tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-30812561799823234512024-02-06T22:14:06.582-05:00No Dankes!Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.comBlogger171125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-48511104697869425722014-06-10T18:29:00.000-04:002015-04-21T11:49:16.000-04:00Greetings.<div style="text-align: left;">
<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">To blog or not to blog.</span></span></div>
<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><br /></span><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgkByTZUQLgAygjZYgyIDoIHZEJE6v-HVyBxBSOmvqyza2VKL2Bquvp4XbeUTxX_SplqVe28CqqpDwxm7stxAV_bCCuHy-Dzf1WkfeObRVFGg38UEzoEu1dIPnr8oAmpiJYrMDOYrRMnIk/s200/to+be.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617466615194599890" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 150px;" /><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">That, in one </span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">helluva</span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> stereotypical cliche sentence, has been the question.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">It’s not that I haven’t </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">wanted </span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">to No Dankes-it up. I’ve missed it. Truly I have. Every time someone mentions it. Every time I think of something that would make a good No Dankes entry. Every time I think of the lonely little web address that hasn’t been updated in nearly 9 months--I cringe. I feel sad. I feel sick!</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I’m a bit hard on myself. Always have been, hope to not always </span></span><i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">be</span></span></i><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">. But it’s been struggy town, I tell you.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Writing is an exercise--the longer you go without, the harder it is to get back in the swing of things. My, how apropos this metaphor is considering I’ve recently taken up running! But there sits my laptop, mocking me, knowing what a lazy ass I’ve been about blogging. Whenever I open it, I almost hear it tsk-tsk-tsking away.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">SO...</span></span></span></div>
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<span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"></span><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEirrVwlftuh_nv8OSSVDYFJvT4H17x_meyMu6PgpQPf5_mtO6KQfjJ-MvxDEpnbYLlm0InrhxKl316slC-JNgCmCGEaKheUQEnLEwAG-cXEwIqsTuJUfg5gHqDtQnoUnNxifDINY2gmurE/s200/evolution.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617467213008650994" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 92px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">...so. I’ve decided to retry blogging. But things are going to be different this time. Because life is all about changing and evolving! </span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I still complain. A lot. About a lot of things! But I've been awfully more chipper lately and so it's been trying to rustle up some complaints. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">Annoying, I know.</span></span></span></div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">I promise to try and put forth a *negative* effort, though, because I </span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">do</span><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"> miss belonging in that coolest of cool clubs that <i>is </i>the band of bloggers. </span></span></span><br />
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">And besides, it was a little fun giving the site a little makeover. (Like the books?)</span></span></span></div>
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<img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEifRnoM3z2l9nZDC_XTHteVFj6lPc5yyFE-HHADKBipN_Hbxp8eIo6oZC4LrPg7Pkk8MR1-CNSQF5sVCuR2Dek_7P5UcPRoiquSzVJx_eF58EDo2Yll-QKMcVsGNo2FiLHjmn26s2bB8lg/s320/226875_677764946939_48800937_35709294_7611160_n.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5617468654950734290" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 138px;" /> </div>
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<span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;"></span></span></span><span style="letter-spacing: 0px;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-family: georgia;"><span class="Apple-style-span" style="font-size: medium;">So, friends. Holler! Hi! Hola! I'm back.</span></span></span></div>
Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-5640415746069329382013-12-28T15:48:00.000-05:002015-04-21T11:24:56.324-04:00December: A Birthday Month to Not Remember<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9hIniYHaghTLPD-25xxrPze4h0ANPclDFkY8nOFnmH-_Bs-SDhyphenhyphengojJ3FA3BPeQ5mg3l8iBLqqVprFBNcJSYKZhtJTxiYuaK-ZU2sadvKoEZS9DxUb0ZgsYn83w5lw15JFLcu9Azo-as/s1600-h/paper+2" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9hIniYHaghTLPD-25xxrPze4h0ANPclDFkY8nOFnmH-_Bs-SDhyphenhyphengojJ3FA3BPeQ5mg3l8iBLqqVprFBNcJSYKZhtJTxiYuaK-ZU2sadvKoEZS9DxUb0ZgsYn83w5lw15JFLcu9Azo-as/s200/paper+2" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420410647654439938" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 134px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">What, you may ask, is the only thing worse than the day after Christmas? </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Having your <span style="font-style: italic;">birthday</span> the day after Christmas. Or any day in December for that matter.</span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />People. Husbands and wives. Would-be parents: </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnEEABn2sjyh3jN5s6mnw-W6vGsCQ0_0NGo4yc_F9hTRLbNWvBAALkF7sEHILXEHCixMwgKqeIJFCq4dsO5Dpke3nIK4iTGhRGfglUIRKe0mGTkcIbgf4YtVKWxYbLPJAGu9KZGfiDgQM/s1600-h/jesus" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjnEEABn2sjyh3jN5s6mnw-W6vGsCQ0_0NGo4yc_F9hTRLbNWvBAALkF7sEHILXEHCixMwgKqeIJFCq4dsO5Dpke3nIK4iTGhRGfglUIRKe0mGTkcIbgf4YtVKWxYbLPJAGu9KZGfiDgQM/s200/jesus" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420412439206554066" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 138px;" /></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">STOP</span> copulating in the month of March! It should be outlawed. Illegal. Felonious. Think of those <span style="font-style: italic;">poor</span>, unfortunate unborn children who have to share their birth month with Jesus. <span style="font-style: italic;">Seriously</span>.<br /></span><span style="color: black;">It’s not fun. It’s unjust. No matter how “fair” parents try to make it, the poor kid always, always, <span style="font-style: italic;">always</span> gets gypped.</span><span style="color: black;"> </span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />I have quite a few relatives whose unfortunate lot it was to be born right </span><span style="color: black;">a</span><span style="color: black;">round Christmas. Cousin Ethan turned 15 on Christmas Eve. Cousin John turned 28 ON CHRISTMAS DAY. And baby cousin-once-removed Ty (in the Santa hat below) turned one the day after Christmas.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />For me, that</span><span style="color: black;">’s misery <span style="font-style: italic;">e</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: italic;">xemplified</span>.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf8_UobV-6fcxARib8FzWLKz9mAzOwXJh7pEsWdJXBKvEoQpaoSk3WFYFA5IOAeIcoOml_nhuhU7P-lZpMiQ4zTY-Vf15ru8517uMwbcHvr1DeALH6og_HAMfR13XuO9JG-SKzoQqyhII/s1600-h/tyler" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgf8_UobV-6fcxARib8FzWLKz9mAzOwXJh7pEsWdJXBKvEoQpaoSk3WFYFA5IOAeIcoOml_nhuhU7P-lZpMiQ4zTY-Vf15ru8517uMwbcHvr1DeALH6og_HAMfR13XuO9JG-SKzoQqyhII/s320/tyler" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420417378996321154" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 213px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Perhaps Ethan h</span><span style="color: black;">ad it the worst this year. His bday was made even <span style="font-style: italic;">more</span> unlucky by the fact that</span><span style="color: black;"> his father, my uncle Chris, showed old videos of him and his brother Christopher prancing and dancing around their living room in nada but their birthday suits.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />It was a riot - albeit an embarrassing one for my adorable little cous. </span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg24wGnez_vhyphenhyphentpV9zXbjQoWbpw83TN_EE84ApRV6k6qpyBzV_3uF75WXTr2drv1RuER5jLJf51YF8oi5_am73Cdw3vzXKfvIkhOXhb0lI9NgyN-sZSknL0L4UfEHzoQUx3n-MqxCNBvBs/s1600-h/ethan" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg24wGnez_vhyphenhyphentpV9zXbjQoWbpw83TN_EE84ApRV6k6qpyBzV_3uF75WXTr2drv1RuER5jLJf51YF8oi5_am73Cdw3vzXKfvIkhOXhb0lI9NgyN-sZSknL0L4UfEHzoQUx3n-MqxCNBvBs/s200/ethan" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420418048499554882" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 171px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">But while he might have been a teense peeved at his dad for showing the majority of his extended family his nude toddler dance moves (mostly on fast-forward - Chris isn</span><span style="color: black;">’t <span style="font-style: italic;">that </span>mean - but can you just picture that cutie</span><span style="color: black;">’s little booty?? omg</span><span style="color: black;">)</span><span style="color: black;">, <span style="font-style: italic;">I</span> reckoned the super miserable sitch the singing of Happy Birthday on Christmas day.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Wham bam, thank you ma</span><span style="color: black;">’am - no separation of Christmas and Birthday. <span style="font-style: italic;">Sadness!</span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />I cannot <span style="font-style: italic;">fathom </span>having to celebrate my birthday in December.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />People get presents but twice a year - their bday and Jesus</span><span style="color: black;">’ bday</span><span style="color: black;"> (well, that’s a lie - me and my bro get presents on Valentine’s Day and Easter, too). I can’t imagine having only <span style="font-style: italic;">one</span> month of presents to look forward to. </span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZl9jA93juhyphenhyphen5KV27rZQrthM8zpeyjeCmr9nKCPwwH1ISBJBw2K90AAP-SYklBty01qgpSq__TWCchTAMJsBrjAIaEpdbjvbR6JC54IylCnmXGiUM1ejf_zFGaZUfx8UfDmCPsWiE-B7I/s1600-h/happy+bday" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhZl9jA93juhyphenhyphen5KV27rZQrthM8zpeyjeCmr9nKCPwwH1ISBJBw2K90AAP-SYklBty01qgpSq__TWCchTAMJsBrjAIaEpdbjvbR6JC54IylCnmXGiUM1ejf_zFGaZUfx8UfDmCPsWiE-B7I/s200/happy+bday" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420421594040920978" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 192px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">No matter how hard parents try to maintain a status quo with birthday gifts and holiday gifts, the receiver nevertheless gets the short end of the stick. </span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />“Oh, this is for your birthday <span style="font-style: italic;">and</span> Christmas.” <br /><br />“I just thought, since they’re so close together, that we’d just get you one big present!”</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">“Well since they’re on top of each other, you only get one.”