Dream: Francis Dolarhyde, Duck-Sitter

ducks3

I know, right? A little background, maybe. Disney World, here we come…  in December, just a few weeks short of Little Sister’s 5th birthday, the family will travel to Florida for several days in Orlando followed by several days visiting Dad in his winter habitat on Sarasota Bay. Naturally, we’re all quite excited, but a week’s vacation does present a bit of an inconvenience when you have animals that require daily care. The dogs and cats aren’t a problem, as I happen to own a veterinary hospital that offers luxury boarding for the furry family. The livestock, however, are a different matter. We’re a small animal hospital and have no facilities for the horses, and we have too many ducks, chickens and guineas to even consider rounding them up and depositing them somewhere. That leaves us in need of someone to either stop by daily, or find a house-sitter, and I’ve been in the process of trying to find someone so as to save any of our nearby family members from the obligation during the busy holiday season…

* * *

I’m packing for the trip when I get the contest notification, and it’s good news! The pet-sitting website not only has matched my needs with an available pet-sitter, but I’m one of a few lucky vacationers who’s won a Fictional Character Pet-Sitting Experience! (Huh?) Using online algorithms based on my browsing activities, the contest coordinators are certain that they’ve found for me a match made in heaven, as my fictional character is one played by none other than Richard Armitage! (Obviously, whoever’s in charge of the algorithms is really quite competent.) I jump online to learn more and am immediately distracted by buzz on various social media platforms that Richard’s Charitable Pet-Sitting Initiative will be kicking off soon, along with plenty of rumors and speculations about what kind of pet-sitting and for whom and for when! Suddenly, I realize that this could be connected to my Fictional Character Pet-Sitting Experience, and that if I’m right, I may have that elusive “scoop” I’ve been waiting for! 

cesare

Option 1: Cesare Borgia. He looks like he could handle just about any pet-sitting task.

Exhilarated, I log in to the pet-sitting website, ready to learn more about how this is all going to work, and my heart beats faster as I begin to read the list of fictional characters that will be pet-sitting for the holidays! There are some really amazing names here! Cesare Borgia immediately pops out (ok, so that one’s a real historical figure,  though fictionally portrayed on The Borgias which I happen to be immersed in at the moment. And may I just say, dayum….) as well as Joffrey Baratheon from Game of Thrones, The Governor from The Walking Dead, and others, and they all seem to follow one theme… they’re baddies. Some are outright villains, while others are more in the anti-hero category, and as I go down the list, my exhilaration begins to transform into mild alarm. Nevertheless, knowing that I’ve scored a Richard Armitage character, I can’t help but speculate that, well, Guy of Gisborne would fit right in on this list. The perfect baddie…. and one that would absolutely qualify as a major fandom coup! (Am I right, ladies?) Near the bottom of the page, however, it’s not Gisborne’s name and face that causes my heart to stop… it’s the partially masked face of Francis Dolarhyde!

francis

Option 2: Francis Dolarhyde. He looks a little less equipped for my needs.

The implications are mind-boggling. I immediately (and quite sensibly!) begin to panic, wondering whether Francis Dolarhyde already has the information I’ve submitted to the pet-sitting service: where I live, where I’m going, my family details, my… pets! What have I gotten myself into? Is it too late to stop the company from releasing my pet-sitting information to the serial killer? Can I be matched with someone else? (Someone less…psychotically insane, perhaps?) Is it too late to trade for Cesare Borgia? 

I immediately call the company to relate my consternation (and you know it’s a dire pet-sitting mismatch if I’m prepared to call and confront rather than e-mail my concerns!) but the representative reassures me that Francis D. has been fully vetted (by whom? Ted Bundy?) and is more than capable of caring for my feathered friends. He goes on to extol the virtues of the actor Richard Armitage, and reminds me that Dolarhyde is, in fact, a fictitious character, and I need have no qualms whatsoever about him having my information. No, he can’t send Cesare. Cesare has already been deployed to a pet-sitting assignment in Naples. (I didn’t ask whether he meant Florida or Italy.) Furthermore, Francis Dolarhyde is en route and expected to arrive in Oklahoma at any moment for his debriefing with me! (Sounds a little racy, doesn’t it?) I hang up the phone, slightly mollified, reasoning that of course it won’t really be a serial killer that this company deploys to my home. (Just imagine the liability!) No, everything should be fine. They’re sending Richard Armitage. Kind, competent, all-around good guy Richard Armitage. He wouldn’t slaughter anyone. 

