Thursday, December 6, 2012

Oh Hi, Dry.

That was a very begrudging “Hi” indeed. An extremely dry “Hi” if you will.

Cause you see, I did NOT miss you at ALL, dry skin.
You know, I don’t think I will ever run out of things to No Dankes when it comes to wintertime. And fall and early spring, for that matter.

I’m gonna knock it up a notch. I daresay I hate the bitter cold that is descending upon us for the unforeseeable future.

But when it comes to winter, I despise one element most of all. You see, with winter comes fake heat. And fake heat squeezes the shit out of any moisture our skin can muster. Squanders it.
Add to this the superfluous amount of
germs. flu germs, namely (which have been running exceptionally rampant this winter! Which translates to more hand washing. Incessant hand washing, actually. (For me, at least.)

I dread the time of year when the heat comes on and the flakes come out (skin not snow). Dehydrated epidermis is awful yo. Awful!

Hot showers are no longer soothing, they’re your worst enemy. I can literally feel my skin contracting, tightening, shriveling into itself after a hot shower. So I make some sacrifices and have a far less enjoyable warm shower instead. Under five minutes (as all showers should be).

Radiators and heat vents are no longer beacons of inviting warmth, but lamentable purveyors of the dreaded - eek - cracked, raw skin.

And beware of that pipe running through the corner of your apartment - it is most likely HOT and will undoubtedly BURN YOU. Trust me, I speak from experience.
As if it’s not bad enough that every square centimeter of our winter bodies are red and split and flaking and itching and painful, there’s not a single good remedy for it.
Sure, drink more water. Yeah, like that will do anything. That’s like telling a plant to go find some shade in the middle of the Sahara.

Then there’s: Go put some put lotion on. But of course! Let me just sting the shit out of my poor, poor skin even more. And while it’s burning and flaming and apparently being zapped by a thousand little needle heads, let me try to pick up my can of soda.

But oh, wait, there goes my drink everywhere because it slipped through my slick, greased up hands (this happened to me last week...all over the book I was reading - devastation).

With the advent of wintertime, we become a society of geriatrics - what with our Head and Shoulders, our Lubriderm, our moisture sockies and glovies, our nonstop, 24/7 humidifiers, our omnipresent Vaseline.

It’s a battle, I tell you. A fight against the radiator, the institution of showering, against itchy wool sweaters and bottles of alcohol-based hand sanitizers (60% minimum!), against the icy, cutting wind outside, and hot-air, thirst-inducing office vents within.

It is a very serious, very expensive, very painful battle.

Painful and expensive indeed! This may be a little TMI but my come winter, my legs get so dry they could moonlight as a dried up lake in Death Valley under a microscope.
And dry (for me), means itchy. Obviously the last thing you should do when something itches is scratch it.

That’s what landed me an Rx for Cordran Lotion. Liquid gold - literally. That little 60 mL bottle is $50 - with insurance. Without it, gah...I shudder at the thought.

Cordran is a lifesaver. It has saved me from my rabid, scratching self on many occasions. But as it’s pretty much the price of gold, I restrict its usage to very exception(ally bad) occasions. For everyday I use Lubriderm - 13-15 pumps worth for each leg.


While I’m whiling away winter cause it empties my pockets, Johnson & Johnson is loving every second. Rolling in the dough. Man oh man they must sell a shitload of lotion. Ugh.

Friday, October 26, 2012

Krazy? More like PSYCHO Glue!

I am an adult. I know how to read directions. However, that does not mean that I always follow them.

Case in point: Last night’s encounter with Krazy Glue.

It’s not all my fault! I live in a society where there’s an antidote to everything. Instant gratification nation, yo. Don’t like something? Change it, fix it, get rid of it. Wham bam thank you ma’am.

However. However.

The warning label on Krazy Glue should be much more threatening. Should be highlighted in neon yellow (I would say pink, but I think that might clash with the red and green). It should read CAUTION in no less than size 20, Times New Roman font.

(I was also going to say that they should not sell the stuff to non-adults...but, like I mentioned earlier - I am, unfortunately, one of those. I forget sometimes.)

