A Year in Blogrospect

In typical Katie Parry fashion, I forgot that yesterday was the one year anniversary of my blog! Aren’t you pumped? Well fine, I don’t blame you. I do, however, thank you for reading! thankyouthankyouthankyou.

To celebrate and commemorate, I thought it would be “fun” to write about the trials and tribulations, the ups and downs, the pros and cons, and yeah, the sheer awesomeness that being a blogga for 365 - er, 366 days - has entailed.

Some of the highlights:

Getting friended on Facebook by Derek Warburton! I received the friend request but two hours after my semi-snarky post, Celebridiculous Redux, went up this past Monday. Flustered, I fretted. Was it because I had volunteered at his Housing Works VIP Gala? Was he friending everyone who helped out?

I ambushed Kelly the second she came on gchat. Nope, she had not been friended.

I read and reread the post. Was he pissed at me? Would he e-yell at me? After tons of reassurance from Miss Cobb that Mr. Warburton wasn’t actually going to turn me into fashion sidewalk-kill, I accepted. Very shortly thereafter, I received a message: “thank you for your interesting commentary about the Housing Works event tee hee. xxx Derek”. Ahhh! So cool! And cooler still that he didn’t loathe me.

Obviously I’d like friend requests from the other celebrities I mentioned - Robert Pattinson, Kate Winslet, Robert Pattinson - but I guess I’ll take my victories where I can get them.

Then there was the FB message from Emily Wells (semi-famous singer) that she sent after reading my raving love-fest of a post about live music. She said, “Katie... thanks for the rad review... glad to have inspired a self proclaimed cynic... cheers... see you again in NYC.”

So yeah, those are some of the more blindingly bright spots I’ve reaped in my blogger career.

Some less star-striking - but just as stellar - experiences:

Hearing that people actually read and actually like and sometimes even relate to my posts. It feels good to know I’m not the only person in the world who complains (even if I do do it more than the next person).

Getting new followers without having to threaten their livelihood! (If I make it to 100, Melissa will bake me cupcakes...so pretty, pretty please with some sprinkles on top, just click that FOLLOW button already, sososo easy!) I also love when perfectly perfect strangers (no not Balki…I wish) become followers.

Comments! Love comments. Can’t get enough of your comments (and by you I mean Jeffery, Melissa & Kelly - thanks buddies!) Alas I would LOVE for some new peeps to comment, too! I heart hearing what ya’lls have to say. It makes me feel un-alone, like I’m really not just chillin in cyberspace with my blog and my Mac. I don’t want to be a blogMac lady! (I aspire to be more interactive but to no avail. What’s the fear, ladies and gentlemen? I judge, you judge, we all go down…to the hot place. Whatever. Comment!)

When I hear people using “no dankes!” like it’s part of the English language canon or something. Like it’s a real phrase, next stop Oxford Dictionary! (Well OK, so it’s mostly my friends saying it...when I’m around...but still. It’s cool to hear them use this weird ass invention of a phrase to talk shit about shit.)

Honestly I think I’ve loved about 92.8% of the world that is No Dankes! And 99.7% of that percentage comes from my friends and family and family’s friends and quasi-Facebook-friends and co’s aaaaall banding together to support me and pat me on the back and rah-rah-rah in my face at me to keep it up.

Cheesy as it sounds, I don’t think I would have lasted one month in my negative little cyberspace universe without your compliments, your consistently positive reinforcement, your encouragement.

Thank you. Truly.

But enough with the happy-go-lucky Do Dankes! bullshit. I’m here to No Dankes! And what better way to end this entry than on a negative note?

A few No Dankes! regarding No Dankes!:

Chronic complaining is hard on the heart and heavy on the brain. Apologies for my lousy 2-posts-per-week showings as of late. I’s been having me a case of writers block. Dare I say - gasp - I’m more chipper than I was a year ago? Har-de-har-har. Like that will ever happen. No worries, dear friends and followers! Snarky McSnarkerson will never become all nice all the time.

