It’s a thing.
Every now and again, someone tells me that I am intimidating. Not physically, mind you; after all, I’m about as physically intimidating as an angry kumquat. But, intimidating nonetheless.
I wonder, sometimes, if this comes from the fact that I tend to be (and try to be) a very straightforward, honest person. I do my best to be kind, but I also don’t pull any punches when I’m speaking with people. Mostly because I just can’t stand the whole read-between-the-lines social facade that most people insist on hiding behind.
Because I am many things, but I am no stereotypical “delicate flower” no matter how many floral dresses I wear. I am nobody’s princess, or baby, or doll, or whatever. I’m not looking for someone to save me, or take care of me, or pay my way.
I’m just me. Looking for someone to connect with.
It’s funny, I’ve gone on a few first dates this week, and I’ve mentioned in conversation that I try to live by a specific idea:
Modesty is wasted on your doctor.
After a few raised eyebrows, I explain. Hiding your body from your doctor, whose job is very specifically to observe and understand your body. Rather ineffective, no?
On a wider scale, it means that as much as I default to being a very private person, well versed in the skills of evading personal questions and carrying on a friendly conversation in which I reveal almost nothing relevant about myself, there are some situations in which that’s exceptionally ineffective. Like, say, dating.
So I don’t put up much pretense on a first date. I’m looking for someone who likes me – the me that I am, not the me that I think they might maybe want me to mold myself into. I happen to think that I’m a pretty swell lady, some of the fellas even seem to agree.
Needless to say, this strategy weeds out a lot of potential suitors.
On the other hand, the one’s who are still interested after meeting my fairly uncensored self, well, they at least know what they’re signing up for.
I had a particularly pleasant first date this past weekend.
Very… unexpected (those of you following my adventures regularly may recall a Tai Chi class for which I was rather unprepared…)
It’s funny, the way the stars align sometimes. Just this week, my favorite not-a-real-doctor posted an article on authenticity and dating. Way to be on point with my life Nerdlove.
You know how sometimes you go on a date, and it goes really well, and you end up in a Tai Chi class the next morning wondering how you got there and thinking that maybe a skirt wasn’t the wisest fashion move today?
Huh. Must just be me, then.
Autumn is the hardest season. The leaves are falling, and they’re falling like they’re falling in love with the ground.
There is celery in my salad.
It is unexpected and, therefore, somewhat unsettling.
That is all.
Me: Moving is boys.
JB: Moving is so boys.
JB: Apparently what we need is vampires…
JB: Less dumb. More sparkly.
Have you seen 12 Monkeys?
If you haven’t, you need to stop what you’re doing and go watch it. Right now.
In an exemplary vision of the ever-popular dystopian, post-apocalyptic future, Terry Gilliam brings together Bruce Willis, Madeleine Stowe, and Brad Pitt in a world brilliantly reminiscent of Brazil yet not nearly so uncomfortable. The story weaves carefully through various times and places, planting hints and clues along the way in some of the best subtle foreshadowing I’ve experienced. Willis is sympathetic and heart wrenching. Stowe is delightfully skeptical. Pitt is nearly unrecognizable in his madness.
It’s a powerful experience.
Now, this film was released when I was a mere 10 years old, so you may be wondering how it came to be a favorite. It’s a simple answer really – I inherited my father’s love of Bruce Willis in my youth – the good (Die Hard), the bad (The Last Boy Scout), the amazing (The 5th Element), the downright campy (Death Becomes Her). I can thank my father for all of these, and 12 Monkeys among them.
You may also be wondering why I’m choosing to talk your ear off about this particular piece of cinematic wonder on this seemingly random summer day. This too is a simple answer – in recent years, independent theaters have taken to showing older films on the big screen to a notably positive response (mine included). Showing tonight, courtesy of the Denver Film Society, is this gem, and I couldn’t be more excited.
Later this summer, DFS is teaming up with the Denver Museum of Nature and Science for their annual Science Fiction Film Series.
By Tom Gauld via The New Yorker
When my friendly, neighborhood Alamo Drafthouse Cinema offers me nearly free tickets to see a movie, I don’t usually think twice about it.
I probably should sometimes.
Last night I saw Area 51. It was supposed to be one of those found-footage/dudes running about while filming their experiences horror films. Note that I said “supposed to be.”
They succeeded at unstable, nauseating cinematography. (Does that even really count as cinematography?)
What they failed at was the horror.
I didn’t jump. I didn’t scream. I didn’t even feel particularly uncomfortable (aside from the motion sickness).
Now, this was from the same director as Paranormal Activity, which managed to have a suitable number of creepy, uncomfortable, and/or jumpy moments, all without fucking with my equilibrium, so I expected this to, at least, not be terrible.
Was it terrible? Not particularly. But it certainly wasn’t good, either.
Overall rating: Bored with a side of “Where’s my Dramamine?”