Water Bugs. Period.

I almost died yesterday.

No, it wasn’t a errant cab running a light or anything having to do with NYC crime. No, no. It was an entirely different entity pertaining to this fabulous city of ours. It was a water bug.
Yes, a water bug nearly gave me a heart attack yesterday. It very nearly killed me.

If there is one thing above all else in this world that freezes me with fear, sends me into fits of shrieking, draws forth sweat from my pores – it’s water bugs.

The weatherman was wrong, per usual, and it was shaping up to be a lovely afternoon, I thought, as I walked home for lunch. The sun was shining and my 4th floor apartment was very warm, per usual. I had forgotten in the blissful cold climate of this past winter and spring that, when it warms up, the water bugs run rampant.

I made myself a lovely salad (no thank you bathing suit season!) and while I was doing the dishes I noticed something rather large on the floor in front of my chopping block. Thinking it was a piece of lettuce, I stooped to pick it up.

Holy.

Shit.

Immediately I started squealing, screaming, panting, panicking. IT WAS A HUGE (three inches), DISGUSTING, WATER BUG. Wretched, repulsive, revolting creatures. NYC water bugs are mutant, they’re terrifying, horrific, and abominably hideous. I have waterbugaphobia for sure.

Why do they have to be so big? Why do their antennae have to be so long? And so squirmy? Gross little feelers! Why are they so fast? Why are they SO UGLY? Especially the New York ones. Oh, maybe because they live in the sewers, eating garbage and sludge and filth, which turns them mutant, like those Italian renaissance turts.

Ugh, and they're indestructible, like rats! If a bomb were to detonate in this city, those are the only two creatures that would undoubtedly survive.

Thankfully (as if I could be grateful for anything in this situation…though I suppose it could have been worse), it was flopped over on its back, ¾ dead (yes that is indeed the actual bug itself below...apologies that the pic didn't come out that great, I couldn't exactly look at it as I was trying to take it!)

I paced around for approximately four-and-a-half minutes, staring at the floor, perspiration dampening my every pore. I took a hanger and a magazine, ten deep breaths, and tried to scoop up the god forsaken bug.

Of course, it writhed. It just haaaad to writhe. As if its presence wasn’t scary enough, it had to MOVE. Its antennae flopped around like Cooper’s tail. Obviously this made me even more terrified. I contemplated calling my super. Asking my neighbor. Calling my parents. Crying.

“You’re a grown woman, you can do this,” I chanted to myself over and over. I took ten more deep breaths and again went in for the scoop. For the second time, my efforts were rebutted. Those antennae. Those legs! Countless, crunchy, creepy-crawler legs wriggling in rhythm. Ugh.

I packed my bag and got ready to leave. I took the garbage can from under the sink and placed it right near the scene of the crime. I wanted to be ready to bolt. 1…2…3. No dice. 4…5…6. Come on Katie! 7…8…annnd I went for it. Screaming like a maniac, I went for it. I shoveled it onto the magazine, into the garbage, ran down the stairs, and dumped the bag in the trash.
Needless to say, the second I got home last night I swept and scrubbed and set traps in every corner of my apartment. I'd gas it myself if I wasn't so afraid of being poisoned.
Disgusting.

I Can't Stand You, Cantaloupe

I am a great many things, but one thing I am absolutely not is a picky eater. I've finished Thai salads that I've found glass in (Spice, University Place), polished off a Chicken Tikka Masala dish that had hair in it (Ghandi Cafe, Bleecker St.), and tried everything from cactus to crocodile.

In fact, I'm so unpicky that I've only used the H word with two foods: tomatoes and cantaloupe. The former I positively hated for twenty-four years - until two summers ago when my mom made me a tomato sandwich with Beefsteaks from our garden. Now I'm absolutely hooked!

