Panhandler Protest

New York panhandlers are to the subways and streets as rats and water bugs are to the sewers.

They’re everywhere.

Don’t get me wrong - I am a compassionate person. I do feel sorry for homeless people. (Sure, I feel even sorrier for their poor pooches.) But no, I’m not a completely coldhearted snake when it comes to those sad, unfortunate folks.

My problemo with panhandlers is that most of the time, they are sporting leather shoes and semi-decent clothes. They don’t appear genuinely homeless. In my NYC experience, I find that for-reals homeless people are those who don’t, in fact, beg for money.

Which is even more depressing and messed up.

Yesterday, I attended a publishing seminar at Random House in midtown. Which means I had to - gasp - take the train. During rush hour. Like a real commuter (said in Pinocchio voice).

Lordy, lordy. I haven’t had to do that in almost two and a half years - and let me tell you, I am NOT looking forward to the day when I must twice daily ride trains that are positively busting at the seams with grumpy commuters. No. Thank. You.

What I found most alarming about this commute, though, was the fact that there was a panhandler on the train. A train so crowded, so not-an-inch-of-space packed, it reminisced visions of fruit flies attacking a rotten banana. And we were the fruit flies. Gross.

Horrid. Horrific. Horrifying. The panhandler (and the commute itself).

Really people, come on. If you’re gonna beg for money, talk about how you’re “sick” (they always sound fine to me - I don’t buy a put-on sniffle), how you got no where to sleep, nothing to eat, that you just got laid off - don’t - I repeat do not attempt it at rush hour.

Dum. Mies.

Even I know not to bother people first thing in the morning. Well alright, I am one of those people that does.not.want.to.be.bothered. Fine. But we’re at our most irritable, most irate. No one wants to be going to work! So hell NO are we gonna be willing to yank out our wallets and throw a few bucks at you.

Same goes for the post-workday commute.

Thankfully, we smartypants NYCers have an excuse. Those geniuses over at Apple invented the lovely, magnificent iPod. I find this to be the perfect antidote to panhandlers. When the headphones are on, my ears - hence my being - is shut down to anything but my bee-bopping tunes.

Including la roar de handler, “Please, every penny matters [yeah right], GOD BLESS YOU!” Seriously. Shut. Up.

I promise I am not as bitchy as I seem. If someone is playing a saxophone, or there is a group of exceptional Doo-Wop singers, (noooooo thanks garbage pail drums, or horrific synthesized keyboards, and a HUGE hell no to 80s karaoke-machine-singalongs), and they are actually good, I have been known to offer up a dolla or two.

And I have, on more than one occasion, given my food to homeless people. One in particular on 3rd Street.

I’ve even bought candy from little kids “fundraising” (who knows if they’re really raising money for something other than themselves).

So no, I’m not heartless. But I find it extremely, extremely difficult to feel any sort of sympathy for these pseudo-spongers, these faux-hobos that play the part of the panhandler to make some moolah, then go home to their nice, warm, regular ole apartamento.

I want to smack their stupid money jugs to the floor.

Buddy!!!! You’re obviously not homeless. You’re obviously perfectly capable of getting a job. So stop being such a parasite!

It just really, really, really irks the shit out of me. I’m on a panhandler protest yo.

Things That Go Bump in the Night

It was a dark and stormy night.

OK fine, maybe not so much. But it was cold and rainy. Hi fall, hi. So not happy to see you again.

Nevertheless, I had my A/C on. Still. Yeah, yeah – waste of electricity galore. I know. But I can’t sleep without some sort of distracting white noise. And my little GE does its job to a T.

Well, until last night that is.

I’d gotten home from volunteering around 9:30. There was lots of heavy lifting, banned-books-scavenger-hunting, sweeping, and shelving. Needless to say I was fairly keyed up.

I took a warm shower. Painted my nails. Dipped into the latest 1,000-pager I was reading. Tried to avoid all unnecessary stimulation of the senses – i.e. Gossip Girl. All to no avail.

Of course I failed to notice it until I was tucked in, lights out. Then, like a celebrity on a New York City street, it jarringly appeared as if from thin air.

