Don't Let the Bed Office Bugs Bite

Whenever I hear or read about someone with “bedbugs” my skin immediately starts itching.

I outwardly feign sympathy but secretly jump for joy on the inside. At least - at least, I assure myself - my bed is bug free.
Cockroaches, water bugs, flies...bring em on. Well fine, I exaggerate. Everyone knows that I will totes forever be terrified of all things creepy crawly.

But bedbugs. BEDBUGS are in a league all their own.

And apparently that league has decided to play a few games in NYC. And by a few, I mean a LOT.

There are obvious rules when it comes to bedbugs. Numero uno simply being to NOT take mattresses or couches or chairs or, really, anything at all from the street.

My good friend Ri learned this lesson the hard way. She was given a pull-out couch that was, sure enough, infested with da buggies.

Seeing her swollen, bitten up skin on a daily basis was positively petrifying. But even more painful was witnessing the ordeal she had to go through in order to rid her studio of bedbugs. The dry cleaning bills, the throwing out of linens, the tossing of furniture, the endless exterminator visits.

She joked later that her apartment was so pesticide-ridden that any bug who trespassed over the threshold would be on their back in a matter of seconds.

I, perhaps optimistically (shocking, I know), believed that bedbugs would not bite the same place twice. Even though they weren’t chowing down on my blood, they were blocks away at my friend’s apartment feeding on her.

And I didn’t - thank GOD - end up with those little apple-seed assholes in my apt.

But last week my three or so degrees of separation disappeared, poof, in a cloud of insecticide-tinged smoke.

Yup. Bedbugs have struck again - this time hitting even closer to home than Ri’s old King Street apartment.

Office. Invasion.

Ohhhh yes. My fledgling insectophobia was dearly tried upon receipt of a mass work email informing us of an “insect issue” at 375 Hudson Street.

Issue? Issue? Immediately my thoughts settled on mutant water bugs, my go-to worst nightmare. But when my co-workers and I read the email more carefully - when we saw these instructions:

1) leave your office doors, files and desks unlocked;
2) leave in place any items that have not been recently used, rather than take them home; and
3) make accessible the perimeter of your office/cubicle as much as possible

...we got scared.

After a few phone calls to HR our worst, most pessimistic assumption was confirmed (thanks to those sweet, cute, bedbug sniffing doggies).

Indeed, there was a bedbug infestation in “some areas” of “certain floors”. What? WHAT?

Those goddamn, bloodsucking bastards have set up shop in our OFFICE.

OMFG.

My coworker Bea sent around this LOL cat. Made us laugh, but still. Monday morning blues just took on a whole new meaning. And got a hell of a lot more painful.

You're Such a Punk, Parsley

I like food…a lot. Obviously. I especially like food that has been scrumptiously seasoned to perfection (if you have not tried the lemon and herb seasoned tilapia from Whole Foods – well, you simply must! Wow I really like Whole Foods a whole lot, don't I?)

As with food, so too with seasonings - I'm just not picky when it comes to herbs and spices. In fact, some people may argue that I’m quite heavy handed. Especially with garlic, freshly ground pepper, and Parmesan cheese. But as far as herbs go, there is one I positively cannot stand.

Parsley: you’re pernicious.

Flat or curly, Italian or French, this ternately compound leaf lacks dignity and distinction. It is nothing but a bitter, listless, pungent, prosaic fern. Yes, parley, you are a FERN. You are a GARNISH. Oh, the humanity! In no world do you deserve to be eaten.

Carrie, I completely agree with you, Jack Berger be damned (no matter how cute you are)! It's the most brilliant idea ever to tell the waiter you're deathly allergic to parsley so they don’t sprinkle or garnish or embellish your dish with those loathsome green flakes of dried vomit. Why do restaurants think parsley, a sickly little plant, beautifies a presentation?

I. Don't. Get. It.

Seriously. Parsley is the most egotistical, self-centered, miserly herb in the world. It ruins e.v.e.r.y. dish. Some foods have such great potential, they could really be something. Something sublime. But parsley overwhelms them, spoils them. Don’t you have a conscience, parsley?

Take tabbouleh for instance. I think tabbouleh would be excellent if only – if ONLY – the second main ingredient was not parsley. Bulgur: delish, mint: delightful, tomatoes: divine (at least now I think so), scallions: delectable, other various herbs along with lemon juice, olive oil, black pepper: well let’s just say I had to go get a tissue to sop the drool from my mouth.