Needless to say, I should not - not ever - be allowed to use that stuff.
Last night I was gluing part of a vintage ring back together. And of course in my overbearing, overeager, overcompensating clumsiness, I squeezed the shit out of that difficult-to-squeeze, tricky little tube.
And it went all over the place.

I watched it drip down the sides of the ring as I cleverly (so I thought) pinched the pieces I was gluing together with my best tweezers.

Not only did that stinky shit get all over my tweezers, IT GOT ALL OVER MY FINGERS (sorry ya can’t see it too well in the pic).
And it’s still there. The tips of both index fingers and middle fingers were covered in the crap. But little did I care, I thought I was totes in the clear - hello nail polish remover!

Sadly, I was mistaken. Nail polish remover does not in any way make you invincible to the wrath of Krazy Glue.

What a naïve little dummy I was. Maybe it was non-acetone. But still, whateverrrr.
Didnt help one iota. My fingers felt like they had been dipped them in battery acid - I lost all sensation below the affected skin. Poor things looked like little shiny snakeskin’s.
I tried scrubbing with a Dobie, a pumice stone, dish soap. I used my sad, glue-covered tweezers in an attempt to pick it off. But that shit don’t peel. It don’t budge.
After all that poking and picking and prodding, my fingertips were fairly sore. And red. That’s when I got the brilliant idea to perform outpatient surgery on myself. To cut - with nail clippers - the glue off.
Finally - finally - something worked (...a little). But not without PAIN. I clipped a fair amount of skin off. Boy did it hurt.

And yet...the goddamn glue is still spotty in some places! UGH!

It goes without saying that I will be steering very, very clear of the Krazy Glue from now on. That stuff is psycho.

Sunday, September 9, 2012

I’m Pickin’ Up Bad Vibrations

Get your head outta the gutter, yo! ‘Tain’t those kind of vibrations.

Oh no. ‘Tis a far, far more loathsome kind: The vibrating alarm.

Never did I ever think this would be a No Dankes! topic. Who would?

I suppose I am partly to blame. Shame on me for getting too familiar with a vibrating wake up call. But you see, a few months ago my regular radio alarm failed to go off. And I failed to wake up. Hence, failed to make it to work by 9 o’clock. Unacceptable!

Enter: iPhone. Each and every night since that most fateful morn, I’ve set myself two alarms. Clock radio and iPhone. 

Now. I abhor phones dinging every time a text arrives. To abate any contribution of text-arrival-noise-pollution, I set my cell exclusively to vibrate. Same thing for phone calls. And so that sadly translates into alarm clocks, too.

When my very own Apple brand
Bell Tower starts chiming at 8:12 a.m., it also starts vibrating (such a multitasker, that iPhone!) This vibrating buzz-iness can be pretty goddamn loud, especially when your ears (like mine) are super sensitive.

You know how those perfumery peeps are called “Noses”? Well if I were known by a sense, my spectacular nickname would be “Ears”.

Whew, that was a long-winded introduction – alas I suppose you’ve grown to expect that from me…otherwise why are you reading this?

Let’s get to it, shall we? As I mentioned yesterday, I didn’t go out boozing Friday night. Thus I was enjoying a superpower-sober-sleep Saturday morning – not passed the hell out as usual while my body worked through its surplus of barley and hops.
Because of this, my sleep was a far cry from any sort of R.E.M. My snooze was so light, I daresay even a quiet breath could have awoken me.

But there were no breaths. No loud music. No car alarms, even. Nope. What did, in fact, wake me up was nothing other than someone else’s phone alarm vibrating. Yup.
At 6 a.m. on the dot, I was awakened by a nasty bout of incessant, repetitive, alarmingly loud (well, to my sensitive ears at least) alarm clock vibrations. Like the phone was just chillin on the floor next door and it wanted to send its signals through the wooden floorboards to torture me. The worst part is, I don’t even know if it was on the floor. It was somewhere. I heard its buzz through walls, through concrete, through brick – I couldn’t for the life of me figure out where the hell it was coming from.
There I was, tossing and turning, with a phantom vibration annoying the shit out of me. 6:16, :26, :36, :46. I was sleepily wide awake.
For an HOUR it went off. And worst of all, the vibrations weren’t even. They suffered from some sort of arrhythmia. No joke! They were all over the place. Sure, they occurred every other second or so, but to my sleep-addled-perfectionist mind they were unbearably unsymmetrical.
I walked down in the hall in my nightgown and sleep mask. I stomped on the floor and banged on the walls and ceiling. I ate canned frosting with my finger out of sheer frustration.