Bang.rattle.pow. 70 seconds later. Bang.rattle.pow. 83 seconds later. Bang.rattle.pow. 45 seconds. Bang.rattle.pow. And so on.

Alright so maybe it didn’t really sound exactly like bang.rattle.pow. But it was a definite thump. Smack. Boom. And I was definitely piss(sssssssssss)ed the pow off.

As if I don’t have enough trouble sleeping already, no. No, no. My scary mansion of an apartamento deemed it hilarious to add more fuel to the bump-in-the-night fire.

I slammed the wall. Rustled the cords under my bed. Rocked my mattress. Where was it coming from? I turned on the light, went into the living room. Hit that wall. Hard. The corner, it was coming from the corner. I jumped up and down on the floor.

I returned my cozy queen-sized nest, triumphantly assured that my jaunt had undoubtedly jostled and freed whatever was making that most disruptive noise.

Alas, wary as ever of things that go bump, I couldn’t help but listen. Wait for it. Expect it. My senses were piqued. The longer the unwanted knock-knock-knocking was kept at bay, the more confident I was it had desisted – like a battle against the hiccups

Wrong.

Three more hours I lay in wait. Sleep evaded me. I popped a melatonin. And another. I tried to ignore the thump. But the more I ignored it, the more my ears focused. The more they honed in and waited for the bang. I stomped out of bed and retraced my thump-obliterating steps, increasing my efforts tenfold.

Seriously though, what is up with that shit? Why do we always focus on the things me most want to not focus on? It’s so unfair.

My delirious, sleepy, zombified mind resolved my apartment was haunted. No, there was a living, breathing Sloth tied up in the basement. No, a bomb – I was going to be blown to smithereens in the matter of minutes. No, wait…wait…

The sounds intensified. Louder, heavier – did my bed just move? What the what??

2:30 am. Just when I stopped fretting over what the mysterious noise was, when I stopped being outrageously and disproportionately pissed about the banging that was keeping me awake, I miraculously drifted off.

Only to be awoken three hours later by a cacophony on both sides of the wall.

It sounded horrific. Like a demonic ghoul bashing (and I mean bashing) a one-ton pipe organ with wooden bats. There was hissing, spitting, clanking, clanging, clattering, clinking, shaking, POUNDING. What was happening? Had Armageddon arrived two years early?

Oh no.

My stupid, stupid hot-water radiators were coming alive, readying themselves for the winter ahead, and making it very well known.

Guess it’s time for the A/C to be put to bed. Along with my dreary, dead-tired self.

ALL Highways are Hell

Where oh where does time go?

I can’t believe my 16th birthday was that long ago. Poof! Like that.




But even before I had my license, before I had my permit, my mom let me drive us all over. Sometimes as far as New Milford, forty-five minutes from my house.

I thought it was the coolest thing ever. I felt so badass, so grownup, so responsible.

Now I can’t believe that sixteen-years-olds are allowed to drive. They’re babies. I’d sooner let them have a beer than get behind a two-ton vehicle.

Whoever picked 16 as the magical driving age musta been smoking a doobie.

Driving is pretty much the scariest thing in the world.

Well, let me rephrase. If you are no longer a “driver”, then driving is a fright-fest shitshow.

I’m not talking about traversing back roads around my country home. I thoroughly enjoy zooming round those parts. Especially in the jeep (sans top, obvi).

Oh no. I’m talking highways. Mass Pike, Interstate 84, getting lost in downtown Hartford horrifying.

I think most people who have driven with me would agree that I’m a good driver. Sure, there were those two horrible weeks in my driving career - speeding ticket, flat tire, forgetting to put my car in park then watching it crash the gas grill into the garage door, hitting a parked car in my high school parking lot.

But other than that, I have a fairly impeccable record. I'm cautious. To this day, Fred Schopp makes fun of me for the time (eight years ago) that I set my cruise control to 65 mph on the way to Cape Cod. Hey, it was shortly after another speeding ticket.

