Nobody gives me more flak over the men I choose to like than my little brother.
Case in point: Having recently begun watching the US version of Top Gear, I have been reminded of how much I like Tanner Foust. I kept it on the DL before this, but as of late I've been pretty out and proud with my various celebrity crushes.
Today my touching but sad crush on Mr. Foust was called into question by my younger brother, who at the ripe age of 11 has seemingly deemed himself the ultimate expert on men in general, specifically on how terrible the men I choose to like are. The only time he can put together a good joke is when he's making fun of me (and understand that my brother is one of those people who try very hard to be funny but just aren't, and come off as irritating and slightly pathetic). I was verbally patting myself on the back, loudly, about how good my boards are on Pinterest, and the family stopped by to investigate. One of my boards centers around guys who I find physically appealing, and so, naturally, there are several pins of Tanner on there. My brother noticed this (how could he not?) and began his usual commentary.
"Ew, you like him? He's how old?" (38 years of age, thank you very much. I'm still down) "He's going to be so old by the time you marry him. Like, fifty. He'll have wrinkles. You'll kiss him and his jaw will fall off." Here he continues in a wizened voice (and began to mime a man with a walker) "Honey, will you help me into bed?" Then continued his diatribe in a normal tone, "Hahaha, you won't have kids together. All your money will be spent on one of those chairs that moves him up the stairs," and on and on ad nauseam, until I started hollering at my mother to make him stop.
It was continued throughout the day, being brought up when Mom voiced concerns about Tanner's height (the internet says he's 5'10" which Mom countered with, "that means in real life he's about 5' 6", honey") and later on as I questioned my own ability to park (quickly answered with a snarky "will Tanner have to teach you how to drive?").
I was not unaware of my brother's negativity up to this point, far from it. These not-so-subtle put-downs about the men I like have been happening to me for quite some time. And no celebrity of mine is immune to my brother's disdain towards them, for no apparent reason. It's happened to Tom Hiddleston, Chris Evans, Robert Downey Jr. and best of all, my one and only Benedict Cumberbatch. No one is safe.
Wednesday, March 21, 2012
Saturday, December 3, 2011
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.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
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 legsdestroyers 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...).
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
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...).
Friday, July 8, 2011
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.
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.
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