Emotions Run Amok

I didn’t have time to prepare a post for my blog last night because I was in such an emotional state when I got home, I simply couldn’t concentrate. You see, I had to go to Dayton for a “visitation” for my cousin, Joann, who passed away last Friday. You know, I consider myself to be a strong, independent, self-reliant woman, but I just do not handle these situations very well. It started when my oldest brother passed away nine years ago, and I vowed then that would be my last funeral…until they stuck me in the ground. Actually, my exact words were, “I’d better be the next one to go because I'm not going to any more funerals.”

And I’ve stuck to that vow. Now, all evidence to the contrary, I’m not a totally insensitive person. I will go to a viewing, like I did last night, but I usually hang around only long enough to be sociably polite, then I’m out the door. I am a whirlwind of condolences. That, however, was not possible last night.

My two surviving brothers were unable to attend; one is still looking after my sister-in-law who had the lung surgery, and my other brother and sister-in-law are vacationing at the beach in South Carolina for a month. That left moi to represent this branch of the family tree.

These kind of family “gatherings” are bittersweet at best. While I did get to see my two surviving aunts on my dad’s side of the family and oodles of cousins I had not seen in fifteen years or more, the overall experience left me feeling miserably sad. I cried all the way home, which made maneuvering through traffic on I-75 between Dayton and Cincinnati a wee bit of a challenge I tell ya.

These kind of get-togethers just bring back too many memories for me. Yes, most of them are of the happy variety, but they are – nevertheless – reminders of years gone by, of so many familiar faces no longer walking among us, sharing in the laughter, the stories, the tears. Yeh, I was ready to walk in front of a bus about an hour after I arrived. I did manage to hang on for a couple of hours, however, and I learned a few things.

For example, my cousin Mary informed me that she had been named after my mother. I did not know that. Mary came from a large family…there were eight of them…seven girls and one boy. They had a great mom, my Aunt Clarabelle, and a lousy dad. For those of you who watch LOCI…think Bobby’s dad…and you’ll know what I’m talking about.

So, we all shared stories, got caught up on spouses, and kids and jobs and such. I never have much to offer in that area because I’ve never been married, don’t have kids or grandkids. Hell, I don’t even have a cat. Now, I do have a fabulous fantasy-life I lead with the dashing Detective Bobby, but that is not the sort of thing one admits “out loud” to one’s relatives, lest they call the men in white jackets to come cart you away to the loony bin.

One bright spot was I got to see my cousin, Mike…who looks a heck-of-a lot like Tom Selleck. (I used to have a "thing" for Tom Selleck.) The first time I met Mike was at a family reunion in North Carolina, and the instant I laid eyes on him, I said, “Please, God, don’t let him be related.” I was not alone; every other girl cousin at the reunion whispered the same prayer. But, alas, as fate would dictate, it turned out to be just one more unanswered prayer. I mean, it’s not like it would have made a difference had he turned out to not be a relative, but a girl can dream. Well, I used to dream.

When Mike started to introduce me to his wife, he had barely uttered my first name when her eyes lit up, and she said, “Oh, yes! I loved your books!” That’s how the family – even the far removed, distant relatives – recognize me. I used to write historical romance novels, but that was a long, long time ago – in another life. They always ask if I’ve written anything else and want to know why I stopped writing. I have a standard, plausible answer, but I’ve never told anyone the real reason, which is…it’s hard to write about a thing; i.e., romance, when you no longer believe in it.

See what I mean…an emotional, gut-wrenching, soul-searching evening...a funereal Pandora's Box...if you will. I left before the memorial service; I had conjured enough memories – some happy, others...not so much – to last me for many days to come. I didn't need any more. I could hardly wait to get home to the solace of my rinky-dink apartment and the serenity of my sad, little life.

Tomorrow’s post will be about a much happier, more invigorating topic, I promise. Can you say, “Detective?” I’m off to screen cap a particularly amusing scene right now.

