irish, in my limited experience, are not a vegetable loving people. Except when it comes to peas. Then it’s like that Monty Python sketch when they try to order a strawberry tart without so much rat in it. Somewhere, somehow, someone is going to slip you some peas.

Hating: The Stupid Perfect Shoe. ARGH. Why am I not buying new shoes until I’ve worn all my current shoes just once? These are PERFECT AND THEY’RE ON CLEARANCE. ARRRRRRGGHHmhnfndfddghhh

Wanting: Sonia Rykiel Bag. I’m really not a bag girl but I like this one. I basically resent having to carry a bag at all and for the past week I’ve just been using an antebellum sterling silver calling card case. Sure I’ve got the Birkin, which is the size of my car (WHO? WHO needs that much space?!) This would do me juuuust fine.

Buying: Kiyonna Bellini Ballet Wrap. I’ve been loving variations on these for the past few month, wearing one side pinned up with a brooch as a sort of a wrap. Right now I’m liking a sort of more structured, Antwerp Six, look. Long and lean with attention to unusual proportionals.

Yeah I’m not proud of that headline either, but you knew I couldn’t write headlines when you married me so we can all just muddle through until Manolo or the Good Lord provides me with a copy editor because I’ve never written a decent headline in my life and I’m certainly not going to start now.

So I’ve been in Ireland and I’m not gonna lie: Ireland is simply FILLED with irresponsibly good-looking men and shockingly plain women.*

Dublin in particular, which I didn’t even like all that much, has within its blessed borders the finest collection of male backsides I have ever had the honor of callously objectifying from the back row of a bright green open-top double-decker bus.

I’m not even sure I’m still on speaking terms with my friend in Dublin who, despite living there for YEARS, failed to tell me there is an entire island full of men glorious behinds almost all of whom love either soccer OR rugby or –be still my heart– both. Plus they have freckles.

Why would you do that to me Krista? Why?

Oh the freckles.

My fondness for freckles goes back to the very first boy I ever had a crush on. Years later. the Australian rugby player who gave me my first kiss had them too. The One Who Keeps Getting Away has a dusting across his nose and even my current gentlemen caller, who uh, hasn’t really gotten the rundown of my trip yet (oh man, can’t imagine that ending well) is built on the Xabi Alonso/Fernando Torres (trust me kids, you want to click that Torres link) model as one of the most delectable of all creatures: the Hot Latin Boy With Freckles.

Well you can’t say I don’t have a type.

Quick sidebar re: types. So we all know how your pal Plummy has the slightest tendency to date athletes, particularly soccer players, right? I was chatting with my friend Glasgow Drew (Glasgow Drew and I dated, but then he thought I was dude. Then when he realized I wasn’t a dude he proposed. Then he thought I was a dude again. Then he proposed again. He kind of goes back and forth. Did I mention he got hit in the head a lot during his rugby career? He got hit a lot in the head during his rugby career.) and asking him if he thought my current gentleman friend –who is an artist and only ever played very minor club soccer– looked like Xabi Alonso. Well, he went on a tear about how sickening it was that I called footballers artists and blah blah y blah and it took me a good 45 minutes to explain to him that he was, in fact, an actual artist and not a soccer player at all. See? Head injuries. Bless his heart.

Anyhoodle the point is, Irish men are FINE and frankly I think we’re all surprised I didn’t come back pregnant (thanks Megh! It takes a village!) And why?

Because of this:

Seriously, they’re all like this. Not EXACTLY like this, but not far off. And did I mention the pouting and the blue eyes?

It’d ridiculous. Now, you’d think since both my pout and my blue eyes have been getting me both into and out of trouble since I was old enough to well, pretty much breathe, I’d have developed some sort of immunity. FALSE. It is by the grace of God that I didn’t actually walk into any walls (I did fall into a dry cree kbed my first night in town, but I was completely sober and not alone so I don’t think that counts.)

By the way, that is Cillian Murphy. I’m pretty sure I’ve seen exactly one movie he’s in –the hugely watchable Breakfast on Pluto, also featuring Liam Neeson in clericals…rrrowr– and I don’t usually go for pretty but when pretty is done this well? A girl’s gotta give it up.

Twice.

I’ve loved Jonathan Rhys Meyers since 1998′s Velvet Goldmine. Apparently he’s Henry VIII in HBO’s The Tudors too.

I’d never seen The Tudors until I went to Dublin and let me tell you, I don’t care how good it is, I saw twenty seconds of it when they were filming in the chapter house of Canterbury Cathedral and I was filled with NOT AT ALL IRRATIONAL RAGE because THEY were in MY chapter house of MY cathedral and I pretty much spewed obscenities at the screen until Kirk changed it (see also: why I can’t watch Viking invasion programs because I get really violently angry when the pretend Vikings invade MY island of Lindisfarne.)

Speaking of giving it up:

I know, I know Colin Farrell is all syphhy and needs to be bathed in turpentine, but come on, you KNOW he’d be a laugh and you would never EVER have to have one of those awful Where Is This All Going conversations and that is worth its weight in penicillin (except not, because I’m allergic.)

Even as they age, they get all craggy and alluringly dissipated, and you know, there’s something to be said for craggy and alluringly dissipated. Rowr.

*This is most likely because all the pretty girls are home with even hotter men, but I am blissfully ignoring that prospect, lest my life lose all meaning until I return to the land of Yeats and Joyce.

Hello my little bourbon biscuits, it’s Tuesday and while I am wandering about the hills and dales of the Emerald Isle with my two besties, I thought I’d take a minute and share with you an Irish-tinged edition of What Miss Plumcake is…

Reading: The Complete Short Stories of Oscar Wilde If all you know of Wilde are his pithy quotes and frothy plays (both of which are still highly recommended) you owe it to yourself to check out some of his no-foolin’ literatoor. Beautiful, tender and razor sharp, these are some of my favorite short stories. Half Daudet and half Kipling, it’s all brilliant.

