Fangirling or How I Pretend to Be Sane

My friends who know me have grown accustomed to my unbelievable fangirling over minuscule things that pertain to the actors whose lives I follow with fervor. However, the one reason I’ve never pimped myself out as a hard-core fan is because I don’t want said individual celebrity, should they ever discover me and my depth of love for them, to think that I’m an absolute nutjob.

Because really, if I were a seriously famous actor (which I’m not nor will I ever be) and I found out that people followed my life and work with an attention to detail that would put a high-class forger to shame, I’d be creeped out. Flattered, but still. I mean, there’s a line, and I think that today’s fans, myself included, cross that boundary with alarming regularity. We, as a society, have so devoted ourselves to knowing things about people we’ve never met simply because they are in the public eye, which is odd. Besides appear in films, what have they ever actually done? But I digress.

Back to my original point, which was brought on by a blogger whose name need not be shared because it is irrelevant, is simply this: I think that being a rabid fan is ok, but stop forcing the entire world, those actors as well, to know about it. No matter how much the actors themselves insist that they are flattered by us, there are a few out there who need to show a little propriety.

Scale back on your attempts to contact them. Stop showing up everywhere they go. Quit taking creepy pictures of them when they’re just trying to get a cup of coffee. For God’s sake, leave their families alone if they don’t want to be in the limelight. Stop making the rest of fans, who don’t make it our life’s work to discover everything about this person, look like kooks.

Just a personal opinion. I’m not saying everyone is doing this, and I’m certainly not telling anyone to change their habits. Just… think about them.

Goodwill Has the World's Creepiest Clientele

Today was Goodwill's 50% Off Saturday, which happens every other week. Mom and I go every sale day, and we are so hardcore that we are part of the crowd that you see lined up outside the store before it opens. No shame.
What does worry me though is that we seem to be the most normal people there. Here's who we had at Goodwill today.

We saw Casanova again. No, not really, not even close. This guy is short, Mexican, and kind of weird. We first met this guy two weeks ago while standing in line to get in. Mom made a passing comment and he started a conversation. Well, I say conversation, but it was more like he kept talking to Mom while she was trying to brush him off and talk to me. During that day he managed to find each of us about two more times and try to start up a conversation. Both Mom and I handled the situation. We thought we had successfully avoided him, because how many times do you run into the same person at the same Goodwill?
I saw him first today. I happened to look up and there he was, and he starts talking to me.
He goes, "Hey, how are you?"
"Yeah, fine," I mumbled, hoping he would go away (I'm not completely antisocial, but seriously, dude, leave me alone).
"Oh yeah? How's your mom? Is she here today?" He continues, raising his eyebrows.
Being thoroughly skeezed out, I say, "Um, fine, I guess. She's around here... somewhere," waving my hand around my head indeterminately, "but anyway, I gotta go. Bye."
I thought I had lost him, right? Like maybe he could take a hint and leave me alone? Bro, we happened to swap two sentences weeks ago, it's not like we became bosom buddies. But no. While I was helping Mom weed through what she had found, I had taken off my shirt and was now lounging in a large armchair with just my cami on (look, I had been trying other shirts on over it so I didn't need to be in the dressing rooms as long. I'm not a skank) and suddenly she chirps, "I have to go to the bathroom. Stay here," and she disappears. Who should skulk around the corner at that moment? Casanova. I looked in the opposite direction, literally hurting my neck as I tried to make it clear that I didn't want to talk. So close, but no banana.
"Tired?" he asks.
"Uh, yeah. You know, long day shopping, and all," I said vaguely, even though it was only about 11 AM.
"I know what you mean. I found lots of clothes too," he said.
"Mm, that's awesome," I said. I mean, do you want a cookie?
He smiled, and left. Thank Jesus, I was safe.
I related my tale of woe to Mom later in the car, and she goes, "Oh my God! He found you too? I thought it was just me!"
"Oh, no such luck, Mom. And he asked about you," I said, and smiled suggestively at her.
She looks at me with mild revulsion, and proceeds, "Yeah, I saw him and he goes 'Hola' and I was like, look here, pal, I am in the men's section. Not because I need a man. So I say 'Hi!' really loudly. He sort of took a step back and said, 'Oh, yes, hello. How are you? I don't know why I thought you spoke Spanish,' and I said, 'Yeah, I don't either.' It was so weird."
He made another comment to her, and then she made excuses and left, rather hurriedly.
So that's Casanova, the creepy stalker Mexican.