An Escapade

Back in May of this year, I had a business trip to Monterey, California. (Yeh, it’s a rough life I lead.) My boss, Dave, told me before I booked my flight that I should fly into San Francisco, rent a car and drive down the coast to Monterey. Since I had never been to San Francisco before, that sounded like a peachy-keen idea to me. So, I tacked on a couple of vacation days to the trip, invited my friend, Betty, to tag along with me, and off we went on our little California adventure.

To shorten a rather lengthy tale, suffice to say the trip turned out to be not so wonderful. It wasn't truly “horrible” either, but we encountered so many frustrating events throughout the eight day journey, that I cannot say I enjoyed myself. Everything, and I do mean everything we went to do turned into an ordeal. So much, in fact, that I made a list – a long list – so that I wouldn’t forget anything when I finally got around to venting my frustrations on paper. This is the first installment.

On Friday, the conference I was attending ended early, so Betty and I decided to drive down the coastal highway to Big Sur and stop in Carmel By The Sea on the way back to have dinner at Clint Eastwood’s Mission Ranch Restaurant. The guy I sat next to at lunch that day told me that he and his wife had gone to dinner there the previous evening, that the food was good, and that Clint even stopped by the restaurant as they were leaving. Now, I’m an impartial CE fan at best, but it was something to do.

So, Betty and I took our drive down to Big Sur, which, by the by, was some of the most breathtaking scenery I have ever seen or will ever see in my life. Had I known then that I would be doing this blogging thing now, I would have taken pictures to share, but I gotta tell ya, pictures wouldn’t do it justice…one truly needs to experience this bit of God’s handiwork in person.

Sorry, got off track. Meanwhile...back at the ranch. We arrived at Clint's Mission Ranch Restaurant about 15 minutes before they started serving dinner, but the hostess told us we could go ahead and take a seat outside on the patio anywhere we would like. So, Betty and I stepped outside. There were a few bar patrons out there, but no dinner guests yet, so there were lots of empty tables from which to choose. Betty and I picked out a table and started to sit down. That is when it happened…we encountered Brunhilda…the patio waitress, who turned out to be not as accommodating as the inside hostess…which is to say, she was not accommodating at all.

Oh no, “Brunhilda” pointed at a table in the sun, with no linen, no cutlery, no anything, and told us that is where we would be sitting…no exceptions. When we asked why we could not be seated at the other table, we were informed that dinner would not be served for another 15 minutes. This we already knew, and we told the server that would not be a problem, and we didn't mind waiting. We just wanted to sit and take in the view and the serenity of the place, and maybe enjoy a libation while we waited for them to begin the dinner hour. Again, Gestapo Waitress told us, "You vill sit vhere I tell you, and you vill like it!"

Now, you must understand that I have a very short fuse...no tolerance whatsoever in fact...when it comes to this kind of thing. Besides, this was at the end of a very long, frustrating week, and Brunhilda here had just managed to pounce on my last nerve. By this point, I had decided I wouldn’t be eating there…not even if they gave me the meal for free, not even if Clint cooked it up himself and served it to me on a silver platter. No, huh uh, no way. Sorry, that's just how I am...don't piss me off, okay?

So, I walked back inside the restaurant and made my way back to the entrance and sat down to wait for Betty. If she still wanted to eat there, I was willing to sit and chat with her while she did so, but I wasn’t spending any of my money in that place. (Yeh, like that'll teach Clint a lesson, right?)

A few minutes later, Betty comes over to where I’m sitting and picks up the menu and starts perusing it. Now, this is a nice, big, leather bound menu, with embossed lettering on the front. So, a few seconds go by, and I ask Betty if she has picked out what she wants to have, and she says, “Oh, I’m not eating here.”