Hubby isn’t any more enchanted with the idea of Francis Dolarhyde arriving at any moment than I am. He immediately starts to run through all the reasons why this is a horrible idea as he pulls the 22 rifle down and begins to load it. I’m torn between a natural concern for Richard Armitage’s safety, and a stronger concern for my family’s immediate safety. Hubby is really not happy with me at the moment, and is bringing up ancillary concerns that had not occurred to me yet. Hubby thinks we should warn the neighbors. (That’s sure to go over well! How about a note in their mailbox that says, “Howdy, neighbor! We’ve hired a serial killer who massacres entire families to care for our ducks. He’ll be in the area for the next eight days, so please don’t forget to lock your doors at night and post a sentinel! Have a Merry Christmas!”)  Hubby also isn’t convinced that the authorities shouldn’t be notified. (“Hello! Our family is going on a Disney vacation and we’ve hired a pet-sitter that might be of interest to law enforcement in several states! Oh, and if you might send a patrol car around every few hours to check on our ducks’ safety, we’d really appreciate it!”) I admit to Hubby that assuming we survive the meeting with Dolarhyde when we line him out about his daily animal duties, I’m also somewhat nervous about the animals themselves. Hubby decides to conceal his wildlife game cameras here and there about the property, thinking we can document Dolarhyde’s activities and record any crimes he might commit while pet-sitting. As Hubby gets to work setting up his surveillance system, I raid my fabric stash in the quilting room and start draping the mirrors throughout the house. 

When I finish with that, I resume packing. (Apparently my alarm is not so exaggerated as to cause me to cancel our Disney vacation!) I glance out the window and see Hubby has put a round bale out for the horses (after all, who knows whether Dolarhyde knows how to operate a tractor!) and is now down at the fence line having a conversation with the neighbor. I have no idea what Hubby has told him, but neither man seems to be particularly agitated, and I’m relieved that the neighbor has taken it so well. Hubby, too, seems to have settled down, and I see him shake hands and pat our neighbor’s shoulder in that manly fashion as they part. 

I realize that Hubby has embraced the theory that it’s actually going to be Richard Armitage rather than The Great Red Dragon for our caretaker. This is reassuring to me, as well, and I decide to take a few minutes to set a few bottles of red wine on the kitchen island, then I remember that Francis Dolarhyde seems to enjoy martinis. I pull out bottles of vodka, gin and vermouth, not really sure what type of martini Francis prefers, but I figure he’s welcome to any and all of our liquor if it keeps him mellow and occupied. The next time I look out the window, I see a tall figure in Belstaff leather walking up the driveway, and a white panel van parked outside the gate.

white panel van

White Panel Vans. Never very reassuring.

Immediately my qualms return. It’s the white panel van that has caused me to again question whether we’re dealing with Richard Armitage, or Francis Dolarhyde. (This scenario, where I have trouble deciding whether it’s Richard or one of his characters, seems to be a recurring theme in my dreams! He’s slippery that way.)  I call the kids and order them into the family car, lugging our suitcases out and loading them up. I can’t get my children out of harm’s way soon enough.

guinea

The guineas will ALWAYS sound the alarm!

What’s even more disturbing, though, is that I see the guinea fowl have flown into a tree and I begin to hear them start in with their loud alarm calls. (Anyone not familiar with guineas may not know that these docile but alert birds have uncanny “watchdog” capabilities… an acute awareness of predators within their habitat, if you will. They make a distinct, almost operatic call that is sounded to alert both us and their fellow poultry to any intrusion, day or night. Whether it’s a delivery person, a coyote, a neighbor dog, or a fictional psychopath pet-sitter, the guineas will let us know!) Pulse now pounding, I start the car, and hit the gate opener so we can make a fast exit if we need to. (I don’t question the guineas’ intuitive knowledge of stranger danger, and neither should anyone else!) Hubby, however, ignores this ominous development and walks down to meet the pet-sitter, carrying his 22 rifle casually at his side. Despite the guinea noise, I do find myself admiring Hubby’s casual confidence as he approaches the unsub. I pull out my phone and surreptitiously film the men as they turn toward the barn. I can’t make out what they’re saying, but I’m relieved to see that Francis Dolarhyde doesn’t have the mask on, nor is he wearing those disagreeable dentures. 

feeding time

Where’s our corn?