</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />It’s so unbelievably <span style="font-style: italic;">unfair</span>! </span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />Facebook tells me that quite a few pitiful peeps are celebrating their bdays this week. <span style="font-style: italic;">Quite </span>a few.<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedF9Vz7aMoBU2idh4XNw38HwtpTgHyOSxQuMlH0Shmgkb8J9N7nnkt38CxSGTefdihVaU05Cn6bMzPrpSPp1O-BUnogyOwHRLW_4vI_yqCVfDBTYBblzq7wELuQ40dbYNgwe6_kFqq30/s1600-h/jesus+bday" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiedF9Vz7aMoBU2idh4XNw38HwtpTgHyOSxQuMlH0Shmgkb8J9N7nnkt38CxSGTefdihVaU05Cn6bMzPrpSPp1O-BUnogyOwHRLW_4vI_yqCVfDBTYBblzq7wELuQ40dbYNgwe6_kFqq30/s200/jesus+bday" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5420423591096319410" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">In fact, I have two birthday parties tomorrow alone! (And I</span><span style="color: black;">’</span><span style="color: black;">m missing one tonight - sorry Jamie!!!!!)<br /><br />So, dear adults of a child-rearing age: <span style="font-style: italic;">Think</span> before you do the deed in the month of March. Consider the <span style="font-style: italic;">endless</span> misery you</span><span style="color: black;">’re inflicting on your poor, unsuspecting future child</span><span style="color: black;">.<br /><br />I know March is</span><span style="color: black;"> the most horrific, most <span style="font-style: italic;">boring</span> month of the 12 - but come on, think of the children.<br /><br />No one wants to share a birthday with Jesus.</span>Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-4775247528121456422013-12-27T08:43:00.000-05:002015-04-21T11:23:21.192-04:00No Do Dankes: The Golden Age<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHvynHQO63z1pMHYgiw_OrqaHVsbJrKecyXbKQpxAV8i6XnRlWuhONUKSGP-D8V80o-luyzzbFba91pMH57XcubJWy_Qd95T46scBmFKAWwMxErJkjtIR3E1wWbFKHDQdMUuYCEKHcCk/s1600-h/barb.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhNHvynHQO63z1pMHYgiw_OrqaHVsbJrKecyXbKQpxAV8i6XnRlWuhONUKSGP-D8V80o-luyzzbFba91pMH57XcubJWy_Qd95T46scBmFKAWwMxErJkjtIR3E1wWbFKHDQdMUuYCEKHcCk/s200/barb.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417808974349934866" style="float: left; height: 140px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Now perhaps it’s because it’s Christmastime - <i>the most wonderful time of the year</i> – but I haven’t been super duper motivated to talk shit. Shocking! So I am thinking of instituting a once weekly “Do Dankes” into the ole blog regime. Thoughts?</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">(A disclaimer: I’m not sure how long this is going to last. After all, it <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> much easier to frown and not bother turning it upside down.)</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">I can think of no better topic to Do Dankes! than old movies. Maybe this has something to do with the fact that I’ve been watching nada but classics for the past <span style="font-style: italic;">month</span>.</span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_NATckskniAXNyCHDNIVp93Hmu14Xbk_Jdn-2WVelg0i18oVCi_N4SxA7geDhyphenhyphen1__Y2DfVACKccveXhz521SqSX1YSriDW3BV5yt27hsz2qQ9cewBxtgaZKiNXHyAgb5siHYFznioDo/s1600-h/polly" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5_NATckskniAXNyCHDNIVp93Hmu14Xbk_Jdn-2WVelg0i18oVCi_N4SxA7geDhyphenhyphen1__Y2DfVACKccveXhz521SqSX1YSriDW3BV5yt27hsz2qQ9cewBxtgaZKiNXHyAgb5siHYFznioDo/s200/polly" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417817711493025650" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">This isn’t necessarily a newsflash. I’ve always <i>loved</i> old movies. When I was little it was <span style="font-style: italic;">The Wizard of Oz</span> and <span style="font-style: italic;">Pollyanna</span>.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">Then there was my Marilyn Monroe phase.<br /><br />Proceeded by my Audrey Hepburn stage.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Of course let</span><span style="color: black;">’s not forget those leading men! </span><span style="color: black;">Cary Grant. James </span><span style="color: black;">Stewart. Gary Cooper. <span style="font-style: italic;">sigh.sigh.sigh</span>.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoNzqq50mhF77Bg5HC0EQsDDmx_DiGtw8uhZjzG_ad_KJtYlwIzMsEqVnK7aSehDFaQOYue7MSzVK0ulruzqhRS0NkBwCwF4QpxHPkifn4in0-XY6YxNzuOZirNsQ2o_0ZZrp3nHvNpXM/s1600-h/mm" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjoNzqq50mhF77Bg5HC0EQsDDmx_DiGtw8uhZjzG_ad_KJtYlwIzMsEqVnK7aSehDFaQOYue7MSzVK0ulruzqhRS0NkBwCwF4QpxHPkifn4in0-XY6YxNzuOZirNsQ2o_0ZZrp3nHvNpXM/s200/mm" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417818197695627634" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 132px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Alas, never in a <span style="font-style: italic;">million</span> would I have foreseen this Netflix n’ TCM-old-movie-full-on-<span style="font-style: italic;">obsession</span>. It’s out of control. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">The aura surrounding old movies is just so....so...<i>glamorous</i>. Otherworldly, even.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />I wouldn’t call it escapism - at least not in a surreal-universe kind of way. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />But getting lost in a classic film slows your roll. It forces you to realize what a crazy (albeit sometimes <span style="font-style: italic;">vastly</span> more convenient) world we live in - a world without iPhones and Facebook. Old movies simply bring you back to a simpler, more idealistic time.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Is it just me or does anyone else <i>long</i> for the straightforwardness of bygone times? For the glamorous hair, the clothes, the <span style="font-style: italic;">men</span> of yesteryear? </span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPxilI7N9u711Ww_VogF5JVd16-CuCNH5mG26RBcf4lcy-gF1xIWDUeA9OudDgu8EzarxleiHNzjFNvmu4Kvg5agRocbVLi3pBqjGFk7yXViyVtpw281XMElgE79Pop82ZBg8zHvI9CCE/s1600-h/grace" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjPxilI7N9u711Ww_VogF5JVd16-CuCNH5mG26RBcf4lcy-gF1xIWDUeA9OudDgu8EzarxleiHNzjFNvmu4Kvg5agRocbVLi3pBqjGFk7yXViyVtpw281XMElgE79Pop82ZBg8zHvI9CCE/s320/grace" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417818742515416850" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 251px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Down with the texting bullshit, I say! Let us ladies be courted <i>properly!</i></span><i> </i><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><br />I think I was a little lost post-<span style="font-style: italic;">Mad Men</span>. I was craving more historical fiction. And what better way to get it than to go straight to the source - actual (yet historical) fiction!<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsGkKM6oaZRJ3XGz4v3nlUoNKKldJVNduAcf2Z11FZl1kPbk-He1iWiWBKJAjYJ83n54ZM1JrxzYXvbPuzvYgZhVEEJL_gpLSd2nh8o4YKewwdspedHfOXA9QaIgzuG9zu3c4RUAwbf1Q/s1600-h/rear-window_l.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgsGkKM6oaZRJ3XGz4v3nlUoNKKldJVNduAcf2Z11FZl1kPbk-He1iWiWBKJAjYJ83n54ZM1JrxzYXvbPuzvYgZhVEEJL_gpLSd2nh8o4YKewwdspedHfOXA9QaIgzuG9zu3c4RUAwbf1Q/s200/rear-window_l.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417819425698460690" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">As mad as I am at Betty Draper, she did remind me of another favorite leading lady. The original one, in fact. (Do I really have to spell it out? G-r-a-c-e K-e-l-l-y.)</span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black;">In the past five or so weeks, I’ve watched <span style="font-style: italic;">almost</span> every single movie Grace Kelly made (<span style="font-style: italic;">Mogambo</span>...yikes. Couldn’t finish! I think Ava was cramping Grace’s style). </span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">I can safely say she is my new favorite <span style="font-style: italic;">old</span> actress. The way she carried herself, her voice (which she practiced endlessly and perfected by talking into a recorder and ceaselessly playing it back), her hair, her wardrobe.<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE_HYfQkmyu8DUjZtW2E647cQssIRqO3hccyP9MZh_uuTj4A80E8PhxyWlnGYR0J55-z15SOIJ-8CgD5UN_v40kziuQ8FKK2Q8B_gZHNPaPyvDXbaAa-uUQVo2YGnQJ9wsvPtKPLCFE-Y/s1600-h/jean_harlow-3589132.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE_HYfQkmyu8DUjZtW2E647cQssIRqO3hccyP9MZh_uuTj4A80E8PhxyWlnGYR0J55-z15SOIJ-8CgD5UN_v40kziuQ8FKK2Q8B_gZHNPaPyvDXbaAa-uUQVo2YGnQJ9wsvPtKPLCFE-Y/s200/jean_harlow-3589132.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417820907167779698" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">I can hardly believe that she had the career she did - all <i>before</i> the age I am <i>now</i>. <span style="font-style: italic;">What!</span></span></div>
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Shit yo, I better get a move on.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><br />Here are some of my fave movies I’ve recently viewed (some for my second, fourth, <i>tenth</i> time) on aforementioned TCM/Netflix <i>binge</i>:</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Arsenic and Old Lace</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Platinum Blonde</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Rear Window</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Lady from Shanghai</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Cat on a Hot Tin Roof</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Barefoot in the Park</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Philadelphia Story</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">The Grapes of Wrath</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Intermezzo</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">North By Northwest</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Gone With The Wind</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Christmas in Connecticut</span>,</span> <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Casablanca</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Meet Me in St. Louis</span>...so many more.<span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg44aj_RUYUrHZ1cEtDgJ2yuag3IPxiir5QiuQX7BS1tYfbe9_MhCoSDZwC-8XvlngOraKG4FJStzSIWMNxDXqotRDQJO4SW1zMuOvs9hK_vvQHm6kvguLGaATbUoez5JCVqzocrcbrgfU/s1600-h/casablanca.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg44aj_RUYUrHZ1cEtDgJ2yuag3IPxiir5QiuQX7BS1tYfbe9_MhCoSDZwC-8XvlngOraKG4FJStzSIWMNxDXqotRDQJO4SW1zMuOvs9hK_vvQHm6kvguLGaATbUoez5JCVqzocrcbrgfU/s320/casablanca.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417821744050071618" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 253px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">SO MANY good ones. Thank GOD for TCM. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />Old movies are like old friends. They’re comforting. Filled with layers and endless shades of grey. They can be profoundly moving - yet they’re extremely cozy. There’s always something to be learned by spending time with them.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />And, like an old friend, you never get sick of them. (</span><span style="color: black;">OK, fine. <span style="font-style: italic;">Almost</span> never.)</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />The films that Hollywood churns out these days are subpar compared to those from The Golden Age. There’s too many special effects, too many elaborate sets, too much makeup, just too much <span style="font-style: italic;">everything</span>.<br /><br />And not enough acting.</span> <span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB_o_T3pRjEkLRf5c6M4s1z1BqZkSylJkXP7XFSNo9Ce-FbXA3rq25x3s9PrN9XFpk8zZNYdCYH_Aw3euHYErIATl-DzahA71B0GAJWSwWBvt_-KgrckJhsBem7RdfL8k0Fmer4wZB4yA/s1600-h/OrsonWellesRadio.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhB_o_T3pRjEkLRf5c6M4s1z1BqZkSylJkXP7XFSNo9Ce-FbXA3rq25x3s9PrN9XFpk8zZNYdCYH_Aw3euHYErIATl-DzahA71B0GAJWSwWBvt_-KgrckJhsBem7RdfL8k0Fmer4wZB4yA/s200/OrsonWellesRadio.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5418455696458013538" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 160px;" /></a><br />
