If you know me, you know that I'm a gusher. Over-exaggeration may not be my official middle name but that's because "Drama Queen" is hogging that space.
That out of the way, let's just say that I love Pinterest and take it as face-value without the 17 paragraph love fest that I've been known to partake in.
I was going through all of my boards recently and patting myself on the back for being an oh-so-fabulous pinner. I spent a solid 30 minutes (alright an hour and a half) gushing over wedding/love boards (and hot celebrity boys), and had an honest-to-Bette Midler epiphany. I realized that should any potential husband (ok, ALL single men are potential husbands to me) see the estrogen-charged activity my boards display, I would be screwed. Any male possessing a masculinity score somewhere between Richard Simmons and Hulk Hogan would pack up his sanity and hit the road after just one sniff of all the glitter and puppies my page oozes.
So, for the sake of all single women out there, it's time for a new Oh No She Didn't.
It's quite simply really - no song or dance. Just one solid rule.
Under no circumstance, are we to ever encourage the straight male population to create a Pinterest account.
EVER. And if you're sitting there doubting me, consider this. Why is the site invite only? Oh yeah, BECAUSE IT'S GIRLS ONLY!
Don't talk to guys about how awesome it is unless you're creating a visual in their heads that everything on the site is shirtless guys, cupcakes, and DIY projects. Oh wait, it is. Never mind.
Pinterest is sacred land, ladies. Feel free to pass on what you learn through P-fab (just made that up) to boys, but never make them think they can have one. Because they can't. I don't want my crazy out there for my first-third husbands to see, ok? Have a heart, and help a sister out.
Or I will Photoshop your face onto a herpes ad... and Pinterest it.
Wednesday, December 14, 2011
Saturday, November 26, 2011
My mission to be Hollywood royalty
I've been told more than once that I should "lower my standards and expectations" when it comes to men.
At first, it offended me. I took it as an insult to my looks or personality (hot and sassy) and was wildly confused. However, I was taking this piece of advice all wrong. What they really meant was that my standards and expectations usually fall in one category... CELEBRITY. And, apparently, that is setting the bar too high.
I'd like to take this moment to say thank you for your advice and concern, and you're probably right. But no way, Jose. My ambitions remain as high as ever.
I don't think there is anything wrong with concentrating the majority of my man-catching energy on the one percent of the American population. But for the record, I'll take a European. Mrs. Pattinson has a lovely ring to it.
Truthfully, my romantic history is composed largely of celebrity crushes. Let me break it down for you.
5 years old: Johnny Depp
In 1993, "Benny and Joon" was released. It was that year, I fell in love. Though my frontal lobe was approximately 18 years away from being fully developed, I was positive I would marry him one day. To be honest, my frontal lobe is now fully developed, and I'm still kind of holding out on this one.
8 years old: Patrick Swayze
I don't really know what I was allowed to watch "Dirty Dancing" or if I was actually even allowed, but I watched it and there was no turning back. This movie was and is a huge hit with the women in my family. My cousins and I used to say we were "Patrick Swayze-Crazy". Some things never change. Miss you, boo.
9 years old: Leonardo DiCaprio
"Titanic". No other explanation necessary. I was first in line in 1997, and I'll be first in line in 2012.
10 years old: Devon Sawa
You may not remember this one, but my heart does. You may remember him as Casper after Christina Ricci put him in that machine that made him a real boy for like 30 min, and they kissed? Or maybe in "Wild America" with Jonathan Taylor Thomas (King Heartthrob of the time, but far too mainstream for my eternal hipster attitude). Or you might remember his bare butt in "Now and Then"! It was quite scandalous at the time.
Junior High: N*Sync
Pretty much any member of the band at different intervals over three years. But particularly Lance Bass, who turned out to be gay. Pretty much sums up my life...
High School: The mash-up years
These were the years where I became adept at juggling many celebrity crushes. I realized that I was limiting my potential if I declared my love for only one Hollywood hottie. A girl had to have options! However, these four years were comprised mostly of Adam Brody. Yum.