The ducks and the chickens, as per their usual habit, immediately notice that Hubby is approaching the barn and begin running toward the feeding area, hoping for corn. I wait to see what the guineas will do. Suddenly, it becomes clear to me that whatever the guineas decide will be my barometer, my index, my indicator. I’ll soon know whether Francis Dolarhyde is to be trusted as a duck-sitter, or if I will call 911. (Because apparently when in doubt, I always leave life-or-death decisions to the pea-sized brain of the flightiest creature nearby!)

Hubby and Dolarhyde emerge from the barn as the the ducks and chickens mill around near the door. Dolarhyde stumbles a bit as our bossiest chicken cuts across his path, and he spills a little corn out of his can. Immediately all the fowl converge on the spilled corn, so he sort of shrugs and dumps out the remainder of his can, and Hubby then casts his own can of corn in a more practiced arc, demonstrating how to best disperse the corn so all the feathered pets are sure to get their share. Dolarhyde nods, seeming to understand the better method.

The guinea noise subsides. I hold my breath. After a few more moments of breathless anticipation, the guineas fly out of the tree and past our car. They land at the feet of Francis Dolarhyde, and peck at the corn.

Weak with relief, I realize that everything will be just fine. 

It’s Disney Time.

 

 

 

Dream: Richard Armitage Norwegian Wedding

RAnorwegianwedding

I have weddings on the brain. As you may recall, Little Sister and I recently attended my cousin’s wedding in Colorado, and the Young Love and I are scheduled to attend my aunt’s wedding to her longtime girlfriend in Colorado next month. Apparently, all these weddings have spilled over into my subconscious, and I’m happy to say that Richard Armitage finally revisited my dreamscape.

For a little background, I should tell you just a bit about the wedding I recently attended. It turns out that my cousin’s new father-in-law, who we’ll call “Dennis”, is one of those people you might say is a Serious Control Freak. According to my cousin, there were times during the wedding planning when his fiancé was reduced to tears because Dennis the Menace was continually taking charge and refusing to listen to her wishes regarding the wedding service, the decorations, the reception, or any of it. So forceful was Dennis’ personality, in fact, that the couple actually planned their honeymoon in secret, not telling any family member where they were going, because having caved to Dennis on numerous other issues, they didn’t want any interference from him on their honeymoon!

So “our” side of the family, being rather more laid back, derived a great deal of snarky amusement watching Dennis direct activities like a military general at the wedding reception. I do have to hand it to Dennis… everything went off very smoothly, if in a slightly regimented fashion! And although I was too intimidated by Dennis to approach him, I did later wish I’d gone over to the brides’ family table to talk to them about their Norwegian roots. Some of her family came all the way from Norway for the wedding, and I was charmed by their willingness to come so far.

* * *

I am in a state of agitation, completely flustered, because I have missed Richard Armitage’s wedding ceremony. (I can’t explain how I came to be invited, nor do I know the identity of his new spouse. It seems that this fortuitous individual’s name has been kept undisclosed, but I expected to learn the secret at the wedding!) I have my four-year old daughter in tow, and she’s dressed to the nines in her rainbow dress. I am also wearing a dress, and part of my agitation is due to the fact that I did not have time to shower before the ceremony, or to fix my hair or apply new makeup. In fact, I’m feeling really hot and sweaty, in part due to my anxiety over having missed the ceremony, and in part because I have been wielding my lefse stick over several hot griddles in the kitchen all afternoon, feverishly preparing a tall stack of lefse with my family.

Lefse Project

This is a really small lefse crew. You can see we start them young in my family. Young Love was two, and Little Sister was 1 week old when Dad and Brother came to visit. We couldn’t let an opportunity to celebrate the new baby’s arrival pass without making lefse!

Let’s take a moment here, because not everyone may be familiar with lefse. And that is a shame. Lefse, in my humble opinion, is just about the most delicious stuff in the world. It’s an ultra-thin (think crepe) potato- based Norwegian flatbread that is heavenly when eaten warm off the griddle, dripping with butter. Now, some people enjoy lefse with cinnamon-sugar sprinkled on, but in my family, we prefer straight-up hot buttered lefse, and we will use any excuse for a family gathering to get a crew together and make an enormous batch. This labor of love involves about 10-lb of potatoes boiled, peeled and riced, which are then mixed into a dough with heavy cream, flour and lard the day before the lefse party. The lefse assembly process involves specialized equipment, a great quantity of flour, the consumption of alcoholic beverages, and plenty of lefse smack-talk. Ideally we need one person to form dough balls, a couple more to roll out the dough, one or two to man the griddles, and someone to stack and steam and carefully count the lefse.