I need to take a moment to describe Betty. She is thirteen years older than I, about five feet tall, with short, grayish hair. She is retired, a widow, mother, grandmother, and great-grandmother, and is as spunky as hell. She had her right knee replaced last summer and needs to have the left one done, too. So, when I told her I didn’t want to eat there either, I watched – speechless – as this little old gray-haired granny opened up her purse, stuffed the menu inside as far as it would go, and said in a hushed, conspiratorial whisper, “Let’s go!”

Now, this scene I wish I had on video because…you must understand…Betty is 68, I’m 55, and we can’t muster one good knee between us, so here we go, with the purloined menu protruding from Betty’s purse, scurrying as fast as our aging, chubby, arthritic- impaired bodies will carry us across the parking lot to our rented car.

Of course, my speed was severely hampered by the fact that I could barely waddle...much less scurry...because I was howling with laughter the whole way. Plus, we kept looking over our shoulders to see if an employee, or even "Dirty Harry" himself, might be chasing us down to retrieve the pilfered item. Then once we made it to the car, I could hardly drive because I was still laughing and crying so hard from all the laughing that I couldn't see to drive. Ahhh, tears through laughter…it’s a very good thing.

So, there you have it…our little Carmel By The Sea escapade. If you see Clint, thank him for us. It is perhaps my favorite memory from the trip.

Clint...as if you didn't know already.

The scene of the "crime."


Two more photos of the "Ranch."

Got the photos through Google.

Bobby's - Ahem - "Endowment"

I’ve been thinking about this post for quite some time now…big surprise…huh? Anyway, on some of the other blogs that are devoted to VDO, there is considerable discussion and outright speculation about the…how do I say this delicately…"size" of his…uh…
“groinular” region. (Okay, forget eye rolling and head shaking, Linda just passed out cold on the floor.)

As I said, I’ve been giving it some thought, so I searched through some LOCI episodes to give you an idea of what I’m talking about. To be honest, I didn’t pay all that much attention to this particular “fascination” at first, but after I read about it again and again, I started to…well…notice things.

For example:

Now, this photo is doubly good because Bobby is also wearing the "black T-shirt of hotness."




The following sequence is from "Rocket Man" in Season 6. Now, to truly appreciate this scene, one needs to experience it live...so to speak. I wish I had the capability of pasting a video clip because then you would understand. As Bobby is walking down this hallway, carrying on a conversation with Eames and Captain Ross, I found it difficult to concentrate on what they were saying because my attention became decidedly focused elsewhere. Yeh, you know where. Have a look.




I love this whole sequence and...for the record...IMHO...Bobby should always wear this suit. Well, at least when the scene calls for lengthy strolls.

There was obvious "motion" going on in those trousers, and it got me thinking. Does Detective Bobby prefer:

Boxers?
Briefs?
Boxer/Briefs?
Or does Bobby go "Commando?"


What do you think?

With many thanks to Val for the LOCI photos.

Another Bobby Shirt

I did it again. I don't know why, but I just cannot seem to help myself. I used to wonder why anyone would want to own an article of clothing just because it had been "allegedly" worn by a particular actor. Well, now I understand.

After running my morning errands and enjoying a delicious lunch at “Smokey Bones,” I came home to find my latest eBay purchase waiting for me outside my door. I’ll include the photo at the end of this post, but I have to say…the picture does not do it justice. It is soooooooo soft, too. It is draped across my lap as I write this, and I can’t resist…I just keep stroking it. (Okay, Linda, time to roll those eyes and shake your head in bemused wonderment at your crazy friend again.)

Now for the details. The "Certificate of Authenticity" states that it is a blue shirt from the production "Law and Order CI" from the wardrobe of Vincent D'Onofrio. This one is a size XXL. It's not a dress shirt, it's denim. The name "Goren" has been printed again on the inside of the washing instructions label. Once again, this one has a tag with CI4 printed on it and another one with PROD: LAO CI and Ex WDS printed on it. I have no idea what the last abbreviation might mean.