But there arises un poquito problema when one does not drive often and the occasion - or shall I say necessity - to do so presents itself.

There were three such occasions this summer and they all started with a Cape and ended with a Cod (with a Rhode Island in between).

Now, in no way am I complaining. I am such a lucky girl to have three different houses to visit on the Cape. But driving there is bollocks.

I’m more scared of driving than I am of walking home at 4am in New York City. It’s petrifying! There’s so many things that can go wrong. And it’s almost certain death if there’s an accident.

Maybe that’s why I’m so afraid every time I step into a car - as a driver or a passenger. Maybe that’s what ten more years of life have taught me - how pathetically mortal we are. How, with the typing of a text or the tuning of a radio, our life can be snatched from us.

My last trip to the Cape was especially scary...for many reasons. On the way there it was dark, late, there was traffic, I was tired. Though I could not see my hands, they were, undoubtedly, white from my death-grip on the wheel.

10 and 2 boys and girls, 10 and 2.

Then Tom Tom messed with my head on the way home and got us lost in Hartford - I hate you Tom Tom. You’re such a dummy.

Cars are very, very dangerous things. Convenient, yes. But at what cost? Motor vehicle accidents are one of the leading causes of death in the U.S. - and we’re a country full of traffic lights and stop signs and speed limits and laws.
Unlike, say, Sicily - where I very much feared for my life every time I got near a car (they don’t really have rules).

I’ve always scoffed at New Yorkers and their sans-drivers-license-ness but I’m sure the day will come when I must return to suburbia.

And I ain’t looking forward to it - to having a constant vise grip on the steering wheel, to roads filled with crazy drivers, to the necessity of speeding along on highways.

Oh yes. I assure you, I will be dragging my anxiety-ridden body in reluctant retreat to the burbs. My head will be down and my heart heavy with the knowledge that I will, once again, have to drive.

Lost in Transition

My, my how taciturn I’ve been with my blogging! Especially after all that “back with a vengeance” preaching.

But you see, there simply isn’t enough time in the day! I could rattle off a list of excuses a mile long - pretty much all pertaining to work, work, work (which is a good thing, I suppose) - but I feel bad for being blogless! Sowweeeeee.

Anywho, back to bitching.

I work in book publishing. I like books. Scratch that, I love books (as evidenced here).

I love everything about them. The font, the way they smell, the crispness of the pages, the prettiness of the package, the first letter of the first word of each new chapters and how it varies book to book, the story, the emotions they make me feel.

If you know me, you know this.

If you know this about me, chances are you also know that I hate when an utterly awesome book transitions into a positively heinous mess of a movie.

Why, why, why do those dummies (dummies!) in Hollywood feel the need to shred a beloved book to pieces? To commercialize the shit out of it? To mainstream it beyond recognition?

I really don’t get it.

Do they feel they need to dumb it down, tone it down, tame it to a tolerably tepid paste so that Middle Americans can digest it? Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m a bit snobbish cause I hail from Connecticut and now I hail taxis in Manhattan. But it takes a lil extra summn summn to impress me.

Let’s start with dialogue. Why the hell did Julia have to serve up an extra stinky platter of brie in Eat, Pray, Love? Why did the director think it was OK to take a true life goddess divine (in my opinion) and make her a stoopid mere mortal?

Rachel McAdams is one of my faves but she could NOT carry off Clare Abshire, the illustrious love interest of a time traveler (SHE DIDN’T EVEN HAVE RED HAIR!!!! Blasphemy.)

Any and all Nicolas Sparks. Travesty. Travesty! (Though I must except The Notebook. Even in my cynical heart of hearts, I hearted that one.)

Dearest Mr. Hanks - I loved you as Forrest. Loathed you as Robert Langdon.

Love in the Time of Cholera really just pissssssssed me off.

I seriously don’t understand the logic behind turning certain books into movies. He’s Just Not That Into You . (Yes, that period is meant to be read aloud.)

They couldn’t even get it right back in the day when Hollywood was a tad more noble and a bit less greedy - War and Peace? Snooze-fest. The Grapes of Wrath? Less than great. The Fountainhead. Phooey. For Whom the Bell Tolls oh.my.god. Awful!