Watching: The Commitments I was just learning to play the saxophone when this film about a bunch of misfits from Dublin and their dream of blue-eyed soul stardom came out and I fell in love. Even if you saw it years ago, rent it and be reminded what a great flick it is.

Hearing: U2 – Achtung Baby I’m just going to go ahead and say that the seventh studio album from Bono and the lads is the most important pop album of the 90′s.

Smelling: Vol de Nuit by Guerlain I’m wearing the vintage, which is even more heartbreakingly beautiful, this 1933 creation by Jacques Guerlain was an homage to Antoine Saint-Exupery (yes, the Little Prince guy) and his novel, Vol de Nuit. On me Vol de Nuit is a pale butter daffodil floating in a cup of softly spiced milk tea. Unusual comfort at its best.

Loving: Funnel-necked peacoat Until last week I didn’t have a coat. It doesn’t get very cold in Texas so usually I either wear my vintage blonde mink stole or my lynx stoller. However, I figured it would be a bit nippy here in Eire and I thought maybe it would behoove me to get some sort of outwear that didn’t once have a mother and a dream. I picked this up for a song from Lane Bryant and I just love it. I’ve never worn double-breasted before, but it looks great and is a fantastic spring coat. Word to the wise: apparently the buttons fall off easily. I reinforced mine before I left across the pond and haven’t had any problems at all.

Hating:  Stupid Giraffe-print Bag So when did this become attractive? Because this is not attractive. I’ve been seeing these things for YEARS and I just cannot TAKE it anymore. This is not a good bag! The original, which is Dooney and Bourke (and why would you even knock off Dooney and Bourke? That’s like knocking off Juicy Couture.) is bad but at least it’s potentially well-made. These are just AWFUL. So please. Stop buying them. They’re not hip, they’re not clever. They’re just dreadful.

Wanting: Let ‘Em Hang soccer boot shirt from Studs Up Football Club Oversharing time. I’m pretty good about being friends with my exes. One of my favorites played in Serie A for seven years and is an all around good egg. Obviously he was great looking (mama, as previously mentioned, does not do ugly)and we still see each other occasionally, but the only time I ever regret relegating him to the friend zone is when he walks around with his boots hung around his neck. Do I find the strung boots look hot because it is sexy on its own merit or is it a product of conditioning? The world may never know, but I do know this is a piece of class kit and it needs to go into Miss Plumcake’s personal collection with a quickness.

Buying: Revlon Hushed Blush nail color Why do I always forget Revlon makes great nail colors? It’s been a million years since I’ve bought anything but OPI or Essie, but I picked up this understated blushed rosewood color when I couldn’t find my beloved Kreme de la Kremlin and have been twitterpated ever since. Is the product as good as OPI? No, not really, but the color’s great and there’s no reason a well-applied manicure with Hushed Blush won’t last you a week.

Happy Friday everybahdy! I have been remiss in letting the weekly sales slip through my elegantly sausage-like fingers. Well no more!

At Lane Bryant you’ve got 30% your entire order until March 25th using code 000300384. I’m a big fan of the cargo jegging which is really more of a riding pant with cargo detailing than a legging. It’s surprisingly well-made and makes my legs look like ten miles of very good road.

I’m also digging the tissue-weight striped sweaters they’re practically giving away. They’re low cut but If you’ve got a defined waist and a good bust, this will be all about Brigitte Bardot on you.

From One Stop Plus you’ve got your choice of sales codes.

Use OSPCOUPON7 for 40% off a single item or OSPCOUPON8 for $20 off your $50 purchase, $25 off a $75 one and $30 off $100. Have you stocked up on slips? If not, now is the time. Whether you prefer shapers or full slips, get your underpinnings in order before those light spring dresses come out of the closet.

At  Avenue you can take 50% off your highest priced item using code JLE4473 and take 40% off your entire clearance purchase if you use code AV111081.

That’s right, you can double up on coupons. I’m liking this mini ottoman dress (get a better belt though, I’ve seen it in person) for your full-priced item and then clean up on denim with your clearance coupon.

If you’ve not been turned on to Amazon’s monthly $5 album downloads, you’re missing something good. There are some killers this month including The Velvet Underground & Nico, The Rolling Stones’ Let It Bleed,( featuring two of the most iconic album covers of all time. Everyone knows Andy Warhol’s “peel slowly and see” banana for Louie Blue and the VU, but far fewer people know the woman responsible for Keef’s cake was none other than Delia Smith)  OK Computer from Radiohead, Marvin Gaye’s What’s Going On and The Score from the Fugees.

Considering I’m just a few days away from heading to the land of the leprechauns and liver failure,  I’ve never had that much of a yearning for the Emerald Isle. I like England, I like Scotland, I’m pretty sure I love Wales but Ireland? Meh. Never really thought about it.

Nor do I spend a lot of time thinking about St Patrick’s Day. He’s like my least favorite Celtic saint (Saint Cuthbert of Lindisfarne por vida, mijas!) plus St Patrick’s Day is right up there with New Year’s Eve, Halloween and Mardi Gras as the most amateur of amateur’s nights. And yet, we’ve all been there. We may not remember being there. But we have.

I’ve never actually been slizzered (see! I listen to the pop music!) on St Paddy’s, but I have been the designated driver of many who have, including one person when last I saw her was licking a clown’s bald head at the local expat Irish pub.

So today Miss Plumcake wants to know:

What is your best, by which I mean worse, St Patrick’s Day story? Change the names to protect the innocent…as if there are such things!