The above is only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to my celebrity love life. Just as girls wish to be princesses, I wish to walk down the red carpet at the Oscars while my handsome Hollywood husband shows me off to all of the adoring paparazzi.
You might call me crazy, but don't expect an invitation to my post-Golden Globes soiree.
At first, it offended me. I took it as an insult to my looks or personality (hot and sassy) and was wildly confused. However, I was taking this piece of advice all wrong. What they really meant was that my standards and expectations usually fall in one category... CELEBRITY. And, apparently, that is setting the bar too high.
I'd like to take this moment to say thank you for your advice and concern, and you're probably right. But no way, Jose. My ambitions remain as high as ever.
I don't think there is anything wrong with concentrating the majority of my man-catching energy on the one percent of the American population. But for the record, I'll take a European. Mrs. Pattinson has a lovely ring to it.
Truthfully, my romantic history is composed largely of celebrity crushes. Let me break it down for you.
5 years old: Johnny Depp
In 1993, "Benny and Joon" was released. It was that year, I fell in love. Though my frontal lobe was approximately 18 years away from being fully developed, I was positive I would marry him one day. To be honest, my frontal lobe is now fully developed, and I'm still kind of holding out on this one.8 years old: Patrick Swayze
I don't really know what I was allowed to watch "Dirty Dancing" or if I was actually even allowed, but I watched it and there was no turning back. This movie was and is a huge hit with the women in my family. My cousins and I used to say we were "Patrick Swayze-Crazy". Some things never change. Miss you, boo.9 years old: Leonardo DiCaprio
"Titanic". No other explanation necessary. I was first in line in 1997, and I'll be first in line in 2012. 10 years old: Devon Sawa
You may not remember this one, but my heart does. You may remember him as Casper after Christina Ricci put him in that machine that made him a real boy for like 30 min, and they kissed? Or maybe in "Wild America" with Jonathan Taylor Thomas (King Heartthrob of the time, but far too mainstream for my eternal hipster attitude). Or you might remember his bare butt in "Now and Then"! It was quite scandalous at the time. Junior High: N*Sync
Pretty much any member of the band at different intervals over three years. But particularly Lance Bass, who turned out to be gay. Pretty much sums up my life...
High School: The mash-up years
These were the years where I became adept at juggling many celebrity crushes. I realized that I was limiting my potential if I declared my love for only one Hollywood hottie. A girl had to have options! However, these four years were comprised mostly of Adam Brody. Yum.
The above is only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to my celebrity love life. Just as girls wish to be princesses, I wish to walk down the red carpet at the Oscars while my handsome Hollywood husband shows me off to all of the adoring paparazzi.
You might call me crazy, but don't expect an invitation to my post-Golden Globes soiree.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Crush, crush, crush.
"When you hop on the love train, you are buying a damn ticket to heartbreak. Hell, you're buying a ticket to be run over by the damn thing. More often than not, you are not going to end up in Candyland."-Amber Oldham
I'm not very good at having a "crush". Before you say "What?! Like, omg, everyone is good at having a crush", you should just know that YOU ARE WRONG.
Horribly.
Completely.
Seriously.
WRONG.
Some people are really, really kinda awesome at the whole "crush game". And, apparently, there was a class? Maybe? In elementary? And I friggin' missed it.
Unbeknownst to MOI, a crush does not entail creating an entire alternate universe in your head where everything is hipster and wonderful and totally-Nicholas Sparks minus the inevitable death thing. No. Apparently, it's a little flirting and maybe a couple of emoticon texts. For example: "Hi :)", "XOXO :P", and, of course, the extra-special winky face that is usually just awkward when I attempt to integrate that in my repertoire.
So, to recap, I'm not good at crushes. Another fairly decent explanation as to my ineptitude could be the fact that my crushes are generally directed at three types of guys: The Douchebag, The Clearly-Unattainable Hottie, and, oh yeah, CELEBRITY.