Although I’ve missed the exchange of vows, I am still in time to make it to Richard Armitage’s wedding reception. While I may not have fresh hair and makeup, I do come prepared in one respect. I have an insulated bag full of lovingly prepared lefse, which I was instructed by Dennis to provide for the wedding reception. (In fact, knowing my family and the way we obsessive-compulsively count and divvy up the lefse, all participants watching like hawks to ensure a fair portion of lefse is allotted for personal consumption, I was probably late due to negotiating the number of lefse that would be relinquished for Richard Armitage versus the number of lefse that the family would keep!) Although Richard’s new spouse is shrouded in mystery, Dennis has indicated that there will be a large Norwegian contingent in attendance, and I am speculating that Richard may have married some long-legged Scandinavian supermodel. 

With my precious lefse bag in one hand and my daughter’s hand in the other, I enter the ballroom. I notice that many of the guests are already seated, and many of them are wearing beautiful Norwegian sweaters. I look up toward the dais where the wedding party is seated above the rest, and I immediately spot Richard Armitage in the center. (Apparently I’m flustered enough that I forget to see who the best man is or to really look at any of the wedding party other than Richard.) I see that the chair adjacent to Richard is empty. Glancing around, I spot Dennis, who is checking his watch rather impatiently. Where is the Scandinavian supermodel, or whoever it is Richard has married?

lefse1

The recipe is simple, if time-consuming, and passed down over countless generations. There is no describing the mouth-watering aroma or the perfection of each buttery, potatoey bite. =)

I quickly make my way over to the buffet table and talk for a moment with the caterers about a covered dish to keep the lefse moist and warm, and ask for butter to be placed nearby. Then I take my seat. I study Richard, who is looking gorgeous in a black tuxedo, but has furrowed brows. I presume he’s wondering where his spouse might be. (Though maybe he’s uncomfortable because he knows that Nobody screws with Dennis’ time table at wedding receptions!) As we wait for something to happen, Little Sister starts asking when they will be cutting the cake, and when the dancing will begin. (So many boys, so little time!)

Pretty soon Dennis approaches the dais and speaks to Richard, who shakes his head and indicates he doesn’t know. Dennis begins to gesticulate and point to his watch, and Richard, harried, scans the room hopefully. Still no spouse. Dennis and Richard then exit the room, only to return a few minutes later. Richard takes his seat, and Dennis speaks to the wait staff, who begin to circulate, taking drink orders. More time elapses, and at some point, Little Sister escapes and begins asking boys to dance. Boy after boy shakes his head no. (The other parents evidently have better control over their offspring!)

Little Sister, who is a veteran of a Dennis-controlled wedding reception, then gets a bright idea. She approaches the man himself. (Not Richard. Dennis Runs The Program at these events!) She tugs on Dennis’ pants, and when he bends down to hear her better, I can only assume she either asks Dennis to dance (this did happen at my cousin’s wedding, BTW. To Dennis’ credit, he complied!) or she asks Dennis to get this party started, but in either case, Dennis sets his shoulders, takes her by the hand, and Dennis and Little Sister march back to the dais. After a few stern words with Richard, who finally shrugs and accepts the inevitable, Dennis turns to the attendees and announces that it’s time to eat and dance. Nobody addresses the elephant in the room: Richard’s significant other still has not appeared!

mittens

Norwegian Lover’s Mittens

After everyone has filled their plates and taken their seats, Dennis announces that some of the attendees have travelled all the way from Norway, and one of the Norwegians has asked to make a short speech in honor of Richard and his absent spouse. Everyone applauds, and an older gentleman dressed in a Norwegian sweater stands up and goes to stand behind Richard and the empty seat. After a few remarks about his travels in the United States that don’t seem to apply at all to the matter at hand, the elderly Norwegian gentleman says his wife has knitted a trio of Norwegian Lover’s Mittens in honor of the couple. He holds up 3 mittens: a right-hand mitten, a left-hand mitten, and a conjoined mitten for the hand-holding couple to wear together. Dennis, realizing that the special moment is somewhat diminished by the lack of a marital partner to demonstrate the mittens, lifts Little Sister up to the dais, and the elderly Norwegian gentleman helps her to stand on the empty chair. Richard good-naturedly dons his left-handed mitten, Little Sister dons the right-handed mitten, and my heart melts as they work out how to put on the shared mitten, then hold up their joined hands for all to see. (Where does my brain come up with these themes?!)