My mom yelling at me every time I say “goddamn.” If one were to overhear her scolding me, one would guess I’m about to celebrate my 7th birthday - not my 27th (yikes). Trissi would probably relish in sticking a bar of soap in my mouth - but alas she cannot, for: a) I live in a different state, and b) I am now bigger than she is.

The typos. The typos! I abhor them. But as much as I aspire to be an officer in the Grammar Police Brigade, we can’t win em all. I could edit and reedit and reword and rework all.day.every.day. But then there would be no posts! And the point of a blog is, after all, the posts. So it’s pretty lose-lose. (But like the MTA, I beg you: If you see something, say something. I don’t enjoy the Cone of Shame that a spelling or grammatical error forces me into.)

Annnd I’m gonna stop there. Because I’m sure one of YOUR No Dankes!, dear fair-weather readers, is my long-winded-ness.

Thanks so much everyone! Especially to those of you who made it to the end of this post! As a reward, you get the chance to participate in a really fun contest: Post a comment below about something you’re maaaayjahly no dankes-ing at the moment. Perhaps it’s one of mine too! If I write a blog about your comment, you will get a super special, super top secret prize. Comment away! xoxo

The MousekeTears

Don’t get me wrong now. I’m not saying I love mice. I’m not about to get me a pet Mickey or anything. What I am no dankesing is mice in my apartment.

Who wants to share a room with a rodent?

I get it. Buildings are warm and cozy and there’s food aplenty - very unlike the cold, wet, dangerous outdoors.

Hell, if I was a mouse I would prob be suicidal - albeit smart (well, maybe: No do NOT eat that cheese Katie, no, NO!...snap...I guess we can’t win em all) - rather than remain cold, wet, and starving.

Luckily I am not a mouse. Unluckily I live in a city where rodents outnumber humans 6 to 1. Nastiness!

My friends and I have had some fairly heated debates regarding the Bug vs. Mouse sitch. Ri, for instance, would rather have a bug infestation (this coming from the girl who had bedbugs - that’s a pretty bold statement), pointing out that mice have fur and are warmblooded.

I, on the other hand, would opt for mice cause I.hate.bugs.

This preference was reaffirmed on Sunday when I found a mostly dead cockroach in my bathroom. But - and there is a but - this partiality is probably due to the fact that - knock on wood - I haven’t had a mouse problem in my Sullivan Street apartment.

My Leroy Street apartamento was a different can of worms entirely. And that can was chock full of squiggly squirmy pests.

All I can say is thank GOD I was living with my ex-boyfriend Ben at the time

One winter night, in the wee small hours, I got up to go to the bathroom. I tend to not turn on the light (I’m a middle-of-the-night-bathroom-break pro unfortunately). But for some reason on that particular night, I flipped the switch - and as soon as I did, I knew a mouse would come running out from behind our hamper.

Needless to say, I was right. (Totally made me believe in that New Age bullshit that is The Secret.)

I squealed as that fat little porker, let’s call him Jerry, skirted and skidded around the corner towards his oh-so-original mouse hidey-hole behind the fridge.

I made a panicked effort at waking Ben up - but come on, what could he do? Jerry had already made his escape! So I tried to go back to sleep. Fail! Half an hour later, back to the bathroom I went to get me some Tylenol PM.

I turned on the light - dummy! why do I not learn from my mistakes! - and there was another mouse...dangling...from the medicine cabinet. Literally. This time I screeched and screamed and shouted - decibels upon decibels higher than one imagines a human possible of making. I stumbled into the shower and watched as skinny, ragamuffin little Minnie (she was no doubt fatso Jerry’s deprived girlfriend) fell into the sink and frantically scrambled to get out. Picture a hamster running up the inside of a slippery ball. Then I pulled the curtain closed and screamed some more.

No mice were captured and no sleep was to be had that night - the first of many nights over many weeks and months of mice sneak attacks.

There was the mouse who tight-roped along our door frame and fell into my shoe rack after we shined the flashlight spotlight on him. There was the mouse who ran across Ben’s bare feet while he was making dinner. (I would have died.)

Ben called himself the Mouse Hunter - and hunter he was. Fo sho. He must have caught a dozen mice. Thankfully I never saw a one corpse - though I did smell a few decomposing. They were disposed of immediately.