Again, I have no idea if the shirt was ever actually worn by the magnificent VDO himself in his portrayal of our ever-lovin' detective, but a girl can dream. So, as I finish-up this post - before going off to hang this shirt beside its cousin in my closet - I have an admission to make. I won another eBay VDO shirt auction this morning. I know, I know. I am most likely in serious need of an intervention, but I don't want one.

Without further ado, I share with you...Bobby's Blue Shirt.

Venting About Work

One of the reasons I started this blog was to give me an outlet…a place where I could vent and rant about the frustrations of my life when I felt the need. Hence, it is time for me to introduce you to Andy. Now, I have worked in the same agency with this “man” for ten years now, but in the same department for only the past three. Let me make this perfectly clear…he is not my boss. He supervises the loan officers and I supervise the “bull pen” or the operations side of things. Without boring you too much…sorry if that ship has sailed…my group packages, closes, funds, and services the business loans we make, and my job is to make sure this is all brought about in an efficient, professional, and timely manner.

Now, more about Andy, or “Bow Tie Man” as I am wont to call him…I even have a little song I sing about Andy and his bow ties. I call him other things, too, but I digress. He has been with the agency since its inception…25 years ago, so he’s not going anywhere. He’s not a particularly vile man. I can’t say that I like him, but I don’t dislike him either, he’s just there…like that chronic pain in my lower back I’ve learned to live with. Basically, he’s a big ol’ wuss in a bow tie.

The main problem with Andy is, he thinks we were all put on this earth to serve him, and because of that particularly annoying trait, he drives us all insane. To borrow a line from “Bridget Jones’s Diary,” “He makes me want to staple things to his head.”

Trust me, I could devote an entire blog to him, but today I want to talk about a particular incident involving Andy. Now if you read my earlier post about Bobby and his "Tantalizing Tongue Teasers," then you know watching Bobby flick his tongue across his lips in that seductive way of his is just one of the many, many fascinations I have with this man. Anyway, one day I walked into Bow Tie Man’s office to ask him a work-related question. So, while I stood in the doorway waiting for an answer – almost in slow motion – Andy said something, then paused to sweep his tongue across his lips.

First, it caught me off guard, then it took all the resolve I could muster to keep from bursting into uncontrollable laughter. Trust me, folks, "it just wasn’t the same." Nobody, but nobody, wields a tongue the way my Bobby does.

This is Andy.

What did I tell ya...Bow Tie Man!

Inhaling Bobby

Okay, this post was inspired by Val, after she posted a particular picture of Bobby from “Smile” on her blog. Our ever-clever detective used an inhaler to prove a specific point to the evil Leslie before slapping her in cuffs and hauling her butt off to the hoosegow. (Point of order, it was Eames who "actually" slapped on the cuffs, but Bobby initiated it...okay?) Val posted a photo of Bobby using the inhaler and asked the question: “Who’d have thought using an inhaler could be so sexy?”

Well, let’s just see how sexy it can be.

I love this one. Look at our detective "all up" in the perp's face. Vintage Bobby!

I've Created A Monster

A screen capping monster, that is. My first ever attempt was of last week’s LOCI episode…"Smile." I ended up with 692 – yes, you read that correctly – photos. And that is after I deleted a bunch. It will take me forever to upload them all to Photobucket, but that is my next project.

Then, today, I discovered I had Microsoft Office Picture Manager on my laptop. Who knew? (Oh, happy, happy day!) What does that mean? Well, for starters, I can name and number groupings of pictures all at once, then crop and resize to my heart’s content. Can a new printer with photo printing capabilities be in my future? What do you think?

Welcome to the world of the Bobby Obsessed!

Bobby's Women

Last Thursday’s episode of LOCI was called “Smile.” During the episode, our gallant detective was “hoodwinked” by a pretty face, who was "feeding" him helpful information in a case he (and his partner) were trying to solve. Sadly, this is not the first time Bobby has been deceived by an attractive member of the opposite sex, leaving me to seriously question his taste in women.