And the list goes on. You are such a weasel, parsley! Why do you feel the need to smuggle yourself into chicken noodle soup? Get OUT of my Mediterranean feta salsa, be expelled from my frittata, expunge yourself from my gremolata, goddamn it! And don't even get me started on parsley pesto. As if you don't desecrate enough dishes and sauces, you really have to creep in and steal basil's thunder? Really, parsley? Really?? YOU DON'T BELONG IN PESTO! It brings tears of passion to my eyes (good thing I have that tissue), why oh why must you spoil perfectly good foods, parsley?

You are by far the most terrifying green monster in all of existence. Far worse than Swamp Thing or Slimer or Oscar. The Grinch has got nothing on you, ya hear me?

Please people. There are beautiful green herbs out there that are far more lovely than parsley. Rosemary is rapturous, thyme is transcendent, dill is deific, fennel is fabulous, cilantro is celestial - cardamom and turmeric, well, you're both spelled funny but I love you anyway.

The point is: PARSLEY SUCKS. So don't buy it. And tell the waiter you'll go into anaphylactic shock if it so much as speckles your plate.

Yes Bitte! Spring Done Sprung

And all I can say is YAY!

Perhaps I’m biased. Perhaps because like a little baby lamb, I was born in the spring. (And if it means anything, yes, my favorite number is 2. Got a problem with that?)

But seriously, spring is the most wonderful time of the year.
Aside from the bikini-baring-body countdown (yikes), ‘tis the season to be chipper. How could one not be, what with all the chirping!

I spent Easter at my parent’s house in Connecticut - and while they’re way behind us in terms of flora and fauna, they are leaps and bounds ahead in nature. Namely nature of an animalistic kind. And I saw quite a bit.

Papa P texted me right before I got on the train on Friday, saying I should look in the tree at the top of our road. Apparently there was four bears chillin in it. OK Dad, I thought, like they’ll be there three hours from now.

Little did I know I would be greeted at the intersection of Lucas and Fairchild by DEP with tranquilizer guns, police officers with real guns, barricades, and paparazzi - of a country bumpkin variety.


Mama Bear was up there with her yearling and two itty bitty baby cubs for 12 hours - no food, no water, no nada. (Though they do hibernate all winter so whatever, they’re experienced.)

Then, on Sunday afternoon we had an Easter egg hunt (obvi...but it was a good one, those eggs were full of cash!) I didn’t find the golden egg but my uncle spied what he thought was a cat. Or a rat. But oh, it was too small for a rat.Then my aunt Lissette screamed, “It’s a bunny, it’s a bunny! It’s an Easter miracle!” We laughed and jumped up and down like we were five years old.

Yes, it was a miracle to see a real live bunny rabbit on Easter - but it made me really think about the real miracle of spring: Nature reawakening (cheesy as that may sound).

I love spring. A lot of people like fall but I, for one, loathe it. Everything is dead or dying. It gets darker every day, colder every day, bleaker every day. And what do you have to look forward to? WINTER. I think everyone agrees that winter is just plain painful. Especially when you’re a pedi-commuter in this city.

But...but...then spring comes along. Ceaselessly. Without fail. Sigh. We can take a deep, long breath at last, without the air freezing our nose hair, without getting sick off whiffs of stinky street soup and melting garbage (oh summer). Sure there’s some pollen but whatever, there’s a med for that.

I don’t think that we realize how the weather affects us until it’s actually, genuinely nice outside. Think about it: In the wintertime people are so rotten and miserable and mopey and want to stay all sorts of holed up, no one wants to leave the comfort of their home or apartment. And no one really realizes why.

But that first nice day of the new year, people remember how to smile. They remember how to laugh, how to be polite, how to be happy. So fine, so that sounds a little melodramatic, but you get what I’m saying. You know it’s true.Spring is so alive, so beautiful. Waaaay prettier than every other season (though I daresay when May 2nd rolls around from now on it’s gonna be ugly...I don’t waaaant to grow up!!)
I love walking down the street and seeing a myriad of blooming tulips, cherry blossoms elegantly weighing down limbs, trees with bright green buds. I love waking up to the sound of birds chirping - even if they’re dirty NYC birds and they’re screeching. I love how the air is warm and everyone is escaping from the wintertime-woodwork, how every restaurant and bar sets up tables on the sidewalk, how everyone is carefree and genuinely jolly.

I love so much about spring. But most of all, I suppose I love how it makes me feel - awake and present and like anything can happen. And methinksknows lots is gonna happen this spring.

Cue Mr. Bowie: Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes. I can’t wait.