Project Runway

I had a list of interesting things to blog about…and then I saw Project Runway last night and all that was forgotten.

The whole point of the show is that it’s a competition, right? When they kept all four designers last night, it was like in Meet the Fockers when they display Ben Stiller’s 7th place trophy. They made everyone a winner, and everyone is NOT a winner. In life, some people have to lose. Of course Laura, Michael, Jeffrey and Uli are talented, that’s why they’ve made it this far, but the point of last night’s episode was to cut someone loose, to make the tough decision. But instead, they let everyone stay.

After last night’s episode, I felt the same as I felt after the finale of the Bachelorette (the only season I watched it) when Jen didn’t choose either guy.

That being said, I’m still very excited for the last few episodes of the season. We’ll see if the judges’ decision paid off.

Urban passion

I turn my head, and my cheek brushes against his shoulder. A soft white cotton Diesel tee smoothed over skin, thin enough to trace the outlines of his back. His forearm muscles tense, gripping. His glasses are beginning to fog, and they’ve fallen slightly askew. We lurch toward each other, my face buried in his chest, and I breathe in the smell of his cologne. We are pressed against each other, unable to tear away, unwilling to move any closer. I’m feeling feverish, and if my hands weren’t pinned I’d take something off. Hot breath against my forehead as he sighs, languidly, and looks down at me. We have settled into each other, growing accustomed to each other’s body heat.

But what is this? A pressure against my back announces another presence, but I am unwilling (or unable) to turn my head from my previous companion. Sandwiched between two men? This was not what I expected when I woke up this morning. A sideways glance tells me our new friend is big, much taller than me. And as the pressure increases, I begin to feel small, enveloped as I am by these two sets of arms, reaching around me. Suddenly, it is too much for me, but just as suddenly, it is all gone.

“This stop, 51st street,” a scratchy voice announces. The doors open and we pour out onto the platform, anonymity thankfully regained as I make my way up the stairs to the street.

Sexy beast

I can’t really criticize Justin Timberlake too much. He overcame years of bad hair and ridicule to become a successful solo artist and (let’s face it) a damn sexy man. However. Howwwever. I cannot ignore the above artwork. Every time I see it I stifle a giggle. Mr. Timberlake is taking himself a little seriously, no? Am I to believe that his eyes are so sexy, so scandalous, so indecent, that they must be censored? One look into those sexy eyes, and God fearing people will be running for the hills as sorority girls feverishly disrobe, is that it? Beyond that, it seems as though the sexy cannot be denied, cannot be censored, and has conquered over the black bar, one bedroom eye peeking out.

Silly, silly Justin. Not that I have room to criticize at all, O-Town just came up on my iTunes radio.

The only way I know how to spend a day off.

Crying into my peanut butter sandwich as Rupert Everett utters (is that the best I can do to describe that silky British voice?) the final words in My Best Friend’s Wedding: “There may not be marriage, there may not be sex…but there will be dancing.”