I have many a TV boyfriend. In fact, I'm quite the fiction slut. But not every crush wanders into marriage territory. My Chuck Bass love, for example, is well documented, but even the most ardent admirer has to admit that he's hardly husbad material. There are, however, a few men out there (and yes, I am totally aware that none of them are real, and no, I am not crazy. Honest!) who would make for the perfect happily-ever-after.
1. Capt. Malcolm Reynolds
Firefly's Mal has it all. Noble, loyal and all that jazz, with a pleasingly maccho veneer of badass. Plus, hot. All I need to overcome is his UST with Inara (and the fact that he doesn't exist, obviously) and I'm sure we could have a long and happy life together.
Note: The only reason that Han Solo does not appear on this list (Space smugglers in tight pants? Totally my type) is that even in the realms of daydream it is just wrong to come between him and Leia. I know, I have problems.
2. Fred Weasley
I have had the same argument with my friends for years now. I can tell the difference between the Weasley twins. I can! And Fred was definitely my favourite, which is why I found the seventh HP book so traumatic (and I am not spoiler tagging this, because if you haven't read that book by now you don't really care who died). He was funny, sweet, a wealthy magical joke shop entrepeneur and TOTALLY DIFFERENT from his twin. So there.
3. The Men of How I Met Your Mother
Three for one here. First, there's Ted. Possibly the most charming character ever committed to film: Funny without being snarky, smooth without being slimy and totally looking for a wife to adore. Then you have Marshall. Who is wonderful. Like, the nicest man alive. And clearly not dumb (Lawyer? Hello!). And then...
Barney Stinson. Now, he may seem like an odd choice, given my earlier rejection of fellow douchebag Chuck Bass (and the omission of damaged Doctor Alex Karev for that matter). But I'd like to give Barney a chance. After all, he's just your standard issue shallow man whore, while Chuck is evil. Deliciously so, but still evil. I think Stinson could be redeemed. And Season 4 of HIMYM might just prove me right on this one. Yeah, I'm totally team BroTP.
4. Jimmy the Hand
Those familiar with Raymond Feist will know this character as an intelligent street urchin/pickpocket, a devoted, if headstrong, Royal Squire, and finally a responsible and powerful Duke/Spymaster. It's the second of these three incarnations which I'd marry, and without a second thought.
As with the whole space smugglers thing, it seems thieves with a heart of gold are a type for me - Tamora Pierce's George Cooper also holds a certain attraction.
5. Frazer Yeats.
I love Neighbours. I will always love Neighbours, now matter how many ridiculous cave ins/bush fires/hauntings occur on Ramsey St. That said, I'm not 100% sure that I'll ever forgive then for letting Frazer go. Or for keeping his shirt on all the time while Oliver prances around in a towel at the drop of a hat. It's going to be tough.
6. Sandy Cohen
Yes, dude is old. But that hardly changes the fact that he's perfect. Not even the threat of passing on his spectacular eyebrows to my offspring (and I'm betting that is one seriously dominant gene right there) would deter me from becoming Mrs Cohen. Time was, I'd have gone for the more age appropriate option and said I'd marry Seth Cohen in the hopes of him turning out like Sandy. Of course, that was before Season 2 of The OC happened and Cohen Jr turned into a whiny little bitch. Pity. His dad's still got it though.
7. Will Parry
I am aware of the fact that Philip Pullman's hero is supposed to be, like, thirteen, but anybody who's read His Dark Materials will agree that that's hardly the point. And even though coming between Will and Lyra would be a crime of a par with separating Han and Leia, I figure that once they're trapped in alternate dimensions for all eternity all bets are off.
So, those are my guys of choice. Should any of them become real I would like to be alerted immediately. I was going to push through and find another three to make the list a nice, round number, but I figured I was enough of a fictional bigamist (as well as the slut I was before I started the husband list) to be getting on with. Who've I left out?
jeudi 30 octobre 2008
lundi 27 octobre 2008
Why I hate French people.
Obviously, this is a massive generalisation, totally unfair, and bordering on the racist. Perhaps it would be better to say Why I Hate The French People I Personally Have Come Across. Because, despite the fact that I live in France, my contact with actual french people has been kind of limited. Which, if the few francophones I actually know are anything to go by, may be just as well. In fact, apart fom a few very nice students who I have had relatively little contact with, the french people I know fall pretty neatly into three categories.