And then there was one. No matter how many times I've tasted it (and believe me, I've put forth a valiant effort), cantaloupe is the only provision I despise. Yes, you pitiful little cantaloupe, I simply can't stand you. For so many reasons I don't even know where to begin! Oh, why not with your ugly ass skin:

There is nothing beautiful about you - you don't have the shape of a starfruit or the colors of a mango. Your exterior is so boring it doesn't even deserve a description. You are the color of nothing, nada, nichts, nill. Your bumpy, contusion-clad surface is creepy and contrived (you probably thought to yourself, "Oh I'm such a boring, awful, bland looking fruit, I need some sort of sensory appeal! Why not make myself have a bumpy, scratchy surface?" BLEH!!) You resemble nothing other than a reticulated rock.

As to the edible part, the flesh. Ugh! I will say that orange is one of my favorite colors. I thoroughly enjoy all things orange:

- Orange soda comes in third place as my most fave pop (a very difficult decision, came down to a coin toss), right behind root beer and Diet Coke with Lime

- Cheese balls you are DELICIOUS...you poor, underrated, oft-forgotten cousins of the damn Doodle

- When the whim to be healthy strikes, I enjoy carrots (especially those of the mini or matchstick variety)

- I find Goldfish vastly pleasing, both the edible version and the pet (plus 10 for being so easy to take care of; minus 50 for dying after, like, a day)

- I am huge fan of Essie's Mini Shorts nail polish AND I just scored a super cute Theory dress at a sample sale - 'tis orange, obvi!

All things orange are, in fact, pretty fantabulous. So whhhhy can't the inside of a cantaloupe be a more vile. revolting color - like sky blue or pea green? You spoil the color orange for me, stupid cantaloupe. You really do.

Alas, ruination aside, it's really the smell and taste of a cantaloupe that I find most abominable.

My mother unfortunately does not share in my loathing of this...this thing that calls itself a fruit. When I visit CT in the summatime, I often enjoy reading on the back porch in the company of my delightful pet pooch, Cooper. He's very chill and has excellent manners. Sometimes, though, if the breeze blows ever so slightly and I catch a whiff of sewage, I'll snap at my dog in disbelief: "Cooper, how could you? I can't believe you would fart in my presence!" I scold. Coop looks at me, rolls his eyes, then looks to the table where, sure enough, my mom has set out a couple of cantaloupes to ripen. Silly me - Cooper is a gentleman! My olfactory organs were not assaulted by a little doggie toot but rather by that stupid, reeking, ripening melon. (Coop then requires five or so pieces of cheese as compensation for the mislaid blame, which I gladly dispense.)

Seriously, why do cantaloupes smell so atrocious? The scent they emit is repellent, repulsive, repugnant. I really do not understand how - HOW - anyone that gets close enough to smell them can actually put it in their mouth and chew.

But honestly, the thing that most bothers me about stupid cantaloupe is its presence in fruit salads. IT IS NOTHING BUT A FILLER FRUIT. It ruins (absolutely ruins!!) the pineapple, grapes, strawberries, kiwis - even its brethren the watermelon and honeydew - everything ends up tasting like the moldy, soapy, nail polishy poison that is cantaloupe. Ugh! See what I mean:

That's how every fruit salad is made - you can see how the nice, delicious, innocent fruits are placed on TOP of the cantaloupe. It's a bowl of cantaloupe, stupid filler fruit, topped with the good stuff. Gross.

This is a quandary I fear will never be answered. The cantaloupe and I are at an impasse. I guess the only thing I can do is to avoid the fruit salad at picnics.

Bed(room) Bugs

Yes, yes. I do abhor water bugs a very great deal.

But my bug abomination does not rise and set with those long, crunchy, antennae-wielding mutants.

No – it’s a far more innate fear or all insects that began when I was very young. And that, unfortunately, has not dissipated as the years have gone on.

I went home to celebrate an early Father’s Day this past weekend and we had a lovely little Saturday on the boat. (I would post Trissi’s pic cause it’s funnier but I think she would hop the next train to NYC and kill me.)