I think there should be a stipulation when transitioning from page to screen. The integrity of the book must be kept intact.

Also, important plot lines (they didn’t even mention the fact that Miss Gilbert was sent traveling with a book in mind...and as much as I enjoyed The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, the ending was all wrong! Lisbeth is supposed to fall in hate with Blomkvist at the end!! RUINED!)

(They’re not all bad. There’s the few redeemers. Of course I can’t think of any at the moment. So maybe that means there ain’t. Can you think of any?)

Alas, the big fat cherry on the big fattening sundae, the sloppiest slap in the face ever is Atlas Shrugged. I thought Angelina would be the perfect Dagny. And now - because the slow poke dummies were going to lose book rights - it’s going to star all unknowns and be directed by someone who’s resume is topped with One Tree Hill.

Oh Hollywood. I suppose it’s just my naiveté peeking through. It is all about the Benjamin's after all. They could care less about being faithful to the plot. They are not upright citizens! All they see is dollar $ign$.

But hey, if these paltry, pale imitations of the real thing, the written word, actually sell books, then I suppose I’ve gotta suck it up. And avoid the theater like Coney Island on a Saturday.

Dancing Falling in the Street

Last weekend, lucky duck me was part of a ridiculously (outrageously, uproariously, hilariously, et al.) hysterical conversation about falling.

I shall not name names - I dare not inflict any additional embarrassment on this person - I shall only mention the fact that they were cycling over some railroad tracks (slippery little suckers!) One minute they were cruising along, à la Lancey-pants, and the next second, bam - they found themselves way down in Mangled Town without a second of reaction time to be found.

This catastrophe, this falling down is nothing new to me. I fall. A lot. (Boy do I dread my twilight years something fierce - especially cause I hate milk - oh heeeey osteoporosis! I have premonitions of re-breaking my hip the second the cast comes off.)

I cannot precisely pinpoint when I became a klutz. Hmm. On second thought, I don’t think there was ever a time when I was not.

I liken myself to the Abominable Snowman - sans proper motor skills. Actually, worse. Stick him in high heels, make him clumsier, and picture him three sheets to the wind. (Then add a few more sheets.)

(Who am I kidding, sheets don’t even need to be part of the clumsiness that is Katie “Abominable” Parry.)

I am an unbalanced, uncoordinated sad excuse for a biped. My reflexes are so slow, I don’t even realize I’ve fallen until I’ve been on the ground for a good five M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i seconds!

I’d like to blame heels but I just don’t wear them all that often. Of course there have been heely incidents - like my birthday when I was dying laughing at Fred aka Kyle Orton, and dropped like a potato sack on my back.

It didn’t really bother me - I’m an animal. I demanded to chomp off a bite of pizza before being helped up (just like ye olde Sasquatch, food takes precedence over filthy sidewalks dirtying up whatever pretty party dress I’m donning).

Last weekend I fell twice - once off of a hammock (I blame those ménage à trois sheets flapping in the wind...and hey, hammocks are tricky little contraptions, to be fair), then I ate it again on a trail heading back from the beach - and I was sober town.

I’ve fallen down on 6th Avenue in the midst of morning rush hour. I’ve taken spills in bars (and been dip-dropped while dancing with the not-so-trusty Mary Rita). I’ve tumbled down slick rooftop slopes. I’ve bottomed out on icy sidewalks because I was running home (mouth watering, McD’s in hand). I’ve been tackled and tripped in sports. Skidded on my ass down slippery green grass (those stains are the worst!) I’ve mistakenly missteped and missed the curb (or stair) completely. I’ve crashed into trees (and people) while skiing. I’ve walked into glass doors (and glass museum dividers) and been knocked backward. And, perhaps most infamously of all, I’ve fallen off a table while dancing to that Crazy Town “Butterfly” song.