<span style="color: black;">Orson Welles said that he preferred black and white films to color. Color distracted. It took away from the actors and actresses doing their thing. Rich costumes and vibrant sets diverted the viewer’s attention. Yadda yadda yadda.</span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />Well I’m certainly no Technicolor naysayer, but I do somewhat concur with Mr. Welles. It’s so easy for Hollywood to cover up the shortfalls of an acting job gone wrong with special effects. <span style="font-style: italic;">The Matrix</span> - need I say more?<br /><br />So this Christmas week, do yourself a favor. Cozy up with an old Hollywood movie - consider it a gift to yourself.</span> </div>
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Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-75364060327675737502013-12-26T13:31:00.000-05:002015-04-21T11:24:15.190-04:00‘Twas the Day After Christmas<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;">‘Twas the day after Christmas</span></div>
<div style="color: black; text-align: center;">
<div style="text-align: center;">
<span style="color: black;">And all through the house</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Not a creature was smiling</span> <span style="color: black;"><br />Not even a mouse.</span></div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYyuwyVAftl8hcO1FJKDYdBTumHe5J2K20aXXiaswH8M7_taXvBBpy-sevn1SxC7iTB8eUvvaQb2Y-ISk1NQhbO5OwXORgvPln5QhnjpjSwM-p-_MvgmdI3p1uPmhAYw8wvx651-98Hwk/s1600-h/santa_sleigh_1024.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYyuwyVAftl8hcO1FJKDYdBTumHe5J2K20aXXiaswH8M7_taXvBBpy-sevn1SxC7iTB8eUvvaQb2Y-ISk1NQhbO5OwXORgvPln5QhnjpjSwM-p-_MvgmdI3p1uPmhAYw8wvx651-98Hwk/s320/santa_sleigh_1024.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419631224251289698" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a>What <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> it about the day after Christmas that’s just so...so...<span style="font-style: italic;">so depressing</span>.</div>
<div style="text-align: left;">
<br />
Maybe it has something to do with the anticipation. Granted, I wasn’t in <span style="font-style: italic;">so</span> very merry a Christmasy mood this year. Actually I don’t think <span style="font-style: italic;">anyone</span> had much holiday spirit.<br />
<br />
That tricky warm weather! Those four short weeks between Thanksgiving and Christmas! The lingering<span style="font-style: italic;"> recession!</span><br />
<br />
Ah well.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDfxVL0f119rpAIJ2NyS5ZrY1gKHgmD0BQjE26lsmm5CdbiN0eA3C7-J93Zcayo4GNOdc2RCiTlmIGmTIjK0_N_EENjyenisrZTl1ysToyAYhdipshoapDRlGCmTXwRK-fpEb_PkrASKo/s1600-h/grinch" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjDfxVL0f119rpAIJ2NyS5ZrY1gKHgmD0BQjE26lsmm5CdbiN0eA3C7-J93Zcayo4GNOdc2RCiTlmIGmTIjK0_N_EENjyenisrZTl1ysToyAYhdipshoapDRlGCmTXwRK-fpEb_PkrASKo/s320/grinch" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419632618302382434" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 131px;" /></a>Sure, when I was young I’d be even more melancholy post-holiday. My family likes to joke that I had tunnel-vision: must.open.presents...<span style="font-style: italic;">ripriprip</span> - like a manic.<br />
<br />
Then I’d pout and whine while my older brother opened the remaining 3/4 of his pile.<br />
<br />
Maybe the holid-pression has to do with all the opened presents. They look so stark and naked and bare under the tree - what, without their fancy bows and colorful ribbons and shiny, shimmery paper.<br />
<br />
I <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> realize that the <span style="font-style: italic;">purpose</span> of a present is what’s inside. But they’re so much more fun and fascinating all wrapped up and piled up.<br />
<br />
Ahh. The packaging. Such a such a <span style="font-style: italic;">such a </span>WASTE. The paper, the curlicue accessories - all bound for <span style="font-style: italic;">da dump</span>.<br />
<br />
Garbage bags chock <span style="font-style: italic;">full</span> of waste headed for incineration at the transfer station. Such a colossal <span style="font-style: italic;">extravagance</span>.<br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgck667SAd54U_FfMDNbcQbIrzXsqJKApAqZgD_wdnswsrYu9toh9inD3ojs7xKTKDqE5KoPlXkTQYepXQcNpSe4G-kW9-9jlo-OJM2X1x80Y6yJlrzQ-75427GgxWvL7Wy82_nh-2sJwA/s1600-h/paper" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgck667SAd54U_FfMDNbcQbIrzXsqJKApAqZgD_wdnswsrYu9toh9inD3ojs7xKTKDqE5KoPlXkTQYepXQcNpSe4G-kW9-9jlo-OJM2X1x80Y6yJlrzQ-75427GgxWvL7Wy82_nh-2sJwA/s200/paper" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419633667622134786" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 134px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>The day after Christmas is pretty boring, too. All the toys have been played with. The DVD’s watched. The clothes tried on. The (good) candy eaten. The roast beast carved.<br />
<br />
What oh what is there to look forward to <span style="font-style: italic;">now? </span><br />
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Nada but a shit ton of bad TV. And I do mean <span style="font-style: italic;">bad TV</span>. What the eff?<br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcuvYRqqgFm3Toss9vTcWmtWef7unKRnIheH7eHSRsBgIEZg44YuwuMKleS__FTqY3fMqUfEzUNX28el6i-KOZJifuSOFju0gcHy_aA5ig3FtswqouWaGT4273DUXF169UYZQC3Ov81iQ/s1600-h/xmas+tree" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcuvYRqqgFm3Toss9vTcWmtWef7unKRnIheH7eHSRsBgIEZg44YuwuMKleS__FTqY3fMqUfEzUNX28el6i-KOZJifuSOFju0gcHy_aA5ig3FtswqouWaGT4273DUXF169UYZQC3Ov81iQ/s320/xmas+tree" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5419637166817934626" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 240px;" /></a>I do <span style="font-style: italic;">not </span>understand premium channels. Not in the least. They play Christmas movies in the summertime when no one in their right mind is thinking about the holidays. Then when <span style="color: black;">‘tis the season, there</span>’s nothing on but<span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="font-style: italic;">The Mummy Returns</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Backdraft</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">Air Bud</span>, <span style="font-style: italic;">You Don’t Mess With the Zohan</span>, or <span style="font-style: italic;">Solaris</span>.<br />
<br />
Who really wants to battle crowds and go shopping? Who wants to <span style="font-style: italic;">think</span> about going on a diet? Who’s looking forward to putting away decorations? Who is excited to return to work?<br />
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Not I.<br />
<br />
Boy oh boy. <br />
<br />
The day after Christmas <span style="font-style: italic;">sucks</span>. The only thing worse than the day after Christmas is having it as your <span style="font-style: italic;">birthday.</span></div>
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Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-9886696696318900762013-12-23T07:56:00.000-05:002015-04-21T11:22:14.201-04:00Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Let It Snow! Make It Stop!<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu05RGR2KjbEefOFcYJIdM4iZ02h6LTwzLX1A8oY1R0ZZPNAA07hK1EqPe5YrzP7ZfkQGPKUYYbuOV78mnylrjfoz5k6n0HFsC0BNTOznhuTtMTrdVG1KLxr_1uQaRZfrnKvpNuU6e2oU/s1600-h/snow+1" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgu05RGR2KjbEefOFcYJIdM4iZ02h6LTwzLX1A8oY1R0ZZPNAA07hK1EqPe5YrzP7ZfkQGPKUYYbuOV78mnylrjfoz5k6n0HFsC0BNTOznhuTtMTrdVG1KLxr_1uQaRZfrnKvpNuU6e2oU/s200/snow+1" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417480483072818610" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 150px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Not to sound über cheese or anything - but what a <span style="font-style: italic;">magical</span> weekend! Definitely one of my top three New York City Saturdays.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Snow just makes <span style="font-style: italic;">everything</span> better! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">I didn’t think it was really going to happen. I mean, come <span style="font-style: italic;">on</span>. When is the weatherman <span style="font-style: italic;">ever</span> right?</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />He’s not! So you can only <span style="font-style: italic;">imagine</span> my giddy schoolgirl elation when - hold the phone - </span><span style="color: black;">snow </span><span style="color: black;">it <span style="font-style: italic;">did</span>. And a <span style="font-style: italic;">lot</span>. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />It was like the time Allentown got hit with a state-of-emergency blizzard and we college kids hit the</span><span style="color: black;"> bars instead of the books. Woody’s ran of out pizza. It was a-<span style="font-style: italic;">mazing</span>. (Do any of you Muhlenbergers remember that?? <span style="font-style: italic;">So</span> fun.)</span><br />
<br />
<div style="text-align: left;">
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Tn_jh4waZLdxJrPwaSJxMiSYyBwZuOuCVDWU6eAu8Qc4uXOy114SG6FSq-KEfMNXNbBqW3oHYQbbfMtehylbHpL2Za22XIijKrCROw2cy9TkG8zsyk_hyxEy-OfjgXJtx2MkfvOOIIE/s1600-h/kelly" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi1Tn_jh4waZLdxJrPwaSJxMiSYyBwZuOuCVDWU6eAu8Qc4uXOy114SG6FSq-KEfMNXNbBqW3oHYQbbfMtehylbHpL2Za22XIijKrCROw2cy9TkG8zsyk_hyxEy-OfjgXJtx2MkfvOOIIE/s320/kelly" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417481013433908594" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 240px;" /></a></div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilY8CDbTjIHeVCpT7pzXJWJ0fBQBSsCr11W3j9zQSlbyE5XxKeZPmfNxxh-oWYsxmQT_mdcecVu6qqwKgORsHkbJbttb0cAWP4TmcdnDGoZ2OEYBlP6JkLRxVDDWnGRkGgOwOhD7vT5_I/s1600-h/katie" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEilY8CDbTjIHeVCpT7pzXJWJ0fBQBSsCr11W3j9zQSlbyE5XxKeZPmfNxxh-oWYsxmQT_mdcecVu6qqwKgORsHkbJbttb0cAWP4TmcdnDGoZ2OEYBlP6JkLRxVDDWnGRkGgOwOhD7vT5_I/s320/katie" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417481136088261826" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 240px;" /></a> <span style="color: black;">Now I must say - I <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span></span><span style="color: black;"> hate it when people use umbrellas in the snow. It just seems so silly. It’s not <i>raining</i>, people!</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">But thank the <span style="font-style: italic;">lord</span> Miss Cobb and I had the foresight to add umbrellas to our outfits before heading to the bar to meet our lovely lady friends.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">(We poo-poohed all the peeps along the way who were complaining that it wasn’t worth the hassle...all from the semi-shelter of our ’brellas. How could you <span style="font-style: italic;">not </span>go out??) </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />It really <span style="font-style: italic;">was</span> a blizzard though - albeit an adventurous one. </span><span style="color: black;">The wind! The free</span><span style="color: black;">zing temps! The piercing little flakes!</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwNhw3SzpG7i8Vtoiana-Q2HV0MH0gCuBUfAiOw-uQAjCty9MY7g8OsFHrOPKgUz4s-F8tO9LvXSOMcFookdIoDhOxesQ3sWOEnk__qcE3AcoKsZOmmA3Hww5QFY_gbE4INVETNo2eD4c/s1600-h/wash.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwNhw3SzpG7i8Vtoiana-Q2HV0MH0gCuBUfAiOw-uQAjCty9MY7g8OsFHrOPKgUz4s-F8tO9LvXSOMcFookdIoDhOxesQ3sWOEnk__qcE3AcoKsZOmmA3Hww5QFY_gbE4INVETNo2eD4c/s320/wash.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417486176522036738" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 240px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 320px;" /></a>It’s <span style="font-style: italic;">so funny</span> how snow makes you want to stay up late. Maybe this is a lingering characteristic from school days of yesteryear, when snow meant no school (if you were lucky), and you could stay up late, late, LATE!</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span>