Oh yes, so few people are quite as masterful at convincing themselves that John Krasinski is totally going to leave his beautiful, successful wife for me after our serendipitous encounter at a quaint coffee shop in SoHo. Not that I've thought about it or anything...
And then there's the Unattainable Hottie. And I'm not saying that to fish for a "you're so pretty" compliment because, frankly, duh. I know I'm hot. What I'm talking about is that guy that is seriously so hot it's like he rolls around in burning coals. It's like his face isn't even real! That guy. That's the one I fall for.
Finally, we come to my kryptonite. Douchebag. If there is a jerk in a 20-mile radius, I will sniff him out like a bloodhound, and claim him like Columbus "discovering" America. Which means I will drop some polio on you, skank. That heart breaker is MINE.
Are you beginning to see my point?
Friends say it's because I don't want to get hurt? I don't really count that as a valid argument because I'm not some kind of Twilight-obsessed masochist, and I'm pretty normal in the fact that I don't particularly enjoy having my heart stomped on. Doesn't feel good. Not one bit.
Really, I don't think my problem exists solely in the fact that I'm attracted to all the wrong men. No, I think it has more to do with the ugly, horrible awkwardness that inhabits my body to its core whenever I'm around a guy that I like. If I could paint a picture of what these fun little interactions looked like, I would make millions as the Tarantino of the art world. Weird and just scary. Like conversations about Serta mattresses and frozen dinners. Mmmhmm.
And then there's the obsession thing. And the minor stalking that I just can't seem to control. Yep. That ALL happens inside this sick little mind. I carried a burning torch for Justin Timberlake that seriously almost stood the test of time. I was convinced he was "The One" from about 5th grade through sophomore year. And, to be honest, he could still eat crackers in my bed.
So, there ya go. My dirty little secret. I can't crush. And if you are aware of some training classes, I'd be most appreciative.
I'm not very good at having a "crush". Before you say "What?! Like, omg, everyone is good at having a crush", you should just know that YOU ARE WRONG.
Horribly.
Completely.
Seriously.
WRONG.
Some people are really, really kinda awesome at the whole "crush game". And, apparently, there was a class? Maybe? In elementary? And I friggin' missed it.
Unbeknownst to MOI, a crush does not entail creating an entire alternate universe in your head where everything is hipster and wonderful and totally-Nicholas Sparks minus the inevitable death thing. No. Apparently, it's a little flirting and maybe a couple of emoticon texts. For example: "Hi :)", "XOXO :P", and, of course, the extra-special winky face that is usually just awkward when I attempt to integrate that in my repertoire.
So, to recap, I'm not good at crushes. Another fairly decent explanation as to my ineptitude could be the fact that my crushes are generally directed at three types of guys: The Douchebag, The Clearly-Unattainable Hottie, and, oh yeah, CELEBRITY.
Oh yes, so few people are quite as masterful at convincing themselves that John Krasinski is totally going to leave his beautiful, successful wife for me after our serendipitous encounter at a quaint coffee shop in SoHo. Not that I've thought about it or anything...
And then there's the Unattainable Hottie. And I'm not saying that to fish for a "you're so pretty" compliment because, frankly, duh. I know I'm hot. What I'm talking about is that guy that is seriously so hot it's like he rolls around in burning coals. It's like his face isn't even real! That guy. That's the one I fall for.
Finally, we come to my kryptonite. Douchebag. If there is a jerk in a 20-mile radius, I will sniff him out like a bloodhound, and claim him like Columbus "discovering" America. Which means I will drop some polio on you, skank. That heart breaker is MINE.
Are you beginning to see my point?
Friends say it's because I don't want to get hurt? I don't really count that as a valid argument because I'm not some kind of Twilight-obsessed masochist, and I'm pretty normal in the fact that I don't particularly enjoy having my heart stomped on. Doesn't feel good. Not one bit.