After a lovely day of boating around the Long Island Sound and strolling through Niantic, we headed back to Sharon. Unfortunately, the buggies were heading “home” as well. To my bedroom.

Bastards!

The rain, humidity, lights (that I stupidly left on), and teeny tiny slits around my air conditioner all banded together to form The Perfect Storm. Unfortunately my version did not involve George Clooney, but rather consisted of an ideal climate for an insect-infestation-partay.

I sometimes forget that the world of creepy-crawlers is not limited to those toxic-waste-ingesting freaks of nature that run rampant in this city. Water bugs, silver fish, and ginormous cockroaches are but a teeny tiny dot on the spectrum of insects I’ve encountered. And detest.

I sometimes forget that when I go to Sharon, there is a plethora of other sordid species I have to struggle with.

Perhaps that’s why my parents bought me a bug vacuum when I was in high school – they were sick to death of my incessant shrieks and screams when an insect decided to pay a visit to my bedroom.

Oh bug vacuum…how I miss thee. Those were the days! It's simple design consisted of a long tube with a flat piece at the top that would lie flush against the wall or ceiling. After sucking the bug in, it would zap, killing it, then store its frail little carcass in the base container.

How I wish it hadn’t died from overuse! 

There I lay, trying to sleep, exhausted from a day of fun in the sun, when all of a sudden I spied with my half-closed, drooping eye, a light. Flashing. ‘Twas no thunder, so it couldn’t be a storm. Ah, must be the light coming from my A/C.

But no, there it was again. And again. And AGAIN.
My heart fluttered with fright – this wasn’t the first time a lightning bug’s stupid little glowing ass had found its way into my dwelling.

No amount of cool air could keep at bay the beads of sweat that formed on my forehead. I turned on the light. It had started to rain. There were pesky mosquitoes, gnats, daunting black moths, and numerous other varieties of bugs that I didn’t care to stare at long enough to name.

I took a few deep breaths, turned off the light, and weighed my options.

There was no bug vacuum to suck them up and zap them. It was past midnight and I didn’t think my parents would exactly jump at the opportunity to come up and kill them. Memories of a moth finding its way down my shirt, startling me awake, leaving me terrified and unable to sleep assaulted my mind.

What oh what was a girl to do?

I did the best I could given the situation. Popping an Ambien, I pulled my hoodie over my head, donned a sleep mask, and hid under the sheets.

Needless to say, I still hate bugs. They are, and I’m afraid will always be, my biggest fear.

Yes, I Like Piña Coladas...but HATE Ice that Won't Crush!

I dreamed a dream that I was in a pool with a piña colada.

Oh just kidding! Snap back to reality. It’s another rainy day here in NYC. And there shan’t be any pool-piñas this weekend.

Wamp wamp.

However, last weekend did consist of a couple of coladas. I thought visiting the tranquil countryside would catapult my soul into a state of perfect, peaceful pleasure…I was sadly mistaken. Hardy-har-har.

There we were, soaking up the (burning) sunshine poolside, thinking it couldn’t get any better than that. But, oh, wait: “Omgees! Wouldn’t it be fabulous if we had piña coladas??” Yes, we are geniuses.

Piñas are best when they are unpremeditated. When they are unexpected. When the fluky, fortuitous fancy strikes you, BAM. Like a hand darting into a penny candy bin, stealing.

Now, my mother does not condone drinking (we chillens pretty much disregard what she condones). This is fairly ironic because whenever she sees something in the way of an alcoholic beverage that says “NEW!” or that has pretty packaging, she buys it. Cuckoo.

I recalled, as I was lounging on the chaise, that she had purchased some god-awful, bright blue, pineapple/coconut-concoction-coolers – pretty much in the same vein as Mike’s Hard Lemonade.

Well, that was a start at least.

I knew she had cream of coconut and when I opened the fridge I saw that there was some crushed pineapple – pineapple juice! I could totes doctor up those frightful bottles of cerulean, calor-iffic malties.

