So, in addition to maintaining my own blog (sort of) , I read other people’s Internet ramblings. It’s the voyeur in me, wanting to know what other people are up to, what crazy sorts of things other people spend their time doing and writing and reading. As a child I was convinced that if I had the right gear, the right nanny, and if someone would make me cake and milk every afternoon, I, too, could be Harriet The Spy. Now I am just Hilary The Internet Stalker.
And I make my own damn cake, thank you very much.
So I was reading some blogs at work. Did I mention this? Small sidenote. Doing what I’m totally not supposed to be doing on the company time. And somebody took a beef (Can you take a beef? Have a bone to pick? Simply HAD a beef? Where did they get this beef? I’m not up on my meat metaphors…) with a spread of David Beckham in this month’s Vanity Fair.
I happen to have this month’s VF on my bookshelf at home, just begging to be read, but haven’t gotten to it yet because I was incredibly busy this weekend doing what all single 23 year old girls about town do on the weekends: baking, sleeping until noon, and hanging out with my mom. I’m thinking of taking up knitting.
What? YOU were the one sitting on my dentures? Thank you so much for telling me.
Anyway, voyeur that I am, I clicked on the David Beckham link to see what comes up and – speaking of beef – hey howdy hey it’s David Beckham in his underpants! Sporting a cranky look and what appears to be a tennis ball.
I’m not sure what I expected, but I sure didn’t expect my coworkers to be parading on by my office just as I clicked on that link, that’s for sure.
Aaannnddd it’s awkward now.