Really, I don't think my problem exists solely in the fact that I'm attracted to all the wrong men. No, I think it has more to do with the ugly, horrible awkwardness that inhabits my body to its core whenever I'm around a guy that I like. If I could paint a picture of what these fun little interactions looked like, I would make millions as the Tarantino of the art world. Weird and just scary. Like conversations about Serta mattresses and frozen dinners. Mmmhmm.
And then there's the obsession thing. And the minor stalking that I just can't seem to control. Yep. That ALL happens inside this sick little mind. I carried a burning torch for Justin Timberlake that seriously almost stood the test of time. I was convinced he was "The One" from about 5th grade through sophomore year. And, to be honest, he could still eat crackers in my bed.
So, there ya go. My dirty little secret. I can't crush. And if you are aware of some training classes, I'd be most appreciative.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Be vewy quiet; I'm hunting... BOYS
November is here. Ahhh, sweet November. These glorious 30 days bring so much wonderment to the world. Including:
-Halloween is over, and they'll finally quit playing that damn Paranormal Activity 3 trailer.
-It's finally socially acceptable to start listening to Christmas music, and I've got my eye on a juicy new She & Him album and, of course, the new Justin Bieber.
-I will spend literally hours snuggling coffee and listening to cute boys play acoustic guitars on YouTube.
-I will write many, many letters to Santa asking for aforementioned boys.
But most importantly, the real showcase of this month, is NO SHAVE NOVEMBER.
Urbandictionary.com defines it as "The month of November in which you don't shave any hair of your body but instead you grow more bestial, brutish, and manly."
I couldn't agree more, but it goes by another name in the Woman World: Man-catching season.
That's right, ladies! Our own official sport has arrived! For one solid month, those lovely male faces will be enhanced with rugged, manly beards and bodies clad in flannel. For 11 months we pine for MEN - not boys. And now, they have arrived.
Thus, this is a month we should all be taking very seriously. As much as we would like to just lounge in Starbucks and watch those precious beards twitch as they pore over their MacBooks and swoon when whipped cream clings to those hair particles above their lip...
Sorry. Sidetracked. Anyway, back to business. Don't get distracted! Many a boy was claimed and lost during this month. Don't fall victim to distraction.
I've been asked the question, "Does No Shave November include girls?"
Yes. If you want to end up without a Christmas cuddlebuddy and spend the holidays gorging your way through sprinkled cookies and spiked eggnog! But if you want to catch you a honey, shave ya damn legs. We have 11 months of the year to slack. This. Is. Not. One. Of. Them.
In fact, just as game-hunters prepare their shotguns and crossbows to take down Bambi's mom, we need to build up our arsenal. Here's what you'll need.
-Man-Catching Clothes. Pull out your best threads. Leave the sweats at home.
-A full social calendar. You won't meet a boy sitting on your couch unless you're into screen names like BigBootyLuvr69.
-New hair, new you. Time to call up that hairdresser. If you're like me, those grays aren't going to lure in the big fish.
What's the last thing you need? Passion. That's right, ladies. Visualize the prize, and go for it. As Coach Taylor from Friday Night Lights so adeptly coined, "Clear eyes, full heart, can't lose." As I so adeptly coined, "Go catch you a damn man, ladies."
Go forth and prosper.
-Halloween is over, and they'll finally quit playing that damn Paranormal Activity 3 trailer.
-It's finally socially acceptable to start listening to Christmas music, and I've got my eye on a juicy new She & Him album and, of course, the new Justin Bieber.
-I will spend literally hours snuggling coffee and listening to cute boys play acoustic guitars on YouTube.
-I will write many, many letters to Santa asking for aforementioned boys.
But most importantly, the real showcase of this month, is NO SHAVE NOVEMBER.
Urbandictionary.com defines it as "The month of November in which you don't shave any hair of your body but instead you grow more bestial, brutish, and manly."
