Stalking Alan Rickman

Monday: Fed up with being a faithful wife. Unwilling to cheat with just anyone because in my wedding vows, I promised not to. Fortunately, I slipped in a loophole. Right after "I do," I embraced my beloved and whispered in his ear, "Of course, if a celebrity ever asks me to run away with him, you're history as far as I'm concerned. You understand that, don't you?" I think he did - the look on his face had to be agreement. Through the subsequent decades, I have threatened to leave him for men ranging from Johnny Depp to Denzel Washington and yet I haven't gone, so he has become complacent. The old fool. Now's my time to move.

Tuesday: Have narrowed my list of possible mates for mid-life grand passion. Focus. Must have focus. Keanu? Too young. Harrison? I've read he has a bad back. Jackie? Maybe, but he would probably expect athletic sex. I think I would be impressed yet intimidated by someone who could strip, then bounce off the wall and land on the bed in a handstand. No, upon consideration, my destiny is clear. He's tall and lean, moody and complicated, with a baritone that melts the butter on my kitchen table: Alan Rickman.

No, it's not mine. It's Cyndi's and it's adorable.

Go. Read.

Actualy, EOS design has the cleverest site tour I've ever seen. (Great wallpapers and website graphics, too.)