<span style="color: black;">Well. We stayed up</span><span style="color: black;"> a <span style="font-style: italic;">tad</span> later on Saturday than our 5th grade counterparts probably ever dared <span style="font-style: italic;">dream</span> of.<br /><br />Sleepiness aside, it was totes worth it. Such a</span><span style="color: black;">n marvelous experience - walking home in a New York City snowstorm at 5am. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR3zQwZY7IwTilPQmzPAHhCAoCueiMqdeJsYLFllW0ib3aJNVj_wYWrn19QYg8eOgpyQmhmbMaDoYcWkRrINzXEFurXvb_uu9TRGbx3kJYv8FDBi58Nl0Iv6yZThVYZuJj-wUkwEPD3V4/s1600-h/courtyard" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjR3zQwZY7IwTilPQmzPAHhCAoCueiMqdeJsYLFllW0ib3aJNVj_wYWrn19QYg8eOgpyQmhmbMaDoYcWkRrINzXEFurXvb_uu9TRGbx3kJYv8FDBi58Nl0Iv6yZThVYZuJj-wUkwEPD3V4/s200/courtyard" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417484568260120530" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>The streets were so peaceful. <span style="font-style: italic;">Eerily</span> quiet. Why does snow make everything so still? Very interesting. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />There were but a few reminders that I was not, actually, alone in the city - namely, the scratchy shoveling and shovelers. Think Old Man Marley in <span style="font-style: italic;">Home Alone</span>. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />But all good things must come to an end. Sob. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">What a difference some <span style="font-style: italic;">sun</span> can make! We went to sleep Saturday night (fine, Sunday morning) - with visions of </span><span style="color: black;">sugarplums and fluffy white flakes dancing in our heads. And when we awoke...oh <i>boy</i>.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFOmdKPWnvX9lrlBiZLOgaiBI_wURZT4-_dBDBA3Xvb3cImrMdjhWuen-CObFlMXO3-DVU-A1YhE8UhRD72EzdacaEUciOy10RrZLRcUJXOSuiXawotSuGW3nAZEeM42u_AOBaBPzJlj8/s1600-h/slush+1" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjFOmdKPWnvX9lrlBiZLOgaiBI_wURZT4-_dBDBA3Xvb3cImrMdjhWuen-CObFlMXO3-DVU-A1YhE8UhRD72EzdacaEUciOy10RrZLRcUJXOSuiXawotSuGW3nAZEeM42u_AOBaBPzJlj8/s320/slush+1" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417488791917385778" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Our saccharin-sweet dreams of snow, glorious <span style="font-style: italic;">snow!</span>, were replaced with a very harsh reality. Viz.: a melting, dripping, dirty, slushy, sloppy, salty <span style="font-style: italic;">mess</span>. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">It had only been a few <span style="font-style: italic;">hours</span>. Come ON!</span><br /><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRE3FcEDVmRtDMFhyE7zcVqNYNGzAarIBmbqATNeuk5nJVkkh3Gc9y4OZpxD_nLxZDTk4piPH2Sm1vwlCGZ9J4cOiD1JzCz8fqaYRhN7xCMedXLWUio27Z4S9NsJTuiLtgngfBTIi-fSo/s1600-h/sulls.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiRE3FcEDVmRtDMFhyE7zcVqNYNGzAarIBmbqATNeuk5nJVkkh3Gc9y4OZpxD_nLxZDTk4piPH2Sm1vwlCGZ9J4cOiD1JzCz8fqaYRhN7xCMedXLWUio27Z4S9NsJTuiLtgngfBTIi-fSo/s200/sulls.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417487436662799106" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 150px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Saturday night we were dancing and prancing around, so <span style="font-style: italic;">alive</span> - like the toys in <span style="font-style: italic;">The Nutcracker </span>(and yes, we were acting like nuts). Then Sunday morning, POOF!, it seemed like nada but a <span style="font-style: italic;">dream</span>. Dreamy snowy dream. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And now we’re stuck with the sucky reality.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> </span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">The reality, my friends, is that Manhattan is <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> so very well equipped to displace a colossal amount of frozen white flakes. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">350 days of the year</span><span style="color: black;">, New York City is the greatest place in the <span style="font-style: italic;">world</span> to live. Per my calculations, that’s -7 for temperatures below zero with a wind chill (holy wind tunnels), </span><span style="color: black;">-3 for those intolerably hot, hot, HOT days, and </span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: italic;">-5 for days when you can’t escape the slushy, mucky, snowed-in sidewalks</span>. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic75fLCxyT6tU1BHnsaWfr5bMhmjqnCY9VJLNt95fey29reHf-YB1fBL-rLiVtucDrUMLX8ICR3Wy0pUCriMkXlxKVsDgUYsjqODg7ioCJoDgXDDq7CYdxOW2ZU7LypEVh4i8BPuZIPXs/s1600-h/slush+2" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEic75fLCxyT6tU1BHnsaWfr5bMhmjqnCY9VJLNt95fey29reHf-YB1fBL-rLiVtucDrUMLX8ICR3Wy0pUCriMkXlxKVsDgUYsjqODg7ioCJoDgXDDq7CYdxOW2ZU7LypEVh4i8BPuZIPXs/s200/slush+2" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417489310702003922" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 150px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">So as much as we all <i>loved</i> our little stormy city Saturday night, we awoke to something quite different. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">It’s not so very convenient to live on an <span style="font-style: italic;">island</span> and rely almost solely on being <span style="font-style: italic;">pedestrian</span> when the streets are covered in snow. In fact, it can be quite </span><span style="color: black;">abominable - yep, just like that big, bad Snowman. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Our NYC sidewalks went from fluffy, beautiful strips of angelic white...to super slippery, sopping wet runways of <span style="font-style: italic;">doom</span>. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Unfortunately we’re the passengers and our <span style="font-style: italic;">most</span> unreliable footsies are our own worst enemies. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Well, that and the bazillion other peeps trying to push and shove their way onto a (somewhat) drier path. That is to say, the path that’s <span style="font-style: italic;">sans</span> 5-inch slush puddles.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2u-jW4Aerm5iZDIWn9COcCCJuWUsFQZyVqrFHxdcud7SSfC84tIibtl44RYc6UxIj95JquKgwLGnqU0apy6O8VFerAB2qSuhMObq4BySbwy_Sw77nK6nxOT4BttTl0GIElDiS526sdrA/s1600-h/slush+3" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg2u-jW4Aerm5iZDIWn9COcCCJuWUsFQZyVqrFHxdcud7SSfC84tIibtl44RYc6UxIj95JquKgwLGnqU0apy6O8VFerAB2qSuhMObq4BySbwy_Sw77nK6nxOT4BttTl0GIElDiS526sdrA/s320/slush+3" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417489797643739506" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 240px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">When I was walking home from a lovely brunch at Kelly’s yesterday, an obnoxious ne’er-do-well actually had the <i>gall</i> to box me out of <span style="font-style: italic;">my own</span> trajectory. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Oh yes. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">There I was, picking and placing my properly Ugg-ed feet, mule-like, along the path of least-slushy-resistance, and she had the <span style="font-style: italic;">audacity</span> to point and say, “Go <span style="font-style: italic;">that</span> way.” </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">How about “Go to <span style="font-style: italic;">hell</span>, bitch!” </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">I joke, I joke. </span><span style="color: black;">’</span><span style="color: black;">Tis the season of giving! Not name calling! </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">And so I gave up my somewhat less-flooded course in (dis)favor of a more contemptible one. And I reminded myself <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">how much</span> I loved the snow the night before.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWmCQ9Qt0ZW3O6aAUlkL-4bP8L2QV52o7jxK8c3bjY-MBiuRG5sSaztyzqVxq6H9Z4h8DIrQgqTGrx4KeFetn4iQLYWhhclDtADARgdRS_OjqAqLHNph9NTCPkIiJ2u_o1HzqooJJtg3E/s1600-h/snow.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiWmCQ9Qt0ZW3O6aAUlkL-4bP8L2QV52o7jxK8c3bjY-MBiuRG5sSaztyzqVxq6H9Z4h8DIrQgqTGrx4KeFetn4iQLYWhhclDtADARgdRS_OjqAqLHNph9NTCPkIiJ2u_o1HzqooJJtg3E/s200/snow.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5417502150627944754" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 188px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">It’s not fair. Really it isn’t. Why can’t we just have snow sans the messy aftermath. Why isn’t there some sort of invention that sucks all the dirty white shit back up into the sky once the browning begins? (Which, let’s face it, in this city isn’t very long.)</span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">There’s no method to the madness. No reason <span style="font-style: italic;">whatsoever</span> for the swamps of icky brown ice water that are concurrent with blissfully white blizzards. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">The singular satisfaction that I canst have tonight is the silly sound of slippery tires getting stuck in the slush.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">HA, that</span><span style="color: black;">’s whatcha get! </span><span style="color: black;">Well that and this here <i>adorable</i> snowman in my courtyard. </span>Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-34088873177902815402013-12-19T08:16:00.000-05:002015-04-21T11:20:49.762-04:00Nightmare on 34th Street<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBp0MYZm_I_gRhMlMf4c4vMFW-KK4z7WgMyfmLSECfoUcEXspfpC-nza-ln2EDYH2uM8bPQjGAdei12D3PbKmojyzkmtrOmQtIOXUDBUuPSqbK_XoBbR78Sm5Fgp5A_wFwnkuBr2ULiXA/s1600-h/macys" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjBp0MYZm_I_gRhMlMf4c4vMFW-KK4z7WgMyfmLSECfoUcEXspfpC-nza-ln2EDYH2uM8bPQjGAdei12D3PbKmojyzkmtrOmQtIOXUDBUuPSqbK_XoBbR78Sm5Fgp5A_wFwnkuBr2ULiXA/s200/macys" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415287104267304690" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">It’s the most wonderful time of the year.</span> <span style="color: black;"></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />Well - at least for those of us who don’t work in Midtown Manhattan it is.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">My first job in this fabulous city was on 38th and Broadway. A trifecta tourist <span style="font-style: italic;">trap</span>: Macy’s, Fashion District, Times Square.<br /><br />Needless to say, I’m a much, <span style="font-style: italic;">much</span> happier and more tolerable person now that I work in the West Village.