While I was lounging in the aforementioned chair I happened to look up and see this tall, overweight man testing a pair of binoculars. In my direction.
I thought, "No, Isabela, he's not looking at you. Stop being so paranoid and narcissistic all the time. You're not that good-looking. Nobody likes you. He's probably looking at the wall on the other side of the store. Which makes sense, because I'm too close for the binoculars to really work. Right?"
He lowers the binoculars, and makes eye contact with me. ARRGH! No, he was looking at me... with fucking binoculars. Who even does that? And the best part? As he put them down, his wife appeared and tried to pull him down the next aisle.
I slithered lower in my armchair and cried internally.

Then while Mom and I were standing in line, this guy carrying a huge-ass pile of blue shirts bustles passed us. Now, while this may not sound interesting, it was. I couldn't believe how huge this pile was. 20 shirts, at least? And all light blue. He was coughing on them, with that gross, rattly, gurgle-y cough sick people have, and was trying to push through the throng of people in line without so much as an "excuse me." Because politeness is for pussies, I guess. Mom looks at him, then leans in and says to me, "God, what an absolute jerk. No, really buddy, we love it when you hack all over the merchandise. Oh, and he was a complete douche to the lady behind the specialty counter. An absolute douche canoe. I don't even..."
About a minute later Mom taps me and punts down the men's short sleeves aisle. It's Douche-Canoe, open mouthed hawking all over the clothes, even though he had a free hand to cover his mouth. But he was too busy pawing through the shirts, amassing another pile in his arms, this one of orange and white shirts. Weirdo.

Anyway, those were the most interesting people today, barring Tourette's Man, since I do not need to be told I am a horrible person for making fun of people with legit problems. Which I don't, but there are some seriously uptight people out there.

And if anybody cares, I got some awesome stuff at Goodwill.

Is it wrong that I want this to happen?

This is probably my favorite Sherlock drawing from Sash-Kash (their kiss is my icon on Tumblr), but she never ceases to amaze with each new post.

An Average Blogger's Foray Into Working Out

I'm sorry for not updating in a while, but school has recently started. Today marks my second full Tuesday back in prison my fine educational institution. I have been given the schedule from hell, which is a shame, since I signed up for everything I'm taking. Here's a breakdown of what I have, who I hate, and why. Today we'll focus on first period.
1st period is Advanced P.E. Now keep in mind that I am your average teenage blogger, the one that spends too much time slouching here in the glow of my sweet, comforting computer screen, and not nearly enough time doing anything remotely active. And now I have a grueling workout first thing every morning.
In order to take Adv. P.E. you must be participating in a sport, so I said I was going to be a thrower, meaning discus and shot put, for our track and field team. Big mistake.
My workouts include legs destroyers exercises (mandatory for all track people, whether runners, throwers, or jumpers) and heavy duty arm manglers . I have zero upper body strength, and my legs have the muscle consistency of jelly. What possessed me to sign up for this torture? I need a PE credit to graduate and there is no fucking way that I, as a self-important, pompous junior is going to slum with the freshmen in P.E. 1-2.
Today I had a routine that was nearly all legs, culminating in me falling over on the last set of weighted lunges because my hamstrings decided they were done with my nonsense. It was embarrassing, and I am reminded why getting a gym membership would be a nightmare.
However, the worst and the best part of my situation here is that my class has kids from softball (only 3, who are all my friends), track, tennis, basketball, wrestling, and baseball. Since this is PE, an elective that involves working out (and is not trendy, like dance) it's filled with guys. Hot guys. Hot guys that I get to watch work out. Hot guys that I have to work out in front of. Hot guys that I have to work out in front of who already know what they are doing so they look all sexy and shit sweating in the gym and I look like a complete loon in my ill-fitting uniform, sweating like a whore in church as I stumble around the gym. It's disgusting. I destroy the sex levels in that weight room.
Hopefully with all this getting swoll and stuff, I will be able to wear my jeans nicely, my ass won't look like a water balloon (and that's a sexy water balloon to you), and my gut will go away. Trolololol, this year is going to be awesome.
And I'll let you know if I get to hook up with one of the hotties in my gym class (not bloody likely, though. My sweat and body odor do not induce arousal. Perhaps revulsion...).

