A friend sent a link to me with a funny retelling of a a woman's obsession with Alan Rickman. Why did he do this? Maybe because I have my OWN obsession with him. Could be, but don't tell anyone. 😛
Stalking Alan Rickman
Monday: Fed up with being a faithful wife. Unwilling to cheat with just anyone because in my wedding vows, I promised not to. Fortunately, I slipped in a loophole. Right after "I do," I embraced my beloved and whispered in his ear, "Of course, if a celebrity ever asks me to run away with him, you're history as far as I'm concerned. You understand that, don't you?" I think he did - the look on his face had to be agreement. Through the subsequent decades, I have threatened to leave him for men ranging from Johnny Depp to Denzel Washington and yet I haven't gone, so he has become complacent. The old fool. Now's my time to move.
Tuesday: Have narrowed my list of possible mates for mid-life grand passion. Focus. Must have focus. Keanu? Too young. Harrison? I've read he has a bad back. Jackie? Maybe, but he would probably expect athletic sex. I think I would be impressed yet intimidated by someone who could strip, then bounce off the wall and land on the bed in a handstand. No, upon consideration, my destiny is clear. He's tall and lean, moody and complicated, with a baritone that melts the butter on my kitchen table: Alan Rickman.
I knew from the moment I saw him on-screen that we were soul-mates, so we'll have that going for us. I can tell by his haircut, he has the cool brilliance of Hans Gruber in "Die Hard." I'm positive someone who added interest to "Robin Hood: Prince of Boring" could liven up dull evenings. As for his recent performance as Professor Snape in "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone," well, that does it. If he can be sexy made-up as Ichabod Crane's long-lost cousin, just imagine what he's like nekkid. Lord knows, I have.
Wednesday: Depressed. Searched the internet, assuming Alan would have a web site, waiting for me to email him. He does not. He does, however, have a wife. I learned that from the Alan Rickman fan sites, of which, there are far too many. I checked their counters. According to my calculations, at least 125,000 adult females spend really serious amounts of time each day discussing him. They know his favorite food and star sign. They know his inseam measurement. They have made wallpapers for their desktop from his publicity shots, so they can stare at his face between chats. That's so sick. I keep his picture in my documents file, as any sane person would.
Thursday: Recovered resolve. Hannibal didn't let little things like the Alps stop him, and I'm not letting 125,000 other fans and Mrs. Rickman stop me. Grumpy about over-population. If there were less people on the earth, my odds would be much better. Have informed Steve of my intentions, so he can prepare to be single. He seems unperturbed.
Friday: Over breakfast, Steve gently suggested my plan to trample all rivals with elephant herds was unrealistic, probably immoral, and definitely illegal. I hate it when he's right. Decided to take direct approach and just call my unknowing-but-fated lover. Searched web for about ten hours, finally found his barber's brother had posted Alan's phone number on his links page. When we speak, I must warn him to change it. Any kook could get hold of it and bother him.
Saturday: Turned out the Alan Rickman with a phone number listed on the internet was an accountant in Surrey. He was nice and we chatted for awhile about the time difference between America and Britain. If he and the family are ever in town, they promised to stop by. He congratulated me on my determination. So far, only 536 women have called his house looking for the actor by the same name. It's clear, most never come this far on the quest. I feel that's a good omen. He's sending me a London phone book; further action will have to wait till it arrives.
Wednesday: Began ancillary strategies. Since war elephants are bad form, decided to distract other Rickman fans, and possibly Mrs. Rickman, with another man. Started Brad Pitt fan site, heavily advertised to those hanging about the Rickman forums. Included photo of Brad in a tux from "Meet Joe Black." Feel sorry for his wife, Jennifer Aniston, but all's fair in love and war. I think she'll rebound if Brad is lured away by the fresh onslaught of adoration. I worry that Alan will be concerned when his fans abandon him but once we're together, I will console him. Often.
Friday: Diversionary tactic not working as planned. Number of visitors to new Brad Pitt site going up but number of Rickman fans not decreasing at his sites. Apparently, the hussies are lusting after both celebrities at once. Some people have no sense of decorum.
