I loathe to admit this, but I’ve been absolutely fascinated by the whole David Beckham/Rebecca Roos fiasco that’s been all over the papers this past week. So much so that I’ve started reading British tabloids online at least twice a day. I’m not sure what interests me the most about it. Part of it is disbelief. I’m not sitting here flabbergasted or anything, I just don’t buy it. Mostly I’m unconvinced after reading the text of the erotic SMS’s he allegedly sent because they seem much more creative and articulate then I’d have figured he’d be. It’s not like they’re particularly well written, they’re just higher than the bar I’d set for him.
I’m off to the beautiful Ottawa valley this weekend to take part in Celebrations for Grandmother’s 90th birthday. She’s been kicking it for nearly a century, so I’m pretty happy to be part of the festivities. However I am someone tenuous about seeing my extended family. We’re so close that I haven’t seen any of them in over 15 years and I basically don’t remember any of their names. Should be interesting. I fully expect to spend the entire time with my “everything is totally fine” smile plastered on my face. I’m sure they’re all going to be just lovely people, I’m just worried. Not that they won’t be great, but that they’re totally going to hate me. Insecurity runs abound.
HRH