But it made me sad, the slaughtering of so many innocent little critters. Really sad, actually. They were just trying to keep cozy and find a snack!

There was one especially upsetting occasion when we tried out a newfangled “reusable” mousetrap - Trissi’s purchase, obvi. Picture a clothespin. And no, a clothespin isn’t strong enough to kill a mouse.

That night I awoke to incessant flopping and banging and mouse-sized crying around 4am . The mouse wouldn’t die. Ben threw that trap out along with the poor, semi-dead little rodent.

It’s a toss-up! Of course I didn’t like the fact that The Hunter caught so many mice. But would I want them scampering around all footloose-and-fancy-free in my apartment? No.

Yet...yet...there was that other time when I spotted a huge, horrifying water bug traipsing across my shower rod. I squeaked and squealed and freaked out and called my mom and cried and jumped up and down. After a few minutes of I think I can pep-talk, I went into the bathroom armed with a broom. I aimed, closed my eyes, and smashed the shit out of the bug. Then I ran out and slammed the door behind me. Ben cleaned up the remains when he got home from work.

I guess the grass is always greener. If I lived in an apartment overrun with water bugs and cockroaches, I would wish for mice. But if I saw jimmie-like Jerry turds and heard scurry-scurry-scratch-scratch every night, I would probably long for bugs.

Or would I. Actually, I think not.

Maybe it boils down preference based on cuteness.

So fine. If I had to pick one, I’m sticking with my original choice. Mister Mouse.

Celebridiculous Redux

Yes. Yes I did stalk Robert Pattinson last summer when he was filming Remember Me. And yes. Yes I did get super duper psyched when the scene I saw being shot unfolded on the big screen. (And I must say, I thought the movie was much better than critics are making it out to be. Bring tissues.)

Robert Pattison epitomizes the anti-celebrity celebrity. He wishes he could walk down the street without getting recognized. He longs for the days of not getting hit by taxis while running from a gaggle of shrieking girls.

Major Do Dankes! props to that particular brand of celebs. They like to live their lives behind the scenes. Johnny Depp, Gwyneth Paltrow, Leonardo DiCaprio, and Kate Winslet are a few laid back faves.

They very rarely flaunt their famous faces on the streets of L.A. They don’t seek out paparazzi - they shun it. They don’t don outfits that scream, “Look at me!! LOOK AT ME!” (Fine, maybe Mr. Depp does frequently don quirky clothes...but whatever.)

Lucky duck me had the opportunity last week to fraternize with the antithesis of these peeps. And by fraternize, I mean with mingle with their cups...that I was throwing away...when garbage cans were literally.right.there.

I mentioned in my previous post that one of the perks of volunteering was the partays - but I failed to elaborate. You see, being seen at the scene means also means you’re gonna spy with your little eyes tons-o-outrageousness.

There wasn’t anything über posh about the opening of the Hell’s Kitchen Housing Works Thrift Store - but it was sponsored by Derek Warburton. Derek Warbur-who? Derek Warburton, Socialite Stylist, DUH! He’s also been on The Real Housewives of NYC and is (er, was) good buddies with Jill. (UPDATE: Umm...2 hours after I posted this blog he friended me on Facebook...I accepted. Does Mr. Warburton read No Dankes? Yikes yo!)

Though Jill wasn’t present and accounted for after her Snarky McSnarkerson comment, there were plenty of other celeb-annabes taking up space. Ramona, that gem! She tried to enter through the exit and when sweet, soft-spoken Kelly told her had to go to the front door she excused her behavior by saying, “I’m tiiiiiiiiiiiiiired.”

Ramona...dearest Ramona. You didn’t just whip a tornado-riffic store into shape in under two hours. You got your hair done, your makeup done, your nails done, your outfit picked out. All you have to do is smile. Quit your complaining.

It was a pretty eclectic mix of reality show stars, singers, and designers. Among the semi-famous C-listers: Alex and Simon (couple extraordinaire), Epperson and Kevin Christiana from Project Runway, Kristine Elezaj, Allison Parris, and, drumroll please - my least-favorite favorite: Malik (NOT) So Chic. Omg I peed a little when I saw him. I think you will too. Those glassssses, gaaah!