The London phone book is here at last. Sent Mr. Rickman-the-Accountant-In-Surrey a nice fruit basket as a thank you, with best wishes for the wife and kids.
Wednesday: None of the twenty-two Alan Rickmans in the London phone book were the actor. When asked, I told Steve I was making cold calls all day, trolling for new business. Suffered twinge of guilt about lying but listened to Alan's recording of "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun" until the feeling went away.
Monday: After much thought, I have decided only a face-to-face meeting is going to have the desired result, so I've been getting a distressing amount of exercise, trimming up for a trip to London. It occurred to me that a man who winds up in Gentlemen's Quarterly might not find middle-aged pudge adorable on a woman. Steve says I look fine just the way I am, but what does he know?
Friday: The phone bill arrived. Steve was not amused but once I pointed out that I will be designing web sites for several Alan Rickman's in the Greater London Area as a result of the calls, he was somewhat mollified. True, it makes for an odd resumé, but I guess it doesn't hurt to specialize. I asked Steve if my leaving him for a handsome actor bothered him at all. He said, "No, it's good you have a hobby." He is not taking me seriously, I can tell.
Tuesday: Cannot move. Every muscle hurts. To hell with exercise. Alan spends his working day surrounded by beautiful actresses; my gritty authenticity is bound to make for a refreshing change. Got the Rickmans' home address from his second-cousin's best-friend's daughter, who was bribable for a pathetically small sum. Mailed Mrs. Rickman photos of Brad Pitt and the fan site address with further illustrations to tempt her. I have my plane ticket. It's all coming together.
Thursday: Severe difficulties. I cannot waylay Alan at his home, because now it wouldn't be sporting. His wife wrote back, thanked me for the pictures, and said Brad's nice in person, too. Chatted a bit about the weather and sent me an 8x10 glossy of Alan. Dammit. You can't woo someone's husband at her home after you've exchanged friendly correspondence; it's uncivilized. She's shrewd, I'll give her that.
I know his favorite restaurant because his dog groomer let it slip and I got the blueprints from the architect's web site. Have considered camouflaging myself with body paint so I blend in with the rafters over his table. I could lurk up there till the perfect moment arrived to drop into his lap, perhaps when he's distracted by his soup's arrival. Discarded that notion because I'd have to wear Spandex. What if my gritty authenticity doesn't impress at first glance? Worse, what if I miss and hit the soup?
Discouraged. Alan Rickman turns out to be elusive, and now there are 135,000 women regularly visiting his fan sites, because he's still picking up momentum from the Harry Potter people. It is an unfair life, and that's all there is to it. Steve says I should look at the good things I've got. What a geek.
Friday: Received form letter from Brad Pitt, thanking me for my efforts on his fan site. It was addressed to Syci Kirpatic. Enclosed was a picture of Jennifer and him, both smiling and perfect from head to toe. I held it up next to myself in the mirror. I did not look like I was a member of the same species. Went to zoo. Felt better after watching the monkeys for a long, long time. Steve said I should buck up, and he wouldn't trade me for the world. Sometimes he's all right.
Monday: Decided Alan Rickman is too coy, so I have given up my pursuit. Sent my recipe for aphrodisiac-laced tamales to his wife, so someone will get some use out of it. Asked Steve if he wanted to go to London with me. Claimed I had booked the trip because of my intense interest in bulbs at Kew Gardens. He said it was already arranged. He also has two tickets to a play that stars Rickman. He said once it's over, when we get back to the hotel, I can do absolutely anything I want to him because, after all, he's my husband. I think I will. Mailed Brad and Alan autographed pictures of Steve and me, both of us smiling and not at all perfect.
======
Dear Attorneys and Other Members of the Judiciary System:
This is fiction. I have never stalked Alan Rickman nor will I in the future. I have never started a Brad Pitt site in order to subvert Mr. Rickman's fan base, nor have I called innocent Mr. Rickmans who are listed in the phone book. I have never corresponded with Mrs. Rickman, not even to send her tamale recipes. However, as claimed, I do have a copy of Alan's portrait from Gentleman's Quarterly in my document file because, WoW! I will tell you I have deleted it, if you write and insist.