I took out the blender – and here’s the no dankes (wow, it takes me forevs to reach my no dankity of the day!!) - THE STUPID ICE WOULD NOT CRUSH!!!!!!

And it’s not like the blender was old or incapable. ‘Twas a perfectly able kitchen appliance. But I find that, as a rule, blenders never, ever do a proper slush-ifying job! THEY DON’T CRUSH THE ICE! Never have I ever encountered an honorable ice-crushing appliance.

WTF’s yo!!

Is it too much to ask that the cubes be conquered? That they blades chop them smaller and smaller until they’ve reached a fine, slushy consistency? It’s so annoying! How do those ICEE machines at the movies do it? I don’t understand!
 

In the end, with the addition of creamy coco and crushed pineapples and piña juice, the coladas came out pretty decent. I tried to ignore the fact that there were lame, lacerated lumps of frozen water floating around.

And let's be serious. the day was far too beautiful to be ruined by the shortcomings of a stupid blender.

Let the Peeling Begin

You get sunburned, you peel. It’s a fact of life. Like death and taxes.

But let’s face it – it’s pretty disgusting.

Now I know that I been talking lots about my sunburn this week. (It’s given me so much no dankes ammo!) But I will say, I honestly thought I was in the clear – that I’d be sans peely skin.

Boy was I wrong.

It started this morning. My coconut lotion (that they discontinued, goddamn Bath & Body Works!) wasn’t enough to stave off the skin shedding. Apparently there is no creamy concoction on the face of the earth that will prevent sunburned skin from peeling. Bleh!
Sunburns are fairly frightening for many reasons. But losing layers of your epidermis is definitely up there. The fact that a massive, glowing orb of fiery gas makes your skin turn red then SHED is scary, yo!

But I shall say it again: I love being tan. Sucks! Why’s it gotta be so bad for you! Or, rather, why does our society perceive bronze to be beautiful and pale to be plain?

I digress. The point is:

Why does dermis delaminate?

We are not snakes. We are not turtles. We are not iguanas. Why, then, does our sunburned skin have to peel off in layers? Thin, dehydrated, opaque, shriveled, withered layers.
There’s no stopping it. In the shower, you exfoliate. You think you’ve gotten it all off. Then as soon as you get out, there’s more. It proliferates, propagates, multiplies. It’s never-ending. The more you strip, the more there seems to be!

Fine, fine, FINE Apollo. I gots your point, yo!

Sunscreen upon sunscreen it is.

PS - I secretly like peeling it off. I enjoy playing that game where you see how big of a piece you can strip away. Don't judge.

Train Tardies

Mine was a nation called Devastation this past Monday.

As we all know (cause I pretty much shouted it from the rooftops), I was visiting my parents for the weekend, just two Metro-North hours away!

On Sunday afternoon, exhausted and relaxed from three days of nada, me and my gal pals had ice cream cones on the back porch – attempting to counteract the unpleasantness of my sunburn, obvi. The reality of work was still 17 hours away.

Now. I am a great many things. I am stubborn. I am tall. I am sarcastic. But one of my redeeming qualities – I think it’s redeeming…Ri thinks it’s unreasonable – is that I am always on time. Early even. Early, usually, I should say.

For example, I was forty minutes early to the country-bound train last Friday afternoon.

But the rolling green hills and chirping birds and piña coladas in the pool were apparently too relaxing. Those ice cream cones were too delicious. The thought of returning to the city too dreadful.

We were running late.

We had to stop and pick up an old phone for Ri to use (she lost her iPhone, of course she did), then there was traffic (of course there was). My palms were sweating the whole car ride. Even Dad the Driver’s whistling was laced with anxiety.

Rounding the last hill into Wassaic Station, Papa P ditched the rules, pulling through the red light, speeding into the parking lot. “It won’t be on time, they can’t leave on TIME, it’s a holiday weekend, no way, absolutely not, they won’t be punctual!” – I thought.

