Love, Jimmie

So we all agree that I’m a chick, right?  And that I like boys.  Cute ones, specifically, with fabulously big arms that are just scored with muscles or with blinding white Chiclet teeth (For those of you interested, I am completely and totally hot for the Bee Gees boys, specifically Barry with those gorgeous choppers.  I do not care that they are 90 now, unless of course, they no longer have those teeth and then in that case they can go blow smoke.) or with foreign accents and some height on them.  I’m not embarrassed to admit that I am still very much a school girl in that I plaster pictures of cute boys all over my walls (desktop).   My co-workers, mostly male engineers, just love this. 

For the longest time I had this yummy picture of a shirtless Dwayne Johnson staring back over his shoulder.  It was a side view and you could see the muscle definition in his arms and the tattoo and the chest.  Oh, the chest.  Sigh . . . that man is just pretty.  Today I have a black and white of Michael Phelps, shirtless natch, and he’s also looking off into space, muscles rippling. And the hip rip is on full display, right above the shorts that are just about to fall off . . . . . .      . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .     . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .  Oh, sorry.  I wandered there for a minute.   

Anyway, a few weeks ago I had the Clive Owen up.  It was a small picture and he was hot and staring right at you.  The picture was tasteful and again, small.

I went to lunch, and trusting soul that I am, I left my computer unlocked.  I work in an engineering firm and yes, these people are amazing and wonderful but rowdy they are not.  I’ve never questioned my safety or integrity while working with these fantastic people, nor did I ever expect them to step outside the world of numbers and plans to stoop to my level. 

I came back from lunch, sat down at my desk and was working away when one of my co-workers dropped by to tell me that he and his wife are expecting another baby.  He had the sweetest picture to show me: his daughter wearing an “I’m the big sister” shirt. That’s how they announced it.  While I looked at his picture he got a puzzled look on his face and said, “I thought it was Clive Owen this week.”  I looked up and to my horror my

was replaced with this: 

Sure, I suppose Hall & Oates were hot back in the day but the porn ‘stache has never done it for me. 

Because I can keep nothing to myself and because I apparently love to throw myself under the bus, I sent this chain of events to all my friends via email.   

And Phranke joyfully replied.  (Because I am not all that creative or uptight about writing rules, just know that the below was all done in email. One day I will get it together and make this look professional but understand that I just figured out spacing on this here blog.  I’m telling you, I’m good . . . )

Phranke:          Is someone calling you a maneater? 

Jimmie:            I’m not sure. This is a travesty.

Phranke:          I would have used THIS ONE

Jimmie:            Oh, the fur! Ew! 

Phranke:          Private Eyes “clap, clap”, they’re watching you, they see your every move . . . . .

Phranke:          I can’t go for that, ooohhoh, I can’t go for that, no can dooo-ooo, No, I can’t go for that 

Phranke:          Because your kiss (your kiss) is on my list, whoa-oo, Because your kiss (your kiss) I can’t resist

Phranke:          You make my dreams come true, oooh ooh ooh, I’ve been waiting for you girl, you, you, you-ooo 

In the meantime, I received a phone call on my office phone.  It was a song.  Maneater.  Of course. A line or two played, and then the call was disconnected. I’m fairly certain it was the print room but I have no proof.

And then again, Phranke . . .  

Phranke:          Is this at all annoying yet?  Because I could do this all day. They had a lot of hits back in the 80s you know. 

Hahahahahahahahaaa!  So we all had a good laugh over it and it was funny and I changed my picture back to Clive Owen and all was right in my world again. 

And then two days later I went to lunch and did not lock my computer (yes, I know) and I came back to this:

Har dee har har!  This picture was meant to be a joke but my super fabulous,  not-at-all rowdy co-workers played right into my grubby little paws.  Little do they know that George Michael and I are soul mates and that one day he will realize it and ditch the boy toys and come my way.    I have always had a thing for him and yes, when I was 13, I wallpapered the ceiling and walls of my bedroom with pictures of him ripped out of Tiger Beat that I made my Daddy buy for me.  There might have been an incident, also when I was 13, where in an effort to prove him wrong and prevent my heart from shattering into a million pieces, I punched a guy who called him gay.  And that guy had a pencil sticking out of his pocket and I whacked my knuckle against it, breaking the lead off into my skin which then left me with a permanent tattoo to forever remind me of my love for George.  See, soul mates!  Ha! Ha!  That man is mine. 

 Photo credits, as best I know how:

Yummy Clive – go here 

Hall and Oates # 1 – go here

Hall and Oates #2 – go here

My future lovair, George – go here