Men, and other confusing things...

I shall now deviate from my obsessive writing about my new-found hobby to write about an old hobby... observation of the human condition.

I was hearing a couple of the talking-head sorts on the toob the other morning while I dressed talk about the Brangelina obsession. And how Jennifer was dealing with it all.

I was thinking about how life sometimes destroys great passion. I mean, I'm sure that when Brad left Jen for Angelina, Angie thought that he was just the bee's knees, or some such. Jen had been around him long enough to know better.

I mean, don't we all know that no matter how pretty Brad Pitt or George Clooney or (for those of another generation) Tom Selleck or Clint Eastwood appear to be, that they're just men and they do those men-things that just make them incredibly unattractive in the long run?

I mean, I adore my husband and think I could not do without him. That being said, his idea of cleaning up the house consists of hiding things. I have found long-lost items stuck in underwear drawers and linen closets, months and years after I had given them up for lost. He has improved; when we first married, he hid chawin' tebaccy spit cups under the bed, or under his desk, or under the couch. I did not find them until they had grown the attributes of a science experiment.

I think after Angelina finds a few spit cups under the Chippendale, Brad may not be as attractive. Maybe that's what happened with Billy Bob.