Things I Want to Happen (That Never Will)

The title says it all. I’m a pretty big daydreamer, and even I grudgingly accept that some of my best fantasies will never come to fruition. But there is just SO MUCH STUFF I want to happen, I guess some of it’s bound to be impossible. Like…

Having sex with Cry Baby-era Johnny Depp. Yes, the man is like a fine wine that gets better with age, but dude is still OLD now! Oh, how I wish I had a time machine to waste on twenty-six-year-old Johnny.

Winning fifty billion dollars. Or inheriting it, I’m not picky. See, while some optimists might say this isn’t impossible, let’s be real–I don’t play the lotto, I don’t know of any rich relatives, and even if I did magically get a windfall of cash (pleasepleaseplease), it would never be that much. Fifty billion is “throw out scuffed Jimmy Choos” rich.

Being French. You can’t change genetics, and while I’d never toss away my own face and blonde hair on some weird French nose and mousy brown locks, I would die for the accent and access to tried-and-true beauty secrets (those French hold out in interviews, I swear–I’ve read French Women Don’t Get Fat, and I think there’s more to the story then they’re letting on).

Having an amazing talent. I am not without my skills, but I am not “the best” at anything. Wouldn’t it be cool to be, even if it was something dumb?

Being an amazing cook. I guess this is similar to the previous one, except I don’t want to be the best cook, or even halfway best, just pretty good. It will never happen. Never. I hate cooking, and I will always hate cooking, which is why literally every meal I eat has under 5 ingredients (never underestimate the stimulating powers of chili powder, lemon juice, lettuce, bottled sauces, and butter).

Seeing every country in the world. I started to write “every cool place in the world,” but I refuse to put that on a list of things that will never happen, because it’s one of my life goals, damn it! But it’s crazy to me how we live on a big frosty marble and don’t save the money or make the time to leave our tiny portion of it. Brasil, people? Ireland? Have you seen pictures of Greece? I’d even go to Antarctica, just to say I have.

To be honest, this list is starting to get a little depressing, since I want all these things and I feel like I’m condemning them to impossibility, so I’ll cut it short. And if a young Depp knocks on my door, I’ll take it as a sign from the universe that there’s still hope on that 50 bil.

She’s a Lady (Whoa-Oh-Oh)

I don’t like feminists. I don’t hate them–my own darling mother is one, for God’s sake–but I’m not really fond of them either. Mostly because the only thing they ever seem to talk about is how women should be treated exactly the same as men.

Um…excuse me? So no one will hold the door for me, and pull out my chair, and get me out of a ticket when I bat my very ladylike eyelashes, and not draft me into the Army? Why in God’s name would any woman give up being treated like a woman to be treated like a man?

Now, I understand that’s not the point, but on the other Manolo, it kind of is. If you want fair-square equality for everyone, that’s nice on paper, but that means everything has to be equal, even for door-holding and ticket-dodging. Equal pay at work and government-subsidized tampons, I’m all for. But saying women have to be like men in order to be “equal” is just what pisses me off about feminists. If you want to wear Birkenstocks and never get your eyebrows waxed, that’s just fine. But don’t tell me I’m setting back the cause of womankind by twenty years because I like makeup and a good heel (and put my feminine wiles to use).

Which brings me to my next point. Being a true lady is so undervalued in today’s society. Look at the French. Women there are chic, glamorous, and independent–they make paper (or whatever French money is printed on) in sexy cardigans with perfect hair. Here, if you like to take care of yourself–which means nothing compared to how the French do it, with their obsessive beauty regimes, or Japanese girls, who wear makeup and nice shoes every. single. day–you’re “high maintenance,” not “a lady.”

There is nothing wrong with wanting equal rights, or wearing ugly clothes and not caring how you look, but there’s also nothing wrong with being just the opposite. So how about a  little equality between the Birkenstocks and the Manolos, please? (OR, even better–I can just teleport back to the 1950s, when dressing up for everything was normal and everyone left me alone about equality while I drank Bellinis with Cary Grant.)

Things I Hate, Part Hatey-Two

Sometimes I hate things. These are some of the things I currently hate.

Not tigers. I love tigers.

1.) People who call women “females.” A girl cat is called a female cat, a bitch is a female dog (or your mother), and a chinchilla with lady parts (ew) is a female chinchilla. A female human is called a woman, or a girl, or any-fucking-thing you want besides female. It sounds weird, and kind of degrading considering the only other time it’s used is for animals. This fellow, Mr. Treat Women Right of Twitter fame, posted a tweet that said, “#Females have a bad habbit of holding on too long, #Men have a bad habbit of letting go too easily.” Dear Mr. Treat Women Right: First of all, I don’t know what a “habbit” is, and second of all, tweeting “females” and then “men” instead of “women” and then “men” is retarded. Would you say, “I’d like a peanut butter and preserves sandwich” or “Bread and margarine”? Well, you probably would, because you’re a weird freak who reads Cosmo, turns the advice section into mushy tweets, and then probably gives STDs to one of your 314,116 followers.