The irony in all of this is that I’m quite terrified of the fall itself. Of diving, crashing, tripping, tumbling, keeling, collapsing (and I used to be a soccer goalie, imagine that). So scary! Our worst fears lie in anticipation. But once I’m down on the ground I’m usually laughing my ass off and picking myself up, dusting myself off, just like it was any other chore. Just like I was tidying my apartment.

I feel like falling is misspelled - that it should be k-a-t-i-e-p-a-r-r-y. Or at least that I should be an honorary synonym.

I blame it on the shoes. I blame it on the surface. I blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol. But really, it’s unfair to blame anything except my über-klutzy self.

(And no, that’s not me - I wish I could be so lucky as to have such a great action shot!)

FYI: If you ever witness me taking a spill, please - laugh away. Cause I know I’d be the first to return the favor.

Flying in Not-So-Fashionable Skies

Everything about flying is uncivilized.

Stale air. Lackage of snackage. Getting a cupful of soda (really, I can’t have the can? Really?) “In-flight entertainment.” Feeling like you’re going to die every time you hit an air pocket.

Yet all that naysaying has one common denominator: we have no choice about any of it. No control whatsoever! As passengers, we’re at the mercy of those spry, gorgeous flight attendants. 


So maybe they’re not all gorgeous. But a shocking percentage of them are. And if they ain’t got gorg genes, they at least have some smart genes in ‘em. They know how to fix their hair, paint on some makeup, choose their most flattering outfit (pants vs. skirt vs. dress, sweater vs. button down vs. jacket, decisions, decisions!), and they all always look pretty damn dandy for being up in the air all day every day.

I thank my lucky stars every chance I get that I’m not a flight attendant (though I’d probably be super skinny for lack of appetite - hellooooo turbulence-induced anxiety attacks!)

I’m heading west twice in the next two months - first off to Denver for work, then San Fran for Ryan and Ali’s wedding (!!) - and let me just say: I’m dreading my co-passengers outfits as much as the turbulence. 


Why do people think it’s OK to wear pajamas on airplanes? Plaid pants? Cartoon character flannels? Chambray drawstrings? Omg, bathrobes? Why, why, WHY?

It is beyond unacceptable that peeps think it’s perfectly fine to wear their pj’s in public.

Even folks donning sweatpants in the street gives me the heeb jeeb’s. If you’re a lazy ‘lil housecat who likes being ‘comfy’ all the time, then stay put in the house. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dirty looks (from me - 200 different ways...oh yes, I can).

No one wants to see what you wear to sleep. That’s like seeing your coworkers in bathing suits.

Plane-time pajama pants are unnecessary visual vomitus that’s bound to be regurgitated at extremely unwelcome times.

Ew, visions of ugliness! OH MAN, those Scooby Doo sweats? Paul Frank? Tweety Bird? Joe Boxer? Santa Claus in July? I will now be forced to mentally judge the shit out of you every time I pull on my super civilized toile pants (whose hours of usage are strictly enforced, 10:30pm-8:00am only).

I digress.

The point is, people, that it’s totes unacceptable to wear your plaidies when you’re a mile high.

Especially when you’re traveling overseas. As my lovely lady friend, Jill Smith, aptly observed - we are representing America. Our foreign friends (foes?) already have a scathing sense of us - lazy, obese, etc. - so why are you middlings purposely trying to sabotage your civilized countrymen?

I ain’t saying your outfit has to be anything fance. But pull yourself together. Like me and K. Cobb on our way to Charleston. Throw on a cute cardi and necklace. Ditch those old Asics. And for crying out loud, leave the slippers at home.

Go-Go Girl

Clad in a miniskirt. Sipping on a Manhattan. Doing the twist at Peppermint Lounge on West 45th. Living the Mad Men dream (/nightmare). 


Sigh.

Unfortunately this kind of go-go girl isn’t that kind of go-go girl. Yeah, I’d much rather be up on table twisting till my heart’s content. But I’m in a car. Or on a bus. Or a train. Or a plane. And I’m just going, going, going, gone. Kinda like this summer.

Everyone concurs - summa summa summatime has flown by. Like that seagull that sneak attacked your sandwich, it’s over and done in a millisecond.

