I Don't Date You, So You Don't Get to Call Me Bipolar

The other night at the Continental, a dude told me that I looked just like his former roommate.

"Oh, that's nice," I said. It's always hard to respond to that kind of comment, because, to be honest, I don't really care.

"No, really -- you totally look just like her! She was crazy -- bipolar, and stopped taking her meds. She didn't tell me that until I'd moved in." This last part was said a little bitterly. NY real estate is hard. If I had mental issues and was off my meds, I wouldn't tell perspective roomies either.

"So we totally stopped talking cause she was so CRAZY, and then she stole two of my dustpans--TWO--so I moved out."

For future reference: if you're going to compare me to bipolar people, can they please be interesting bipolar people? You know, the kind that stay up until all night painting great works of art. Dustpan-stealing bipolar roommates are a bit mundane, as the crazy spectrum goes.

I once had an involvement with a guy that thought New Year's Eve, 6AM, drunk at a bar was a good place and time to tell me I was bipolar. I responded my putting my head down on the bar and crying, which I guess didn't help much with my "I'm-not-bipolar" argument. It seemed like the best response at the time. So hey, continental dude: only people I'm dating get to call me bipolar, or compare me to the bipolar people of the world. Stop it, or I'll steal your replacement dustpan.

Construction

View of construction from the roof of the Avalon on Chrystie and Houston. Many thanks to Dan, who taught me that if you're confident, you can go up on the roof of any building.

Moonstruck!

When I was little I lived about three blocks from Cammareri Brothers' Bakery in Carroll Gardens. You gotta understand that Carroll Gardens was different then: full of little old Italian ladies in housedresses, solidly middle-class families, and without any claims to hipsters or cutting-edge people at all. (Perhaps I sound a bit old as I walk down the streets of Brooklyn past.) When my mom bought cookies and Italian bread, her choice was always Cammareri's. A trip to Cammereri's was guaranteed to result in at least one free cookie for me (sometimes as many as three).

One day, when we walked by, there were tons of trailers, cameras, and very important seeming people. It was the first time I can remember seeing a movie filmed in New York.

Around a year later, my parents and brothers went to see Moonstruck. It was rated R, and I was deemed too young to see it in the theater. This was perhaps the first time that I can remember having a babysitter that was not a brother. I thought it was quite unfair I was not allowed to see the movie. In fairness to my parents, I was six.

Just a few years after the movie came out, Cammareri's closed. We went to other bakeries, but Cammerari's bread persists in memory as the best bread you could ever eat. I'm excited to see how the bread of Monteleoni's + Cammareri's compares to childhood memory.

Blondes: They Don't Always Have More Fun

A few months ago, I had what you might call a hair disaster. Now disaster may seem like a big, melodramatic word, but let's consider that I walked in Astor Place with normal hair, requested subtle red-brown highlights, and walked out with platinum blonde streaks.

I was not meant to be blonde, and particuarly not platinum blonde. In fairness, I do not think my haircutter spoke English, so confusion was perhaps inevitable. Her name was Flor [do not request her at astor place] and somehow, subtle red-brown got translated to chunky platinum blonde.

But now I'm back--and newly updated with cinamon streaks! This is all thanks to Fran [ask for her when you go to Astor]. I was always pretty sure that blondes didn't really have more fun. Now, after four months as a blonde, I can confirm: being blonde does not guarantee more fun.

Do You Think the Post Office Will Sue?

I know the post office was going to sue the Postal Service until some kind of a deal was reached, so maybe they will also sue over this bit of awesomeness. [link via bookslut, which preferred the word "genius."]

How Boring and Lazy am I?

Here's how boring I am: I blogged about laundry.

And here's how lazy I am: I didn't even drop it off!

Times are tough, my friends, tough indeed. Confirmation is rife that February is indeed the worst month (except of course for Dana and my mom's birthdays).

Look forward to better posts next week, with potential titles like: Moist is the Worst Word in English; Madeleine is 100% Sentimental Free; and How to Survive a Dating Siesta (hint: a siesta doesn't involve celibacy).

In fact, if anyone is feeling industrious and leaves a comment, I'll write the post. And how NOT LAZY at all is that!!

Laundry: it's for the little people

Tomorrow, when I wake up, the thing that will make my day great is laundry. And when I say laundry, what I mean is: dropping off my laundry to the lovely people on my corner, and knowing that when I get home from work it will be all clean and folded.

They even match up my socks! Even with free laundry in my own home, I would not match up socks. I'm quite lazy and really don't care about socks.

Dropping off my laundry only costs about 8 bucks, but it makes me feel like a bazillionaire.

Let’s Talk About Sex, Baby. And, You Know, God.

When churches get desperate, they launch salacious campaigns like this one: My Lame Sex Life.