I couldn't agree more, but it goes by another name in the Woman World: Man-catching season.
That's right, ladies! Our own official sport has arrived! For one solid month, those lovely male faces will be enhanced with rugged, manly beards and bodies clad in flannel. For 11 months we pine for MEN - not boys. And now, they have arrived.
Thus, this is a month we should all be taking very seriously. As much as we would like to just lounge in Starbucks and watch those precious beards twitch as they pore over their MacBooks and swoon when whipped cream clings to those hair particles above their lip...
Sorry. Sidetracked. Anyway, back to business. Don't get distracted! Many a boy was claimed and lost during this month. Don't fall victim to distraction.
I've been asked the question, "Does No Shave November include girls?"
Yes. If you want to end up without a Christmas cuddlebuddy and spend the holidays gorging your way through sprinkled cookies and spiked eggnog! But if you want to catch you a honey, shave ya damn legs. We have 11 months of the year to slack. This. Is. Not. One. Of. Them.
In fact, just as game-hunters prepare their shotguns and crossbows to take down Bambi's mom, we need to build up our arsenal. Here's what you'll need.
-Man-Catching Clothes. Pull out your best threads. Leave the sweats at home.
-A full social calendar. You won't meet a boy sitting on your couch unless you're into screen names like BigBootyLuvr69.
-New hair, new you. Time to call up that hairdresser. If you're like me, those grays aren't going to lure in the big fish.
What's the last thing you need? Passion. That's right, ladies. Visualize the prize, and go for it. As Coach Taylor from Friday Night Lights so adeptly coined, "Clear eyes, full heart, can't lose." As I so adeptly coined, "Go catch you a damn man, ladies."
Go forth and prosper.
Thursday, October 27, 2011
Oh No She Didn't: Airplane Attire
Hello friends, fans, secret admirers... lovers.
Today as I sat and evaluated this blog and its mission to educate on the art of man-catching, I realized that there were still some components missing in order to make it well-rounded and effective. So, in addition to our lessons and Eye Candy, I present to you "Oh No She Didn't."
Most of my daily thoughts begin with the phrase "Oh No She Didn't", also known as ONSD. And most of those thoughts are completed with me mentally tearing apart this girl for her fashion choices. Are people blind? Or stupid? Or lazy? I can forgive everything but the latter. Laziness will NOT catch a honey, mark my words.
Our first ONSD was inspired by my girl, Jade. She broke down today and bought her first pair of skinny jeans. Everybody applaud. Seriously, hooker, give the girl a hand. That's better.
Her dilemma was what to wear on her flight from Austin to Lubbock. I can sympathize. I, myself, have made some very poor fashion decisions on flights. And guess what, I'm still single. Coincidence? I think not.
Just because you are trapped in a vacuum-sealed, airborne litter box (think about it) does not mean that it is OK to dress like a bag lady in the name of "comfort." You know what else is comfortable? A couch that you will share with no one but your 18 cats. How do you feel about comfort now? Mmmmhmmm.
Every moment is a chance to land you a sugar daddy. I mean husband. Oh hell, I meant sugar daddy. They say that money doesn't grow on trees, but only poor people say that. Rich people have money orchards, and I want to move in. But I can't convince a man to let me make it rain 100 dollar bills if I look like that troll under the bridge.
Now, I'm not suggesting that you wear a couture gown and diamonds, but would it kill you to put on a pair of jeans instead of those sweatpants? Oh, do NOT give me that "But they're Victoria's Secret, and they say LOVE across my butt." Well good for you, honey. I'm glad that someone loves your ass because no man on that plane is going to. Rule of thumb, if you're going to put on makeup - put on pants. It's that simple.
Next, I realize you're going to have to take off your shoes. That is not permission to wear those ugly Adidas slider sandals or, God forbid, Crocs. Ballet flats and TOMS are both easy to take-off and put-on in a hurry. Just so you know.