Is it a mean trick of the Universe? Has the Clockmaker sped up time? Are we on a crash course to Armageddon? All signs point to yes. And being a girl on the go hasn’t helped slow anything down.

I know, I know. I’m a ridiculously spoiled brat. CT, Cape Cod, Rhode Island, Maine, Hamptons, more Hamptons, Colorado, San Fran - I cannot complain. Life is ridiculously damn good. I am enjoying the shit out of it. What I’m not thrilled about, though, is being constantly on the go.

I would just like to drop and smell the daisies, you know? Instead of rushing to make the train, running to the subway, thinking about what I need to pack for the weekend, or what’s the most efficient way to get where I’m going, or about the million things that must get done come Monday.

Allow me to reiterate - I know I’m pretty gosh darn lucky to be doing all the things I’m doing. I know. I guess I just wish there was a way to apparate. (Why hasn’t someone invented that shit yet? Ms. Rowling can you get on it already? )

How much better would things be if you could easily get from Point A to Point B without so much as lifting that hot pink polished, dainty little finger.

My weeks are full of sleeplessness (did I pack my toothpaste, my bronzer, my razor, omg!), of Newtons Fruit Crisps for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, of never-ending schedules and Tom Tom’s and public transportation systems. Traveling is tough, yo!

I’m physically and mentally spent. I have no time to get a mani/pedi. I haven’t been grocery shopping in weeks. I don’t get around to watching True Blood until Thursdays at the earliest.

My knee joints hurt, my footies hurt, I’m dizzy with going.going.going. I don’t even have time for No Dankes (hah)! Blasphemy.

I don’t like living à la suitcase. I don’t love sleeping in beds that are not my own, sandwiched between two females (no matter how much I love them). I hate my clean clothes gettin that damp, dingy smell (and the wrinkles, the wrinkles! – thank god once more for Downy Wrinkle Releaser!)

There’s sand everywhere - in suitcases and crevices. Travel shampoo bottles. Unpacked bags and dirty clothes strewn about mi apartamento. My poor little plant seems two steps from death’s door for lack of watering. I need to sweep, I need to scrub, I need to do laundry, I need to sleep. But there’s just no rest for the travel weary.

It’s nada but go.go.go.go all day every day. I feel like an ant in a hole who doesn’t stop, doesn’t sleep, is always walking, dragging a big ole ass behind me.

But then - but then - I’m where I’m supposed to be (a party in the Hamptons, perhaps). And the sand is no longer only in the bottom of my beach bag, it’s actually under my toes. And the waves are crashing. And the gulls are swooping in for my delicious sandwich. And frankly, I don’t care.

(That is, until I am en route home, the weekend is over, and it’s back to go-go.)

Unpunctual Punks

Manners, people. They’re called manners. Some of yas have ‘em - and others I find lacking. Sorely.

Now I’m not gonna place blame where blame’s not due. There’s to be no, “Oh well it’s because my parents were always late everywhere we went” excuse. You are your own person, a grownup (perhaps), and need to start acting like one.

Nor shall I deem it permissible that you “weren’t ready yet”. Or that you had to finish cleaning, or cooking, or eating. Or that you were on the phone or walking your dog or decided to change your outfit (again).

No, nope, nein - not happening. Sorry! You were late and that’s that. Stammer and stutter and excuse all you want - it’s not OK.

(Of course there are those acts of God that no one can help - car accidents, explosive diarrhea, power outages, Titanic on TBS, a sudden cerebral hemorrhage…fine, you have five excuses, but that’s it.)

I’m not perfect, of course I’m not. There have been times that I’ve forgotten an umbrella, or a cardigan, or my lunch, (or my mind) and been a few minuntos behind - it happens. (Even so, in such cases my anxiety levels reach beyond astronomically high points and I make it my prerogative to not be late next time.)

For me, being late is the exception - not the rule.

For others, the opposite is true.

I’m talking about are those tardy tarts that are constantly, consistently, ceaselessly, without fail late - be it to an important date or one that’s second rate. I don’t care. It’s those foes that make being unpunctual the rule and not the exception that I’d like to have my wordy way with.

