Oh, if that title were true, I'd be burnt to a crisp. As I believe I've mentioned before, I am constantly (well, often anyway) musing about the sexual potential of customers, various celebrities, random strangers, people I've known for years. It's the curse or blessing of my [almost] middle-aged hormones, I suppose. Today after seeing my favorite classical musician customer (looking especially fetching, I might add, despite his awful Coogi sweater), a couple of co-workers and I were talking about the subject. One of them freely copped to doing exactly what I do. (Which does amount, I admit, to objectifying a person nearly completely. So sue me.) The other co-worker claimed to have never done such a thing. She said that when she was in a relationship she never even thought of anyone else as attractive, let alone about doing wonderfully naughty things with them. Now that she's single I think her implication was that she's just too chaste to think that way. A load of bullshit or sadly true? Your guess is as good as mine with this chick. I had to listen to a verrrrrrrry long exposition about how her life is just like the life of a certain former very popular TV character. Very long. And, by the way, not so much.
I just finished reading "The Heart is a Lonely Hunter" by Carson McCullers. Man, I thought I liked her, but I could barely make myself finish this book. It was tortuously slow going but I didn't want to give up. Give me Flannery O'Connor, Harper Lee, Eudora Welty or, more currently, Donna Tartt, any day. Sorry Carson, but don't feel bad because I don't much like William Faulkner either.
I have all evening to myself and I'm going to spend it with my celebrity secret boyfriend, Alex O'Loughlin, watching The Oyster Farmer. Yum. I'll leave you with a lovely candid from ComicCon.