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The Monday Hotness | Manolo for the Big Girl
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The Monday Hotness: Finders Keepers Edition

You know, it’s been a long little while since we’ve jump-started the week with some old-fashioned hotness and frankly, I’m not okay with that.

In a way, you have a gas station attendant in Ensenada to thank for what we are about to receive.

Yesterday, the fella and I decided to take a daytrip south of the little port city to avail ourselves of the fresh mountain air, see La Bufadora (purportedly the second biggest blowhole in North America), check out a potential relocation spot for Villa Plumcake and –fingers crossed– watch some jerkface surfers get eaten by sharks.

Disappointingly, the local great whites must’ve given up jerkface for Lent, and having grown up inside the Washington D.C. Beltway I can attest that not only is La Bufadora NOT the second biggest blowhole in North America, it wasn’t even the second biggest blowhole on my street. Still, the air was great, the mountains resplendent and the ocean view was well worth (okay, almost well worth) the disappointment of not seeing any great white gore fests.

Of course neither of us could focus on the air, mountain, blowhole or lack of shark-related brutality because we were too busy trying to remember the name of Barcelona’s dishy (okay, only I called him dishy) goalkeeper after seeing his doppeltwinsy pumping gas at a roadside fuel-and-taco emporium. This went on for three hours.

The keeper in question was, of course, young miss Victor Valdes.


I’ve got to be honest here, he’s never really steamed my tamale. Sure, he’s a good-looking fella, but his smolder is so self-satisfied that it leapfrogs straight over Sexy and lands in Unintentionally Hilarious Homoerotic Meathead.

e.g.:

P.S. I really hope the stylist put those back in Depeche Mode’s “Personal Jesus”video before Dave Gahan slaps someone silly.

Then I started thinking, in the way I so often do, about my favorite goal keepers. As it turns out Valdes, despite being considered one of the world’s best boys in the box (shut your mouth!) was only #3 behind Pepe Reina and Saint Iker for Ethpana’s 2010 World Cup national team.

Oh Pepe.

As any Liverpool fan will say, or more appropriately sing (to the tune of Guantanamera) “One Pepe Reina. There’s only one Pepe Reina.”

but wouldn’t it be nice if there were several?

If Victor Valdes is the guy at the bachelorette party you make your friends SWEAR never to mention again, second-generation goalkeeping legend Pepe Reina is the guy you marry and have a half-dozen athletically gifted children with, all while praying they get your hairline.

A lovable goofball, Reina was described as both the best dancer in the Liverpool Football Club and, much more interestingly, “the longest in the shower” on more than one occasion.

Of course we couldn’t mention the prince and the queen (Reina means Queen in Spanish) without taking a moment for Sara “If This Boob Job Doesn’t Convince You I’m a Serious Journalist I Don’t Know What Will” Carbonero’s infinitely better half,  Real Madrid keeper and captain of the World Cup-winning Spanish National Team, Iker Casillas.

We’ve featured Saint Iker on The Monday Hotness before, but just as a little refresher, here’s a teensy taste of why it’s a bad idea to throw something at a person who catches flying objects for a living.

I’ve said it before: Competence is so sexy.

 

Black Friday Hotness: Happy Birthday Xabi Alonso

Hello my little chitterlings, how’s every little thing?

Are you all gorged unto gorgeousness on Thanksgiving splendor? Not I.

I only got back stateside on Tuesday night so all I managed to do was putter around the high-fashion disaster zone that is my house, look online at various appliances and whatnots I’ll have to buy and then haul across the border and proceeded to get so overwhelmed I had to stop everything and watch several episodes of King of the Hill in a row, curled in the fetal position eating cheese grits. You know, just like the pilgrims did.

Thanksgiving always slips by me anyway, but today, TODAY, is a day I shall never forget. Not only is November 25th the birthday of my much-missed grandfather, it also the anniversary of the birth of my beloved Xabi Alonso.

Most people in the US, if they know Xabi at all, know him from the vicious kung fu challenge he received at the foot of Dutch monster, Nigel de Jong, at the 2010 World Cup final.

But I prefer to think of the classiest man in football like this:

okay, actually I prefer to think of him like this:
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The Return of the Lazy Monday Poll

I don’t know about you guys, but it’s been a long time since I’ve had an entertaining poll.

We’ve been on this pony ride for what, three years now? Four years? A long damn time that’s for sure, and so many of you have been with me from the beginning when I was just a simple country girl with a dream. Okay, I’ve never been a simple country girl with a dream, but imagine the movie version of this blog post and now picture me in a red and white gingham shirt and freckles, chewing on a piece of hay and looking up meaningfully into the mid-distance in preparation for what would definitely be a bitchin’ 1950’s-style montage with costumes provided by Edith Head.

Sorry, where was I?

Oh right.

Anyhoodle, I’ve known some of you so long you feel like family. I mean not MY family, because I actually talk to you, but someone’s family, and that’s nice. With that in mind, I’d like to have a rebirth, a renaissance s’il vous plait, of the Lazy Monday Poll.

So have it. Free for all, in the comments (provided you don’t get too rude, and remember this is a family blog so careful on the language) on anything that’s on your mind. If you ask a question, I’ll answer it. I know my email is notoriously wonky so if you emailed me and haven’t received a response, this is a good place to do it.

Oh, and because one great Monday Tradition calls for another, I won’t leave you without a bit of Monday Hotness.

I feel we should give a little quality ogling time to goalkeeper Tim Howard who did not have a great day during the Gold Cup final between the U.S. and Mexico. Apparently he temporarily forgot that the job, really the ONLY job, of the goalkeeper is to keep goals away which resulted in a 4-2 win for Chicharito and our friends south of the border.