Stalking Alan Rickman
Monday: Fed up with being a faithful wife. Unwilling to cheat with just anyone because in my wedding vows, I promised not to. Fortunately, I slipped in a loophole. Right after "I do," I embraced my beloved and whispered in his ear, "Of course, if a celebrity ever asks me to run away with him, you're history as far as I'm concerned. You understand that, don't you?" I think he did - the look on his face had to be agreement. Through the subsequent decades, I have threatened to leave him for men ranging from Johnny Depp to Denzel Washington and yet I haven't gone, so he has become complacent. The old fool. Now's my time to move.
Tuesday: Have narrowed my list of possible mates for mid-life grand passion. Focus. Must have focus. Keanu? Too young. Harrison? I've read he has a bad back. Jackie? Maybe, but he would probably expect athletic sex. I think I would be impressed yet intimidated by someone who could strip, then bounce off the wall and land on the bed in a handstand. No, upon consideration, my destiny is clear. He's tall and lean, moody and complicated, with a baritone that melts the butter on my kitchen table: Alan Rickman.
I knew from the moment I saw him on-screen that we were soul-mates, so we'll have that going for us. I can tell by his haircut, he has the cool brilliance of Hans Gruber in "Die Hard." I'm positive someone who added interest to "Robin Hood: Prince of Boring" could liven up dull evenings. As for his recent performance as Professor Snape in "Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone," well, that does it. If he can be sexy made-up as Ichabod Crane's long-lost cousin, just imagine what he's like nekkid. Lord knows, I have.
Wednesday: Depressed. Searched the internet, assuming Alan would have a web site, waiting for me to email him. He does not. He does, however, have a wife. I learned that from the Alan Rickman fan sites, of which, there are far too many. I checked their counters. According to my calculations, at least 125,000 adult females spend really serious amounts of time each day discussing him. They know his favorite food and star sign. They know his inseam measurement. They have made wallpapers for their desktop from his publicity shots, so they can stare at his face between chats. That's so sick. I keep his picture in my documents file, as any sane person would.
Thursday: Recovered resolve. Hannibal didn't let little things like the Alps stop him, and I'm not letting 125,000 other fans and Mrs. Rickman stop me. Grumpy about over-population. If there were less people on the earth, my odds would be much better. Have informed Steve of my intentions, so he can prepare to be single. He seems unperturbed.
Friday: Over breakfast, Steve gently suggested my plan to trample all rivals with elephant herds was unrealistic, probably immoral, and definitely illegal. I hate it when he's right. Decided to take direct approach and just call my unknowing-but-fated lover. Searched web for about ten hours, finally found his barber's brother had posted Alan's phone number on his links page. When we speak, I must warn him to change it. Any kook could get hold of it and bother him.
Saturday: Turned out the Alan Rickman with a phone number listed on the internet was an accountant in Surrey. He was nice and we chatted for awhile about the time difference between America and Britain. If he and the family are ever in town, they promised to stop by. He congratulated me on my determination. So far, only 536 women have called his house looking for the actor by the same name. It's clear, most never come this far on the quest. I feel that's a good omen. He's sending me a London phone book; further action will have to wait till it arrives.
Wednesday: Began ancillary strategies. Since war elephants are bad form, decided to distract other Rickman fans, and possibly Mrs. Rickman, with another man. Started Brad Pitt fan site, heavily advertised to those hanging about the Rickman forums. Included photo of Brad in a tux from "Meet Joe Black." Feel sorry for his wife, Jennifer Aniston, but all's fair in love and war. I think she'll rebound if Brad is lured away by the fresh onslaught of adoration. I worry that Alan will be concerned when his fans abandon him but once we're together, I will console him. Often.
Friday: Diversionary tactic not working as planned. Number of visitors to new Brad Pitt site going up but number of Rickman fans not decreasing at his sites. Apparently, the hussies are lusting after both celebrities at once. Some people have no sense of decorum.
