"Dress Up!" - From Innocent to Indecent

I never think it’s cute when people teach little girls the “Dress Up!” trick. In fact, I find it quite tasteless. 


Yes, they’re adorable, what with their rhotacistic little voices - “DWWWESS UP!”

But seriously moms, why you teaching your baby girl to show off her little lady parts? It’s an endearing joke for about two minutes, then it simply goes south. (Umm and hello, what if child molesters are stalking the playground??)

I can’t remember ever playing this game when I was a toddler. But fast forward twenty-something years...New York City...the West Village...and I’m pretty much an old pro.

The Scene: Traveling to Connecticut for the weekend. Large over-the-shoulder travel bag. Walking from work from work to Magnolia Bakery to get mi madre a cumpleaños treat.

(Ugh, and if there’s a numero uno tourist magnet in the West Village, it’s Magnolia Bakery. Thanks Sex and the City!!)
I glared as obnoxious, insipid tourists pawed their way past me in the tiny, overrated bakery. Finally, cheesecake in hand, I hurried along to the subway stop on Christopher Street. 

Everyone says New Yorkers are always in a hurry. I heartily agree. We’re also programmed to ignore any and all hecklers/panhandlers/tourists. That’s why, when a man in a minivan started shouting, “Excuse me, miss!” at me, I ignored him. 

Why the hell would I pay attention to someone on a catcalling drive-by mission? “EXCUSE ME, MISS!” he yelled for a second time, a third time.
 
I turned to face his minivan, scowl on my face. (I do not appreciate the talkers.) “Your dress is tucked up a little in the back.”
I thought I misheard. I took off my sunglasses (because obviously that’s what people do when they can’t hear something). “I’m sorry?”
“Your dress is tucked up in the back.”

My heart dropped. Fell, rock-like, down to that dirty, dingy sidewalk. My white-pantied bottom has just been exposed to the entire West Village. And not one person had told me.
 
If I could have melted, Wicked-Witch-of-the-West-style, into that stinky sidewalk soup, I woulda.

It’s really quite unfortunate that there are so many innate dangers with dress-wearing. Dresses always make the best outfit. They’re simple, comfortable, flattering. No love handles, no tight-jeans marks when you sit down. One piece. Easy, peasy, Japaneasy.
 
Alas, dress-donning deserves some bright yellow caution tape. For reals. Because if you’re carrying a big bag and it gets caught up, or if that wild NYC wind whips through those street tunnels, flouncy little frocks are sure to go a-flying.

It’s the labyrinthine streets. It must be. A wind-spiracy. Because seriously, a flying up of the dress happens to me at least once every two weeks. Sometimes every week. A superpower gust will zoom through the streets and bam, my butt is front and center in the WV.

Of course I squeal like a child, make overt downward tugs, swivel my head around quicker than an owl to see if anyone is staring or giggling at me.

It’s such a common thing that, I suppose, I shouldn’t be as easily embarrassed as I am. But it’s not fair! It’s not like my dresses are exceptionally short or swirly or lightweight. They’re just regular, everyday, normal dresses.

Wamp wamp.

Fine little kiddies, fine. Show off your pretty pink pantaloons while you still can. Cause sooner than later, it won’t be cute. It will be indecent exposure.

Ice Ice Baby

There’s nothing like frosty glass of ice-cold lemonade.
At least some people think so.

I, on the other hand, prefer a sans-condensation, ice-less, cool (preferably pink) glass of the stuff.

Actually, with this bipolar summer we’ve had - faux fall temps, goddamn, never-ending rain - I truly wonder if anyone has even been craving an ice-ridden, sugary drink.

(So sad, but I don’t think I can rightfully talk about the end of summer nearing and ice-cold glasses of lemonade without sending myself into a hyperbolic depression.)
(Pausing.)
(I’m sorry, I need to take a few deep breaths.)

OK.

No more talk about summer ending. For the duration of this entry I shall restrict my ruminations to that most loathsome, clunky, clinking invention: the ice cube.

I don’t suppose I can rightly call ice an invention. It is, after all, a naturally occurring phenomenon. But if it weren’t for that sly fella Lloyd Groff Copeman (yes, I Wiki-ed), there would be no such thing as an ice cube.

Said in an I-hate-Uncle-Jamie voice: “I haaate Lloyd Groff Copeman!”

Seriously people, what is the obsession with ice? Some of yous just can’t get enough. Good thing it’s free (at most places) cause if they charged you for it, you’d all be broke.

I can’t think of one good thing to say about ice.
It’s a pain in the ass to make. Especially if you - like me - have to manually fill trays with water.

The cubes, being in your freezer amongst a plethora of dead animals, invariably end up stinky and stale.

Then there’s the noise. The noise, noise, noise, NOISE! That cracking, that twisting, that horrifying screech the cubes make when they’re popped from their tray formation.

Even the constant dumping of the automatic cube-erator is annoying!
Not to MENTION the chinking of cubes in shakers and glasses.
And those painful, crackling, hissing sounds they make when they’re hot! Ugh!

Ice is made from water (obviously). So why would you want to add additional water to, say, your coffee? All you end up with is

extremely watered down coffee. What’s the point? Who wants to drink watered down anything?

Filling glasses or plastic cups up to the brim with ice is simply a money maker for restaurants. Really, it is. More free chunks of frozen water means less of the stuff they actually charge for - fountain soda, alcoholic beverages, lattes, juice.

Alas, it’s we the people who have to suffer through the selfishness of these businesses! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten the stinkeye at Dunkin’s for saying, “Not a lot of ice, please,” in the sweetest possible voice.

Then I watch as they shove as many cubes as possible into a medium size cup - simply to spite me. I, being the passive aggressive person I am, say nothing in opposition, opting instead to skip their tip.

For reals, though. This is all child’s play compared to what irks me MOST about those solid cubes-o-agua.
Yes indeed.

If anything ever sent more shivers up my spine than an R.L. Stine book, than a Scream movie, than watching the news - it is the sound of people chomping down on ice cubes.

Seriously. I don’t understand how any levelheaded, normal human being can do such a thing. Can want to do such a thing. It’s positively grotesque, not to mention utterly chilling and cringe-inducing. Even popsicles. Even when people bite ice cream, I involuntarily shudder.
Don’t those brats have sensitive teeth?

Maybe that’s it...that’s why I hate ice so much. Because my g-d Sensodyne doesn’t work and my teeth freak out when ice cubes touch them.

Hmph.