I was beyond stressed and depressed and tired and pissed.
I felt like Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight, like people were slowly and methodically trying to drive me mad. Except I’m no actress and my sober Saturday morning was no movie.
I sandwiched my head between two pillows, turned my air conditioner on high. I screamed as loud as I possibly good to TURN THE ALARM OFF. I cried. I was actually happy when I heard the garbage trucks rolling down the street. Anything to distract my ears from the interminable whirring that was occurring somewhere thisclose. But where, I did not know.

The arrhythmia confused me, tricked me into thinking it was finished. I got pumped when the vibrations skipped a few beats, I could drift peacefully off to sleep for an hour before my movie marathon! But no. Then they started up again.

One. Full. Hour. Later. They stopped completely. My sanity was barely salvaged. If these cruel and unusual vibrations find their way to my ears anytime soon, I don
’t know what will happen.

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Obsessive Impulsive Disorder

Compulsive, impulsive - I’m a little bit of both. The latter especially as of late.

I blame my new apartamento. You see, I didn’t want to go out and get supplies and
decorations upon decorations when I moved into my rabbit hutch. But I’m just beside myself and overcome with excitement over my new mansion (chicken coop shall we call it?) that I’ve shopped, shopped, shopped - and boy has my checking account dropped (dropped, dropped).

I suppose I’ve always been impulsive. It’s kind of like having a split personality - I’ll be in a store and my Miss Moneybags persona takes over, all reassuring and
calm and confident. Of COURSE you can buy that and oh! That’s cute, you better get it now before it’s gone! Whatever it’s such a bargain!

I blackout and I buy. And then I regret.

I blame Bloomingdale’s for escalating and encouraging my impulsive behavior (my fabulous, glamorous former co, Miss Samantha Chu, has a fabulous blog - how I miss her!)

I was surrounded by clothes, clothes, clothes all day long - can you really blame me for not walking out of my shift with purchases in hand? Working there taught me to take shopping lightly. To snatch things up before someone else did.

Miss Moneybags was a semi-OK persona when I was at Blooms - unfortunately for Miss Parry, though, her bad habits endure to this day. In a more
expensive city. Where discounts don’t apply.
My impulsiveness, like nausea, comes in waves. Every few months I’ll crack the proverbial whip and put myself on mandatory retail probation. If I don’t pass below Houston, the shops in SoHo cannot collect my Monopoly money. If I avoid sample sales, my wallet can puff back up a bit (a very slight bit).
No manis, no pedis, no waxing, no threading - I try my darndest to suck it up and invoke my inner D.I.Y.onista.
I was on one such self-mandated probation until mid-April when I upped and moved. Then the itty bitty shopping bug bit me - and apparently it’s still biting and sucking and draining bill after bloody bill from my bank account.

I don’t know how to reason with myself. I can’t argue both sides. It’s like sense of urgency tinged with anxiety takes hold and consumes me. I’m all tunnel-vision all the time - if I see something I like (within reason, obvi!), I simply have to have it. There is no thinking it over, no rationalizing that I already have four navy blue skirts (do I really need another??), or that because something is only $5 that means I must buy it. And absolutely not, not ever, ever are there thoughts of saving for the future (do people actually do that?)
Alas, I think it’s a good sign that I recognize my impulsivity - that’s the first step, I do believe. And I am happy to report that I can no longer blame myself for my ne’er-do-well-ness.

You see, this horrific trait-o-mine was not something I learned - like my ABCs or how to ride a bike - oh no. It was something innate, something I inherited from my mother and my father, an imprint on my DNA
if you will.
Father-Mother-Daughter all share this same Obsessive Impulsive Disorder gene. (My brother I must exclude - he actually takes time and thinks through his purchases...that’s why he’s going to be a millionaire and I’m going to be a poor little pauper begging him for money all the time.)
I didn’t really put two and two together until a few weeks ago. My mom was in the market for a new chair for the living room and found one she thought she liked. She stared and sat and talked to the saleswoman and then she bought it. Only when the chair was in our house did she ask what the return policy was (there wasn’t one). Cue Anthony Marentino, “HATES IT!”