I know what you’re thinking. This is an event, of course the famous folks are gonna break out their (borrowed) designer duds. They’s gonna get did up to the 9’s. They are going to be photographed the shit out of, after all.

But I guess my numero uno qualm with all the hoopla lay in the simple fact that fashion does not have to be outrageous. You don’t have to be so in.my.face with your over-the-top ensembles. You can remain fashion-forward without being a freak of nature, like this other he-she-it person below.

I don’t know. I suppose society does dictate that celebrities must assume a preposterous persona in the name of show-biz.

But come on...I think you can tone it down a few notches and still manage to make the pages of Us Weekly. Or Life & Style at the very least.

Some of my most abhorred celeb-annabes:

HEIDI. MONTAG. She seriously got plastic surgery just so she could be in the rag sheets.

The Olsen Twins - sorry Rio, sorry Jeffery. I just don’t what ya’lls find so appealing. They’re haggard.

Miley Cyrus. Vanessa Hudgens. Olivia Palermo. Lauren Yeah-Right-You’re-An-Author Conrad. Kate Gosselin. Omfg, Kate Grosselin. I’m gonna end it on that note because I don’t think there’s anyone worse than her. Vile.

Do Dankes: Kiss Me, I’m a Volunteer

vol·un·teer
– noun
1. a person who voluntarily offers himself or herself for a service or undertaking.
2. a person who performs a service willingly and without pay.
3. an awesome, awe-inspiring human being.

If kindhearted volunteers didn’t exist, the impossibilities would be endless. Think about it. There would arguably be no Obama. Hundreds upon hundreds more lives might have been lost in Haiti. New houses may never have been erected in New Orleans.

And I don’t even want to think what America would be like without an (undrafted) military, or auxiliary police officers, or volunteer firefighters.

Volunteers really do make the world go round. Let’s hear it for the ‘teers!

I began donating my time when I was 15 (cannot believe that was over a decade ago). Every Saturday for three years I volunteered at the Sharon Hospital Gazebo Gift Shop – usually back at the snack bar cause my 80+ year old co’s weren’t so very spry.

While I did not enjoy snarky New Yorkers asking if the coffee was “fresh” (my oh my how the tides have turned), I loved hearing stories of life in the Big Band Era.

Since dipping my toes in the volunteer pool, I’ve enjoyed a myriad of experiences. Some faves:

Helping women who were reentering the workforce pick out an interview outfit at Perfect Fit (yeah DZ!). Installing drywall, painting, hanging cabinets, and fighting off tumbleweeds at a Habitat for Humanity site in New Mexico with my friends Catie, Sarah, and Jackie, and Catie’s mom Lynn (lots-o-pics!) Bowling with and subsequently being stalked by my “Best Buddy” (I got a new Bud asap).

Then there was the Just for Kids after school program. I’ll never forget the look on those middle-schoolers faces when I introduced them to cream cheese and olives (disgust) or when I broke out a huge bag of Beanie Babies as BINGO prizes (delight).

There have been many other days and projects here and there – but it’s been 5 years since I’ve done anything worthwhile. And lately, as you are well aware, I’ve noticed myself becoming a bit too cynical, a bit too snooty and negative and whiny. Helloooo, No Dankes!

Methinks I’ve become a bit too much like that fresh-coffee-seeking New Yorker I despised back in 10th grade.

I quarter-heartedly looked into community service days – cleaning up parks, painting, helping kids with their homework...mostly with New York Cares. But nothing came to fruition.

Then Kelly Cobb, my idol (because let’s face it, she really seems to be just that, what with all these shout outs!), made it one of her New Year’s resolutions to start volunteering regularly. And, true to form, she discovered the.ideal.spot to donate her time: Housing Works Bookstore and Café.

She said, “It’s charming and I thought it looked like an Ivy League library...which was especially appealing in the fall when I made the resolution.”