The London phone book is here at last. Sent Mr. Rickman-the-Accountant-In-Surrey a nice fruit basket as a thank you, with best wishes for the wife and kids.
Wednesday: None of the twenty-two Alan Rickmans in the London phone book were the actor. When asked, I told Steve I was making cold calls all day, trolling for new business. Suffered twinge of guilt about lying but listened to Alan's recording of "My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun" until the feeling went away.
Monday: After much thought, I have decided only a face-to-face meeting is going to have the desired result, so I've been getting a distressing amount of exercise, trimming up for a trip to London. It occurred to me that a man who winds up in Gentlemen's Quarterly might not find middle-aged pudge adorable on a woman. Steve says I look fine just the way I am, but what does he know?
Friday: The phone bill arrived. Steve was not amused but once I pointed out that I will be designing web sites for several Alan Rickman's in the Greater London Area as a result of the calls, he was somewhat mollified. True, it makes for an odd resumé, but I guess it doesn't hurt to specialize. I asked Steve if my leaving him for a handsome actor bothered him at all. He said, "No, it's good you have a hobby." He is not taking me seriously, I can tell.
Tuesday: Cannot move. Every muscle hurts. To hell with exercise. Alan spends his working day surrounded by beautiful actresses; my gritty authenticity is bound to make for a refreshing change. Got the Rickmans' home address from his second-cousin's best-friend's daughter, who was bribable for a pathetically small sum. Mailed Mrs. Rickman photos of Brad Pitt and the fan site address with further illustrations to tempt her. I have my plane ticket. It's all coming together.
Thursday: Severe difficulties. I cannot waylay Alan at his home, because now it wouldn't be sporting. His wife wrote back, thanked me for the pictures, and said Brad's nice in person, too. Chatted a bit about the weather and sent me an 8x10 glossy of Alan. Dammit. You can't woo someone's husband at her home after you've exchanged friendly correspondence; it's uncivilized. She's shrewd, I'll give her that.
I know his favorite restaurant because his dog groomer let it slip and I got the blueprints from the architect's web site. Have considered camouflaging myself with body paint so I blend in with the rafters over his table. I could lurk up there till the perfect moment arrived to drop into his lap, perhaps when he's distracted by his soup's arrival. Discarded that notion because I'd have to wear Spandex. What if my gritty authenticity doesn't impress at first glance? Worse, what if I miss and hit the soup?
Discouraged. Alan Rickman turns out to be elusive, and now there are 135,000 women regularly visiting his fan sites, because he's still picking up momentum from the Harry Potter people. It is an unfair life, and that's all there is to it. Steve says I should look at the good things I've got. What a geek.
Friday: Received form letter from Brad Pitt, thanking me for my efforts on his fan site. It was addressed to Syci Kirpatic. Enclosed was a picture of Jennifer and him, both smiling and perfect from head to toe. I held it up next to myself in the mirror. I did not look like I was a member of the same species. Went to zoo. Felt better after watching the monkeys for a long, long time. Steve said I should buck up, and he wouldn't trade me for the world. Sometimes he's all right.
Monday: Decided Alan Rickman is too coy, so I have given up my pursuit. Sent my recipe for aphrodisiac-laced tamales to his wife, so someone will get some use out of it. Asked Steve if he wanted to go to London with me. Claimed I had booked the trip because of my intense interest in bulbs at Kew Gardens. He said it was already arranged. He also has two tickets to a play that stars Rickman. He said once it's over, when we get back to the hotel, I can do absolutely anything I want to him because, after all, he's my husband. I think I will. Mailed Brad and Alan autographed pictures of Steve and me, both of us smiling and not at all perfect.
======
Dear Attorneys and Other Members of the Judiciary System:
This is fiction. I have never stalked Alan Rickman nor will I in the future. I have never started a Brad Pitt site in order to subvert Mr. Rickman's fan base, nor have I called innocent Mr. Rickmans who are listed in the phone book. I have never corresponded with Mrs. Rickman, not even to send her tamale recipes. However, as claimed, I do have a copy of Alan's portrait from Gentleman's Quarterly in my document file because, WoW! I will tell you I have deleted it, if you write and insist.