What is it in your nature that makes you so…so…so selfishly righteous? What part of your genetic makeup enables you to think being late is acceptable? Why do you deem it OK?

I know, I know - I should exhaaaale and let go and not be rushing from one place to the next, one day to the next, one year to the next. That’s not what life is about. Living is enjoying the present, being in the moment, feeling happy where you’re at and what you’re doing.

I know.

But how the hell, might I ask, can I enjoy the ballet, or a fancy schmanse dinner, or the sunset if I’m an hour late? What’s the point of it then? I was there, raring to go see the goddamn sunset, but oh wait, gotta wait for _____. Oh but it’s getting darker…and darker, and aww hell, it’s gone. And still no ______.

Methinks it a sorely sad fact and pathetic universal truth that the only person you can count on 100% is your good old self. Other people disappoint. They let you down. They make you miss previews at the movies, the free food that’s passed at the start of parties, the best spot on the beach, the most spectacular seats at the venue. And boy does it suck.

As I said, I’m the exception, not the rule when it comes to being late. Unfortunately same goes for dealing with said tardy tarts. Loads of people know how to remain cool. Keep calm and carry on. (I think it’s called patience???) I know not how.

I get exceptionally angry if I am made late by someone else’s err. I turn into a bear. A very tall, very blonde, exceedingly grizzly bear who would like to smack you across the bottom with all the oomph I could possibly muster behind my perfectly manicured paws. I wish. Mostly I specialize in seething, scathing looks (just ask Ri, she could tell you a thing or two).

How dare you be late. How dare you make me late. It’s plain rude. Especially because tardiness is so unnecessary!

Put your makeup on in the car. Eat your sandwich while we’re walking. Don’t wait for directions to print - you have an iPhone, dummy! walk + talk. drive + eat. plan + plot + pack. Paint your nails (bravo, Mary Rita!), brush your hair, brush you teeth, change your dress, change your shoes (in the car)…change your mindset.

Being tardy is not a necessary evil - it’s something everyone could do without. Belatedness is a choice. A poor, obnoxious, self-righteous, super selfish, ugly little choice. You can choose to think only of yourself and be late - or you can think of the other people you’re affecting and depending on you to be prompt and punctilious and make a concerted effort to be prompt and punctilious.

I know my vote.

Frankly, My Dears, I Don't Give a Damn

I’m tempted to begin this semi-op-ed entry with “Dear Diary” - cause I fear that’s the kind of rant this is shaping up to be.

Nevertheless, here goes.

Do you find yourself checking this lil ole blog every morning, wishing and hoping and thinking and praying there might be a new post? Have you missed the bygone days of binging on the bitchiness spewed by yours truly? Do you need your daily dosage Katie Parry complaining?

Well folks, just call me T.I. (Willis) - cause I’m back…with a vengeance.

Friends and foes, lovers and haters - it has been a while. Blame it on my summering self. Or all the excellent books that have kept me so rapt. Or my quasi there-but-not lingering Lyme disease (“I’m tiiiiiiired.”) Or, as my former cubie Melissa aptly observed, my new job for “taking away my funny bone” (but giving me lots and lots and lots of other things to do in return). 


Truth be told, No Dankes’ absence was mainly due to a cataclysmic culmination of cattiness. What really got me going - or stopping, rather - was a bunch of peeps no dankesing what I was writing. Blasphemy!! - that’s my job. That’s the whole point of No Dankes!

And yet...and yet...the complaints kept on coming. In droves.

Yeah, yeah - I know. I sold my soul to the blogroll devil and forfeited all of my don’t you dare talk shit bout me rights.

Who was I to whine about what gets said de moi in cyberspace.

Why should I be allowed to care if perfect strangers be taking me down to the smackdown hotel? I did write a post and toss it out into the network universe, after all.

Alas, instead of standing up and supporting my blog like a fierce little tigress, I whimpered and cowered in a corner. I rejected No Dankes. Every time I had a great idea for a post, I dashed it from my thoughts. I didn’t want to write anything. I didn’t even want to think about writing anything. My poor little bloggie became an enemy of my mental state. I hated it for making me feel bad. I wanted nothing to do with it.