Over the years, we’ve never really seen Bobby “date” anyone, but there has been the occasional offhand mention of past girlfriends. Then there’s Nicole Wallace, Nelda Carlson, and now Leslie LeZard…what a name…she certainly reminded me of a lizard. (Meow!) Crazy, maniacal, psychopathic murderers…the lot of them, and dear old Bobby was attracted to them all. Now, I love the guy, but I have to say…for a smart man, and he is brilliant, he’s not very bright when it comes to women. I blame the writers.

The following are photos of his dinner assignation with the “whistle-blower” Leslie. (I'm okay with the USA logo, but the show announcement on the left is messing with the quality of my photos and really needs to go.)

Val, this is for you...I know how you love his hands...among other things.

I love the "hint" of a smile. Pity he wasted it on this "bimbetta."

Bobby And His Tie Clip

Over at the USA LOCI Message Board, evidently a great debate has been raging for a while over the “up and down” motion of Bobby’s tie clip. Actually, the consensus is the tie clip is "hideous" and should be discarded forthwith and the individual responsible for “dressing” the man in such an unsightly accessory should be horsewhipped. Now, it goes without saying that I would volunteer to dress or undress this man – as the situation may warrant, and I can think of a bunch of worthy situations – in a New York minute, but – uh – his tie clip? Well, let’s just say that wouldn’t be the first place I’d start.

One poster gave a very plausible explanation, I suppose, as to why the tie clip is sometimes positioned up high or down low. Basically, the speculation has to do with his fluctuating weight. Whatever. The man could wear it in his ear for all I care. Personally, although I do like me some Bobby all "gussied up" in his suit and tie, I also like the disheveled look…the no tie, open shirt collar look. He wears that look well…very well indeed.

So, when I found this discussion on the USA Message Board, I thought it might be fun to take a look at Bobby and his tie clip from the beginning. (As if I need a reason to mention my detective or post pictures of him on my blog.)

Without further ado, I give you Bobby and his tie clip...through the years.

Season 1

Season 1 - No Tie Clip

Season 2

Season 3

Season 4

Season 5

Season 6

Season 7 - My very first screen cap.
Season 5 photo is from The Velocity of Vincent website.

All the others are from Val's Life and Vincent blog.

I Can't Say No

Unlike Ado Annie, however, who couldn’t say no to kissin’ her peddler man or her beau, Will Parker, my inability to utter that one syllable word is for an altogether different reason. I can’t say no to my godson, Nathaniel.

I was there the day he was born, the day his parents brought him home from the hospital to help give him his first bath…with him turning purple from screaming at the top of his lungs the whole time. I was there, holding him, while he slept soundly and peacefully in my arms through his baptism, and I was there the day he dropped to his knees to kiss and hug his mother’s casket good-bye the day they buried her twelve years ago. She was forty-four and he was fourteen. It broke my heart to see his heart so utterly and completely broken, and I thought they were going to have to put me in the ground with her...such was the intensity of my own anguish.

So, yeh, don’t tell the kid – well, he’s twenty-six now, but that’s what I call him – but he’s got me pretty much wrapped around his little finger. I’d do anything for him.

I was supposed to meet Nathaniel and his dad – Ralph – today for lunch before we all went down to the Bengals game together, but when I woke up and dragged by tired old body out of bed, I knew I didn’t have it in me. Way too much walking and standing for these old knees, and frankly, the thoughts of spending four hours with 65,000 of my “nearest and dearest” friends didn’t sound overly appealing.

I called the lads before they set out on their trip to Cincinnati to let them know I had undergone a change of plans, so they wouldn’t have to rush to get here. Ralph asked me if I wanted to meet them for lunch even if I didn't go to the game, and I said no…I’d just “hang out” at my place. Five minutes later, the phone rings and it’s “the kid,” telling me he wants me to go to lunch with them because he looks forward to that when they come to Cincinnati since he doesn’t get to see me very much any more. (Nathaniel has never really gotten over the fact that I moved away ten years ago and wants me to come back home and find a job there. He’s sweet.)