We all jumped out of the car – as fast as one can “jump” when you have to pull the handle five million times (automatic locks, I loathe thee). As we stood there in the emptying parking lot, the bells rang. The doors closed. It was my worst nightmare come true. And it all happened in slow motion.

Oh. My. GOD.

I seriously could not, could NOT believe that we’d missed the train. I was heartbroken, embarrassed, devastated, annoyed. It was surreal. Like I was having an out of body experience. I don’t miss trains! I am a punctual person! I felt like David After Dentist as I wondered, crestfallen, “Is this real life? Why is this happening to me?”

I was in denial. I thought I might cry. Yes, I actually pondered shedding tears for my acute case of the tardies. Dummy!! The next train wasn’t for another two-and-a-half hours! Which meant we wouldn’t get in until 9:00pm. Which meant there would be even less vaca-to-work transition time!

Ugh!

Luckily I have the best Dad in the entire world (no really, I do), and he drove us 45 minutes to Southeast Station.

We didn’t make the transfer train and had to wait until the 6:13 from Southeast. With some time to kill, he dropped us off at Marshall’s where we all bought cute dresses!

New dresses + not having to transfer + getting into New York at 7:45 = AMAZING.

I decided to rename Devastation Nation to Exhilaration Nation.

Though, needless to say, I will never, ever, EVER miss a train again.

Mister Softee, Saboteur

I consider myself somewhat of a food connoisseur. My picky repertoire includes, but is not limited to: guacamole, filet mignon, cake, Greek salads, fruit salads, chili, pizza, cheese, brownies...I could go on for days.

Amongst this splendiforous plethora of foods, I also consider myself a soft serve snob - vanilla with rainbow sprinkles on a cake cone being my drug of choice.

Perhaps this gastro-snobbery stems from the fact that I used to work in ice cream. Yes. In what was arguably my most favorite job in eleven years of slaving away (free ice cream and candy galore! That's a no brainer), I helmed the counter of a dandy little ice cream store called Oscar’s.

New York City is a far cry from Salisbury, CT, but the soft serve I've had here just doesn't compare to dear old Oscar's (which is, sadly, no more).

Tasti-D-Lite (besides the AWFUL name) is OK. But they can't put sprinkles on a cone. Really? REALLY? Sure, sprink-dunking takes some mastering. I’ve lost my fair share of perfectly swirled cones to the sprinkle monster (but more to the magic shell monster).

But seriously, a cone without sprinkles is like New York City without rain. It’s just...unfathomable. And certainly unpalatable.

All these little fro-yo pop-ups (Yogurtland, 16 Handles) are delish, yes, but no cones = no dankes. It's understandable - it's pay by the ounce and it's kinda hard to weigh a cone - but there has to be a better way!!
There’s always McDonald's...but it’s McDonald's. And they don’t have sprinks either!

Pinkberry is good but that only comes in a cup. And again, no sprinkles. Annnnd it's not vanilla.

My options - for soft serve, at least - ended there.

That is, until last month. Yes, indeed. This very past May, I had one of the happiest days of my NYC life. I discovered Mister Softee.
It was a lovely May afternoon. And all I wanted was an ice cream cone. A few of us were headed uptown in a hurry. Ben and Jerry’s was too far. As was 16 Handles. I whined and whined and whined some more when all of a sudden a Mister Softee truck came into view.

Now - we all know that I judge the shit out of everything. Mister Softee was certainly no exception. I mean, it’s a TRUCK. The machines probably aren’t cleaned all that often (yikes, if ever). Who knows where the mix comes from. There’s no running water - how do they wash their hands? Gah!

But the more I thought about a vanilla with rainbow sprinkles, the more I wanted it. And my brain's better judgement gave way to my tum’s craving.

