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.