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">As cliché as it sounds, I t</span><span style="color: black;">ruly am one of those people who barely <span style="font-style: italic;">ever</span> goes above 14th Street. When I do, it’s like I’m traveling to a different country. A different world. I can never quite fathom that it’s only a couple of </span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: italic;">miles</span> away.</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN-zUhYG_exoNd0up8NHnMq91jI9lDNmkVqJqOJ9vpDSB0yqt76clvedD3TOH4IGskZv9BkSNoLPE5vLK0SJt0mm3_iMSWQ-ERWbIwGGQYZd-grJ5Eny5AjcuYBbK8HiOaYuci5VLnrFg/s1600-h/macys+2" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgN-zUhYG_exoNd0up8NHnMq91jI9lDNmkVqJqOJ9vpDSB0yqt76clvedD3TOH4IGskZv9BkSNoLPE5vLK0SJt0mm3_iMSWQ-ERWbIwGGQYZd-grJ5Eny5AjcuYBbK8HiOaYuci5VLnrFg/s320/macys+2" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415287408198894274" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">But seriously, why <span style="font-style: italic;">would</span> anyone in their rig</span><span style="color: black;">ht mind get caught in the 28th - 72nd Street snare? What <span style="font-style: italic;">sane</span> New Yorker enjoys the hustle bustle that <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> Midtown? </span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnyY7wu84wGNnZ42aONF-Jiy1myULz0m6fnK9kJg2IYW_ExWXuTeT_Wjd1uD8VzLwg0nqzJYP8wdkYG0omtY34GX305s-wDn-R_SqBgqOAKV7I7J7u_mzjlhc0leSBVOj7HdQa2inK13A/s1600-h/crowd" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgnyY7wu84wGNnZ42aONF-Jiy1myULz0m6fnK9kJg2IYW_ExWXuTeT_Wjd1uD8VzLwg0nqzJYP8wdkYG0omtY34GX305s-wDn-R_SqBgqOAKV7I7J7u_mzjlhc0leSBVOj7HdQa2inK13A/s200/crowd" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415288326104792290" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 150px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">I suppose I can only speak for myself, but not I. No, not me. Not one <span style="font-style: italic;">iota</span>. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">So you can only <span style="font-style: italic;">imagine</span> my dismay when, </span><span style="color: black;">last Friday, </span><span style="color: black;">I was called upon to </span><span style="color: black;">play tour guide for Trissi and Auntie Meg. Those lovely lassies brought me tons-o-treats for my Christmas Island partay (such a brat!), so I deemed it my daughterly duty to show them around the </span><span style="color: black;">terrifying trifecta.</span> <span style="color: black;"></span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">It could have been worse. Much, <span style="font-style: italic;">much</span> worse. (+5 nice points for me at least acknowledging that much.) </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />We saw the Saks windows from a far, talked trash on the fugly-lit (!) tree at Rockefeller, poked around the kiosks at Bryant Park, then headed on down to hell. <span style="font-style: italic;">Aka Macy’s.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />Our single saving grace, our one redeeming factor, was the fact that it was but mid-afternoon. The swarms of tourists hadn’t yet descended upon the city for the weekend.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3zSFduiz9_8rQETgxvaLZMbHVYhmBf9M1B6YVkkd0G32IraCHcp8Ff0YFtlr1VoEiPb-z5pTI4yk3figEWfNo2Fg0fXZ_g7mLhcwLhyphenhyphenkL85hMVnNYCp6QWOIJgXEaPifs41o8M7HUIpA/s1600-h/crowd+2" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj3zSFduiz9_8rQETgxvaLZMbHVYhmBf9M1B6YVkkd0G32IraCHcp8Ff0YFtlr1VoEiPb-z5pTI4yk3figEWfNo2Fg0fXZ_g7mLhcwLhyphenhyphenkL85hMVnNYCp6QWOIJgXEaPifs41o8M7HUIpA/s320/crowd+2" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415288808725485122" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">(And I do mean <span style="font-style: italic;">swarms</span>. Like biblical locusts. It’s sick.)</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">Well both that and the fact that it was FREEZING COLD worked to our advantage. (I said last week that I was quite enjoying the brisk temps - it <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> December after all. But temps in the teens with windchill? <span style="font-style: italic;">Hell</span> to the <span style="font-style: italic;">no</span> thanks.)</span> <span style="color: black;"></span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKPqDjBaOBPMs5uCZfr8Vr9-Fe3nXieDCCRRHEDgQnHY5l1-iy_eVOymHq-6tShwy3Qa30GY8YBQu2u2-7GcL2Xgo2PpG9AMD6IZWXg71os_rKpUPOXT2tCmy-pFkHaaXIeGxOwWiuQDk/s1600-h/locusts" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjKPqDjBaOBPMs5uCZfr8Vr9-Fe3nXieDCCRRHEDgQnHY5l1-iy_eVOymHq-6tShwy3Qa30GY8YBQu2u2-7GcL2Xgo2PpG9AMD6IZWXg71os_rKpUPOXT2tCmy-pFkHaaXIeGxOwWiuQDk/s200/locusts" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415289663219651858" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 154px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Anyway</span>, <span style="color: black;">I count my lucky <span style="font-style: italic;">stars</span> that the lovely company that </span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> Penguin had the wherewithal to say <span style="font-style: italic;">absolutely not </span></span><span style="color: black;">to Midtown offices</span><span style="color: black;">. Those twice-daily battles were pure, unadulterated <span style="font-style: italic;">misery</span>.<br /></span><span style="color: black;">Perhaps it wouldn’t have been <span style="font-style: italic;">so</span> bad if no </span><span style="color: black;">non-NYCers were let through our city gates. <i>Wishful thinking</i>. Sigh. (Methinks that’s an impossibility when you live in the country’s most popular tourist destination.)<br /><br />You see, people who don’t live or work in New York don’t <span style="font-style: italic;">understand</span>. This is not a laid back city, friends. There is no lollygagging. No leisurely strolls during pre-and-post work hours. No, <span style="font-style: italic;">no</span>,</span><span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-weight: bold;">NO</span>.</span> <span style="color: black;"></span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoIRNQtfiaW5S3mglKc115bQlqpsks-NKSFfHbaYdjHyZb0JlO7DE5b9xy7KcCZM8lpKJpB_80M80_X2yRQJJlH227I7L1S23tZcsZCPM3o-l-rl2WUkV34eNQRWZ69hMZMNspVxsPAWg/s1600-h/tree" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhoIRNQtfiaW5S3mglKc115bQlqpsks-NKSFfHbaYdjHyZb0JlO7DE5b9xy7KcCZM8lpKJpB_80M80_X2yRQJJlH227I7L1S23tZcsZCPM3o-l-rl2WUkV34eNQRWZ69hMZMNspVxsPAWg/s200/tree" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415290721443346562" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 150px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">There ain’t <span style="font-style: italic;">nothing</span> worse than Macy’s at Christmastime. Well - </span><span style="color: black;">maybe Macy’s at Thanksgiving is worse. And maybe Rockefeller Plaza wins for Christmas. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />Fine, fine, <span style="font-style: italic;">fine</span> - a compromise: Macy’s at the holidays is just plain <span style="font-style: italic;">nightmarish</span>. And since that is where I experienced my acutest New-York-City-dwelling <span style="font-style: italic;">misery</span>, that is what I am talking smack about today.</span> <span style="color: black;"></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />Oh yes, Macy’s: I deem you #1 on my naughty NO DANKES list.</span> <span style="color: black;"></span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Why must you <span style="font-style: italic;">torture</span> us so, Macy’s? I do enjoy your white lights and your nostalgic take on the <span style="font-style: italic;">Miracle on 34th Street</span> movie - but those windows? </span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: italic;">That’s </span>what all the fuss is about?</span> <span style="color: black;">They’re always hideous!</span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwq2XkVwMGYTebfiW6qw7WTODKRpkbaq9fB_BEiGJH9VKWFkVrNluRrBGS6gnHjytj4U3EEr8btnX2Hp91MOQNa7YFd62Kx9Gwfhun6Kn0zWQnTTnPv0uz-61mRLgj2eisaA3d3pyE89Q/s1600-h/santa" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwq2XkVwMGYTebfiW6qw7WTODKRpkbaq9fB_BEiGJH9VKWFkVrNluRrBGS6gnHjytj4U3EEr8btnX2Hp91MOQNa7YFd62Kx9Gwfhun6Kn0zWQnTTnPv0uz-61mRLgj2eisaA3d3pyE89Q/s200/santa" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415292182584221010" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 150px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">I don’t under<span style="font-style: italic;">stand.</span> The pushing and pulling. The s</span><span style="color: black;">mashing into people, à la mosh pit. The stepping on toes. The endless stream of not-on-purpose-I-swear! </span><span style="color: black;">picture crashing. The never-ending people <span style="font-style: italic;">asking</span> you to take their picture.<br /></span><span style="color: black;">It’s not worth it, I say! Who wants to see stupid futuristic puppets doing nothing but spin in circles? Well, apparently my dearest darlingest family does...<br /><br />But seriously! What a crap trap, people! Why are you <span style="font-style: italic;">so duped! </span>You stup’s!!</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />I suppose Macy’s is really to blame in this particular sitch. The silly peop</span><span style="color: black;">le who stare and ooh and aah at those stupid roboticized aliens don’t <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> any better. </span><span style="color: black;">They come in with high hopes, demanding to see fancy Christmastime windows and...<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLCLwH47GqQagjTNpXDOigwXR2lC0RN7yZxOF9o1AyTTBOE2l1vGKBxwW5RHGRbXSzpcYo2kpnmxUTYMJZE2FmoGsKb9G6v3T1P3-ggxzd-spBkcJSh63RkI1OtL2MJgIqA-S7swwPstg/s1600-h/puppet" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLCLwH47GqQagjTNpXDOigwXR2lC0RN7yZxOF9o1AyTTBOE2l1vGKBxwW5RHGRbXSzpcYo2kpnmxUTYMJZE2FmoGsKb9G6v3T1P3-ggxzd-spBkcJSh63RkI1OtL2MJgIqA-S7swwPstg/s200/puppet" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415293230047326434" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>...w<span style="color: black;">ell, OK...nevermind, they <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> deserve their ill-fated lot.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">Who comes to New York City to look at WINDOWS? Then proceeds to <span style="font-style: italic;">wait in line</span> in order to do so??? Nonsensical, I say.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />Stop it, stores.<br /><br />Stop putting silly little moving junk </span><span style="color: black;">(that </span><span style="color: black;">precocious little puppet with his hand to his head right there </span><span style="color: black;">I must exclude - he has the right idea - <span style="font-style: italic;">ay dos mio!</span>) </span><span style="color: black;">in your windows </span><span style="color: black;">and creating a trap de la trap for the peeps who live here.<br /><br />Sidewalkblocks are not OK, ya <span style="font-style: italic;">hear?</span> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVNwywIfjg6lRNXYD9ICv121uGXj6sah3z5RfRRDljE0GwA8HL5Sr0_epnu0wIAfyNw0f3pT8My90D8UOkUlABr-VdL2eaw4YKaxo4BEfHvXqUiqPS1yeHGYJfPIboU0AKRoTQIK4tFno/s1600-h/miracle" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiVNwywIfjg6lRNXYD9ICv121uGXj6sah3z5RfRRDljE0GwA8HL5Sr0_epnu0wIAfyNw0f3pT8My90D8UOkUlABr-VdL2eaw4YKaxo4BEfHvXqUiqPS1yeHGYJfPIboU0AKRoTQIK4tFno/s320/miracle" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5415293839411375074" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">When I was working in Midtown, the inescapable necessity to pass Macy’s tacked on <span style="font-style: italic;">countles</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: italic;">s</span> precious minutos to my commute. Wasted moments of my <span style="font-style: italic;">life</span> spent trying to push through a cattle car of tourists. All so they could get a glimpse and a pic of some horrendously ugly motorized puppets and some glizty, gaudy decorations.