Reception Dance

Now how lucky is he? *snickers*

Never one to miss a golden opportunity, Little Sister then asks the hottest guy in the room to dance. Richard Armitage is either unable to resist her, or unwilling to disappoint her, (or intimidated into capitulation by Dennis!) because he stands up and, still wearing the mittens, carries Little Sister onto the dance floor. He sets her down, and having to stoop to keep hold of her hands, they begin to dance. 

stagedoorPretty soon, ladies begin to form a line along one wall near the dance floor, each waiting her turn to dance with Richard. Several kids and a few couples join the dancers, and Little Sister soon finds a new partner. It’s beginning to remind me of The Stage Door. (In fact, it’s exactly like that!) Even at his own, bizarre wedding reception, Richard Armitage finds himself confronting a line of expectant ladies, and graciously, he begins to dance for short periods with each of them. 

Meanwhile, another line is forming, consisting almost exclusively of Norwegians (easily identified by their sweaters, of course!) over at the buffet table, and I realize that the servers have put out the lefse. (Perhaps only those of us of Norwegian descent will appreciate the spot-on nature of this! LOL). I watch the lefse anxiously, knowing that the supply is limited. As the stack of lefse dwindles, I begin to become very concerned that Richard Armitage is not going to get any lefse! (This, ladies, would be an absolute calamity!) I start looking back and forth between the line of Norwegians and the line of ladies, and I realize that there is no way that Richard will have time to dance with all the ladies, and still be in time to get his lefse. I can’t let that happen. If I thought I was sweaty before, it was nothing compared to what I’m feeling now… this wedding reception is already enough of a debacle without Richard missing out on my lefse! 

After briefly deliberating whether I should try to notify Dennis about the lefse situation, I decide to take matters into my own hands. I stand up, and move to the front of the line at the dance floor, trying to ignore the sharp looks and the air of resentment from the ladies in line. Richard is spending about 30 seconds dancing with each lady, so it isn’t long before he’s standing in front of me with a polite but vacant smile, holding out his hand to take me onto the dance floor. I have no intention of dancing, not even with Richard Armitage. (Two left feet. Trust me, my four-year old can out-dance me any day of the week!)

“Um, if you want to take a quick break, the lefse is almost gone!”

Richard snaps out of his autopilot and leans in closer. “The left what is almost gone?”

“The lefse!”

“Pardon me?”

I say it several more times as I lead Richard away from the dance floor, but clearly he has no clue what lefse is. Luckily, he seems willing enough to come along with me, but I’m feeling very awkward because I’ve just pissed off half the non-Norwegian guests and Richard is looking bewildered. (Just what kind of Scandinavian has he married who never bothered to tell him about lefse?) We reach the buffet table and stand at the end of the line. (Apparently, I’ll risk the wrath of cutting into the would-be dance line, but I know better than to cut in front of Norwegians in line for lefse!) As the line moves slowly forward, I point to the Norwegians and try to get across to Richard that what they’re eating is lefse. He’s nodding. Maybe he understands me, maybe he doesn’t. I glance up at him, and he appears to be looking at my hair with a slight smile.

“Flowers in your hair?” For a moment I’m confused, then I pat my head to see if I’ve misplaced a flower there, and a small flurry of white powder puffs out of my hair. With horror, I realize Richard has noticed flour in my hair! 

“From the lefse! I made it this afternoon!” Richard smiles kindly. I wish I’d showered. Before I can die of mortification, I suddenly see that the very last piece of lefse is being plated. I gesture helplessly, and Richard witnesses the tragic moment as well. 

Although he clearly doesn’t know what he is missing, Richard appears genuinely disappointed. His shoulders slump, but I suspect he’s mostly sympathetic on my behalf. Clearly, serving him my lefse was important to me. Richard asks if there is any more in the kitchen, and I shake my head. Then he must have seen a shifty expression cross my face, because he asks, (with remarkable acuity) whether there is any more lefse at my house. (Crap!) Of course there is, but I don’t really want to share my private stash! Even with Richard Armitage! (I’m ashamed to admit that my generosity unfortunately has its limits, and its limits start with my lefse allotment. LOL)

As I narrow my eyes and wonder if I’m enough of an actress to deceive Richard Armitage about my lefse supply, Richard’s gaze suddenly shoots to something over my shoulder, and his face transforms with delight. Without having to turn around, I know that his wedded love has arrived at last. I give him a congratulatory pat on the shoulder and wave him away, vastly relieved that I don’t have to procure a single piece of lefse from my reserve.

