Buastards!

Ugh. There are just so many no dankes when it comes to being a pedestrian in this city. I know that I’ve tackled cabbies creeping on up peddies in the crosswalk. And of course the citiclists.

But this one may take the cake.

Yesterday as I was crossing 6th Ave at King Street, not one, not two, but THREE vehicles nearly hit me.

Seriously guys? I know this Island makes you feel the need…the need for warp speed. The second you cross over those bridges, or come through those tunnels, you’re poofed into your road rage, lead foot alter-ego.

But come on. There are upward of 10,000 – ten thousand – pedestrians injured on NYC streets each year. Yeah, I Googled.

That’s NUTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Are you serious, drivers? Really?

So there I was, prancing along to Lily Allen’s new album (it’s kinda funny that I remember what music I’m listening to when I have these dangerous/upsetting NYC run-ins, i.e. dead RATS).

I waited until the pedestrian light turned white, then crossed.

I hadn’t quite committed yet, and was feeling exceptionally generous, so I let a smallish SUV zoom out in front of me. Fine. Understandable. I was barely a few steps out, they had a green light, so they went for it. I get it.

I was a good quarter of the way into the crosswalk when a white delivery van of some sort sped out in front of me. Being the super cautious, ultra aware girl that I am, I paused. Let him whoosh left onto 6th.

By that point, though, I was growing impatient.

So I went for it. I picked up the pace and started to bolt. But just as I was halfway across, a HUGE, GINORMOUS, GODDAMN BUS bolted right out in front of me.

I was thisclose to being hit. I was so near to the driver that I saw his ugly face and his scraggly, unkempt beard. What a bustard!!!

How I wish I had the frame of mind to flip him off (at least!!!) But I was paralyzed. I had almost been hit by a BUS.
I did manage to shoot him a dirty look (cause I’m at least good at those) and raise my arm a little as if to ask, WHAT??

But for reals, yo. WE HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY.

The sad part is - I don't think these nutso drivers really even care if they hit someone.

Bustards!

R.I.P.-ed Rats

The only thing worse than seeing a grimy, fat rat scurrying down the sidewalk is seeing a dead one lying in the middle of it.

Actually, no. There is something worse.

Nearly stepping on a sopping wet, R.I.P.-ed, XL rodent is far worse than just seeing one.

No. Thank. You.

There I was, bopping to Franz Ferdinand, umbrella in hand, looking straight ahead, when all of a sudden a piece of trash (I thought…either that or a reaaaaally large pile of dog doo) appeared in my path. I looked closer and screeched. Jumped. Gagged. Nearly tripped.

I looked around, eyes averting the dead rat, to see if anyone had noticed my little freak out.

No. There was no one to share in my grief-ridden disgust at seeing and nearly stepping on that poor, dead-as-a-doornail-Splinter.

Silly rats, why can’t you stay put? Stick to the sewers and the dumpsters and garbage cans where you belong! Quit creeping on the sidewalks.

Or, better yet, quit croaking on the sidewalks!
Now I know that this sodden, ripe little Templeton probably fell for the ole poison gimmick. Dummy. So it was his own fault that his blood vessels burst and that he collapsed, dead. In the rain nevertheless – so very poignant for a rodent.

But I thought rat-a-tat-tats were supposed to bring the poison back to their lair and share the wealth? I thought they were supposed to seek out their watering hole or something? I thought they were supposed to die in the comfortable confines of their own sordid nests???

Why, then, did I nearly step on a deceased, rain-soaked rodent?

Ugh.

And of course I have the audacity to feel bad for any and all NYC pests (fine, except water bugs). But pigeons and mice and seagulls and rats – no matter how vulgar and unpleasant they might be, they can’t help it. They’re just trying to make a living, ya know?

So on top of being completely nauseated and not just a little unnerved, a wave of sadness struck me as well.

Poor little buddy.

If it was 1993 and I was on my farm with my friend Sarah Tuthill, I probably would have buried that sad little rat. With a headstone saying, “Here Lies Templeton.”

Cause yeah. We did that.

Red Light = STOP, Stupid

If the mood strikes, I can be quite a dutiful daughter. That’s why, on a whim, I decided to take the train to CT to spend Mother’s Day with that lovely mom-o-mine. Fine, fine – it was pretty much (yet another) Katie’s Day, but time spent in the tranquil countryside did me good.

I took an afternoon train back and, armed with bags of purchases from a double-Daughter’s-Day worth of shopping, I hopped in a cab and headed downtown.

I was still riding high on the vapors of my Northwest Corner visit – the chirping birds, the lush greenery, seeing my beloved pooch, Coop-de-doop – but wham, bam, thank you ma’am, I was jolted back to urban life in a New York second.

Why do cabs and cars and buses feel the need to inch up at intersections when the light is red? I don’t understand. Red means stop. It does not mean go. It’s so senseless, useless, pointless. I mean the light goes from yellow to red, they slow then stop, and two seconds later they’re creepin.

Such creeps! For so many reasons.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. New York is a pedestrian city. Why don’t drivers get that? Why don’t they understand? It’s so frustrating to be crossing the street – legally, when the signal is white, not jaywalking – and cab drivers ease off the brakes.

They’re always inching and slinking and stealing forward.
They think they’re so badass, so threatening. Puh-LEASE, I think I’d feel pretty damn intimidating behind the wheel of a two-ton vehicle, too. Bullies.

There have been times when idiotic cabbies have been thisclose to bumping into me. And I’ve witnessed countless close encounters of cross-walkers and those ne’er-do-wells. Of course they’re in the wrong, but after I (and believe me, I can offer up a nasty-ass stink-eye), or the aforementioned strangers shoot them a dirty look, they actually have the nerve to HONK.

