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:

but then I start to feel all uncomfortable because I’m pretty sure that many impure thoughts at once can cause aneurism, or at least wrinkles, so I’d better not risk it.

Oh hell, what’s life without a little risk?

Maybe a little more risk?

I’m not gonna lie, I’m totally feeling (though sadly in the figurative sense) the chestal rug situation. It’s not like I object to hairless wonders, the Bulgarian athlete I dated last year was smooth as a dolphin and that was just fine by me, but there’s something to be said for a man who is groomed but not hyper-manscaped.

Of course, whenever I talk about Xabi, I have to reveal my embarrassing Xabi story, which goes like this:
One of the first times, possibly THE first time, Hot Latin Boy ever spent the night at Villa Plumcake, we were all cuddled up on the couch being disgusting and in love and whatnot and watching my special Youtube football playlist and he was extolling my virtues as The Best Girlfriend Ever because not only did I LIKE the sport, I went so far as to compile a playlist of my favorite bits.

Which is when, of course, this came on:

Quickly followed by this (whew! safe!)

aaaand finally this, the most disturbing/hot/slightly endearing (in that they’re clearly being told to smoulder as if their lives depended on it) commercial to ever burn its way onto my retinas.

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.

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.

Anyway, I know about 900% of you pretty much glaze over whenever I talk about Proper Football and I could probably just write a random string of words here and none of you will care or notice porcupine guadalajara bassinet but how had I never noticed this before?

I know I tend to focus my affections on silver fox, Real Madrid gaffer Jose Mourinho, but the Barcelona manager certainly brings the smoldering skinny-tied hotness. Not too surprising considering he started out looking like this:

And I gotta tell you, the designer buzz ‘n’ fuzz? Is doing it for me in a big way.

Mmmhmm, definitely my favorite look for well-aged soccer stars (gratuitous pic of Zizou? Don’t mind if I dou!)

Plus he seems to be just a really decent egg.

There’s an oft-trotted out story of how as a kid in the Barca system, Cesc Fabregas idolized then-team captain Guardiola. When Pep found out Cesc was having a hard time dealing with his parents’ divorce, the superstar gave young Cesc his own #4 jersey, and to this day, Fabregas –now captain of Arsenal– plays in a #4 kit as an homage to his childhood hero.

Was that just an excuse to give you a picture of Cesc Fabregas? Yes, yes it was. Do you have a problem with that?

Didn’t think so.

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:

Yes. It’s Tom Jones. And his prison-issue banana hammock.

Because any mention of Wales must include a reference to either Tom Jones or sheep. Sometimes both. I’m not happy about it either, but there you go. Still, in all fairness to Mister Jones, he’s got one of the most versatile voices of the past several decades and the CD he released with Jools Holland (creatively titled Tom Jones & Jools Holland) is one of those rare “all-killer no-filler” albums that’s actually an incredibly solid record masquerading as a guilty pleasure. That still doesn’t mean I’m happy about the budgie smuggler.

Moving from the ridiculous to the sublime, I give you Richard Burton.

If you only know him as the man who married Elizabeth Taylor twice, everything you need to know about him can be found in this 1980 interview with Dick Cavett. More than handsome, more than talented, more than troubled, he was entrancing. Watching Burton, even near the end of his life talking about something as mundane as coal mining, I’ve always felt the way I suspect a bird must feel looking into the eyes of the cobra who has just raised his hood; mesmerized, half attracted and half afraid, but incapable of looking away.

Coincidentally –or perhaps not– he is involved with several of my favorite literary and cinematic works. He played the Rev. T. Lawrence Shannon in my favorite film “The Night of the Iguana“, the first voice in my beloved “Under Milk Wood” (by perhaps the most famous Welshman of them all, Dylan Thomas) and although he did not originate the role of Dr. Martin Dysart in Peter Shaffer’s play “Equus”, I remember walking home to my hotel in London having just seen Daniel Radcliffe and Richard Griffiths in the West End revival thinking “that was practically written for Richard Burton” only to find out –like most of you probably knew– he played Dysart in the 1977 film version. If you haven’t been exposed to any or or all of them, I demand you avail yourself of them now. They’ll wait.

Moving on to something SLIGHTLY less obvious but no less a legend I give you this:

This is Ryan Giggs’ left foot.