1. Random French guys who like to hit on people inappropriately. Like, all the time. Day, night, dressed up, hungover, face covered in impetigo, whatever. And it's not even because I'm foreign (although that does tend to exacerbate things). It crosses the line between flattering and creepy. They don't take no for an answer, they never leave you to carry on the conversation you were clearly having with your friends and they have literally no concept of personal space.
2. Then there's my A level french teachers. Two women who delighted in asserting their moral superiority over the english, whether it be because we drink ('It's just so sad to see a girl drunk at prom') or because we eat things that came in microwaveable packets ('My son Jude has never eaten anything that wasn't organic'). This, combined with the fact that I was never the most model student and they weren't the sort of teachers who would let homework slide provided you were still doing well on external examinations, led to a strained, at best, relationship.
3. Finally, there's my roomate. Or should I say, former roomate. Because last Wednesday, without warning, she asked me to leave the apartment. The reason for this is that she is a freaking mentalist. Basically, reread the description of my A-level teachers. Then imagine living with one of them.
It was clear that we weren't going to get on from the day I arrived, when she followed me round as I unpacked making helpful comments such as 'I don't hang my trousers up that way, it doesn't keep them perfectly straight'. But it was a very nice apartment, and I was prepared to keep my head down, do what she wanted regarding the shared kitchen and bathroom and make the best of it.
Unfortunately that was not good enough for her. Not only was the very clean kitchen not spotless enough (and she wasn't a neat freak, she just liked to say that she was so that I would feel obliged to be super tidy while she did whatever she goddamn wanted), but I apparently neglected her as a friend by having a social life of my own. My mistake, I was looking for a roommate, not a BFF. Which, incidentally, is also my fault for not making that more clear to her before I arrived.
My many, many faults, on top of selfishness and lack of personality, also include chronic rudeness. Apparently it was horrifically impolite of me to arrive, invited into her house (as opposed to being a lodger who paid half of the rent) without a gift for her. When I WAS EMIGRATING. I paid £35 in excess baggage because I had to fly my entire life to France by Easyjet and she was upset that I didn't have room for a bunch of freaking flowers. Similarily my friend Mel, when she came to visit me in the room that I had paid for, should have brought her a gift. And, when we came in and she was sitting in her pyjamas in bed , complaining about how tired she was, we should not have gone to my room and made an effort to be extra quiet, we should have invited her to join us for a glass of wine. Seriously. I give up.
But it's ok now, because I'm set up in a new place, where I can happily lock the word out if I feel like it. And I do have some french neighbours who I share a kitchen with. Yet to meet them, but hopefully they can do something to improve my opinion of the nation. Because otherwise I have a long 8 months ahead of me...
1. Random French guys who like to hit on people inappropriately. Like, all the time. Day, night, dressed up, hungover, face covered in impetigo, whatever. And it's not even because I'm foreign (although that does tend to exacerbate things). It crosses the line between flattering and creepy. They don't take no for an answer, they never leave you to carry on the conversation you were clearly having with your friends and they have literally no concept of personal space.
2. Then there's my A level french teachers. Two women who delighted in asserting their moral superiority over the english, whether it be because we drink ('It's just so sad to see a girl drunk at prom') or because we eat things that came in microwaveable packets ('My son Jude has never eaten anything that wasn't organic'). This, combined with the fact that I was never the most model student and they weren't the sort of teachers who would let homework slide provided you were still doing well on external examinations, led to a strained, at best, relationship.
3. Finally, there's my roomate. Or should I say, former roomate. Because last Wednesday, without warning, she asked me to leave the apartment. The reason for this is that she is a freaking mentalist. Basically, reread the description of my A-level teachers. Then imagine living with one of them.
It was clear that we weren't going to get on from the day I arrived, when she followed me round as I unpacked making helpful comments such as 'I don't hang my trousers up that way, it doesn't keep them perfectly straight'. But it was a very nice apartment, and I was prepared to keep my head down, do what she wanted regarding the shared kitchen and bathroom and make the best of it.