A few months later, I followed suit. Every Sunday from 12-4, tired or chipper, hungover or hungry, I’m there. And honestly I notice a difference in my attitude. Well, at least for those four hours.

There are even some perks! We get discounts on books (!!!!!), free soda or coffee, AND we get the opportunity to volunteer at some super cool events, like the Hell’s Kitchen VIP Party earlier this week. (We saw a few of the Real Housewives of NYC, some Project Runway designers, and a few other celeb-annabes. You can see Kelly in the background of this pic and my stockinged, booted leg. To see more click here.)

There’s no high like a volunteer high...truly there isn’t. Volunteers are selfless. They’re noble. They’re inspiring. They’re gracious. They don’t dedicate their time seeking recognition or righteousness – they do it because they care.

Some of my other favorite idols: Trissi! Mi madre has spent every Tuesday for the past 13 years at the Noble Horizons Gift Shop. She was also head of the Nurse’s Association for 20 years (!!) AND she loves to donate...maybe because she also loves to collect. (Those Beanie Babies? Yeah that was her. Can you imagine where else I would have gotten them? She still has Rubbermaid trunks full…) 



My 11th grade history teacher, Mike DeMazza. This summer he will be volunteering at a school and orphanage in LeCanta, Haiti. UnBELIEVABLE! (Please send me a message if you would like to donate!!)

Melissa Presti, cubemate. Every Wednesday morning at 7:30 (yes, a.m.), she helps 1st, 2nd, and 3rd graders with their reading. What a perfectly patient publishing angel!

Brad Pitt, because he looked hot building houses in Louisiana.

Everyone who has ever fought for our country. (Especially during World War II – watching Band of Brothers and The Pacific...holy shit horrific).

Actually, you know what? I idolize all volunteers everywhere. There is nothing more honorable than donating your time to help others.

The In-Between Routine

I’ve got the fevah. Spring fevah, that is!

Last weekend was positively gorgeous. Gorgeous, I say! But along with summery sunshine in the late winter months, so too comes bad fashion.

I’ve been seeing tons-o-fashion roadkill the past few weeks. Fashion faux pas. Bloopers, blunders, flops, flubs, fouls. It’s left me wanting to scream: N to the O, no, no, NO people!

These sinners, these extremely offensive offenders, belong almost exclusively to the fairer sex - unfortunately.

Alas, I cannot lament about these criminals so very much, for I am guilty as well.

This transition time is killer, I tell you. Killer!

Take last weekend for instance. It was 70-something degrees - but ‘twas also mid-March. Un problemo, yo!

Well let’s be serious - choosing an outfit is always a dilemma. But this quandary is made infinitesimally more difficult when the sun is shining, you’re sweating, and iPhone is telling you that spring has not officially sprung.

You feel super silly wearing sandals. Shorts? Absolutely not. Tanks? Permissible with a cardigan-to-go. Dresses sans leggings (at least)? Hella no.

It’s not summer, dear friends (and foes). You can’t break out those strappy shoes and miniskirts without escaping a variable walk-of-shame wrath from your fellow city-dwelling homegirls.

By the same token, it’s majorly frowned upon to don opaque tights and knee-high boots with a sweater dress and peacoat. It’s not 20 degrees out, lassies!

So here’s the million dollar question...the question that even Kelly Cobb, fashionista extraordinaire, has trouble answering: What does one wear for your in-between routine?

(Methinks it’s rhetorical.)

But I do believe there are a few simple guidelines we can all follow for the next month or so.

For instance, I don’t think it’s permissible to wear neon just yet. Nor do I deem it right to wear wool. Scarves are OK if they’re cute and cotton - none of that Burberry plaid bullshit. Fugg no to Uggs - and keep those Rainbows under wraps. Steer clear of Icelandic-esque sweaters (hmm...that rule might apply for all 12 months, especially for that there couple), but bring on the pretty pink n’ purple cardis. Pack up that camel coat and break out your khaki trench. Replace those turtlenecks with boatnecks. And keep those toes closed in until April at least.

Annnd that’s all I got.

I truly don’t think there’s an easy or graceful way to get through these transition periods. I suppose layers are key - light layers, not heavy ones.