Should I, by some unforeseen celestial error, actually make it into heaven, I am fairly sure I’ll see this in the God’s Greatest Hits section of eternity right next to Michelangelo’s hands and Joan Crawford’s eyebrows.

For those of you who don’t know, Giggs is a Proper Football legend and pure class. He’s been playing for Manchester United since 1990, which is pretty amazing considering 1990 was the year two of his MU teammates, Brazilian twins (sigh, have lovelier words ever been uttered?) Rafael and Fábio da Silva WERE BORN. At this point, I could totally go all footballer geek girl on you, or tell you about the deep and meaningful conversation I had with our cab driver in Dublin about the inherent superiority of Giggs over Robbie Keane while he (the cabbie) stared intently down my top. Instead I’ll just show you a picture of him with his shirt off, with a bit o’ Becks as a bonus.

One good footballer deserves another, which brings us to our last offering, Little Gareth Bale.

On the one hand, yes. Yes he does look like a) a monkey b) the mean kid from Toy Story.

However, at 21, age has slowly begun to decrease his chances of a be-loinclothed Charlton Heston damning him to hell.

On the other hand, I love him. I can’t help it, I have a soft spot for Bale.

Not only does he have the potential to be one of the all-time greats (thanks in no small part to his ridiculous speed, by which I mean thighs), he’s a classy player and remarkably well-behaved off the pitch so in my head he is going to be the next Ryan Giggs, thus Saving English Football from the likes of Rooney and Keane. Plus his hat trick at the San Siro (turned into a beautiful animation here, seriously, it’s worth watching) made me love him even more. I understand none of you care about that, so again, it’s strip-down time at White Hart Lane:

Now why on earth did my people ever leave Wales?

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.

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.)

Was this really just an excuse to post a luscious seaside twofer with teammate David Villa? More importantly, does the hip-dip/moistened white trunks combo on pocket-sized Villa make up for the stupidest soul patch in the history of time?

Kaká -  6’1″
Well it finally happened.

Having exhausted the available dating population of the entire continent of Europe, about six weeks ago I became involved with a man from Latin America, who has enthusiastically confirmed what I have suspected for many a year:

While the rest of we mere mortals are designed using a basic bones/muscles/joints format these fellas, bless their hearts, are designed on what I can only describe as some sort of “Pornographic Ferret” model. I’m not entirely sure they even HAVE bones.

For proof (at least the sort of proof that will not require me to snatch you bald) I give you the pneumatic ball skills of Brazilian bonbon Kaká. And also this:

First of all, you’re welcome.

Secondly, I know none of you care, but Kaká but is one wearing jeans (he has a contract with Armani so I suspect he’s contractually obliged not to appear in his skivvies for anyone but them.) Third, you’re welcome AGAIN. Fourth, poor Landycakes. At least he didn’t have to stand next to England striker

Carlton Cole 6′ 3^1/2“

Frankly I’m not even sure that measurement was taken with his feet on the floor. Talk about crying God for England and Saint George.

So let’s start this New Year right (if a little late) with Hot boys and shoes.

In the theme of smokin’ hot North African footballers, I give you Zinedine Zidane (who is actually from Marseilles, but his parents are Algerian) and Luis Figo who, while not from North Africa –he’s Portuguese– IS smokin’ hot, and that my friend is the international language of Plumcake. I like to imagine they’re reenacting the “hill of beans” speech from Casablanca, with Zidane playing the part of a young and tearful Ingrid Bergman.

Also pretty on the outside: D&G leopard print t-straps. I’ve always said “If you’re gonna do leopard, it had better be Dolce.” This is why.
D&G leopard t-straps (on big sale!)

and finally, perhaps most importantly, it’s time we take a moment from our busy schedules, pause and remember that no matter how hard our lives or how painful our toils, there’s always (siiiiiigh) Xabi.

Lucky for me, these three worthy pursuits have come together to form the sort of tripartite hotness spectacular that usually can be created only in laboratory conditions using highly theoretical mathematics, super computers and flecks of Jose Mourinho’s man-tan.

That’s right, I’m talking about the Spanish National Team’s new kit, which debuts today and was preceded by what I feel comfortable in calling the single greatest contribution to the visual arts since Michelangelo decided that popcorn finish looked a bit slapdash.

Hat tip to the gentlemen and scholars of The Beautiful Gear.