Watch this video, which is complete with bare feet, flashing motel signs, and implied (gasp!) one-night-stands.

When the video asks, isn't there anyone who can give you straight answers?, you might be surprised to find out that the man with the straight answers about sex is, in fact, GOD.

Visit the Granger Community Church and you can attend lectures like: Porn: What's the Big Deal and What Happens in Vegas WON'T Stay in Vegas.

Link via the boy who got it from adrants

But Who Will Reign Supreme?

Did you know that Iron Chef could go into overtime if the challenger tied with the iron chef?

Well, it can! But they didn't show the overtime...and I don't know what to do!

Three Links for Wednesday

Beyonce, on the word bootylicious making it into the dictionary:

"I wrote the song, but I wish there was another word I could have come up with if I was going to have a word in the dictionary.

"I don't know what it says (officially) in the dictionary, but my definition (of bootylicious) is beautiful, bountiful and bounce-able."

[link via bookslut]

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Amelie Gillete discusses Rachael Ray, EVOO, and how to talk to your friends about your new boyfriend over at nerve. I have a weirdly obsessive dislike of Rachael Ray. She's so damned cheerful, that it makes me want to trip her. Then I feel guilty for being mean, and then mad at Rachel for making me feel guilty. Right: it's complicated inside my head. More from Amelie:

I don't hate Rachael Ray. Well, not as much as I could, anyway....Actually, I'm kind of grateful to her for showing me how not to act when you're a single woman who's just coupled up. It's annoying, and kind of pathetic, to constantly talk about your new boyfriend, though it does make for riveting television. Otherwise, it's best to keep your relationship to yourself: Just shut up and eat.

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My mom launched a knitting site (in beta).

Meta Madeleine II

Myself and my ego would like to inform you that the thingy that tracks visitors on my site is broken. Why? How? I don't know -- I'm not that geeky. But I do know that I've had more than zero (0) visitors in the past few weeks.

When I told the boy about the tracker being broken, he asked if this was like thinking my phone was broken because no one had called. No! It's not like that AT ALL. Also, I've never thought my phone was broken 'cause of lack of calls. Anyway, I've been going to the site, even if you haven't, so I know that I've had more than zero (0) visitors this past week.

That's all she wrote -- have a lovely weekend.

related: Meta Madeleine I

The Case is Closed: I Don't Negotiate With Love*

From WaPo, an article about dating, and the crazy reasons people break up with each other.
One of my friends is on the hunt for the perfect boy: she'll know him by the corduroy he's wearing, and his big blue eyes and dark hair combination.

[For Peter, the dating dealbreaker was when] they went to grab a quick bite and she got a roast beef and brie sandwich, heated up. The brie was "oozing."

"I mean, when it's hot and running all over, it looked terrible, and in light of the taquito and mayonnaise stories, I was just like, I can't take it anymore," Peters says.

He stopped calling her. He knows this sounds really bad.

"Feel free to put in there what a shallow [bleep] I am," he says.

But is it really so shallow? Or is it merely efficient, given all the available women in the world Peters might have to date to find someone perfect? It's like shoe shopping; you can't buy the first pair you try on.

...snip...

Once upon a time, The One would've lived in your village or another one like it. Now, she could be this sweet girl across from you at the dinner table, but she could also be someone you haven't yet met. What if there's another woman somewhere in the world, like this girl, but better? Someone who will snowboard with you, and doesn't do that strange throat-clearing thing.

Valentine's Day is coming. Get ready for lurve.

*Rachel Stevens -- You love the girlpop -- love it!

My New Favorite Band

Ladies and gents, I have a new favorite band: Someone still loves you Boris Yelsin. I have been listening to them nonstop. They had me at their name, but I realized that nearly every song featured a tambourine, and better, that the songs without tambourine had clapping hands and "yeah yeah yeahs." Well. Now you know how to win my love. They're playing Friday at the Knitting Factory; Saturday at Southpaw.
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In other news of blogging = the new corporate trend, McDonald's has a blog. The blogger, Bob, is in the director in charge of social responsibility. I'm sorry, make that Senior Director. Bog doesn't like corpspeak, but it's a hard habit to break. Once you've experienced the magic of everything "dovetailing" together as you "ramp up" for the "going forward" mission...well, it's hard to go back.

Good luck losing the corpspeak Bob! [news of the McD's blog via Naked Conversations]
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The world is a scary place, and I want my privacy back. (uh, yeah, I know, I've been meaning to blog this since 1/30 -- there's been a lot of working and drinking getting in the way of the lil'
blog.)

I Like it When Science Confirms the Intuitive*

A new study finds that stressed-out women get relief from holding their husband's hands.

I would have assumed this. Glad that science has stepped in to prove the matter. Also, glad for confirmation that rejection really is just like getting an electric shock in its agony.

*a less polite word for intuitive might have been obvious.