Oh and then there was the time my dad decided to get a bulldozer. I mean a boat. I mean an RV.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Let’s see. There was the shower curtain I just had to have on (even though I knew I would be going to an actual Target Store within the week). I got it, liked it, went to the real store and loved a different one they had. Fail!
There was the TV stand I just had to have before I moved in and knew what my space would be like. Not enough room. Fail!
Then there’s the million little holes in my freshly painted walls from impulsive picture frame hanging placements gone awry - fail! (Still a work in progress - need to get me some plaster to fill dem holes!)
I have so many shirts, dresses, pants, necklaces, earrings, rings, shoes, bags - all purchased in Monopoly-money-blackout-moments, all never worn.

What’s a girl to do, though? Never shop again?

Don’t make me laugh. I just think they need to invent a pill for OID.

Sunday, May 20, 2012

Erratic Ellipses

El-lip-sis [i-lip-sis]: (plural ellipses; from the Greek: ελλειψις, élleipsis, "omission") is a term in printing and writing that refers to a mark or series of marks that usually indicate an intentional omission of a word or a phrase from the original text. An ellipsis can also be used to indicate a pause in speech, an unfinished thought or, at the end of a sentence, a trailing off into silence (aposiopesis).

The most common form of an ellipsis is a row of three periods or full stops (...). Forms encountered less often are: three asterisks (***), one em dash (—), multiple en dashes (––), and the Unicode Ellipsis symbol […].
The triple-dot punctuation mark is also called a suspension point, points of ellipsis, periods of ellipsis, or colloquially, dot-dot-dot.
Copied and pasted from Wikipedia, I kid you not. Of particular interest to me for the sake of this entry are those three small dots: “…”. I find it positively mind boggling that some people insist on using only two, as in: “..”.
Hellooooo Grammar Police.

Ugh! Even as I’m writing this, Microsoft Word is underlining the aforementioned two dots with a green squiggle. Green squiggles mean something is wrong. Duh! All you have to do is right click and IT WILL AUTOCORRECT FOR YOU, easy-peasy-Japaneasy.

Technology: I heart thee.

Yes, I understand that most people do not write emails and Facebook status updates and wall posts in Word. I’ll give ya’ll that ¼ of an excuse to work with. But, unfortunately for you, the other ¾ of non-excuse blows that measly .25 out of the water.

Everyone, evvvvveryone, learns what an ellipsis is in middle school grammar. It’s one of the foundations of the English language. It should be crystal clear – if you are an avid reader of this here blog (thanks Papa P!) – that ellipses are an integral part of my writing. I use this convenient, neat little tool in its numerous forms case in point at least twenty-three times a day.

The Grammar Police part of me explodes, erupts, goes kablooey in a fit of madness when I see .. instead of … Really it does.

It takes a part of a fraction of a millisecond to strike the . key. A part of a fraction of a millisecond, people! Come on!

Repeat after me: dot-dot-dot.


Saturday, April 7, 2012

Yes Bitte! Spring Done Sprung

And all I can say is YAY!

Perhaps I’m biased. Perhaps because like a little baby lamb, I was born in the spring. (And if it means anything, yes, my favorite number is 2. Got a problem with that?)

But seriously, spring is the most wonderful time of the year.

Aside from the bikini-baring-body countdown (yikes), ‘tis the season to be chipper. How could one not be, what with all the chirping!

I spent Easter at my parent’s house in Connecticut - and while they’re way behind us in terms of flora and fauna, they are leaps and bounds ahead in nature. Namely nature of an animalistic kind. And I saw quite a bit.

Papa P texted me right before I got on the train on Friday, saying I should look in the tree at the top of our road. Apparently there was four bears chillin in it. OK Dad, I thought, like they’ll be there three hours from now.
Little did I know I would be greeted at the intersection of Lucas and Fairchild by DEP with tranquilizer guns, police officers with real guns, barricades, and paparazzi - of a country bumpkin variety.