Unfortunately that was not good enough for her. Not only was the very clean kitchen not spotless enough (and she wasn't a neat freak, she just liked to say that she was so that I would feel obliged to be super tidy while she did whatever she goddamn wanted), but I apparently neglected her as a friend by having a social life of my own. My mistake, I was looking for a roommate, not a BFF. Which, incidentally, is also my fault for not making that more clear to her before I arrived.
My many, many faults, on top of selfishness and lack of personality, also include chronic rudeness. Apparently it was horrifically impolite of me to arrive, invited into her house (as opposed to being a lodger who paid half of the rent) without a gift for her. When I WAS EMIGRATING. I paid £35 in excess baggage because I had to fly my entire life to France by Easyjet and she was upset that I didn't have room for a bunch of freaking flowers. Similarily my friend Mel, when she came to visit me in the room that I had paid for, should have brought her a gift. And, when we came in and she was sitting in her pyjamas in bed , complaining about how tired she was, we should not have gone to my room and made an effort to be extra quiet, we should have invited her to join us for a glass of wine. Seriously. I give up.
But it's ok now, because I'm set up in a new place, where I can happily lock the word out if I feel like it. And I do have some french neighbours who I share a kitchen with. Yet to meet them, but hopefully they can do something to improve my opinion of the nation. Because otherwise I have a long 8 months ahead of me...
jeudi 16 octobre 2008
J'etais malade
So, I haven't been posting for a while but that's because I was ill. And ill in a particularly gross way, complete with infected impetigo/allergic-to-antibiotic-cream blisters on my face. As my mum pointed out (roughly a million times), the student lifestyle is not massively condusive to health. The woman is seriously convinced that I went off to Durham two years ago, got a chest infection and haven't been well since. She asked me if I was HIV positive. In front of the Louvre!
Happily, though, I have fairly regular std screenings, and on top of that I just finished my course of antibiotics and now I am barely scabby. Still not my best look ever, but anybody who witnessed the original will agree that it is a vast improvement.
All of which is just as well, as this weekend I'm off for a Belgian adventure! And I would really have hated to be on antibiotics for the houseparty I'm due to attend in Brussels. It should be awesome, and most excitingly, it's an opportunity to see people from back in Blighty who I haven't seen in ages.
So, that's where I've been and where I'm going. I'll post more once I've actually done something interesting to write about!
Happily, though, I have fairly regular std screenings, and on top of that I just finished my course of antibiotics and now I am barely scabby. Still not my best look ever, but anybody who witnessed the original will agree that it is a vast improvement.
All of which is just as well, as this weekend I'm off for a Belgian adventure! And I would really have hated to be on antibiotics for the houseparty I'm due to attend in Brussels. It should be awesome, and most excitingly, it's an opportunity to see people from back in Blighty who I haven't seen in ages.
So, that's where I've been and where I'm going. I'll post more once I've actually done something interesting to write about!
mardi 30 septembre 2008
Ugh...
I hate early.
I just did that thing, when I was putting on my eyeliner. You know, when you put exactly the right amount on one eye. Enough so that you clearly have eyes but subtle enough for a lecture at 8am (I swear I do not know what's wrong with french universities. Sadists one and all) on a Wednesday morning.
Then I move my hand to my other eye, and somewhere in the space between it decides that I would be much better served going to Droit Constitutionnel 1 looking like Cleopatra on acid. Then I'm left with the age old dilemma - do I attempt to remove the splodge on my eyelid, or do I just extend the line to encompass it?
Bear in mind that removal of liquid eyeliner is a highly risky procedure, especially when, like me, you never have a q-tip to hand. So line extension is ideally the solution. But there must be a point when it stops being an option. Otherwise I will soon find myself spending my mornings colouring in my face.
It is too early to consider things of such importance. Like I said; ugh.
I just did that thing, when I was putting on my eyeliner. You know, when you put exactly the right amount on one eye. Enough so that you clearly have eyes but subtle enough for a lecture at 8am (I swear I do not know what's wrong with french universities. Sadists one and all) on a Wednesday morning.
Then I move my hand to my other eye, and somewhere in the space between it decides that I would be much better served going to Droit Constitutionnel 1 looking like Cleopatra on acid. Then I'm left with the age old dilemma - do I attempt to remove the splodge on my eyelid, or do I just extend the line to encompass it?
