Thursday, November 18, 2010

HPDH, y'all!

I'm so fucking pumped to see Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows tomorrow. Are you fucking pumped? Great. We'll be fucking pumped together.


The Union Square subway station is plastered with promotional posters that have been haunting me for weeks. Every time I look at them I feel like my heart is going to explode. Do I sound like a nerd? Fine. I'm a nerd. Avada kedavra me already. I had hoped to go to a midnight showing this evening, but I wasn't able to find tickets to any theater that DOESN'T have a reputation of having bedbugs (bedbugs are my Lord Voldemort. Neither of us can live while the other survives, which is why I'm writing this from the grave). But tomorrow? Hoo, boy! I'm gonna drink some wine, eat some barbecue, watch me some HP and it's gonna be totally awesome. Do they make special Gryffindor diapers? 'Cause, heads up, I'll probably poop myself.

Also, can we take a moment to appreciate what lovely adults Harry, Ron and Hermione have grown into?


Especially Emma Watson. How come no one will recognize how adorable Emma Watson is?

Wednesday, November 17, 2010

May the force of typography be with you

This one's for Molly. And everyone else! (But especially Molly.)



Via BuzzFeed.

Baby Baby Baby No

Stop whatever it is you're doing. Seriously. Just stop. This is important.


I'd like to introduce you to my new friend Jeremy, father of pop sensation Justin Bieber.

Now, I don't care so much about the Biebs because I am a 23 year-old lady with a life. Does that mean I judge the young girls who feel differently? Of course not. Tweens like shitty things. When I was that age, I loved Hanson and The Spice Girls (still do. Eat it, h8rz) and today's girls love Justin Bieber and yak baks (right?). I'm not judging. Except, in this case, I'm totally judging. But I'm judging something else:

This man is a father! Of a human being! A real human child who is a millionaire thanks to a pristine bowl cut and asexual singing voice!

Remember when Justin Bieber first hit the scene and there was all that press surrounding his swagger coach? (Feel free to barrow my Bieber scrapbook if you need your memories refreshed.) That swagger coach was totally unnecessary! Swagger is clearly in his genes! HIS GENES! When I look at the above photo all I can think is TOO MUCH SWAGGER. SWAGGER BOMB ACTIVATED. BANG BOOM BOW.

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Ranga

I've always been a little bewildered by ginger prejudice. The first time I heard about it was from a foreign exchange student in high school- a kid from New Zealand- and when I asked him what it was rooted in, he said something along the lines of "well, gingers are just dumb," then added, "Cool as, mate! Haka! Sheep! Haka!" (Admittedly, I wasn't really paying attention so the accuracy of this quote is debatable.) The next year, when I was a high school exchange student living in Italy, my host family echoed his sentiments, saying that redheads were pretty much the worst (counterpoint: AT BEING UGLY?). I returned to the States in 2005 amidst the South Park/"Kick a Ginger" Day debacle, so vitriol for redheads had clearly reached U.S. shores. I could go on with more examples, but I won't... mainly because I can't think of any. It's not like I'm head professor of the ginger studies department at St. Ginge University (though, clearly, I am head professor of the good jokes department HILARIOUS University).

Over the past few years, I've paid good money to be a ginger. THOUSANDS of dollars. Probably even millions. Living in New York has been a definite siphon on my wallet. I've had to give up a lot of the foods I like (I still allow myself Wagyu steak and eggs on Sundays) and activities I enjoy participating in (polo gear is so expensive), not to mention that most of my clothes have holes in them ("People are homeless. Shut your college-educated face." -You). Regardless, I'm still pretty unwilling to give up having my hair dyed. Have you ever seen my natural hair color? It's gross. The grossest. Really, I'm doing everyone else a favor by keeping it covered up. YOU'RE WELCOME, THE WORLD.

Anyways, red hair is awesome. I get complimented on it all of the time. I was once in a gay bar and a guy came up to me and said that I looked like a poster child for Ireland (I was drunk, too). He then said that I should feel extra complimented because he was gay and so it took a lot to get him to notice a lady and her hair. I'm not one to look a compliment horse in the mouth, so I said thank you and now you know that I'm not lying about getting compliments. I've provided anecdotal evidence. Another time, when trying to brainstorm halloween costumes, a coworker suggested that I dress up as Chuckie (which one?). Oh, well. You win some, you lose some.

I guess this is just my self-centered/roundabout/long-winded way of saying LOOK AT THIS CUTE PRINT, GUYS!


Cute, right? So cute? Okay, I'll shut up now.

Flickr.

Friday, November 12, 2010

~_~

November 18th is officially (or unofficially? I don't know what words mean) 'Have Sex With A Guy With A Mustache' Day.

I'm calling dibs on this:



JK. Mustaches are gross/no one touch me.

Saturday, November 6, 2010

A love letter to a November Saturday

A note from the author: This entry deviates a bit from the general tone of Madeleine Davies Aims to Please. Regardless, here it is. If you're displeased, rest assured that I will return Monday with the usual poop jokes and dinosaur references. XO, my dearests.

I am having one of those rare days where it seems the Universe and I are plugged into one another. Objectively, nothing spectacular has happened, though everything feels electric and welcoming. Too often do I feel in contention with the world around me, like I’m a malformed puzzle piece or a sixth finger on an otherwise functioning hand. Things like the way people treat one another can confuse me to the point where I’m barely functioning. My inability to accept the general lack of compassion that I see on the subway or at the corner store or waiting in line at the bank feels like a deficiency on my part, as though there’s something wrong with me for wanting people to be kind to one another.

Today is different, though. I am in sync. I smile at the people who serve me my coffee and don’t let it bother me when they don’t smile back. At the very least, they’ll register my contentment and, hopefully, catch some of their own. I don’t worry when I repeatedly spill coffee on my new sweater. I am clumsy and, for today, this is endearing. I walk down the trendiest street and don’t care whether or not anyone is judging my backpack or shoes because my backpack is full of apples from the farmers market and my shoes are doing a terrific job of taking me where I want to go. Everyone should be so lucky to have shoes and a backpack like mine. I cut through the back streets and notice amazing copper roofs, winding fire escapes and old churches that I’ve never seen before. Little kids zoom past me on their bikes, shouting in Spanish.

I feel so lucky to be alive in Brooklyn at this moment.

I realize that I’ve never walked more than a block East of my apartment before and decide that now is the perfect time to change that. It’s overcast and cool, but I’m comfortable in my coffee-stained sweater and threadbare jacket—comfortable enough for new discoveries and quiet adventure. Less than two blocks from home there’s a massive fenced-off building, a former hospital made of brick with arches and smokestacks. It’s stunning in its overgrown way. I circle the grounds then head back to my barely furnished apartment.



In my kitchen, putting away my market purchases, I have an epiphany: I’ve just had the perfect date with myself. I was (and am) funny and charming, a fantastic ball of chaos. I am good company for myself. I am fortunate to know me. This is the most perfect form of egoism.

It’s all too possible that tomorrow will be different. I could wake up grumpy and annoyed with myself for forgetting to send an e-mail or sleeping too late. This surprising bout of serenity could dissolve at any moment, but this afternoon by myself was too perfect to feel anything besides an overwhelming and immense love. It's a love for me, for all of you and for an earth that has so much to give just as long as I am open to it.