Mama Bear was up there with her yearling and two itty bitty baby cubs for 12 hours - no food, no water, no nada. (Though they do hibernate all winter so whatever, they’re experienced.)

Then, on Sunday afternoon we had an Easter egg hunt (obvi...but it was a good one, those eggs were full of cash!) I didn’t find the golden egg but my uncle spied what he thought was a cat. Or a rat. But oh, it was too small for a rat.
Then my aunt Lissette screamed, “It’s a bunny, it’s a bunny! It’s an Easter miracle!We laughed and jumped up and down like we were five years old.

Yes, it was a miracle to see a real live bunny rabbit on
Easter - but it made me really think about the real miracle of spring: Nature reawakening (cheesy as that may sound).

I love spring. A lot of people like fall but I, for one, loathe it. Everything is dead or dying. It gets darker every day, colder every day, bleaker every day. And what do you have to look forward to? WINTER. I think everyone agrees that winter is just plain painful. Especially when you’re a pedi-commuter in this city.

But...but...then spring comes along. Ceaselessly. Without fail. Sigh. We can take a deep, long breath at last, without the air freezing our nose hair, without getting sick off whiffs of stinky street soup and melting garbage (oh summer). Sure there’s some pollen but whatever, there’s a med for that.

I don’t think that we realize how the weather affects us until it’s actually, genuinely nice outside. Think about it: In the wintertime people are so rotten and miserable and mopey and want to stay all sorts of holed up, no one wants to leave the comfort of their home or apartment. And no one really realizes why.

But that first nice day of the new year, people remember how to smile. They remember how to laugh, how to be polite, how to be happy.
So fine, so that sounds a little melodramatic, but you get what I’m saying. You know it’s true.
Spring is so alive, so beautiful. Waaaay prettier than every other season (though I daresay when May 2nd rolls around from now on it’s gonna be ugly...I don’t waaaant to grow up!!)
I love walking down the street and seeing a myriad of blooming tulips, cherry blossoms elegantly weighing down limbs, trees with bright green buds. I love waking up to the sound of birds chirping - even if they’re dirty NYC birds and they’re screeching. I love how the air is warm and everyone is escaping from the wintertime-woodwork, how every restaurant and bar sets up tables on the sidewalk, how everyone is carefree and genuinely jolly.

I love so much about spring. But most of all, I suppose I love how it makes me feel - awake and present and like anything can happen. And methinksknows lots is gonna happen this spring.

Cue Mr. Bowie:
Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes. I can’t wait.

Friday, March 9, 2012

Sans Carbonation = Certain Devastation

Mmm mmm ahhh. The wonderful world of soda.

Who knows what the sugary, carbonated empire would be like today if it hadn’t been for Mr. Pemberton and his cocaine laced Cola drink. Probably nonexistent.
A disclaimer before we begin: I’m not a huge soda fan. I go days and days, weeks even, without so much as a sip.

But if the mood strikes, I love me some A&W Rootbeer, Diet Coke with Lime - even the occasional Fanta (omg pineapple!) and Welch’s Grape. Oh, and cream soda, birch beer (remember that??), and ginger ale (Canada Dry only).

On the flip side, I very much dislike Dr. Pepper. And Mountain Dew (sorry Fred) - especially their 9 million red varieties. And I could
totes do without Sprite and its sad little impostor, Sierra Mist. Even 7Up.
Nevertheless, be it tasty or disgusting, purple or yellow or brown (boring!), all of these sweet, syrupy concoctions have one common denominator:

, baby.

It don’t matter that I inevitably hiccup each time I crack open a can-o-pop. I love me some bubbles. Lots of bubbles, in fact.

Champagne! Beer! Seltzer! Spritzers! Soda! Alka Seltzer! Bubbles just make everything better. Really they do. (Even hungover tums!)

I wish Willy Wonka was hiring for positions in his Bubble Room. Fizzy Lifting Drink taste tester? Yes, please!