Ugh, boys totes have it easy, peasy, lemon squeezy. They can wear sport shorts and stupid man-tanks and no one will judge them.

Why are girls so harsh? Why we always giving - and receiving, let’s be serious - that savage, holy-shit-what-is-that-chick-wearing stare/glare?

Yeah, I’m guilty of dishing it too - mostly behind my passive-aggressive-protective sunglasses. But like I said, mea culpa when it comes to committing fashion faux pas.

It’s so goddamn difficult to balance! Talk about tight-roping between seasons. I suppose semi-spring ‘tis the season to be judgey. But let’s at least try to bring peace and harmony to New York fashion - one (cotton) layer at a time.

St. Paddy’s Fray

I contemplated writing a Do Dankes! about St. Patrick’s Day - and all things Irish. But after my ode to Trissi’s corned beef and cabbage, I was kind of over it. I just didn’t have that much to say.

Silly me - always putting the carriage before the horse (is that even the saying? hmm...doesn’t make sense...)

Then the holiday arrived. And now there is much to NO Dankes! about the drunkest drunkfest of the year.

About how green bagels and green beer are actually permissible foodstuffs. About how prices are unfairly jacked up to exorbitant amounts (case in point: Mr. Dennehy’s) simply because bars know we will pay. About how guys don kilts the right way - fully aware that tipsy girls will lift them up, thus exposing their manly parts, then complain when we do.

Over pints of Guinness and Harp and Magners, my friends and I wondered about the origins of this well-loved holiday: A day when everyone is Irish.

After Wiki-ing, I must say - I’m disappointed and fairly appalled that (Saint) Patrick was nada but a glorified missionary. He preached Christianity all over Ireland, coercing and converting people from their native pagan traditions (which were way cooler).

No wonder March 17th has become such a hot mess fest - with all that proselytizing, Patrick undoubtedly drove people to drink.

And boy oh boy do people drink.

St. Patrick’s Day, in my opinion, is the sloppiest day of the year. And we all know that along with alcohol so too comes drama. What starts in good fun ends in bad times. As my Nana used to say: Laughing leads to crying.

The more you drink, the more you pee - and when you’re a girl that’s un problemo. Come ON guys, be chivalrous. Share your line-free bathroom with us and quit yer bellyaching!

The crushing of toes and shoving of bodies is endless. Ceaseless. Hapless. Hopeless! I can’t even tell you how many times I was pushed - starting with a waitress at lunch. (I was fixing my scarf and the biotch batted my elbow out of the way with a glare/stare. EW!)

Bars become cattle cars. Sticky, stinky, sweaty bodies crammed in a space that’s 5,000 times too small. People become dominoes - one topple is all it takes for you to all fall down.

And bathrooms aren’t the only place for lines. They’re ubiquitous. It’s impossible to get a slice of pizza let alone a beer. Patience, as you well know, is not an exemplary quality of the inebriated. - so you get two drinks every time you go up. And you drink and drink and drink some more. But hey, it’s OK because everyone else is doing the same thing.

Where does all that double fisting lead? To fights. Fights, fights, fights, FIGHTS. What would a bar be without fights? What would St. Patrick’s Day be without drama? B-o-r-i-n-g I suppose. We had the lucky duck privilege of seeing two. And man, they were outrageous. The first in particular.

Some gross(sssss) dude with a cane (don’t be fooled into feeling bad for him like I first did), threw a bottle at a girls head. Really? REALLY? She flipped her shit, obvi, and started kicking his face. Yes, kicking his face with her feet. He hobbled up off his lazy ass and proceeded to slap her. Once, twice, again - till her man friend broke it up. She cried, he got the boot. It was totes ridic.

This dramarama drunkfest is not, I daresay, the celebration St. Patrick had in mind when he traipsed across the rolling green hills of Ireland converting peeps.

March 17th has become synonymous with superfluous libations-ness. With sheer sloppiness and far too many cases of “Irish Flu” the following morning. With people partaking in one too many brews, then puking on the sidewalk (or in my apartment building entrance, as evidenced here - sorry guys).