<br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Stick to the movie if you want to see a </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">Miracle on 34th Street</span><span style="color: black;">. Black and white makes everything <i>vastly</i> more appealing. And palatable. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />The reality of 34th Street is nada but a nightmare.</span> </span>Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-59495164280646280212013-12-16T08:02:00.000-05:002015-04-21T11:20:01.017-04:00Losing My Marbles.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ur8_Wrv2BHqOGmK3icv8g3pOBiIxbMuFPvA2OF9rT7MHsVJGH6xtLO_MYohwsmPjEVnKkhES-lZq52wdvo6R4Fkgy5cXD90gdW4J91uo3pr5DLe1vuT6oXBE4lDMP5i3GELjvlD_a5Y/s1600-h/tootles" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-ur8_Wrv2BHqOGmK3icv8g3pOBiIxbMuFPvA2OF9rT7MHsVJGH6xtLO_MYohwsmPjEVnKkhES-lZq52wdvo6R4Fkgy5cXD90gdW4J91uo3pr5DLe1vuT6oXBE4lDMP5i3GELjvlD_a5Y/s200/tootles" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414906474688900786" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 86px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">One would think that the prospect of a four day weekend would incite an aura of rest and relaxation in the ole noggin. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">However, I spent a very great deal of time these last four days Stressed. (Please notice the capital S.</span><span style="color: black;">)<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGn8i5ccQbHUYSqKJ2yyyUqbe6TiJaXpvR-eE0jughGy4FctYhcGSessdD28JDkMMblvtdfQgRlohx2YokOJvevE6Ad37XwCUy-s5KGMkkothQ6o507HhlKOldNMqlXFE0aKn17UTe_qg/s1600-h/island" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgGn8i5ccQbHUYSqKJ2yyyUqbe6TiJaXpvR-eE0jughGy4FctYhcGSessdD28JDkMMblvtdfQgRlohx2YokOJvevE6Ad37XwCUy-s5KGMkkothQ6o507HhlKOldNMqlXFE0aKn17UTe_qg/s200/island" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414908456059407954" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Methinks I really <span style="font-style: italic;">am</span> losing my marbles. Like, really. Just call me Tootles.</span> <span style="color: black;">I know that I wrote a blog about being forgetful. But this is <span style="font-style: italic;">beyond</span> forgetful. We</span><span style="color: black;">’s talking</span><span style="color: black;"> huge <span style="font-style: italic;">chunks</span> of my temporal lobe breaking off from the rest of my brain. No joke.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">It all started Friday night. I was having a little Christmas Island party at my apartment (be</span><span style="color: black;">st holiday song ever!) and of <span style="font-style: italic;">course</span> I </span><span style="color: black;">was running late. In my mad dash to get dressed, makeup-ed, food set up, drinks set up - I overlooked my pearl earrings sitting on the bathroom sink counter.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHXs7htEXFcay5hrrvIFB_K_L-TNFODR2YskydudlP5-UsDhoYrqQgkXfylvtipyQmja1h8ymlUFmoLoiTqEU-TPnzAYb-_Kb__uCl-4MKh1HNlftlx0GXXJX9TDsskwB6ZFlGOWZ1wog/s1600-h/earring" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiHXs7htEXFcay5hrrvIFB_K_L-TNFODR2YskydudlP5-UsDhoYrqQgkXfylvtipyQmja1h8ymlUFmoLoiTqEU-TPnzAYb-_Kb__uCl-4MKh1HNlftlx0GXXJX9TDsskwB6ZFlGOWZ1wog/s320/earring" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414908218175000882" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 288px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 216px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Buzzers were ringing, guests arriving, champagne buzz was setting in, and I’d finally finished my hair. I set my straightener down to cool & exited the b-room in one fell swoop - hearing as I did so a little clink, clank, <i>clunk</i>.<br /><br />Pearl earri</span><span style="color: black;">ng down! The <span style="font-style: italic;">drain</span>, that is.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />Whaaaaaaaaaaaaaat. <span style="font-style: italic;">Whaaaaaaaaaaaat</span><span style="font-style: italic;">???</span> Did that really just happen? </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Yes, Katie. Yes it did.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">From there on out, my weekend - my <span style="font-style: italic;">mind</span> - spiraled out of <span style="font-style: italic;">control</span>. I was on a freight train speeding to a town called Forgetful and there was <span style="font-style: italic;">no </span>turning back.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />I barricaded my sink - luckily the drunken Islanders abided by the rules! My pearl was safe and sound in the dodgy, dirty, <i>undoubtedly</i> hair-ridden U hook of those ancient pipes. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPxWJJ7yUTqjdKkZyEwQYtQCnCfoMMeDUlSEMjADVL9xNOOGZaHTgp9rkFPAnKCn2jGJZ-DEkcEQiP98QBeza6ctli4GehjQNwmkZuk95GMKcIQXRNDLZkULGQ3N5FYZgNboR2bs0ZNro/s1600-h/sink+2" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiPxWJJ7yUTqjdKkZyEwQYtQCnCfoMMeDUlSEMjADVL9xNOOGZaHTgp9rkFPAnKCn2jGJZ-DEkcEQiP98QBeza6ctli4GehjQNwmkZuk95GMKcIQXRNDLZkULGQ3N5FYZgNboR2bs0ZNro/s200/sink+2" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414909212920749426" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 150px;" /></a>At least I <span style="font-style: italic;">hoped</span> it was! </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">I called Rocky the Super the next day - lucky for me he was </span><span style="color: black;">around - and after scolding me for not taking all my junk out from the cabinet underneath, he set to it.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />Sinks are <span style="font-style: italic;">disgusting</span>. Well, let me rephrase. The shit that g</span><span style="color: black;">oes <span style="font-style: italic;">down</span> a sink</span><span style="color: black;">’s</span><span style="color: black;"> <span style="font-style: italic;">drain</span> is disgusting. Horrendous. Or, rather, <i>hair</i>-rendous<a href="http://nodankes.blogspot.com/2009/10/hair-there-and-everywhere.html"></a>. <i>IIIIICK</i>. </span><span style="color: black;">Rocky yelled at me some more, but it’s not like I do it on<span style="font-style: italic;"> purpose! </span>Hair falls out. Especially when you blow dry it. And it’s not like I can keep the daily lossage allotment from escaping down the sink!</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">Nevertheless, amidst the hair and the brown water spilling all over my cabinets and onto my super clean (no longer!) bathroom floor, THERE WAS MY PEARL!!!!! Omgees, Lady Luck indeedy!</span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzmk5N83i65ApwytAM6ZJEPL9unE6-XC26XO0J_ErC8pGSrs62Jg-JXz7IRJOrx0hiyZ-li-4ZghYx072iyfdAw1RqPDAmlC-54LEOb2OVqDPdiq7bjf07ugKsMV870qTuQvAvBjFsUy4/s1600-h/island+2" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzmk5N83i65ApwytAM6ZJEPL9unE6-XC26XO0J_ErC8pGSrs62Jg-JXz7IRJOrx0hiyZ-li-4ZghYx072iyfdAw1RqPDAmlC-54LEOb2OVqDPdiq7bjf07ugKsMV870qTuQvAvBjFsUy4/s200/island+2" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414908755819824962" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">That is, until I realized I’d <span style="font-style: italic;">lost</span> the other pearl. The non-down-the-drain earring. The one that was left on the counter.<br /><br />I remember picking it up when Rocky came in. But everything that </span><span style="color: black;">transpired </span><span style="color: black;">henceforth went poof!, right from my mind. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />I proceeded to spend the next three hours scouring and searching and tearing apart and digging. All to no avail. </span><span style="color: black;">Was <span style="font-style: italic;">this</span> real life? I couldn’t be<span style="font-style: italic;">lieve</span> it. To rescue one pearl earring from the impossibly vile depths of a bathroom sink pipe (which ended up cracking so I haven’t been able to use it all </span><span style="color: black;">weekend), only to LOSE its comrade in my <span style="font-style: italic;">apartment</span>. </span><span style="color: black;">What.<br /></span><span style="color: black;">I had no.idea.<span style="font-style: italic;">whatsoever</span>. where the <span style="font-style: italic;">hell</span> it had gone. So I </span><span style="color: black;">called my mom - aka Santa - to see if it was too late to ask for a new pair for Christmas. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghsVDAfi5EzPx30i0z39GselV5pimff3xKGCGWlgsyjBhvoNkwKApXv51PIQF4L9K9rW5Cw5u_zD-2fnURpC145Jr9MSGfvCKfcmg6pGpmXVlxs7q-V50W6eb0tY1Q7dTsqSc-3BBkbdc/s1600-h/gloves" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEghsVDAfi5EzPx30i0z39GselV5pimff3xKGCGWlgsyjBhvoNkwKApXv51PIQF4L9K9rW5Cw5u_zD-2fnURpC145Jr9MSGfvCKfcmg6pGpmXVlxs7q-V50W6eb0tY1Q7dTsqSc-3BBkbdc/s200/gloves" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414911382059713250" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">“Yes, Mom, I looked there. Yep. Yeah. Of <span style="font-style: italic;">course</span> I looked there. Yup. Mmm hmm. YES, I did looked through the trash already. Twice!</span><span style="color: black;">”<br /><br />Alas, she knows me better than I know myself and sugges</span><span style="color: black;">ted I look through the trash once more - wearing gloves.</span><span style="color: black;"> (My ladylike hands do not like to touch garbage - even if it </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">is </span><span style="color: black;">all mine.)</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />There was coffee grinds and barbeque chicken/sweet and sour meatball sauce and dirty, hair ridden paper towels and it was just...<span style="font-style: italic;">nasty</span>. </span><span style="color: black;">But la</span><span style="color: black;">tex gloved and therefore <i>safe</i>, I set out feeling my way through the trash.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />Lo and behold!, I found the earring. What? WHAT! One pearl retrieved from a filthy, hairy abyss, only to find its mate amidst soggy coffee and stinky, sticky BBQ sauce.<br /><br /><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhXPCJ9F0rOGybob3D4QQdChLNomK-wxZ3tQ18HvdSucLolp-XQlkyXGP6ktNEAQ5XK_BPcTklW7bV56hzjskas2nW5CRN1LXb6i7q2NK9hOyRYu1S0gXFWbOT703Cbmd5qZ0WtJBpoKR0/s320/sink" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414911733601225330" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></span><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="color: black;">So to recap, I’ve survived a weekend sans bathroom sink. I’ve ended up with a stubbed, swollen toe (a board that was under the sink fell on my foot), a messy, <span style="font-style: italic;">messy</span> bathroom floor (I have <span style="font-style: italic;">so</span> many products), and a spittle filled kitchen sink.<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBndZWPMAClVYc8RIgj9K3RsaQ-6t9HazAWsVdJzY3H6G-Rm5m6_Yo30Fqkr54-pRy3iHeumQBCYUbBuLNAZX5OBQDP7GSaGb3Pkpr-4Zj4qJZ13R9Tb8CWa24KDGlxOgt2-G1AZDpRqg/s1600-h/AppleEarBuds1_headphone.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBndZWPMAClVYc8RIgj9K3RsaQ-6t9HazAWsVdJzY3H6G-Rm5m6_Yo30Fqkr54-pRy3iHeumQBCYUbBuLNAZX5OBQDP7GSaGb3Pkpr-4Zj4qJZ13R9Tb8CWa24KDGlxOgt2-G1AZDpRqg/s200/AppleEarBuds1_headphone.