And that, my friends, is why I am misery personified if my soft drink – or hard drink, for that matter – is flat. GASP.
The absence of effervescence is cause for antidepressants, I tell you. No joke.
Because of all the hootin and hollerin and anti-soda/anti-caffeine lobbying, we the people have been programmed to regard soda as the enemy.

Well, girls and boys, I am here to tell you that the enemy, in actuality, is supine sucrose. Soda that’s flatter than tap water. I
’m talking sans bubbles blasphemy.

It’s just not fair! I so look forward to my one-soda-per-week allotment (FINE, it
s sometimes two...or five, if I am so inclined) – and cannot even savor its fizzy deliciousness because I know I’m on the clock. I’m rushing against the carbonation wrecking monster.

And it is a monster.

the sense of drinking a bubbly beverage if the bubbles don’t last? Why hasn’t anyone invented a beverage with carbonation staying power? Instead we get measly crappy CO2 trap contraptions.

Remember those rubbery can caps from the 80s? Junk.
Those newfangled can-topping tricksters Trissi fell victim to? Junk. (We could NOT even get them off the can!!)

Those fizzy little globules of deliciousness are tricky sheisters for sure. I know, I knoooow. Once the bottle seal is broken, the can top popped, the champagne stopper unstopped, it’s CO2 Gone Wild. Carbo buddy doesn’t know what to do in the presence of less pressure. So it desolubilizes and...poof!...vanishes nearly completely before I can before I can gulp it down.
I loathe bubbleless soda. So much so that oftentimes, in my mad dash to keep as little effervescence as possible from escaping, I fumble the cap, losing precious fizzy seconds.

Or sometimes, I successfully get the cap on but drop the bottle
. And you know what THAT means - invaluable bubbles galore exploding and frothing before their ticket is up. (Those are the times I really just despise my beyond-klutzy self.)

s unfair. It’s not right. And there’s nothing we can do about it!

I hate you stable pressure! I hate you oxygen! You carbonation wrecking monster, you! Greedy little bubble sucking bastard! Leave me and my effervescence alone!


Thursday, February 23, 2012

Holey Shit!

I find it interesting and utterly annoying that tights are beyond disposable – yet their prices are NOT.

Stockings are a fairly one-and-done commodity. Which is infuriating because they’re kind of goddamn expensive. I can’t even tell you how much money I’ve spent this year alone on tights - $8.99 a pair, $10.99, $15 – and from T.J. Maxx and Marshall
’s, those prices are totes on the cheaper side of the spandexy spectrum.

My friend Shannon had a terrible, horrible, no good very bad tights day last week – she went through two pairs in as many hours. Whattawaste!!

Why do we subject ourselves to spending, spending, spending on tights?

We spend our time p
icking out the perfect pair; we spend mucho moolah every time we spy a cute new design; we spend countless embarrassing moments hitching up the shit outta them; we spend tedious instances patching them with clear nail polish. And seriously, I am SPENT.

It’s a crying shame that I’m so taken with tights. 
The entire bottom drawer of my dresser is dedicated to them. And it’s overflowing (as you can see...yep that’s my drawer). Pink and purple and blue and brown and black and printed and patterned and fishnet and flowery and me oh me oh mysiiiigh.

Why oh why do manufacturers have to make such charmingly cute ones? Such super seductive ones? Such alluringly appealing ones? ‘Tisn’t fair, I say!
I know I’m not alone in my ripped-tights trials and tribulations, my runny-stockings soap opera. And for that I am thankful.

In fact, I deem me and my clumsy, klutzy, oh-shit-guaranteed-rip gals the rule, not the exception. Some people are just naturally cautious...prosaically perfect, even. But I, for one, am not so very
scrupulous when it comes to stockings.

My tricky, traitorous legs always seem to find the stray splinters under my desk – hellooooooo Snagsville.

Low-rise tights are a lowly enemy. For reals. I have a hitching problem – I’ll admit it (whatevs! who doesn’t feel the constant need to hike-em up??) Alas, I
’m (apparently) an overzealous hitcher sometimes my thumbs poke pull-up holes. Guess I can’t really say “I’m a big kid now” cause apparently I haven’t learned to yank gently.