Needless to say, I met them for lunch. I always let Nathaniel pick the restaurant, so we enjoyed a delightful repast at The Cheesecake Factory. A wonderful time was had by all, and –yes – we all had dessert and sampled each other’s cheesecake.

The reason for this post, you may ask? Well, partly because it’s my blog and I’m in a mushy, melancholy sort of mood this weekend. But mostly it's to let you know if you want something from me or want me to do something for you…the most certain way to get me to comply with your wishes is to get Nathaniel to approach me on your behalf. Because...I'm just a girl who "cain't" say no...to her godson.

Kindness Of Strangers

You ever have one of those days? The kind where you find yourself crying at the drop of a hat…at the most inconvenient time and place…for the most ridiculous of reasons. Yep, it was that kind of day.

Actually, my Saturday began simply enough. I woke up later than usual, but then I didn’t go to bed until 3:00a.m., so that is understandable. Made some phone calls, had a bite of breakfast, checked eBay for VDO/Bobby stuff. Then it was out the door to run my typical Saturday errands; i.e., gas-up the car, hit the ATM for some cash, go to Sam’s to stock up on pain medication for my poor, pathetic knees and acid reflux pills for my cranky digestive system…this getting old crap is for the birds…and to Circuit City for computer stuff. You get the idea…just another routine, boring day.

Next, I headed across the river to Newport, Kentucky to buy a lottery ticket (hey, it could happen) then to Joe’s Crab Shack for lunch. It was when I was leaving the restaurant that it happened…a simple, considerate, thoughtful gesture carried out by a total stranger. (I am suddenly reminded of Blanche DuBois and “the kindness of strangers.”)

Anyway, as I was about to leave the eatery, the door opened and a couple stepped across the threshold. I took an instinctive step backwards to give them room to enter the restaurant. The woman came inside and the man (I only got a fleeting glimpse of him, but he was very tall, with longish dark hair, and very handsome…you know…the sort of man I’m always attracted to, but never notice me) did likewise. In fact, the door had closed behind them, but when I moved forward, the man saw me, and not only did he open the door for me, but he stepped back outside to hold it open until I had completely cleared the threshold to continue on my merry way.

As I stepped in front of the "handsome stranger," I thanked him for the considerate gesture, then started down the restaurant steps, and that is when the tears inexplicably began to flow. I don’t know why. It’s not the first time a handsome man has held a door open for me. I just suppose I have become inured to the sad fact that “chivalry” or even basic good manners are disappearing from this planet at such a rapid rate that I am so taken by surprise when I am the benefactress of a “random act of kindness” that my poor, old brain no longer knows how to process it. Sad indeed.

Well, the tears were still trickling down my face when I arrived at my car, so after fumbling around to find a Kleenex, I cranked the engine, the radio came on and there were Simon and Garfunkel singing to me:

When you’re weary, feeling small,
When tears are in your eyes, I will dry them all;
I’m on your side. When times get rough
And friends just can’t be found,
Like a bridge over troubled water
I will lay me down.

Sometimes life is surreal.

One of Those Days

You know the kind. We’ve all had them. It’s like…everything you try to do turns into an insurmountable ordeal. The harder you try, the “behinder” you get. Well, that about sums up my day today.

I won’t bore you with all the details, but from the incompetent boobs I encountered at not one, not two, but THREE drive-thru windows today – to the group of professionals who could not be bothered to respond to a simple email, indicating either “yes” they would, or “no” they would not be able to attend today’s scheduled loan committee meeting, leaving me to cancel it at the last minute – to the bunch of inept bureaucrats at SBA who managed to lose a file that the borrowers and banker are yammering at us to close – to the stoooooopid chic who jaywalked in front of me on my way home this evening and proceeded to take her sweet time crossing the street like she was out for a leisurely stroll, then had the unmitigated gall to give ME the evil eye…yeah…it’s been one of those days. Whew! Amen, hallelujah, pass the Tylenol.