2.) The ridiculous, overgeneralizing, sappy, feel-bad-for-me quotes on Tumblr. SHUTUPSHUTUPSHUTUP. I am not really sure when teenage girls are going to realize that 100% of people–even other teenage girls–would rather be around happy people than miserable people, but for the sake of my brain, I hope that time comes soon. I would just unfollow every single Tumblr who posts that shit, but then I would offend a lot of friends and also be following no one.

3.) Stare-ers. Put your eyes back in your head or else I will do it for you using something spiky. I absolutely loathe being stared at. I know that I am a ridiculously sexy, gorgeous person, but when people look at me for longer than, say, ten seconds, their eyes have worn out their welcome. The world is a large and glorious place with much more interesting things than me to look at. This weird girl who looked like the Michelin Man stared at me for so long her head kind of turned around like an owl’s. I hope it got stuck that way and now she has to spin in a circle to do her full creeper stare.

4.) Not coming during sex. This only happens in circumstances where being interrupted or cockblocked is involved, because the Boy knows how to do his job, but I firmly believe there is a lady version of blue balls. Blue boobs, maybe? It makes me feel like a tingly pent-up bomb. (Except diffusing me is a lot more fun…ooer.)

5.) Feeling like a dick because I hate things other people like. I don’t like feeling like a ranty neurotic nitpicky weirdo. So now I double-hate all the things I hate!

I still love you, though, my faithful delicious readers. If I could I would send you all bonbons for Christmas, although I have never have bonbons, because they sound delightfully French and fancy, and those are two good adjectives.

 

Ooh La La, French Beauty Secrets

If you’re a regular reader of this blog, I LOVE YOU! You’re not one of the hundreds of people who found it by Googling “tumblr daddy fuck me” or “lion blowjob girl giving” (two real and horrifying terms people used today, according to WordPress–I don’t know what a lion-blowjob-girl is, nor do I want to). Anyway, what I meant to say is, if you’re a regular reader of this blog, you probably have noticed that I like French things.

Stripy t-shirts, their classic style, their crazy fuck-you-ness, and those bonkers accents–they’re all great things. (Plus, a post about French things is the perfect excuse to throw up some pictures of my girl BB!)

But aside from all that, they also are allegedly some of the most gorgeous people in the free world. In a totally different, eclectic sort of way. Or something. This is all from the Internet machine, people, so if you’ve been to France and they’re all hideous slags don’t get mad at me. But it is a stone-cold, not-just-stuff-I-found-on-Google fact that they are skinnier than everyone else, and that’s usually prettier than being wicked obese, so ha!

Annyyyyhooo, after my extensive researching, I have concluded that other people who write blog posts about French beauty secrets have pretty much come to the same conclusions, so I’m going to steal all their ideas and bundle them up in one giant stellar post of beauté. (Hey, it’s fair–they stole them from the French first.)

  1. Moisturize. Maybe just stick like 5 IVs of fluid in you at all times. Everyone seems to agree that French people are like sponges. They drink a fuckton of water, they toss on moisturizer like nobody’s business, and they like to shower (contrary to my former beliefs that they weren’t too keen on the whole hygiene thing). [Also, I guess they like cold showers and washing your face in cold water, because circulation, and science, and something-or-other?]
  2. Use a lot of creams and magic potions and stuff. This goes back to #1. They’re apparently crazy about their skin, which means they find some super-great face wash and stuff and use that religiously. And then they use lotions and powders for everything fucking else–they even have bosom cream. (Yeah, I didn’t typo that.)
  3. Don’t wear a lot of makeup. And I know you’re thinking, look at BB, but she picked one thing to emphasize–her peepers–and pretty much left the rest be, except for some neutral lipstick. The French aren’t into the whole flawless face thing; they just want it to look sexy and natural without it being obvious you used 18 products to get there. ALLEGEDLY.
  4. Try not to be a big fatso. How, asks the person eating three pints of Ben & Jerry’s as they read this? (Just kidding, that’s me. No, it’s not, it’s you. Shut up, just read!) Apparently part of their staying-thin secret (besides that they walk every-fucking-where and exercise a lot of portion control) is that they are vain as fuck. They want to look like hot French mugs, first, and second, they always dress up everywhere, even to take out their trash. So you don’t really want to blort out when you’re wearing a garter belt and nice clothes, ’cause you feel disgusting. So there. Mrs. Ben & Jerry’s, maybe if you change into a skirt suit, you’ll put the spoon down.
  5. Be a sexy bitch all the time. See #4–they just try and look hot 24-7, unlike us lazy Americans/Brits/Haitians/Russian spies, and trying pays off. Almost anyone can look good if they put effort into their appearance, and the French are way into doing so.

So there you go, now you can look like a gorgeous French lady, with the added bonus of shaved armpits! (I’m just kidding, they apparently do that. Except they wax them instead. So get on their level.)

Every Celebrity I’ve Ever Been Compared to, Ever

Something about my face makes people compare me to other people. I don’t know why, but I get a lot of “you look like blankity-blank” nonsense. Which is usually flattering, but on the rare occasions it hasn’t been I just stare at them while trying really hard to look attractive so that they’ll go, “Oh, you know what, you don’t actually look like [ugly] blank, you look like [super sexy] blank!” And then I will stop holding my face perfectly still and say, “Why thank you.”