I’m so pleased with this development, that I forget to even notice who the hell it was that Richard Armitage has married. 

* * *

Blog Introspection Challenge 2, 3, 4, 5 and 6

 

 

 

 

blog-intro-challengeWell, we’re back from our water park adventure! (Sheesh… nothing like a vacation to stress you out… young love’s eye relapsed with one herpes blister but luckily a timely intervention with antiviral medication put a quick stop to it, and little sister slipped on the steps in the kiddie pool and split her chin open, requiring 3 stitches! We still had a blast though, with both kids requesting a return next weekend. LOL- nope!)

 

 

* * *

So I’m back to blogging Richard Armitage and re-commencing blogger omphaloskepsis as per Guylty’s directives.

Exactly That

Preoccupied. With Him.

2. The significance of your blog’s name:

I think it’s self-explanatory. I’m a bit preoccupied with Richard Armitage. I wanted the title of the blog to reflect my situation. =)

 

 

 

 

forgive me

I guess every blogger has her little idiosyncracies.

3. What’s your (usual) blogging process?

Well, I generally just start typing whatever it is I have to say. I’ll compose words first, then usually find or create images to illustrate or entertain, and enter them to the left or right of the text, most often paying little attention to the original source of the image and failing to cite sources (bad blogger!) I sometimes like to go back and put a few phrases in bold, and I don’t know why I do that exactly and hope it doesn’t annoy the crap out of the audience. Then I preview the post, which is where I seem better able to catch any errors or typos I may have made. Most often I publish right after that, though a couple of times I’ve written something in advance and published it on a certain day, such as when I published our love story as a sort of tribute to Hubby on our 13 year anniversary.

4. What’s your favorite post?

Armitage Dogs

The Russian Asset and Richard’s Fluffy Puff

OK, I’m going to have to give two. So for 2014 it was my super ridiculous dream when Richard Armitage (or was it Lucas North?) arrived at my vet office ready to adopt a dog. The dream was pretty fantastic and the write-up was both funny and popular, drawing a lot of fun comments. I have published several dreams and I assure you they were all real dreams that I have had, despite certain commentators nudging me to just make them up if they don’t come naturally. I’ve had a real dry spell lately and that’s too bad, but maybe we’ll have something frightful coming when Dolarhyde enters the subconscious arena. Not sure whether to hope for that or not. =)

tumblr_inline_nlgwu8IEXt1sc2pww

I *think* this edit was by thranduilea. Makes me giggle every time.

For 2015 I would have to say it was my Nipplegate Spoof, which was also utterly ridiculous (seems to be a pattern here!) and has been viewed a laughable number of times by me, myself and I whenever I need a good chuckle. I think I’ve written three spoofs and enjoyed each of my absurdities more than the last. So as soon as a new spoof-worthy situation arises, I’m looking forward to more.

 

 

 

 

armitage8

My most-clicked image. Can’t figure out why….

5. Which Post Got The Most Views?

This one’s easy, and not unlike Perry’s situation, it wasn’t anything that took a lot of effort on my part. It was when images of shirtless John Proctor hit social media, and I posted my edit of those photos in my Damn! Another Spontaneous Ovarian Combustion update. This post is easily the most viewed, ladies. Now, it may be in part to Servetus having re-blogged it, but the thing is, it gets views on a daily basis and it’s high enough in the google image search ratings that my blog almost got outed the day my surgery tech was showing me encouraging images during a real endurance challenge in the surgical suite. LOL.

100 Armitage Photos4

Yep. This one continues to give. I won’t specify what.

6. Which post continues to give?

Well, if this question means which post brings the most traffic, it’s the Spontaneous Ovarian Combustion post above. If it means which post brings me the most pleasure, it’s probably my spoofs because like I said, I myself revisit those on a regular basis. I also enjoy my own Not Quite 100 Armitage images post, which provides a lot of eye-candy when I need a boost.

 

* * *

So there you have it. Knocked out several questions today and maybe caught up with a few of the other Armitage bloggers who have been participating. Thanks again, Guylty, for livening up the blogosphere and inspiring all of us to navel-gaze!