For those of you who just got off the boat from Mars, Spain won the World Cup back in July against the Filthy Filthy Dutch. You may recall Spain Captain Iker Casillas as star of the previous Monday Hotness and the one off Monday Adorableness some months back (for those of you who don’t know why I hate the Filthy Filthy Dutch or how I dated my first professional footballer this is essential reading) or how I wanted to rub a pat of butter on referee Howard Webb’s head for my birthday.

If you’ve never seen him in action, look at this clip that just about makes me want to DIE:
Basically this weekend Real Madrid had a game against another Spanish club and the managers don’t like each other very much –the manager for Real Madrid being Jose Mourinho aka “The Special One” who is like the Karl Lagerfeld of football and a very divisive character– so there was much hissing and booing and Throwing of Things, including a balled up piece of newspaper.

Because that’s a good idea.

SURELY someone who CATCHES THINGS FOR A LIVING, and in fact does what he does better than ANYONE ELSE ON THE PLANET AS RECENTLY PROVED IN THE BIGGEST SPORTING EVENT IN THE WORLD would never, you know, CATCH THE NEWSPAPER.

GOD competence is so sexy.

SO in honor of Spain’s new jerseys and the dedicated return of the Monday Hotness I will give you the ENTIRE 2010 Spanish National Team over the next two weeks:

There’s no better place to start with our beloved keeper,Saint Iker who has made Monday Hotness history today by being the first man to score a hat trick of hotnesses (hotnii?)

Next we have defenders Carles Puyol (bless his heart, they can’t all be Beckham pretty)

and Gerard “Senor Crazypants” Pique who may in fact be insane.

(poor dear has gnawed through the leash again)
You can’t really expect much from defenders in the ways of bringing the pretty. They’re like the drummers of the football world. Sure you need them to get the job done, but you know they’re just going to end up getting inappropriate fluids on your couch.

Sergio Ramos, like Puyol, is a brilliant footballer with Very Bad Hair. Instead of showing you one of the myriad photos of him in his stupid Mary Kate Olsen headband (and I’m not even emotionally prepared to address the Unfortunate Cornrow Incident), we’ll go for this more, uh, casual shot.

I know what you’re thinking: Gingham?

Stay tuned next week for even more Roja hotness!

*Also Scotch, but the doctor said I’m not supposed to have Scotch for a while. He made no mention of shirtless foreign men.

When Jude Law first came to my attention, he was the gorgeous golden cad in The Talented Mr Ripley, I remember going “WHO is THAT?”  People like that don’t exist outside Evelyn Waugh novels. Historically I’ve never been a sucker for a pretty face, but this is a PRETTY FACE. Also? He’s secretly in love with me. True story. *

“Gwynnie lamb, I don’t want to be a pest but I think you’re stabbing me with your elbow. I said you’re a very nice girl, but I can’t be with a woman who thinks eating lawn is a good idea. Lawn is not food. Lawn is what food eats. I need a real woman. A woman with several deviled egg plates and more than one type of bacon in her refrigerator at any given time.”

“Oh Miss Plumcake,  come to me. I need the sweet healing love of a fat Episcopalian girl who might be the only natural born American who can brew a decent cup of tea. We will lie in bed listening to the Crab Canon and playing chess while I  nibble your ankle.”

“What my darling? No Bach? Even though the calendar very clearly indicates Bachtober started several days ago? Suit yourself, but I shall grab my lip and be abashed. Shall I take off my pants?”

“I know my sweet, I too am sometimes perplexed as to how my lips can be so perfect. I see you are confused. Perhaps you would like to caress my chin dimple and discuss whether I might possibly be wearing too much blusher.”

“Do you admire my shirt studs? Stephen Fry put them on with his teeth. He said that was the traditional way. Was he mistaken? Never mind. Don’t you think this inexplicably salmon waistcoat would look better crumpled elegantly on your bedroom floor, or perhaps the local public tennis courts after posted hours? So do I, darling. Let us off.”

*In my head

Remember the rules:

He must be over 18
The image must be at least 450 pixels wide
He needs to be the only person in the photo
He must agree to having his picture up here
He must have his Martha and BOTH the Vandellas covered up.

We take the broad view of hotness, so any size, shape, color, age or orientation is aces. If you think he brings the hotness, we want to see.

And, as usual, Miss Plumcake will be showcasing some of her favorite personal hotnesses. Stay tuned!