Bear in mind that removal of liquid eyeliner is a highly risky procedure, especially when, like me, you never have a q-tip to hand. So line extension is ideally the solution. But there must be a point when it stops being an option. Otherwise I will soon find myself spending my mornings colouring in my face.
It is too early to consider things of such importance. Like I said; ugh.
dimanche 28 septembre 2008
I love a douchebag
So today, I didn't get round to a) dressing or b) leaving my appartment. Which I don't feel too bad about because in France EVERYTHING is closed on Sunday. Plus I had a hangover and a vague sense of embarrassment about my behaviour last night to contend with. So what I did instead was watch the entire third season of How I Met Your Mother.
Firstly, that show is awesome. Insert obligatory 'legen - wait for it - dary' reference here. But the main thing I noticed was that I was developing a crush of epic proportions, not on Ted Mosby(the most charming man on tv) or super sweet Marshall, but on total asshat Barney. I am actually upset by the fact that Neil Patrick Harris is gay.
And then I started thinking; this is not an isolated incident. I really love a fictional douchebag. I heart Chuck Bass beyond measure. McSteamy or McDreamy? Give me steamy, any time. And thow in some Karev while you're at it. Logan Echolls will always hold a place in my heart, and was never hotter than when he was pounding the crap out of totally innocent nice boy Piz. I am consistently attracted to whichever fictional character is most likely to treat women with no respect whatsoever.
That, of course, is stupid. The entire bad-boy thing is one of the most self destructive traits a woman can have. But it is so undeniably there! Today I watched impassively as Ted put his all into wildly romantic gestures, then watched Barney recount jut some of the thousands of ways he has screwed girls over and thought 'Damn. I'd tap that'. So just what is it that makes a bad boy so irrestistable?
The popular theory is, of course, that women see the total tool as a challenge. That there would be a victory in being the one person who could tame him, that just isn't equalled by the triumph of managing to snag a guy who's already wonderful. I think there is something in that, but for me, the main attraction is that any act of kindness, no matter how small, is worth so much more coming from a bad guy.
Think about it. If we'd learned that trustworthy Ted had flown to San Fran to convince Lily to come back to Marshall it would have been no big deal. Sweet, but that's Ted for you. The same act from commitment phobe Barney? Mind blowing. And hot. Ted was in love with Robin by the end of the first episode. So what? Three years on Barney decides he might have feelings for her weeks after they've slept together? The most romantic thing I've ever heard!
The same applies to all of the other characters I mentioned. Chuck Bass secretly selling his shares in his beloved burlesque club to help his best friend out? Awesome. And that brings me to another point - he didn't want the friend to know that he'd done it. With that, ladies and gentlemen, I am sold. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, hotter than a guy who is secretly nice. A guy who will go to great lengths to conceal his humanity and maintain the carefully propogated myth that he is a complete douchetard. I love it.
And it's not just are their kindnesses worth more than those of guys who wear their niceness with pride - George O'Malley can be as lovely as he likes but Alex Karev saving a baby while talking sports will always leave him for dust. It is a simple fact that bad guys are just more interesting. Nobody who's read Sense and Sensibility can seriously prefer the integrity of the Colonel to the dashing, if caddish, charms of Willoughby. I'm just saying, a lady likes a hint of danger to spice things up.
But I think there is at least one point of genuine merit for the bad boy contingent - at least you know what to expect. You can dream of being the one woman who will make him see the error of his ways, but you go to bed with a Barney and he never calls? You should have known what you were getting into. The douchey traits of a Ted or a McDreamy (and they will have some, trust me) are far more difficult to predict and often more devastating on revelation. Plus, with a Barney you will never lose the moral high ground, and who doesn't love to be right?
So for me, it's case closed. Despite a lingering suspicion that the secret softer side is only obligatory to bad boys in the fictional world, and that for the most part people who appear to be asshats are just that, I just... love a douchebag. At least it's never dull.
Firstly, that show is awesome. Insert obligatory 'legen - wait for it - dary' reference here. But the main thing I noticed was that I was developing a crush of epic proportions, not on Ted Mosby(the most charming man on tv) or super sweet Marshall, but on total asshat Barney. I am actually upset by the fact that Neil Patrick Harris is gay.