I say all of this out of love... for good clothes. Oh, and you too. Because I do love you, and I want to see you catch a man. Just not one of my men. Just to remind you, I will cut a ho.
To recap, an airport/airplane and early flight does not constitute pajama-couture. Look fly on that plane, girl. Haha, get it?
Go catch you a damn man, ladies.
Today as I sat and evaluated this blog and its mission to educate on the art of man-catching, I realized that there were still some components missing in order to make it well-rounded and effective. So, in addition to our lessons and Eye Candy, I present to you "Oh No She Didn't."
Most of my daily thoughts begin with the phrase "Oh No She Didn't", also known as ONSD. And most of those thoughts are completed with me mentally tearing apart this girl for her fashion choices. Are people blind? Or stupid? Or lazy? I can forgive everything but the latter. Laziness will NOT catch a honey, mark my words.
Our first ONSD was inspired by my girl, Jade. She broke down today and bought her first pair of skinny jeans. Everybody applaud. Seriously, hooker, give the girl a hand. That's better.
Her dilemma was what to wear on her flight from Austin to Lubbock. I can sympathize. I, myself, have made some very poor fashion decisions on flights. And guess what, I'm still single. Coincidence? I think not.
Just because you are trapped in a vacuum-sealed, airborne litter box (think about it) does not mean that it is OK to dress like a bag lady in the name of "comfort." You know what else is comfortable? A couch that you will share with no one but your 18 cats. How do you feel about comfort now? Mmmmhmmm.
Every moment is a chance to land you a sugar daddy. I mean husband. Oh hell, I meant sugar daddy. They say that money doesn't grow on trees, but only poor people say that. Rich people have money orchards, and I want to move in. But I can't convince a man to let me make it rain 100 dollar bills if I look like that troll under the bridge.
Now, I'm not suggesting that you wear a couture gown and diamonds, but would it kill you to put on a pair of jeans instead of those sweatpants? Oh, do NOT give me that "But they're Victoria's Secret, and they say LOVE across my butt." Well good for you, honey. I'm glad that someone loves your ass because no man on that plane is going to. Rule of thumb, if you're going to put on makeup - put on pants. It's that simple.
Next, I realize you're going to have to take off your shoes. That is not permission to wear those ugly Adidas slider sandals or, God forbid, Crocs. Ballet flats and TOMS are both easy to take-off and put-on in a hurry. Just so you know.
I say all of this out of love... for good clothes. Oh, and you too. Because I do love you, and I want to see you catch a man. Just not one of my men. Just to remind you, I will cut a ho.
To recap, an airport/airplane and early flight does not constitute pajama-couture. Look fly on that plane, girl. Haha, get it?
Go catch you a damn man, ladies.
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
The good, the bad, and the really-awful-embarrassing mistakes
I'm going to put it out there. Sometimes, my milkshake brings ALL the boys to the yard. But sometimes, my milkshake has been left in the fridge a little long and rotten results ensue. No bueno.
This past weekend proved to be yet another opportunity to set my man-catching tally back a few points. My girl, Jade, and I went to Game 3 of the World Series (Go Rangers!), and if the score wasn't enough to tell you that someone's mojo was a little off, just sit back and wait. The Rangers weren't the only ones that walked home with their tail between their legs.
Overall, the night was amazing. One of the best experiences of my life. Just thought you should know that.
So, my really-awful-embarrassing mistake? Why the hell am I putting this on the Internet?
It all began with a hot dog. Get your mind out of the gutter. Ranger Ballpark has these pretty dang fantastic hot dogs wrapped in bacon, and Jade and I had to have one. We weren't the only ones.