My favorite one to get is Brigitte Bardot, for obvious reasons. She’s French, she’s drop-dead gorgeous (which is a really creepy expression, but I love it anyway), and of all the people I’ve been compared to I like her the best. She’s my style icon, to boot (by which I mean, my excuse for wearing lots of cat’s-eye liner and high-wasited things–no one argues when you say, “Well, Brigitte Bardot did it!” And if they do argue they’re a dick).

Plus, we have a lot in common, looks-wise: we both have a squarish jawline (so attractive–but I don’t really mind it, because if Minnie Driver got into movies with that octagon she calls a face than not having a perfect oval head seems a small price to pay for the rest of us), big eyes, big lips, and blonde hair (which I cut, intentionally, with Bardot bangs). And if this all sounds really conceited, fuck off, because if you’re still reading this it was conceited from the first sentence so don’t go getting all shirty about it now. (God, I love calling people shirty. It’s not even an American expression, so whenever I say it to my friends no one understands. But it is GLORIOUS. I hope “pants-y” comes around as a synonym for “uptight tool.”) What was I saying? Oh yeah, how me and BB are incredibly attractive twins–our heights are an inch apart, and if the Internet is to be trusted, she’s a 36B to my 34 (although she looks a bit more equipped in the bazoonga department than that to me, but what am I, a traveling boob expert?).

Long, self-absorbed story short, I like being compared to her because it makes me feel prettyyyy, so pretty, something something something prettyyyyy and gayyyyyy!

But there are other individuals I’ve been compared to, and some of those are less flattering. By a lot. When I was a lot younger (and, I like to think, before my face was fully formed into the glorious object it is today), I got Uma Thurman a lot. I can still, tragically, see why some people might say that, but I haven’t gotten in years. And I once got “Paris Hilton, but without the nose!” Also when I was younger, I got compared to Hilary Duff, but in all fairness that was by a group of black girls at a charter school who rarely saw white people (and that’s not racism, just a statement of fact). I rarely saw black people when I was younger, but since I’m not a dick I didn’t call them all Raven Symone.

Diversity.

Those are all the less-attractive celebrities I’ve been compared to, unless someone said something horrible like Rosie O’Donnell and I blocked it from my memory or something. Besides Brigitte Bardot, I get compared to Scarlett Johannsen sometimes, which is highly complementary but not crazy-accurate (although any time I get bored and do some “celebrity face match” I get her), and Sarah Michelle Gellar (also not accurate, but I love Buffy so I’m okay with it), and once, very misguidedly, Kiera Knightly.

So now the People of the Internet know (kind of) what I look like. And that I am extremely vain and never forget a compliment. Maybe if someone does a face mashup of BriUmParHilarScarSarKie it will look just like me. (Although if you do that, a. You’re creepy, b. You have an extreme amount of time on your hands, and c. Please send it to me.)

Life’s Great Little Good Things

If you like charming things and socially awkward French people, you should watch Amélie. Because it totally has both those things.

My favorite part about the movie, though, is the way they introduce the characters. They say a few important things about them–like their job, or where they were born–and then they say really specific, weird things that they like or dislike. Amélie’s mother, for instance, likes to clean and organize her purse. Amélie likes the feeling of putting her hand into dry grain (which feels great, in case you’ve never had the pleasure). Seriously, though, why doesn’t everyone introduce themselves this way?

Honestly, I care way more about if a person hates birds chirping or loves using stencils on construction paper than about their political views. Because it’s wacky and interesting and plus, people would like each other more! Not a lot of chit-chats about abortion rights lead to enthusiastic high-fives, but everyone can get behind how awesome the first bite into a fresh apple is (SO GOOD, right?). And then instead of being like, “Yeah, I do remember your friend Dave, actually. He’s the dick who believes in [insert controversial topic people like to blather about here], isn’t he?” people would be all, “Ohhhh, Dave! I love that guy! We both like to put black olives on our fingers before we eat them.”

See, these bitches bonded over their love of opening a can of Tab.

Oops, I think I just figured out world peace.

For real, though, can Weird Things About Oneself be the new handshake? Then it won’t have to get all awkward when it’s the dirty-looking guy’s turn to go around and rub his hepatitis all over you (oh, what, you don’t hang out with people who might have hepatitis?). Instead, he can just be like, “I enjoy contracting diseases!” and you can yell back, “One of my favorite things is the feeling of clean untouched hands!”

You know. Or you might be normal and none of this applies to you. I DON’T KNOW. This whole post was just supposed to be a short little segue into my List of Odd Little Things I Like and Dislike, but I got carried away. And I used up all my brainpower blathering, so now I can’t even remember the LOLTILD. I’ll just do one of each: I don’t like the smell of double-brewed coffee (e.g., coffee made partially from old grounds), and I like the feeling of warm grass under my bare feet. And since nobody likes negativity, here’s a bonus Thing I Like: being picked up and spun around by someone who is genuinely excited to see you.

Fuck, life is full of good great little things. Now go do some while I sleep.