And then I started thinking; this is not an isolated incident. I really love a fictional douchebag. I heart Chuck Bass beyond measure. McSteamy or McDreamy? Give me steamy, any time. And thow in some Karev while you're at it. Logan Echolls will always hold a place in my heart, and was never hotter than when he was pounding the crap out of totally innocent nice boy Piz. I am consistently attracted to whichever fictional character is most likely to treat women with no respect whatsoever.
That, of course, is stupid. The entire bad-boy thing is one of the most self destructive traits a woman can have. But it is so undeniably there! Today I watched impassively as Ted put his all into wildly romantic gestures, then watched Barney recount jut some of the thousands of ways he has screwed girls over and thought 'Damn. I'd tap that'. So just what is it that makes a bad boy so irrestistable?
The popular theory is, of course, that women see the total tool as a challenge. That there would be a victory in being the one person who could tame him, that just isn't equalled by the triumph of managing to snag a guy who's already wonderful. I think there is something in that, but for me, the main attraction is that any act of kindness, no matter how small, is worth so much more coming from a bad guy.
Think about it. If we'd learned that trustworthy Ted had flown to San Fran to convince Lily to come back to Marshall it would have been no big deal. Sweet, but that's Ted for you. The same act from commitment phobe Barney? Mind blowing. And hot. Ted was in love with Robin by the end of the first episode. So what? Three years on Barney decides he might have feelings for her weeks after they've slept together? The most romantic thing I've ever heard!
The same applies to all of the other characters I mentioned. Chuck Bass secretly selling his shares in his beloved burlesque club to help his best friend out? Awesome. And that brings me to another point - he didn't want the friend to know that he'd done it. With that, ladies and gentlemen, I am sold. There is nothing, absolutely nothing, hotter than a guy who is secretly nice. A guy who will go to great lengths to conceal his humanity and maintain the carefully propogated myth that he is a complete douchetard. I love it.
And it's not just are their kindnesses worth more than those of guys who wear their niceness with pride - George O'Malley can be as lovely as he likes but Alex Karev saving a baby while talking sports will always leave him for dust. It is a simple fact that bad guys are just more interesting. Nobody who's read Sense and Sensibility can seriously prefer the integrity of the Colonel to the dashing, if caddish, charms of Willoughby. I'm just saying, a lady likes a hint of danger to spice things up.
But I think there is at least one point of genuine merit for the bad boy contingent - at least you know what to expect. You can dream of being the one woman who will make him see the error of his ways, but you go to bed with a Barney and he never calls? You should have known what you were getting into. The douchey traits of a Ted or a McDreamy (and they will have some, trust me) are far more difficult to predict and often more devastating on revelation. Plus, with a Barney you will never lose the moral high ground, and who doesn't love to be right?
So for me, it's case closed. Despite a lingering suspicion that the secret softer side is only obligatory to bad boys in the fictional world, and that for the most part people who appear to be asshats are just that, I just... love a douchebag. At least it's never dull.
dimanche 21 septembre 2008
So, lost in France.
There are times when I just wonder; why? Why on earth did, as a 18 year old English student decide that a three year law degree at a top uni was simply not challenging enough and I would love to pick up my belongings, take off to some French city I've never even visited where I know nobody and spend a year attempting to study law in French?
And why, after I applied late and without the correct form, and after I turned up for my interview too hungover to focus on anything but Burger King, did my uni think it would be a good idea to let me go? Even after my attendance and exam records had shown that my devotion to my studies was, well, questionable at best?
And, for the love of God, why did I not think to worry about any of this in the year between being offered my place at Rouen university and my actually going? WHY DID I NOT REALLY TRY TO PRACTICE MY FRENCH?!
But then I go calm down and take off the caps lock and think it through. And it makes a little bit of sense.
Because, you see, it is a little bit insane for me to be studying French law. But anybody who examined my academic record and disposition would see that it's not so much the French part as the law part that's crazy. I bore easy, and self motivate rarely, and they are two things which are decidedly not useful in a lawyer. What's more, I am truly, hideously, unorganised (see above re. incorrect form, late application etc.). I send a lot of my time sending frantic emails to various authorities assuring them that things must have gotten lost in the post. Soooo not model law student behaviour.