I don’t know where this blog is going. Perhaps my brain is a still fried from too many Harps.

But I do know I’ll be making the rounds at Irish pubs next year - and that I don’t agree with Fr. Vincent Twomey and his desire to “…reclaim St Patrick's Day as a church festival.” All I ask is that you simply tone it down a bit, people.

(Like that will ever, ever happen.)

(D)umbrellas

I know what you’re thinking: How many blogs can this chick write about the rain? But I tell you, there ain’t nothing RIGHT about all of this RAIN.

After a rough-and-tumble weekend, I.am.so.beyond.over.it.

Have I ever mentioned the fact that I’m spoiled? Quite spoiled. Rotten, I daresay. But in this particular case, so were my friends.

We all know what tomorrow is - St. Patrick’s Day! And for those of us who have a bit of Irish in our blood (which, let’s face it, is practically everyone), that means corned beef and cabbage. Holla!

There I was outside of Grand Central. Two corned beef briskets, two cooked heads of Savoy cabbage, ten pounds worth of boiled baby carrots and potatoes. All in addition to my regular groceries and Target purchases.

The taxi line was around the block. Obviously. Why wouldn’t it be? So instead of waiting around for the next downpour, I opted to take the subway. And it’s not like I live close to the 6. My body is still sore from hauling all that food. And it’s all the rain’s fault.

My über wet, debacle-full trek from 42nd Street should have been a sign: DO NOT GO OUT TONIGHT. But all I wanted in my vehemently annoyed state was a drink. And so I had one. (OK fine, a few.)

After some lovely pink champagne (thanks Andrea!), I headed to Ri’s apartamento. I arrived, as Katie Leo can attest, looking very much like a dog who had taken a dip in the backyard pond. Not at all like a real girl.

I don’t think I possibly could have been any wetter. I was windblown, dripping, bedraggled, miserable, and bloody. Yes, bloody. Me and the elements had it out and apparently I got my ass kicked.

Flash back 10 minutes. There I was on the corner of Broadway and Hell, watching the wind make waves (yes, whitecaps) on the sidewalks. There were mini rushing rivers on every street. It was a monsoon. A blustery, jet-plane-engine-wind monsoon.

Suddenly my not-so-trusty umbrella collapsed. A feeble, shriveled little mushroom. I tried to perk it up. I tried again. And then its already broken metal arm sliced my finger. No DANKES!

But really, of course it was broken. And of course it would break even more. Why wouldn’t it? Umbrellas are the best worst inventions ever. The smartest dumbest idea. The most excellent exasperating objects in the world.

They’ve been around for thousands of years: Ancient Egypt, Ancient Greece, Ancient Rome, Ancient, Ancient, ANCIENT. And yet...and yet...no one has invented a bonafide-breeze-proof-bumbershoot.

I own five, count ‘em, 1-2-3-4-5 pretty little rainshades. And they’s all b-r-o-k-e-n. Every single one (sad, aren’t they?):

Now. Not that I’ve ever read it, but I don’t recall there being a, “And God said let there be torrential rain-con-wind storms all the time to make New York City dwellers miserable” passage in the Bible.

Hudson Street is my arch-nemesis. That there wind tunnel has sabotaged a.l.l. my ‘brellas. Such a diva, that street!

Alright, I guess it’s not Hudson’s fault. And I can’t rightly place blame on my pretty little parasols - I mean, I could have tossed them. I could have sent them a-packing to the Umbrella Graveyard.

But you see, I have a bond with them and their adorable stripes and polka dots. Like all those shirts I’ve had since high school that I’ll never wear again but just can’t get rid of.

And really, let’s face it: I would rather use an already damaged umbrella when wannabe-hurricanes attack our city. Who really wants to break a brand-spanking-new cutie pie?

Misery aside, bandaged finger be damned!, we had a lovely dinner in my rabbit hutch. Seven of us crowded around and devoured enjoyed Trissi’s meal. We had our corned beef and cabbage and carrots and potatoes and soda bread and rye bread and green sugar cookies and beers - and hell yeah, we ate it (all) too.

As for dumbrellas - that’s just how it goes, I suppose.