Kitchen tables. Fingernails. Wooden chairs. Velcro! Brushes. Bushes. High boots. Purses. Shopping bags. Zippers. Your pretty little kitty.

Even the most benign, mundane item can become your biggest adversary.
Everywhere you go, everything you face – is an enemy. An enemy of your nylons.

Now as much as I
’d love to haterate on tights alone, I can’t rightly discuss holes in leggy garments without mentioning my disdain for…can you guess (besides Miley Cyrus and her stupid wannabe trend)?
Holey socks.
Sorry gentlemen – but really. As if it’s not enough to don off-white socks with dress shoes and slacks (yes, dirt has been accounted for), said socks are undoubtedly riddled with big-toe nheel holes.

Holey sock? Holy shit. Mayjaaaah no dankes.

Though I am a lady, unfortunately I
’m not immune to this most loathsome phenomenon. It seems that my shoes vilify viscose and cotton and wool.

Heels and toes, toes and heels, holy HOLES all around.

I suppose the one saving grace of disgraceful worn-out socks is the fact that they hide in your shoes, snug as a stink bug in a smelly rug, safely out of sight. You don
’t have to immediately discard them. Take them off and throw them in the trash.
Tights, on the other hand, are ready and raring to be judged. They get a little snag, a slight run, a teeny tiny hole and they’re done for. 86 or else.

Thursday, October 27, 2011

Some Like it Quiet

I am positively mortified to call myself a West Villager right now.

How have I not ever, not once in the three years that I’ve lived down here, never been to Film Forum? It’s blasphemous. I’m ashamed.

Perhaps all I needed, though, was a Hot kick in the butt.

As in Some Like It Hot.

I pass by the Film Forum every day on my way to work. (Yes, I walk. Stop hating, would you!)

They show obscure, independent, avant-garde films at their cinematic best. But oftentimes there are old-time movies playing - so I suppose it should not have come as a shock to see that one of my fave Monroe films was playing. It was a sign - the time had come to break my Film Forum seal.

So last night, my friend Jeffery and I went to see Curtis, Lemmon, and Monroe in the 50th anniversary special of AFI’s #1 Funniest Movie of all time.

I was in heaven. Checking for time and texts on my iPhone and merrily chomping Sour Brite Crawlers aside, I pretended it was 1959 and I was a young girl living the NYC Dream.

I imagined how shocked I would have been to see a suuuuuuuuper scantily clad Marilyn shake her money maker(s).
How hard I would have laughed at Jack Lemmon in drag, swinging his souvenir Tango maracas.

I pondered how times haven’t changed in fifty years - that Daphne still wouldn’t be able to marry Osgood in 2009. No matter how hilarious the “You’re a guy. Why should a guy want to marry a guy?” “Security!” banter was.

It was also interesting to watch Marilyn in her scenes, knowing what we know of filming - how she showed up late, didn’t know her lines - and recall what was to be her sad, sad legend.

I used to be a huge Marilyn fan but seeing this movie for the dozenth or so time, I think Lemmon’s character blew any inklings of harbored Monroe favoritism out of the water. No wonder he was nominated for an Oscar!

All in all twas a lovely, rollicking, uproarious hoot of a time.
Until a stupid schmuck started singing along with Marilyn in one of the final scenes.

Seriously? I’m sorry, but SERIOUSLY???? Are we in your car? Is this the radio? Are you an understudy at a Marilyn Monroe cabaret show? Are you drunk? Is this real life?

Yes, I’ll admit that sometimes I do hear things that aren’t there. I mishear. So I tried to tune out Marilyn’s fluffy, breathy voice and listen to the chick two seats down.

Nothing. Silly me, I thought.

Then there it was again - the singing. The singing along to a movie. Like we were watching Barney and Friends or some shit.


Never have I ever experienced something so audacious.

But what I was I to do? I turned my passive aggressive, bespectacled face toward the beast. But there was a gal in between us - and she was smiling at her stupid singing friend. Like, rooting her on or something.

I looked over at Jeffery and thank GOD he heard it too - confirmation. I knew I wasn’t crazy! He smirked back and we watched the scene on screen play out, trying to tune out the songbird-wannabe, while Josephine laid a kiss on Sugar.
Yay rah rah Joe/sephine!
Boooooooooooooooooo stupid singing lady!