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414912419074774242" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Ever try brushing your teeth and washing your face in your kitchen sink? Amongst dirty plates and dish brushes? So un<span style="font-style: italic;">bearably</span> uncivilized. (It’s kind of <i>nuts</i> how barbaric it is. You just feel like such a dirty little <span style="font-style: italic;">slime</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">ball</span>, YUCK!)</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">But my weekend of lost-marbles <span style="font-style: italic;">hell</span> didn’t end with the earring dramarama. Oh no. The memory gods had it out for me. As if my feeble, forgetful mind hadn’t failed me quite enough already, it had to go and disremember where I put my brand spanking new </span><span style="color: black;">iPod </span><span style="color: black;">earbuds. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />I searched and researched every square inch - all 2,016 of them - for the <span style="font-style: italic;">second</span> day in a row. Drawers upon drawers, hidden surfaces upon hidden subsurfaces, all without a stitch of the same luck that befell me during Saturday’s (mis)adventures. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Zx_oKq6fdvcLK7cnkyV7ZP4RA0XLTr2TWzhKvQQhAxzTXViRHfqU6r_rHk-wodXhvRvMHZTJcKRMHb58KtkC_K4WVoYRBfAXSkd4KcbzRGBnzfeb9mqE2chKLTNpBPyZg8Pbz06gb5c/s1600-h/MARBLES.JPG" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4Zx_oKq6fdvcLK7cnkyV7ZP4RA0XLTr2TWzhKvQQhAxzTXViRHfqU6r_rHk-wodXhvRvMHZTJcKRMHb58KtkC_K4WVoYRBfAXSkd4KcbzRGBnzfeb9mqE2chKLTNpBPyZg8Pbz06gb5c/s200/MARBLES.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5414915792400101106" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 141px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">My mind is going, going, oh wait - no - actually it’s <span style="font-style: italic;">gone</span>. No <span style="font-style: italic;">dankes</span>.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">(An addendum: Shortly after I’d finished writing this blog last night, my lovely friend Dana, a sharpshooting pool hustler, sent me a message - she had the headphones all along! Silly lass dropped her bag at my apartment Friday night and must have scooped them up by accident! So really my marbles are only <i>half</i> gone.)</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: italic;"></span></span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span>Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-89615205783200440022013-11-25T07:12:00.000-05:002015-04-21T11:17:08.604-04:00Giving Dankes<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBPmGfRvNQmFtN6hxnHb73m_6_RkjYSJkT_S1Ky-7BuA8Yl7hZTc6mEjiIGrUkqVeni30MvpXAl6xL9CIEx0w_2LwWnYvddH0700tVHTcU3o1NjHKNVC3i5RAtNeL8cCnXomluLw5I1Qw/s1600/Grinch" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBPmGfRvNQmFtN6hxnHb73m_6_RkjYSJkT_S1Ky-7BuA8Yl7hZTc6mEjiIGrUkqVeni30MvpXAl6xL9CIEx0w_2LwWnYvddH0700tVHTcU3o1NjHKNVC3i5RAtNeL8cCnXomluLw5I1Qw/s200/Grinch" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407869874484374258" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">I know, I know. I’m the world’s most gigantic hypocrite. Just last week I was hemming and hawing about establishments rolling out the trees n’ tinsel before Halloween is even <span style="font-style: italic;">over</span>. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">And this week - get ready for it - <i>I’m a</i> <span style="font-style: italic;">Christmastime Convert</span>.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Maybe it’s cause I just <span style="font-style: italic;">had</span> to oust those in-your-face <span style="font-style: italic;">bags-o-decorations</span> piled up, eyesore-style, on my floor. Or perhaps it was Monday’s <span style="font-style: italic;">fa-fa-fa-reeeeezing</span> temps. But whatever the reason - GASP - I’ve </span><span style="color: black;">stopped to smell the mistletoe (or <span style="font-style: italic;">started</span> to,</span><span style="color: black;"> I should say).</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr2zM0e_yGeJSAU278Fe0AIUzy2K-R6lPK-1I2msUswZGvVn14zxHMWwBpxt5chLzGFdSCn4m-tWPq-DN1caRLGQJUkkGi3hIvTWdp4w4GLdCojLQ5o7CcAQtDAbIxedS0Vr2iqZCmda4/s1600/bumble.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgr2zM0e_yGeJSAU278Fe0AIUzy2K-R6lPK-1I2msUswZGvVn14zxHMWwBpxt5chLzGFdSCn4m-tWPq-DN1caRLGQJUkkGi3hIvTWdp4w4GLdCojLQ5o7CcAQtDAbIxedS0Vr2iqZCmda4/s200/bumble.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408059213994648018" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 152px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>You heard it here first! I shall be no Grinch. No Scrooge. No Bumble. No Professor Hinkle. Not me, <span style="font-style: italic;">not this year!</span></span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />Ooookaaaaaay <span style="font-style: italic;">fine</span>. Ya’lls know that Scrooge-free does NOT begin with me. And my Grinch-</span><span style="color: black;">o-Meter </span><span style="color: black;">definitely </span><span style="color: black;">hasn</span><span style="color: black;">’t</span><span style="color: black;"> plummeted to zero. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">But let’s just say (sure, relish in judging the <i>shit</i> out</span><span style="color: black;"> of me), as I was putting </span><span style="color: black;">ornaments on my mini-tree Monday night (isn</span><span style="color: black;">’t it cute?)</span><span style="color: black;">, listening to Frank and Bing croon (and </span><span style="color: black;">maybe a <span style="font-style: italic;">little</span> Celine), my brand new XXXL heart melted and warmth <span style="font-style: italic;">oozed</span> throughout my frigid body. </span></div>
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<img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjgwtskImAeaj1RnQoW2tbTS0YQ-bonrdQD-RpOH1q5nKKDz-juF7_dJNlxdNKda52JOyGSTH_1Vn9vqY3qpkeP09EZgZl0zX_b_iOQiWt5hcfD8GgbM_1na8izb2WBY_Wg88Ca1qW3BuE/s320/tree" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407874375712713586" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /><span style="color: black;">Thanksgiving is <span style="font-style: italic;">upon</span> us, peeps. It’s <span style="font-style: italic;">here</span>. And f</span><span style="color: black;">our weekends till Christmas, me oh me oh <span style="font-style: italic;">my!</span><br /><br />And so for the (?) time in No Dankes! history, I’s gonna write something <span style="font-style: italic;">nice</span>.<br /></span><span style="color: black;">It’s Turkey Day so let’s all play pilgrims and GIVE THANKS!</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUz5jm-v3-HtBbT1nTKDUJUGHwb4rgd5BPdBwVytXUq6g_JZeQ0GJu5o1fZOKBeRTcYDNc1ajGRKYLs54eP0TVo6J44SP0VZXoOFtUJvxModr-Az_GEfyts8ZG862U7sgc5XKnpLz_X3I/s1600/thanksgiving_word_searchhtm_txt_turkeywi.gif" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUz5jm-v3-HtBbT1nTKDUJUGHwb4rgd5BPdBwVytXUq6g_JZeQ0GJu5o1fZOKBeRTcYDNc1ajGRKYLs54eP0TVo6J44SP0VZXoOFtUJvxModr-Az_GEfyts8ZG862U7sgc5XKnpLz_X3I/s200/thanksgiving_word_searchhtm_txt_turkeywi.gif" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407875055464395026" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 176px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">(Here I pause. And pause. And pause some more. It’s interesting that I - and I fear I am not alone - can speak <span style="font-style: italic;">so freely</span> about things </span><span style="color: black;">that bother me, annoy me, piss me off, things that I <span style="font-style: italic;">detest</span>...but when it comes to ponies and flowers and rainbows...well...I <span style="font-style: italic;">pause</span>.)</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><br /><span style="color: black;">Some time later...<br /><br />I put on my thinking cap and came up with some thanks. Herewith, ladies and gentlemen, are things I am <span style="font-style: italic;">dankesful</span> for. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><br /><span style="color: black;">There’s the majorl</span><span style="color: black;">y <span style="font-style: italic;">maaaaayjaaaaahly</span> fantabulous things in my life - not to be trivialized <span style="font-style: italic;">one bit</span> - but since they’re fairly obvi, I shall skipperoo through them: Tim, Tris, Timmy, my Morrell side & my Parry side (3 grandparents, 10 uncles, 12</span><span style="color: black;"> aunts, 1 great-aunt, 24 cousins, 3 baby </span><span style="color: black;">cousins-once-removed, 2 cousins-in-law...I don’t know the names for the rest), my <i>best </i>friends, my friends, my job, my health, our servicemen & women, the health of all of the aforementioned, the long life of my most beloved pet pooch, Cooper.</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvkmWwZ0jWKwYWwRwNQEcyLqyK5wbDXvOWfB8gotQoNIawi51cHn6k7JIjiu8Zi8l55FXzDElHyK2f0TTitCGF8bcIJ8iMdtjDNn-chOGQMRr15gP3fVmZ6Vmuxv7rhIlLGMn-BJxyhSE/s1600/fam" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvkmWwZ0jWKwYWwRwNQEcyLqyK5wbDXvOWfB8gotQoNIawi51cHn6k7JIjiu8Zi8l55FXzDElHyK2f0TTitCGF8bcIJ8iMdtjDNn-chOGQMRr15gP3fVmZ6Vmuxv7rhIlLGMn-BJxyhSE/s320/fam" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407878621926371506" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></a><br /><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Life</span>. </span><br /><span style="color: black;"><br />Yesterday I spent 4 1/2 hours in the emergency room at St. Vincent’s Hospital. I’ll <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">NO</span> Dankes! that experience next week, but it was jarringly (sur)real and not just a little <span style="font-style: italic;">shocking</span> to be surrounding by such sickness. Old people, dying people, lonely people. Talk about <span style="font-style: italic;">de-press-ing</span>.<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMRQvuw5soxgFAOGrjehUQtBOeMpTJNMjMpAhZXTLXmjOVbpk6453PrWN6F32F_v98baaGuw6njcqR9wkFeMdV84-bWQLlOFCQIHVlSVShL43NyNwBhtLOa965FgUKD3V-dqXF0AJtrUk/s1600/coop" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjMRQvuw5soxgFAOGrjehUQtBOeMpTJNMjMpAhZXTLXmjOVbpk6453PrWN6F32F_v98baaGuw6njcqR9wkFeMdV84-bWQLlOFCQIHVlSVShL43NyNwBhtLOa965FgUKD3V-dqXF0AJtrUk/s200/coop" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407879024856111938" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">I really think we all sometimes forget how <i>fleeting</i> all of <span style="font-style: italic;"><b>this</b></span> is.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />Not to be macabre, but we need to remind ourselves that we’re mere <span style="font-style: italic;">mortals</span>. That our entire lifetime is but a blink, a <span style="font-style: italic;">blip</span>, in this ever-expanding, billions-of-years-old universe</span><span style="color: black;">.<br /></span><span style="color: black;">I devour classic literature (all Penguin, of course!) - and it’s quite astonishing to a 21st century reader to see how at <span style="font-style: italic;">ease</span> our ancestors were with death.<br /><br />This gravestone inscription (morbid, I know), really resonated with me: “As you are now so once was I, As I am now so shall you be.” <span style="font-style: italic;">Whoa</span>.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><br /><span style="color: black;">I’m not trying to sound all preachy, but </span><span style="color: black;">’tis </span><span style="color: black;">true. It’s so <span style="font-style: italic;">easy</span> to forget how wonderful <span style="font-style: italic;">life</span> is. To get so caught up in cattiness and bitterness and anger and disappointment and side-choosin</span><span style="color: black;">g and shit-talking and what-ifs. Just think about it.</span> <br />