That being said, he’s a good keeper and he worked wonders in my fantasy box all last year*, so let’s show him a little love, and by love I mean as always, base objectification.

*Yes, I constructed this entire post just so I could use that line. I’m not proud.

The Monday Hotness: El Clasico, Silver Edition

Good morning my little chickens and waffles, how’s every little thing?

Me? I’m super. Okay yes, technically I did break a bar stool moments before Cristiano Ronaldo scored a sizzling goal to equalize for Madrid during Saturday’s el Clásico against Barcelona, which was dead embarrassing, but I didn’t miss the goal and I didn’t spill my pint so I’m still taking that as a big W.

Also, I got mistaken for being from Spain, which is about the coolest thing that has ever happened to me in the history of…well, ever. Yeah, pretty much ever.

I’d just finished watching the match and was leaving a nearby paletería, coco paleta in hand. Oh, for those of you who don’t have access to paletas (and thus no probable reason to live) a paleta is a popsicle-type thing made of fresh seasonal fruit. Normally you have to wait for the paleta man to come by with his little cart, but as it is unbecoming of a woman of my social (not to mention physical) stature to chase an infinitesimally small and surprisingly easily-spooked Mexican man down the street while waving a wad of cash, I was delighted to find a little shop that sold them, a dollar a pop, from a little freezer.

Anyhoodle, I’m traipsing down the sidewalk in my magic jeans, beautifully-fitted Xabi Alonso jersey and 5″ Diane Von Furstenberg cobalt pony heels (made from real cobalt ponies!) enjoying the first paleta of summer and trying to make 100% certain that second-half pint was out of my system before getting behind the wheel.

I popped into La Merced, because any place that advertises itself as a combination “Groceria, Carneceria y Discoteca” –grocer, butcher and discotheque– is a place I want to see the inside of.

While inside the admittedly disappointing grocer/butcher/disco (is a discoball made out of a haggis dipped in broken mirrors really too much to ask? I submit that it is not) I pretty much got the same response I always get when I walk into a place catering to a mostly Mexican clientele while wearing some sort of Spanish soccer jersey: a mix of confusion, suspicion, appreciation and fascination which I never really understood.

On my way back to the car, still enjoying my coco paleta, I hear a muffled whistle, then a much clearer one.You know, a real, old school wolf whistle of the variety usually reserved for cartoons where Bugs Bunny is dressed in drag.

Yeah yeah, I know I’m getting my humorless feminist card revoked as soon as I hit “publish” but after the second whistle and a call of “Miss! Miss!” I turned around.

If a guy is going to take the trouble to leave his place of business to whistle at me in the middle of a sunny Saturday afternoon, I’m going to turn around to see.

He was precious.

I was easily a foot if not an actual foot and a half taller than he was and when I turned around he hesitated as if he’d just caught a shark with a minnow then asked in Spanish if I knew the score of el Clásico. I answered him –also in Spanish– that it was a 1-1 draw, with Messi putting one past San Iker and then Cristiano Ronaldo answering in the second.

More confusion…

“Are you from America or Spain?”

I answered and he explained that he thought I was from Spain (the Xabi shirt, and the Spanish-from-Spain slang) and was purposefully misunderstanding him just to be a language snob.

Which brings me to my major point:

Pep Guardiola is smokin’ hot.
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The Monday Hotness: The Dragon is Coming

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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The Monday Hotness: Eire-candy

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.

The Monday Hotness: Good Touch for a Big Man

I observed the first Friday of Lent in the traditional way of my people: by double-fisting gin and tonics at the gay bar with a precious 21 year-old Australian bar back and talking about rugby. The Aussie bemoaned –or I think he bemoaned, at this point he was pouring me free shots of something blue and wearing my sunglasses so my memory gets a bit foggy– that at 6’2″ he was still too short for his position.

That got me thinking about soccer and the phrase great soccer cliche “good touch for a big man” used to describe a tall guy who has surprising dexterity and agility, features usually found in much more compact players.

We’ll have a feature in the upcoming weeks about the travel-sized hotties, but today please help me salute some of the Big Men of soccer who can feel free to demonstrate their Good Touch (by which I mean Bad Touch) any old time they please.

Joe Hart – 6’3″
I am so conflicted about Joe Hart.

On one hand, he’s done a great job for me this season as keeper on my fantasy team (and if any of you make fun of Plumcake United I will BAN YOU FOR LIFE. we are in a building year okay?!) On the other hand he plays for Manchester City, which is my least favorite team EVER because they are EVIL and lest we forget that beast Nigel De Jong’s kung-fu kick to the heart during the World Cup Final of my sweet, sweet Xabi Alonso. And yet on the third hand:

Should your workplace allow it, you may wish to click here for what can only be described as Joe Hart dancing (?) in a pair of white shorts so snug that even Labyrinth-era David Bowie might have asked “Do you have something in a relaxed-fit?”

Andy Carroll – 6’3″

When Andy Carroll, Newcastle’s golazo-scoring problem child, left my beloved Magpies for Liverpool last month to the tune of £35 million, thus making him the highest-paid English footballer ever, my reaction was much like Hitler’s.

I only hope he will now be able to afford all the cream rinse, leave-in conditioner and sparkly Claire’s headbands his traitorous little heart can desire.

Pepe Reina – 6’2″
It’s Rhetorical Question Time! Who doesn’t love a footballer who, upon winning the World Cup for Spain, drunk dials his mom from the plane?

(SO much  more deliciousness after the jump. Seriously. You want to see this.) (more…)

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