BBC or Why I Hate American Television

I am, unabashedly, a huge fan of British television. I have actually caught myself talking in an English accent, and no, I regret nothing. But my inability to remember which voice I should be speaking in has nothing to do with what I want to rant about. Or maybe it does. You tell me.
British TV has always been 120% better than American television and I always feel sad and slightly ashamed admitting this being an American. But it's true.
My main cases in point are Doctor Who and, most recently, Sherlock. The Grand Poobah Steven Moffat is currently behind these two shows and clearly his influence has been felt. I am quite unapologetic in announcing that I think he is one of the best TV writers this planet has ever seen. Everything he does is frightening, intriguing and fun. It has a specific flair that can be felt as soon as the episode starts. It's difficult to put into words, but if you watch his shows, you know what I mean.
I have recently become a huge fan of Doctor Who and so I can happily call myself a Whovian, which I do. Often. In public. My favorite episode so far is most definitely "The Girl in the Fireplace" which, as I'm sure you have guessed being the smart reader you are, is a Steven Moffat written episode. Watch it. Trust me.
My love for Doctor Who stems mostly from the show's longevity. It astounds me that this show has been on for so long and has amassed such a large fan-base. I also like the imagination that goes on behind the scenes. Think about all the ideas that get tossed around before they decide on one that they like. I would love to be able to see that collaborative process.
The other show that has recently become a (huge, ginormous, unnatural) obsession of mine is Sherlock. It happens to be an amazing show, due partly (mostly) to Steven Moffat... again. Damn, that man is everywhere (but Mark Gatiss is amazing too). His and Mark bring Sherlock Holmes, sociopath genius, into the 21st century without so much a glitch. He seamlessly integrates Sherlock's practices (drugs, deductions, queer experiments) into modern London and makes Sherlock look hella fine while doing it. The writing remains true to the character while still introducing a few new elements and fudging some things to make the series work. And Jim Moriarty is chilling. Chilling I say.
More on my feelings about British TV at a later date.

Writer's Block or Why Being an Amateur Writer Sucks

Have you ever noticed that the best ideas you ever have are late at night when you're supposed to be going to sleep? And then in the morning when you get up and you realize what a great idea it was, you go to write it down and nothing is there. It's a blank slate.
I bring up this woeful topic since I'm writing a fanfiction right now (yup, that's right. Feel free to roll your eyes) and every night I get in bed and suddenly *BAM* ten zillion ideas zooming around.
"Have your characters meet like this, have them talk like this, here's a conversation they can have, here's how they should act around each other, this is a sexual-tension scene they should have." On and on, and every idea seems better than the last. And right before you fall asleep you think, "I'm gonna get up and write down all these ideas like a boss and then my fanfic will be the best thing that anybody's ever read. I'm gonna get book deals off this thing! Oprah will restart her show just to have me on there!"
Next ,morning, I'm up... later in the day, "It's writing time! Now what did I think up last night...?" Nothing. It's just not there.
I'm supposed to be going to bed now. I will yet again have great ideas. I will forget them. My fanfic will never get published.
But if it does... I'll let you know.