As I'm paying for my hot dog ($9, worth every penny), Jade begins to tickle my ass in public. You're sitting there all appalled, but it's really not that unusual. It's true friendship. I'm, of course, feigning disgust at Jade over my shoulder and paying about zero percent attention to where I'm walking. Which is also no surprise. I was not born with very much poise or elegance. But then, by the grace of God, I turn around right as I'm about to slam into a guy. In my defense, he was blocking the mustard. I look up to say excuse my clumsy behavior, and I'm staring straight in to "The Bachelorette" contestant Lucas' face. Rather than excuse myself in a ladylike manner, what do you think I say? Wouldn't you know it that the only word that my college-educated brain could pull from my extensive vocabulary was... "shit". Yes, that's right. I screamed (Ok, it wasn't that loud) an expletive right in this dude's face. And THEN, as if I hadn't embarrassed myself enough, I spun on my heel to report my encounter to Jade at a decibel loud enough for Meryl Streep to hear in her luxurious and most certainly sound-proof abode.
Needless to say, the only picture I got of him was this one. As he was running away from the tacky, loud girl.
There you have it, ladies. Even the man-catching blogger screws up. A lot, actually, but keep reading because sometimes I get it right.
This past weekend proved to be yet another opportunity to set my man-catching tally back a few points. My girl, Jade, and I went to Game 3 of the World Series (Go Rangers!), and if the score wasn't enough to tell you that someone's mojo was a little off, just sit back and wait. The Rangers weren't the only ones that walked home with their tail between their legs.
Overall, the night was amazing. One of the best experiences of my life. Just thought you should know that.
So, my really-awful-embarrassing mistake? Why the hell am I putting this on the Internet?
It all began with a hot dog. Get your mind out of the gutter. Ranger Ballpark has these pretty dang fantastic hot dogs wrapped in bacon, and Jade and I had to have one. We weren't the only ones.
As I'm paying for my hot dog ($9, worth every penny), Jade begins to tickle my ass in public. You're sitting there all appalled, but it's really not that unusual. It's true friendship. I'm, of course, feigning disgust at Jade over my shoulder and paying about zero percent attention to where I'm walking. Which is also no surprise. I was not born with very much poise or elegance. But then, by the grace of God, I turn around right as I'm about to slam into a guy. In my defense, he was blocking the mustard. I look up to say excuse my clumsy behavior, and I'm staring straight in to "The Bachelorette" contestant Lucas' face. Rather than excuse myself in a ladylike manner, what do you think I say? Wouldn't you know it that the only word that my college-educated brain could pull from my extensive vocabulary was... "shit". Yes, that's right. I screamed (Ok, it wasn't that loud) an expletive right in this dude's face. And THEN, as if I hadn't embarrassed myself enough, I spun on my heel to report my encounter to Jade at a decibel loud enough for Meryl Streep to hear in her luxurious and most certainly sound-proof abode.
Needless to say, the only picture I got of him was this one. As he was running away from the tacky, loud girl.
There you have it, ladies. Even the man-catching blogger screws up. A lot, actually, but keep reading because sometimes I get it right.
Friday, October 21, 2011
Eye Candy #2
I enjoy looking at boys. I'm not ashamed. There's nothing wrong with appreciating what God created; especially if that something has abs that make me want to pass out from sheer delight.
Not a thing wrong with it.
My love for the male face, body and boootay is partially what gave birth to this particular man-catching business. I can't survive as a cat lady. I need stubble in my life, and I'm not talking about my currently unshaven legs.
I could've taken the usual route with the Eye Candy posts and chosen fan favorites like Jared Leto (who will always be my Jordan Catalano) or the ever-so-beautiful Ryan Gosling (Noah! Oh Noah!).
But what your hormones need is some fresh faces. I hope you enjoyed Jake Johnson from last week. I've been watching "New Girl" episodes at least twice a week just to see that handsome face. But it's time for a new boy on the block.
Chris Lowell
When I was a junior in high school, ABC debuted a show that would become one of my many TV obsessions and, of course, it was canceled far too soon. On a side note, I believe that top television executives just love to lure me into a show, make me fall in deep loving obsession with it, and then chop it down as if it were some kind of tainted zombie. Tragic. Anyway, there was this show called "Life as We Know It", and, within the first episode, I had declared my undying love for the utterly precious and adorable Chris Lowell.