Then people started asking why the hell I hadn’t blogged in so long. Then more people, and more people - and suddenly I realized (cue angels and harps and light, lots of light) - that it doesn’t matter what other people think. No Dankes is mine, all mine, and I can do with it whatever I please. (By the way, thank you thank you for reading and for your support!! I appreciate it more than you know!)

Still though - it makes me a little mad. I’m sorry people, but really - it’s not like I said your baby was ugly (even though I probably thought it). I didn’t tell you change your outfit cause you look like a stuffed sausage in that not-very-natural casing. I don’t make fun of homeless people who smell like sewers and look like cavemen.

I have a conscience, fools.

Hey all ya’lls, have you ever heard of a little something called the 5th Amendment? I know, I know - it was a long time ago. Junior year in high school methinks. So I don’t blame you for forgetting. I’ve already forgotten what I ate for din last night.

Allow me to enlighten you (pretend you’re the Congress and I’m the press):

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

So I’m sorry - I no longer deem it necessary to (somewhat) sugarcoat and sweeten things up. I shall not cater to what yous may think and want me to say. I refuse to not write something or say something or do something just because it might piss someone off.

I’m going to be myself.

By the same token I implore you: be yourself. If you disagree, let it be known (Miss Shannon Solheim has done an excellent job of being quite contrary, bravo!)

Because here’s another little something something that doesn’t need an amendment to light upon: you’re entitled to your opinions...and so am I.

So to those of you who dislike what I write, I say (in the oh-so-wise, oh-so-wordly words of the Schopp boys): Go pack a lunch.

Not-So-Pretty Nails

Nail salons are about as common as rats in New York City. Alright, alright – I embellish. But they’re pretty ridiculously common. Common and cheap. Best combo ever!

Because they’re so reasonable and so omnipresent, I began to make it part of my weekly routine to get a manicure. Some places are $8, others – cleaner, choicer polish options, an altogether better atmosphere and ambiance, like Spa Belles on 6th Ave – are $13. Still pretty practical.

But since we are in a recession and since I pretty much pay my LIFE away to live in Greenwich Village AND since I work in book publishing which, let’s face it, is not the most lucrative industry – I decided to cut back on my manis. I have enough different polishes to suffice a weekly swap.

I recently had a birthday – which, by the way, aren’t that glamorous after 21…not that 21 is by any means glamorous, but you know what I mean. Anyway, I decided to treat myself to a mani. Of COURSE I’m a pushover for pretty new polishes, so I was over the moon when I saw that Essie had come back from their 2008 fluorescent romp with a spanking new line-o-neons. Yippee!

It was a Saturday afternoon. The clouds had dissipated, leaving in their wake a lustrous cerulean sky. The birthday gods were shining upon me! Kelly, my steadfast mani-buddy, decided on Punchy Pink for her nails. After some debate, I opted for Perky Purple.

One bottom coat, two matte layers of polish, and one glossy topcoat finish later, we chatted amicably whilst the solvents evaporated. Not one, not two, but three cycles under the dryers later, we decided they were good to go.

Thankfully our conscientiousness paid off. There was no smudging of the polish. However. Only a few hours into the night, the Perky Purple was losing its perk. Yes, it's true. My $13 mani was chipping – and with little to no exertion on behalf of my hands. The horror! Ruined my birthday.

OK not really, but I was pretty peeved.

Manicures are supposed to last at least a week without flaking. Especially the more “expensive” ones. Ugh!

Half-chipped nail polish is pretty disgusting. It makes one appear unkempt, disheveled, even dirty. Sure, I’m guilty of not removing my polish when it has passed its prime. But I can still judge the shit out of grody, scraped off, half-lacquered fingernails.

With all the innovations the nail polish remover industry has seen, it’s a no-brainer. So por favor: if your Pretty Nails ain’t so pretty anymore, just use one of those nifty little polish remover pads and take it off.