EW!

Quit yer pussyfooting, ya big yellow ninnies. Cabbies and car drivers and and MTA buses: You’re not gonna GET anywhere while the light is red. Or if you do, you’ll get a ticket. Or perhaps even a felony charge for manslaughter.

So annoying.

Please pedestries, until those nincompoops learn their lesson – be vewy vewy careful.

Receipts for No Reason

Now. Let me preface by saying I know that excessive receipts are no fault of the poor, innocent cashiers. After all - they’re just doing their job, trying to make a buck. But honestly, I don’t get it.

Why the waste of paper? The extending and the grabbing of a stupid little scrap? It’s such a superfluous motion. An unnecessary transaction that pilfers precious seconds of your day, minutes of your week, months of your life.

Stop the incessant, needless receipts!

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve begrudgingly walked back towards a shouting cashier to accept a receipt from their overextended, impatient paws.

The worst culprit is DD’s. I know, I know - I No Dankes Dunkin’s a lot - but the criticism is fairly well deserved. They are the most erroneous receipt tosser’s of them all. No, thank you, I DO NOT want a receipt for a coffee that cost $2.37. Really, thank you, I don’t.

Alright, I'll admit it. Cashiers do give me a tinge of anxiety. Of course I don’t want the receipt they’re demanding I take. But I always feel such unbearable pressure to run back and grab the proof of payment. Especially because I know that if I try to run away, the employee will put on their pissy, peeved-off face and exaggeratedly crumple it up in front of me while shouting, “NEXT!”

Ugh.

Self-apprehensions and nervousness aside, it really is quite sinful to be squandering perfectly good paper on a receipt for a package of Big Red. No, no, Gristedes, I do not need evidence that I’ve purchased yet another half gallon of ice cream.

I could wallpaper my apartment with all the receipts I’ve rounded up in the past year. Or, let’s be honest, the past month (yes, my horse stall/rabbit hutch is very teeny tiny, but still…it’s the principle of the matter).

Yes, there are occasions that warrant a little white slip. Namely the purchase of clothing and – umm – well that’s all I can think of actually. Come to think of it, even clothing receipts are paltry! When I worked at Bloom’s, people would come in with years-old garments and we always found a way to look them up and return their money. Like magic. Really, really annoying f-ing magic.

Where there’s a will, there’s a way, people.

So come on now. Let’s all be grownups and do away with receipts. If not for our sanity of not having to walk back and grab the slip from a cashier, then at least for the trees. Yes everyone, let’s do it for the trees.

When 100 Calorie Packs Turn Into 1,000 Calories

100 Calorie Packs are undoubtedly the most dangerous innovation the food industry has seen since fun size candy bars. Why, you might ask? BECAUSE NO ONE CAN EAT JUST ONE! (BTdubbs, whoever worked for Lay’s and came up with that slogan is, quite simply, a genius.)

Perhaps I speak in generalizations far too grand. I know that I, at least, certainly cannot consume but one 100 Calorie Pack. No, no. For me they are “diet” sabotage…for sure.

When the aforementioned packs are nearby, I become a crazy woman with the approximate self-constraint of a monkey in a cage chocked with bananas, or a seal swimming in a pool full of dead fish, or Cooper with his dog dish drowning in American cheese.

In short, if there are 100 Calorie Packs in my cabinet, my name might as well be Eve. The temptation is far too great.

Yes, yes. Those teeny tiny portion control packets are good in theory, bad in practice. Am I the only person that can’t stop at one? Oreos and Cheetos and Doritos oh MY. The Chips Ahoy are chocolicious. The Teddy Grahams are cinnatastic. The Goldfish are saltisfying. Well that last one didn’t really work but hey, you win some you lose some.

I’ve enjoyed maaaany of the varieties many a time. And by the time I’ve had enough – well let’s just say it’s more like 600 or 700 calories that I’ve consumed.
Perhaps, though, my ultimate 100 Calorie low was a few weeks ago when I got the brilliant idea to recreate those most beloved Dunkaroos. Remember them? I sure do. Obvi.

Alone within the confines of my apartment, the necessity of being clandestine removed from my shoulders, I ripped open a few (no need to call myself out on how many precisely) 100 Cal packs of Lorna Doone’s. They are by far my most favorite 100 Calorie variety (one of my favorite full cal cookie varieties, and one of my most favorite books).

I hurriedly dumped the mini-Doone’s into a bowl and snatched my half empty container of Pillsbury vanilla frosting from the fridge. Don’t worry, I had bought it to ice a cake – my brilliant idea of Dunkaroo-inspired nostalgia didn’t come until after the icing had already been opened and partially used.
In a fit of madness, I dove that little shortbread cookie downward, dunking and swirling it round the tub of too-surgary, too-processed frosting. And boy was it – dare I say – better than the Dunkaroos of middle school’s past.

It’s a conspiracy, really. 100 Calorie Packs are such nonsense. No one can seriously eat just one. We just feel better about eating them because “100 Calories” seems like nothing. And I’m here to tell you, it’s something. Particularly when you’re throwing down 6 or 7 or 8 packs. And ESPECIALLY when you insist, like I so grotesquely do, to dip them – DIP them – in vanilla frosting.

Oh hello Mr. Simon. “…why am I soft in the middle now,” you ask? Because these stupid, sadistic manufacturers, à la Nabisco and Keebler and Frito-Lay and Hostess, have all banded together in a great, treacherous scheme!

Grocery stores I implore you, ban the 100 Calorie Packs! Or at least, for the love of my love handles, ban the frosting!