France, on the other hand, has always been my thing. Not so much the grammar, but the language generally, the atmosphere, the country. Cheese, wine and baguettes have always appealed to me. So, yeah, I wanted to go to France. That's what I'd been telling people since I was thirteen, and when the opportunity came up I applied.
Why my uni opted to send me is a little bit harder to understand. I mean, I am far from stupid (I wouldn't have been at that uni in the first place if I wasn't), but amongst the people on my course I'm average at best intelligence-wise and considerably below average in terms of commitment. And my grades, in first year especiallyhave always reflected this.
But what I am, besides lazy and disorganised, is a good bullshitter. I mean a tremendously good bullshitter. I am the girl who wins national debate contests from the floor because I'm not on the team because I forgot to prepare a speech for audition day (yeah, people totally hate me). So my innate bullshitting skills must have come to the fore on interview day, through the hangover, and persuaded the law department that I was exactly the sort of confident go-getter who would reap all of the benefits a year abroad has to offer.
Why I didn't prepare for France in the subsequent year is completely simple. I told you already, I never prepare properly. In short, I am rubbish (but good at concealing that fact). And now I, at the age of 20, live in France. And it is really... weird.
Like, completely weird. Not bad, just strange. Surreal, really. I've managed to procure an appartment (score), a roomate (hmm) and a student ID (just amazed I got round to it), but I still really have no idea what this year is going to be like. It's a mystery.
So, I thought, what better reason to attempt keeping a blog (again)? It's not like I have that many people to talk to - and I'm fairly limited in what I could say anyway - either by my french vocab or by the fact that what I have to say might offend french people. And who knows - something interesting might actually happen.
So, a plus tard!
N
And why, after I applied late and without the correct form, and after I turned up for my interview too hungover to focus on anything but Burger King, did my uni think it would be a good idea to let me go? Even after my attendance and exam records had shown that my devotion to my studies was, well, questionable at best?
And, for the love of God, why did I not think to worry about any of this in the year between being offered my place at Rouen university and my actually going? WHY DID I NOT REALLY TRY TO PRACTICE MY FRENCH?!
But then I go calm down and take off the caps lock and think it through. And it makes a little bit of sense.
Because, you see, it is a little bit insane for me to be studying French law. But anybody who examined my academic record and disposition would see that it's not so much the French part as the law part that's crazy. I bore easy, and self motivate rarely, and they are two things which are decidedly not useful in a lawyer. What's more, I am truly, hideously, unorganised (see above re. incorrect form, late application etc.). I send a lot of my time sending frantic emails to various authorities assuring them that things must have gotten lost in the post. Soooo not model law student behaviour.
France, on the other hand, has always been my thing. Not so much the grammar, but the language generally, the atmosphere, the country. Cheese, wine and baguettes have always appealed to me. So, yeah, I wanted to go to France. That's what I'd been telling people since I was thirteen, and when the opportunity came up I applied.
Why my uni opted to send me is a little bit harder to understand. I mean, I am far from stupid (I wouldn't have been at that uni in the first place if I wasn't), but amongst the people on my course I'm average at best intelligence-wise and considerably below average in terms of commitment. And my grades, in first year especiallyhave always reflected this.
But what I am, besides lazy and disorganised, is a good bullshitter. I mean a tremendously good bullshitter. I am the girl who wins national debate contests from the floor because I'm not on the team because I forgot to prepare a speech for audition day (yeah, people totally hate me). So my innate bullshitting skills must have come to the fore on interview day, through the hangover, and persuaded the law department that I was exactly the sort of confident go-getter who would reap all of the benefits a year abroad has to offer.
Why I didn't prepare for France in the subsequent year is completely simple. I told you already, I never prepare properly. In short, I am rubbish (but good at concealing that fact). And now I, at the age of 20, live in France. And it is really... weird.
Like, completely weird. Not bad, just strange. Surreal, really. I've managed to procure an appartment (score), a roomate (hmm) and a student ID (just amazed I got round to it), but I still really have no idea what this year is going to be like. It's a mystery.
So, I thought, what better reason to attempt keeping a blog (again)? It's not like I have that many people to talk to - and I'm fairly limited in what I could say anyway - either by my french vocab or by the fact that what I have to say might offend french people. And who knows - something interesting might actually happen.
So, a plus tard!
N
Inscription à :
Articles (Atom)
