In praise of pretty boys . . .

Sigh. There are so many of them, and I do love a pretty boy.

I have been known to stand in front of an Abercrombie & Fitch poster, quivering and drooling -- to the vast amusement of my friends.

And then there's my mental collection of the boys of Buffy. And Clark. God, that mouth -- oh, like no one else has noticed. Yeah. Right. Okay, back on track now.

Last night, I had a particularly delectable experience with a very pretty boy. But first, let me begin with the fact that I am actually typing while standing, so that I can peer over my cubicle wall and keep a close and appreciative eye on Jeff, formerly known as Licorice-Eating-Cute-Guy.

Yes, Diane, he's sitting practically next to me. And next to him is Larry, who is also easy on the eyes and a genuinely sweet guy to boot.

I'm telling you . . . if these guys weren't students, and one of them one of my student workers, they'd be in some serious trouble.

So at least I have a nice view, this morning. And I'm still a ditzy, tongue-tied idiot around the guy, because when I smiled at him and said hi, he actually spoke! Actual words! Amazing. Usually, he just mumbles and scuffs his feet and turns an interesting shade of red.

So, I think I must have managed to pass some ordinary pleasantry to the effect of "how ya doing?" because his answer was, "I'm excellent. Absolutely excellent!" Big grin and eye contact and everything.

And my brain goes out the window, and all I can think of to say in return is, "Wow. That's really great. Glad to hear it."

Then I went and hid under my desk in embarassment.

I need to get over this reaction.

Now I'm thinking, just *why* is he so excellent? Good grade on an exam? Won the lottery? Got laid? Happy to see moi?

Aaargh.

There is absolutely no where to go with this crush. Either he has to graduate, or I have to quit my job before I can jump him. Employee-student relationships are not just against university policy, they're also against my personal code that says quite clearly, Don't Shit Where You Eat.

Any time you date someone that you've met in a work setting, it always ends up badly. For someone. Not necessarily me, but either way, it sucks big time.

So . . . back to last night.

Some of you probably know that I work part-time at the mall, in addition to my full-time job as a library worker bee.

I got to the mall early last night, so instead of buying food and running off to gobble it on the hoof, so to speak, I actually got to sit down in the food court and relax.

Cheesesteaks had the shortest line, so that was what I ordered. Yum. I haven't had a decent cheesesteak in a long time. They taste extra-good when you don't eat them for six months.

Anyway, I happened to sit near one of those kiosks that does the airbrushed T-shirts while-you-wait, and had a great view of the artist -- a fellow notable for his incredible arms.

I am talking, awesome arms. Like in the those-are-great-arms-to-have category.

Great-to-have-around-me category.

Ahem. I digress.

So I'm gnawing on my cheesesteak and picking at my fries, and more or less dreamily watching this guy's arms as he airbrushes the Tasmanian Devil onto some chick's shirt.

Good-looking guy, too. Blond hair and a tan, sort of David-Chokachi-looking. Nice broad shoulders -- a little short, but that probably accounts for the arms.

Short guys always seem to compensate by bulking up.

Anyway, I'm watching while he finishes up and then saunters past me for, I guess, his dinner break, because he comes back with a big ol' salad.

Of course.

What, you thought that Mickey D's was going to pass his lips?

The salad looked really good, so I'm staring at it, trying to figure out from which salad place he bought it, and just what's in it, because it was totally yummy-looking. Of course, so were his abs under the really tight black t-shirt, so I was just kind of taking in the complete picture, as it were.

And this guy catches me staring and has the nerve to say to me, "If you were eating a salad instead of a cheesesteak, maybe I'd be looking at you the way you've been looking at me."

Busted. Soooooo busted.

Fortunately, my mouth often operates much faster than my brain, because I looked up at him with my biggest, most charming smile (the one that has been known to poleax unsuspecting males on many occasions), and I said in my sweetest tones, "So . . . that works for you? Criticizing a woman's food choices as a pick-up line?"

Points to me as the firm, manly jaw dropped right open.

Much to my surprise, he turned around and apologized for being such a jerk, parked himself at the table next to me and one over (far enough away that I didn't feel threatened, close enough that continuing banter was easily accomplished), and we chatted for the next half-hour.

While, I might add, I finished my cheesesteak, thank you very much.

There was some pleasant, low-key flirting going on, and surprisingly, he asked me out afterwards.

I like to think that maybe, just maybe, this guy learned something. Revamped his thinking a bit. Realized that it's none of his business what I'm eating or why. Discovered that I was a cool, interesting, attractive chick and that he shouldn't immediately dismiss a woman based on what she is or isn't eating.

Hey, I learned something too. I learned that eye candy can also have brains and that I was judging a book by its cover just as much as he was judging me.

We'll see what happens. I told him that I'd see him around the mall. Think I'll wait and see if he's brave enough to venture into Lane Bryant to see me. Giggle.

So the moral of the story is . . . pretty is good. Pretty, buff, and smart is even better.

Grin

Fanfic / feedback wars

My god. This is the subject that won't go away.

It's like Chinese food. You eat it for hours, until you're ready to burst, and then you look at the carton and find out that you've only managed to lower the level of fried rice by, like, half an inch.

I'm only following the author wars in other people's live journals, so perhaps I'm lacking some depth of experience.

The concept of flaming is an interesting one. What, exactly, constitutes a flame?

I have been known to send feedback to authors that discussed how disturbing I found a story to be. I once sent a feedback that talked about how wonderful the story was, that it could actually make me hate the author a little bit for writing it.

I never heard anything back from that author, but perhaps she thought I was a nut case.

I might very well be, but the fact that she was able to inspire something like virulent hatred in me was the highest compliment I've ever paid to an author.

I didn't consider that message to be a flame. I certainly didn't mean it that way, and I would hope that the author did not take it that way. I like to think that the reason I never heard so much as a thank-you was just that the author in question doesn't do thanks for feedback.

Which puts this author in the rude category, but hey. World's full of them.

As a beginning author myself, maybe I'm more rabid than most about thanking people for taking the time to tell me *anything* about my story. The people who mentioned things that they *didn't* like still got notes from me, because I think it's polite.

Feedback is a gift. hackthis said it well, better probably than I could have. Go here and read what she has to say.

Sums it up quite nicely.

Knowing how oversensitive I can be (just ask my betas! ::: blowing kisses :::), I'm inclined to be more tolerant of diva-like behavior in an author. But that's no excuse for rudeness, which is all that a flamewar really is.

We're all adults here. Let's act like it.

And again . . . let me mention the concept of free will and the delete key

Catching up on other people's LJs

Gakked from lucifrix





Which
VW Are You?
by Auto
Glass America

Woo-hoo! I always did like the Volkswagen Thing. Then again . . . what the HELL did I say to get this result? I am *so* not the Southern redneck type. Not at all.

Sometimes I think that these things are rigged. Like, no matter what you answer, you'll get assigned a particular icon, and that's just it.

Like the time I took a Buffy test *seventeen* times and STILL kept being told that I was Oz.

Yeah, right.