If you want to find me anywhere else

http://twitter.com/#!/Bela_Cinderella

Lush Cosmetics and Stuff

No, I'm kidding. Their company title is not "cosmetics and stuff." But they are very good. I was incredibly surprised, so I'm going to tell you about it.
Everybody these days is looking for "natural," "organic," and "no chemicals," which is a good thing. Our bodies are very sensitive, so unnatural chemicals, colors and perfumes can't be good for us, right? Besides, if we're showering to get clean we shouldn't be swapping one bad thing for a different one, should we?
Lush creates their cosmetics and beauty products while also having a positive impact on the environment. Everything they make contains only natural raw ingredients and no chemicals or preservatives. And the best thing about all this? They actually work!
I bought the Squeaky Green shampoo bar with some skepticism. After all, it was a small bar, and I have a lot of hair. It would either not work, or run out very fast. The saleslady assured me that hers had lasted three months and so would mine, provided I keep it out of water and sunlight.
I tried it the other day in conjunction with my regular shampoo and the first time it foamed up so much I was sure that I had residual normal shampoo in, and it couldn't have been the bar. I tried it again today, by itself. I was astounded.
It foamed up again, and all I had done was swirl it around in my hands quickly before applying it to my hair. I shampooed twice, and my hair felt cleaner than it has in weeks. In fact, when I ran my hands through the hair next to my temples, it made that squeaking sound that just embodies cleanliness. I was floored.
And it's true. So long as it is kept dry when not in use and out of the sun, the bar will last quite a long time.

They are a UK based company with multiple stores around the world. If there's not one near you, shop online at:
http://www.lush.com/

My LIFE

Big Earl's Barbeque

Being from the East coast, I can accurately call myself a bit of a barbeque snob. That's not to say that I only go to fine dining institutions, but that I know good barbeque when I eat it. And I found it. 
You know a barbecue place is going to be good when you smell it over two blocks away. That's what first led us to grab a menu and peruse. We came back a week later, and ate there.
We ordered oysters and sweetbreads for appetizers, and my were they amazing. My mother is a huge seafood fan and she raved about the oysters and ate nearly all of them. The sweetbreads were actually breaded, but not so much as to mask the meat. They too were very good. 
Each main course was delicious, from the beef ribs (my little brother's kid's meal) to my catfish po'boy. 
The drinks are really good too. The lemonade was not overly sweet, while the sweet tea was just like getting it in the south.They serve all the non-alcoholic drinks in Mason jars!
What really made an impression though, was the staff. Polite, courteous, and helpful they all made sure to stop by and see that we were doing well. The waitress was well versed in the menu, and was even able to debate the merits of enjoying a good deep-fried pickle. The barman knew everything in stock and made sure everybody's glasses (or jars) stayed full. And the best part was that the chef, Tony, made it a point to come out of the kitchen periodically to go around to the tables and ask everyone what they thought of the food and if they were enjoying their meal.
Although not everything on the menu was tried, at least that gives us an excuse to go back. Often.
And if you go, ask Tony about his rib tip appetizer.


Big Earl's BBQ
7213 E 1st Ave
Scottsdale, AZ 85251

It's Summertime!

Summer's here, the sun is hot, and my sweet teen magazine reminds me that I am clearly not really a girl unless I have a "summer fling." Obviously the sole reason for my hideous track record with boys is my lack of unimportant relationships that coincide with the summer months.
As per usual my summer activities consist of summer school (to get ahead), blogging (mostly Tumblr), reading, learning Spanish, and daydreaming. No chance of a social life here. And besides, being in Arizona, there's not much to do here anyway. Beach parties are out (no water), and pool parties happen so often they're cliche now.
So now that I've finished here, back to a bit of personal life. It's a Tuesday, which on my footy blog means it's Thightastic Tuesday, and I get to upload one amazing shot of some poor, unassuming football player's majestic thigh for all my followers to happily ogle in the privacy of their own homes.
I will keep you updated on my summer escapades and whether or not I actually find myself a "summer fling."
(Thanks, 17 Magazine)