What a way to ruin the end of a perfectly lovely evening at the cinema.

If it had been 1959 I am sure no one would dare be so disrespectful, so discourteous, so brazen.

Seriously, you don’t sing along with Marilyn.

The warning at the beginning of a movie should apparently read “Please silence your cell phones…and voices.” Because, actually, Everyone Likes It QUIET.

Thursday, October 6, 2011

The Stress of Being a Laundress

All I can say is that my future husband better be ready to do some laundry. I’m talking 50/50. And when my future kiddies are old enough, they’ll be doing their own. Fo sho.

I give my mother serious, serious props for being such a laundry hound. She is on top of that shit like no one else I’ve ever met. The second I walk through the door, she’s pulling out my dirty clothes, popping them in the washing machine.

(Which begs the question - how old do we have to be before our mom’s stop doing our laundry? I know I am ridiculously lucky - Trissi is the exception, not the rule. But really? Hell no will I be hand-laundering my 26 year old’s fine washables. Hell no.)

Regardless, 95% of the time I am, unfortunately, responsible for washing my own things. After all, I am a “grownup”. Wamp wamp.

There are fewer things in life more aggravating than doing laundry. Especially when communal machines involved.
(People - be punctual when switching your loads or picking them up. Never know what someone might do to your newly “clean” clothes.)

I have been über lucky in NYC - both apartments I’ve occupied have had laundry on-site (believe it or not, that’s fairly rare). And even though I don’t have to lug my dirty clothes and linens a few blocks to the laundromat, hauling them up and down four flights of stairs blows.

Why can’t clothes, like diapers, be disposable? I suppose that would be quite wasteful. But do we not waste water with our incessant washing?

Dirty garments are so unbelievably inconvenient. You have to stow them somewhere. And when you live in a rabbit hutch, that somewhere is tricky to pick (after much contemplation, I hung a laundry bag on my bathroom door).

Then there’s the detergent, the fabric softener, the bleach, the dryer sheets, the stain sticks. It’s all positively shelf-consuming!

Ugh, and the quarters - the quarters. Who knew those little 25-cent George Washington’s would ever be considered gems - GEMS! Perfectly round chunks of glistening gold. Seriously, gold. No quarters, no clean clothes!

Laundry is one hell of a time-consuming commitment. And, in my case, one that is also anxiety-inducing (surprise, surprise). If I make up my mind to do a few loads, it’s a race against the clock.

I dash around my apartment like a madwoman, grabbing towels and stray socks and dirty-clean jeans. Inevitably I end up forgetting a dishtowel or a dress I wanted to wash. So annoying.

Then I run down the stairs, my twenty pound Santa sack of soiled things pulling me onward to the laundry room.
Ideally I do two or three loads at a time. Which means I occupy half to ¾ of the machines. Does this make me feel guilty? Of course not. Sure, there was that one instance where a magnanimous monsieur offered up two washers to me, saying it was only “Fair” - what a nice dummy. (He was foreign.) Would I do that? Absolutely not.

There are just so many horrendific things when it comes to the laundry routine. The separating of clothes into darks and lights (or, in some really awful circumstances, the lack thereof), towels and sheets, cold wash, warm wash, hot wash, permanent press, gentle cycle.

And those are just the old school machines I’m talking about - these new age spaceship washers and dryers are nuts. FAR too many options for anyone’s own good.
Then there’s the weeding out of clothes that can be machine-dried from those that need to be hung on a rack. And let me tell you, my drying rack don’t fit too well in my hutch. Sometimes if I have company, that shit’s gotta go in the bathtub (and no, not so it’s more aesthetically pleasing - because otherwise there wouldn’t be room to move).

Omg and the folding! Unfortunately an atrociously crippling case of obsessive compulsive disorder consumes me when it comes to folding.

Must. Be. Perfect. Or. Else.

The only pro of doing laundry is that first night between those clean, crisp, scrumptious smelling sheets.
I’ll leave you with a parting piece of advisory etiquette: Empty that lint tray. Or else.