Now, I’m sitting here, watching LOCI reruns on USA, nursing my big toe I just stubbed in the kitchen and fighting back this queasy feeling that is gnawing in the pit of my stomach. Won’t that be just perfect…to end up sick on top of everything else.

The one bright spot was waiting for me when I arrived home this evening…pictures. Pictures of…well…you know who. Plus there will be a new episode of LOCI on USA tonight at 10:00p.m. – a Bobby episode. It’s the little things, folks, that help me get through the day.

Here is a sampling of the photos I received today.

I want this subway pose as a life-size cardboard stand-up . Can't you just imagine it...waking up to a 6'4" hunka doodle-do standing at the foot of your bed every morning. Ahhhhh!




I may take this one to the office. Wonder what good ol' Dave will think when he sees this on my desk?

Well, I would like to say I am hopeful that, "Tomorrow will be another day," she said, paraphrasing Scarlett O'Hara. But you see, for the past two weeks or so, our office has been undergoing extensive renovations...pounding and hammering and drilling and paint fumes and...well, you get the idea. We still have about two more weeks to endure. And tomorrow...well...tomorrow they will rip down partitions in my section for refurbishing and relocate 30-plus file cabinets into a space for which they only allowed for 22. Don't know what the design "genius" thought we were supposed to do with the rest of 'em. Guess I'll find out tomorrow. I can hardly wait.

My Bobby Shirt

I had been toying with a couple of topics for tonight’s entry, but thoughts of those flew completely out of my head when I arrived home to find a package waiting for me…a package from eBay. A very "particular" package from eBay. Let me explain. “No, there is too much…let me sum up.” (My apologies, I lost my head for a moment and channeled Inigo Montoya from “The Princess Bride.”)

What was in the package, you may ask? Well…last week, I was checking out eBay for the usual…you know…VDO photos as Detective Goren and such, when I happened upon “Vincent D’Onofrio Wardrobe/Apparel.” Now, I’ve seen these listings before, and I read on Val’s “Life and Vincent” Blog that she had purchased the “black T-shirt of hotness” from eBay, so I thought I’d take a peek and see just what sort of “apparel” might be up for grabs. And there it was, a white dress shirt…actually, it looked beige in the photo…so I bid on it…and won! (Right about now, my friend Linda is rolling her eyes and shaking her head, thinking that I have completely lost my mind. Oh well.)

Details…I know some of you will want details, so here we go. The “Certificate of Authenticity” that accompanied my purchase states that it is a white shirt from the production "Law and Order CI" from the wardrobe of Vincent D’Onofrio. (Big yummy sigh.) The label on the shirt itself states it is a size XL (17-17½) – neck size – with a sleeve length of 36/37. The shirt brand is Classix and above the label someone has printed in ink: “Goren.” Another tag has been attached and CI4 has been printed in ink on it. Not sure if that means it is from his wardrobe in Season 4, or if, in fact, it means anything. All I know is, I am now the happy owner of an article of clothing that perhaps, perchance, possibly…okay…maybe was actually worn by our deliciously delectable detective.

Now, the seller lists a disclaimer, stating they have no way of knowing if the article of clothing was actually worn by the actor in question, but it really doesn’t matter. Tonight, when I climb into bed, I will be content with the knowledge that a “Detective Bobby” shirt hangs in a place of honor in my closet. Perhaps he may need to drop by and borrow it sometime. Ya think? Nah, I know…monkeys will fly out my butt before that ever happens, but a girl sure can dream.

I give you...the wonderful, wonderful white shirt off Bobby's broad back:

And yes, of course, I tried it on. Sniffed it, too...several times.