Tuesday, March 16, 2010


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!, w
e 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.

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