OMG. It was delicious. Perfect consistency. Like melted marshmallows, light and fluffy and airy. The vanilla flavor was not overpowering, yet very present. Even the SPRINKLES were deliciosa - nicely colored, not neon, and with a sweet little taste...very unlike some thick, cakey jimmies.

And then, I knew. Knew that I was in trouble. That the big bad Mister Softee truck was going to become the bane of my existence.

And I was right. One hundred and ten percent correctamundo.

Now it’s officially a problem. An addiction. But let's be serious, I don't really care about the ice cream crashing my so-called "diet".

More to the no dankity point - why are you not there when I want you, Mister Softee? Why do you hide on streets where I cannot find you?

Why, Mister Softee, why?

Case in point: last night. All I wanted was a Mister Softee ice cream cone. Alllllll I wanted. But my immediate reaction for this craving was not, No I can’t, I just ate my face off on vacation.

No, no. It was a deeply innate, ridiculously panicked fear that the Mister Softee truck on the corner of W 4th Street and LaGuardia, the only one I knew of in the Village, would not be there.

My fear was realized. He wasn't there.

Super duper sad face.

I walked gloomily down 3rd Street. Would my ill-fated luck bring me McDonald’s or Yogurtland? No sprinkles or no cone. No sprinkles, no cone. For the life of me I could not decide what the lesser of the two evils would be!

Then: I saw it. No...not Mister Softee. But another snack mobile parked on the corner of 6th Ave. It got me thinking. Yes. Yes I have seen snack trucks here often. And, oh, yes I’ve also seen them on the corner of Waverly.

Maybe, just maybe! My pace quickened, keeping time with my fluttering heart.

And then, there it was.

Sigh.

In it’s very own Mister Softee hideout lair. It was fate.

I got my fix. And it was pure bliss.

I gobbled that ice cream cone down in record time. It was so good.

Seriously, I could eat Mister Softee soft serve for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. But please, I beg you: if I ever come to that, don’t be my friend anymore.

Pullin' Up Pups

I can't imagine being a child or raising a child in New York City. Perhaps this has to do with the fact that I grew up on a three-hundred-acre dairy farm in the rolling hills of CT. But I cannot fathom not having a yard – or a field, for that matter – to run around in.

The little NYC kiddies have it pretty bad. Their only escapes are playscapes. No tree forts to climb up into. No dirt mounds to play King of the Mountain on. No hills covered with evergreens to sled down in the wintertime.

Yes, city kids have it bad. But poor NYC pet pooches have it far, far worse.

There are certainly some no dankes having to do with the dogs themselves. But this entry in particular has to do with their disdainful owners.

I don’t particularly care for small dogs. I’m much more of a big dog kinda gal (Coop!) The petite ones prance. They yap. They’re overly confident and vivacious. But the fact that they know nothing but leashes and grey concrete is no fault of theirs, poor things. They didn’t choose to live in this city, to be cooped up in an apartment 23 hours a day. Yet their owners punish them for wanting to act like a real dog and sniff at a tree (or another dog’s booty). It’s just so unfair!

My heart breaks each time I see a mini (albeit extremely annoying) pup being yanked along by its collar. Every single day, without fail, I see fluffball Pomeranians, ratty Chihuahuas, hotdog Dachshunds, Yorkies, Scotties, Beagles, French Bulldogs, Cavalier King Charles', Sheba Inus, Pugs – every little dog you can imagine. Big dogs too for that matter! And at least one has an owner who’s picking it up, dragging it by the throat, killing its sniffy curiosity, and cutting off its oxygen intake.

Sometimes the evil owners hold them up by their neck and pull them along on their hind legs like those depressed circus dogs (sans treats). Other times they’re just lying down, not waaaanting to walk, and they’re yanked. Sad, sad little poochies!

Please, pet owners. Stop draggin your doggie by the throat. Better yet, don't become a pet pup owner if you live in NYC. Dogs are for the country, not the city. Cooper loves roaming around his yard. He sticks his tongue out at you city dogs!