Lowell played 'Jonathan', the yearbook photographer who falls for the then-plump Kelly Osborne. LOVE. What more could I possibly want in a man? Nothing, I tell you. NOTHING.
Lowell doesn't have many credits to his name, which is a damn shame. He did have a several-episode arc on "Veronica Mars" but that aired during the height of my crippling and mind-numbing obsession with Adam Brody and all things related to "The O.C." And then a stint on "Private Practice", but I boycotted all things not directly starring McDreamy and missed out again. Needless to say, I somewhat lost my soulmate for a brief time. I finished high school, went to college, and became an adult during that time. So much life was lived without my Jonathan. Then Netflix brought us together in a truly cosmic way. Seriously, there were butterflies and unicorns. Sigh...
I rewatched all of "Life As We Know It" (only 13 episodes) and pouted about the clear lack of Chris Lowell in my life.
Look at this perfect little hipster. Swoon.
And then the stars aligned and Chris came bounding back to fill the void in my heart. He was cast as the delightful douchebag Stuart Whitworth in "The Help" (SEE THIS ASAP) and my heart was mended momentarily.
Hey, Emma Stone. Get your filthy hands off the merchandise, or so help me, I will cut a bit..
So, there he is, girls. If you don't just love this face, then good because he's mine, and you have no chance anyway. This is one man you will NOT be catching.
Not a thing wrong with it.
My love for the male face, body and boootay is partially what gave birth to this particular man-catching business. I can't survive as a cat lady. I need stubble in my life, and I'm not talking about my currently unshaven legs.
I could've taken the usual route with the Eye Candy posts and chosen fan favorites like Jared Leto (who will always be my Jordan Catalano) or the ever-so-beautiful Ryan Gosling (Noah! Oh Noah!).
But what your hormones need is some fresh faces. I hope you enjoyed Jake Johnson from last week. I've been watching "New Girl" episodes at least twice a week just to see that handsome face. But it's time for a new boy on the block.
Chris Lowell
When I was a junior in high school, ABC debuted a show that would become one of my many TV obsessions and, of course, it was canceled far too soon. On a side note, I believe that top television executives just love to lure me into a show, make me fall in deep loving obsession with it, and then chop it down as if it were some kind of tainted zombie. Tragic. Anyway, there was this show called "Life as We Know It", and, within the first episode, I had declared my undying love for the utterly precious and adorable Chris Lowell.
Lowell played 'Jonathan', the yearbook photographer who falls for the then-plump Kelly Osborne. LOVE. What more could I possibly want in a man? Nothing, I tell you. NOTHING.
Lowell doesn't have many credits to his name, which is a damn shame. He did have a several-episode arc on "Veronica Mars" but that aired during the height of my crippling and mind-numbing obsession with Adam Brody and all things related to "The O.C." And then a stint on "Private Practice", but I boycotted all things not directly starring McDreamy and missed out again. Needless to say, I somewhat lost my soulmate for a brief time. I finished high school, went to college, and became an adult during that time. So much life was lived without my Jonathan. Then Netflix brought us together in a truly cosmic way. Seriously, there were butterflies and unicorns. Sigh...
I rewatched all of "Life As We Know It" (only 13 episodes) and pouted about the clear lack of Chris Lowell in my life.
Look at this perfect little hipster. Swoon.
And then the stars aligned and Chris came bounding back to fill the void in my heart. He was cast as the delightful douchebag Stuart Whitworth in "The Help" (SEE THIS ASAP) and my heart was mended momentarily.
Hey, Emma Stone. Get your filthy hands off the merchandise, or so help me, I will cut a bit..
So, there he is, girls. If you don't just love this face, then good because he's mine, and you have no chance anyway. This is one man you will NOT be catching.
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