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<i>And that’s all I’m gonna say about that.</i><br /><br /><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvt76CljYvA0DMBDX_BpO5Nd5uiPHEpPsCnVRQDIRUXWvVhW_q4KUa1EmD1Z2zc0Mo6fhktrWlMuNqooWFXBkA7tW9SIQTw1kHkgHgY4uap5x_8jzpBGQeJgDM9mzqJB5Ze5In5DB9vkk/s1600/bath" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgvt76CljYvA0DMBDX_BpO5Nd5uiPHEpPsCnVRQDIRUXWvVhW_q4KUa1EmD1Z2zc0Mo6fhktrWlMuNqooWFXBkA7tW9SIQTw1kHkgHgY4uap5x_8jzpBGQeJgDM9mzqJB5Ze5In5DB9vkk/s200/bath" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407880436739914338" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 172px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>Onward we go to the bright, light side of life’s more leisurely </span><span style="color: black;">amenities that I am <span style="font-style: italic;">utmost</span> thankful for. These include (but are <span style="font-style: italic;">not</span> limited to) the following:</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">Indoor plumbing! <span style="font-style: italic;">We are so lucky</span>. Bubble baths. Razors. High-pressure massaging shower heads. Hell,</span><span style="color: black;"> <i>massages</i>. Gooseneck sink spouts. Brita’s. </span><br /><span style="color: black;"><br />Flat-screen TVs. DVR (can you believe we used to watch VCR </span><span style="color: black;">recorded VHS’s?) Almost all cable shows (and some network shows). <span style="font-style: italic;">Mad Men</span>. Black and white movies - OMG, TCM! Hollywood glamour. Hollywood drama. Audrey, Ingrid, Grace, Marilyn, Kate & Gwyneth. Cary Grant, Paul Newman, James Stewart, Brad/Leo/Robert Pattinson/John Hamm. <b>NETFLIX!</b></span><b><br /></b><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcHV2FW4LqfsbkKYPg5VtQgpIs9LdHSY6g-amd1AsskOT8hJ2SbKNOuMPeojH-cY217Ze5o73rjkH7mwgFqV2LEh8rkrgHgzQsfkTHrR3wisBXgLr8OBWlXkui4PLycd550uNrAxkIvD4/s1600/paul-newman2.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcHV2FW4LqfsbkKYPg5VtQgpIs9LdHSY6g-amd1AsskOT8hJ2SbKNOuMPeojH-cY217Ze5o73rjkH7mwgFqV2LEh8rkrgHgzQsfkTHrR3wisBXgLr8OBWlXkui4PLycd550uNrAxkIvD4/s200/paul-newman2.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407883363694743842" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 150px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Computers. MacBook</span><span style="color: black;">s!!!!!!!!!!! (Life changing.) iPods. (How did we live WITHOUT them?????) <i>iPhones</i> for that matter. <span style="font-style: italic;">Le Internet</span>.<br /></span><span style="color: black;">Whole Foods cold/hot food & dessert bar. Funfetti cupcakes. The fact that apples with peanut butter are considered “healthy”. Skor Bars. Peanut Butter Twix Bars. Joe’s Pizza. A really, <span style="font-style: italic;">really </span>good sandwich comprise</span><span style="color: black;">d of <span style="font-style: italic;">no less </span>than 15 ingredients. The World’s Best Latte (according </span><span style="color: black;">to <span style="font-style: italic;">moi</span>) from Third Rail Coffee - which happens to be right</span><span style="color: black;"> next to my apartamento. Rootbeer. Pumpkin beer. Wheat beer. Blueberry beer.</span> <span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">Any </span>beer. Vin rouge.</span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Books, books, omfg <span style="font-style: italic;">books!</span> Tolstoy, Austen, Hardy, Steinbeck, the Brontë sisters, Gaskell, Dickens. Hosseini, Diaz, Chevalier, Shreve, McEwan, McCarthy, MEYER. <span style="font-style: italic;">amazon.com</span> (though it’s nearly singlehandedly undermining the publishing industry).</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65r38B8imnTrGzvi06c9Ufy_1p42XJy1IZ74kTKXLcTjWV-q6M7wxDwDWUO9LrsyXpLR9ZQ5F7xsN9mhijR9h-177MSvqtl54oJQ_uSdNHTaP7NrtcfGAtSUjZpIH8cj8Y5Po74oRXpI/s1600/coconut.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg65r38B8imnTrGzvi06c9Ufy_1p42XJy1IZ74kTKXLcTjWV-q6M7wxDwDWUO9LrsyXpLR9ZQ5F7xsN9mhijR9h-177MSvqtl54oJQ_uSdNHTaP7NrtcfGAtSUjZpIH8cj8Y5Po74oRXpI/s200/coconut.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407886641078122754" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 169px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Coconut <span style="font-weight: bold;">everything</span>: lip balm, cake, lotion, mmm <span style="font-style: italic;">macaroons</span>, milk, rum, haystacks, rice, piña coladas, body spray, oil, shampoo.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Trains, planes, automobiles! Or, modes more apt to this city: subways, cabs, and <span style="font-style: italic;">my own two feet!</span></span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><br /><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: italic;">The</span> City. My hometown in the N<span style="font-style: italic;">W</span>C deserves some love, too: Sharon, CT. I’m <span style="font-style: italic;">so</span> thankful I grew up there. The historic beauty - the clock tower, the town green, the gorgeous mansions. The trees and rolling hills and lakes and quietness and serenity and lushness.</span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-6X-cpV1YLV59wo00Tj_q8YOaoMsgygEMRiiqdTPMmQaSZrryEGlsuzID335b8-dIX67JVUJf3czfaRZrD4t4pmkVUxb8dFbWmAT28e-qWV59UDFcwjQYn9jvpNVbRSzx1ZX9O-OFLYA/s1600/sharon-tower.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-6X-cpV1YLV59wo00Tj_q8YOaoMsgygEMRiiqdTPMmQaSZrryEGlsuzID335b8-dIX67JVUJf3czfaRZrD4t4pmkVUxb8dFbWmAT28e-qWV59UDFcwjQYn9jvpNVbRSzx1ZX9O-OFLYA/s320/sharon-tower.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407887278517385778" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 230px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">I’m <span style="font-style: italic;">extra</span> thankful for Sharon, actually. And <span style="font-style: italic;">so</span> <span style="font-style: italic;">happy</span> that I get to go home in just a few hours to my quaint country town - dankes Penguin for a 1:00pm closing! I cannot <span style="font-style: italic;">wait</span> to spend time with my fam (wish you could be there, Timmy & Cass!), an</span><span style="color: black;">d friends. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />And Cooper, my darling pup. I’m thankful for the 15 1/2 years we got to spend with you. I’ll miss bestowing your Thanksgiving Feast at those ridiculously well-behaved paws. We</span><span style="color: black;">’ll all be thinking of you on this, your most</span><span style="color: black;"> favorite day of the year. Love and miss you <span style="font-style: italic;">so</span> much, buddy.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">Now I challenge <span style="font-style: italic;">you</span> to give dankes. And I <span style="font-style: italic;">implore</span> you: Take some time tomorrow to be in the moment, <span style="font-style: italic;">living</span>. Don’t get all anxious about traffic, or being late, or eating so much you’ve gotta do the <i>unbutton</i>, or missing the kickoff, or burning the biscuits. Big <span style="font-style: italic;">deal</span>. So <span style="font-style: italic;">what</span>.</span><br /><span style="color: black;"><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Appreciate</span> what you have, <span style="font-style: italic;">remember</span> how lucky we all are, and just be <span style="font-style: italic;">happy</span>. </span><span style="color: black;">Don’t sweat the small stuff, yo! Cause everybody’s clocks are ticking and that’s some pretty scary shit but we’re all in this together. </span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5R-Dxk-PieNguVWUOnzDHl1qoMTyBqf6mz41_-_5_2DNzb5tkdY0ii_QnR0WfXrLgWUUbSSBmM_LayOskyyRgLUlpVhKLcRj-xHyfAKm7sZzXQdkigFzJOzWrlUqgfRBctYZSZ1NZmHY/s1600/thanks" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"></a><br />
<img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi5R-Dxk-PieNguVWUOnzDHl1qoMTyBqf6mz41_-_5_2DNzb5tkdY0ii_QnR0WfXrLgWUUbSSBmM_LayOskyyRgLUlpVhKLcRj-xHyfAKm7sZzXQdkigFzJOzWrlUqgfRBctYZSZ1NZmHY/s320/thanks" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407894725338755138" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 269px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /><span style="color: black;">(Oh, and one last thing. I’m thankful for all of you who read this blog and for your support and enthusiasm and encouragement. It honestly does mean more than you know! Happy a safe, hearty, HAPPY Dankesgiving!!!)</span>Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-83078733555786274542013-11-12T16:43:00.000-05:002015-04-21T11:26:08.615-04:00What Was Your Name Again?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVU0dDWLCRQSsnvqCqv9Ro8gNhuYIuEilG3bMcDzIXoQG1JHVfNrkbCjMefzC6_SZy5OBFapkFvjl3A3LHnCb-LYY64f3Pr4DVl1YaCJjzaF9d46KQz1BZ1lyFmuASzHkEOFAdD0IT0HY/s1600-h/ginkgo" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjVU0dDWLCRQSsnvqCqv9Ro8gNhuYIuEilG3bMcDzIXoQG1JHVfNrkbCjMefzC6_SZy5OBFapkFvjl3A3LHnCb-LYY64f3Pr4DVl1YaCJjzaF9d46KQz1BZ1lyFmuASzHkEOFAdD0IT0HY/s200/ginkgo" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421242368145749218" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 133px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Now we all know that I’m <span style="font-style: italic;">über</span> forgetful. But I <span style="font-style: italic;">am</span> working on it. I’s taking me some B12 vitaminos and drinking some ginkgo bilbolabilobia whatever tea.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />Alas, it seems I have an especially acute aversion to <span style="font-style: italic;">names</span>.<br /><br />People’s names, that is. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwL9M2PCKBy4oXCgwn_Drk7D_AGbTGtox9_3DlKRE7A7g57Kd52hUU05a4i_rpIdtLBzwNhchAcsq72nk10Qk4m7d5fzh_2vLM4oWdI0IhCRTOXWCISD1BIrFsBX8l8Cfiox4YJTBMqfs/s1600-h/antique_hourglass-1.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgwL9M2PCKBy4oXCgwn_Drk7D_AGbTGtox9_3DlKRE7A7g57Kd52hUU05a4i_rpIdtLBzwNhchAcsq72nk10Qk4m7d5fzh_2vLM4oWdI0IhCRTOXWCISD1BIrFsBX8l8Cfiox4YJTBMqfs/s200/antique_hourglass-1.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421246411269990290" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 160px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 92px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Oh yeah, all is well and good and I’m super smiley and polite and toss peeps a good handshake when I first meet them. </span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">But something quite peculiar comes over me when they divulge their name. No </span><span style="color: black;">matter how hard I <span style="font-style: italic;">try</span> to listen, <span style="font-style: italic;">try </span>to pay attention, <span style="font-style: italic;">try </span>to memorize...my </span><span style="color: black;">brain simply rejects names. </span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">Picture an hourglass. To me, names are like them there grains of sand, passing on through. Slipping on by. In one side and right out the other.<br /><br />Thomas.Carly.Emily.Michael.Sabrina.Justin.Trevor.Allison. Bye, <span style="font-style: italic;">bye!</span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><br /></span></span>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimoknpTMEZmqxjKyNJX8vgMXLmelOGHi4JfJu9cUqgQMItp_J9YqBv5HlfoAkJR-5H6o_bAHDrK_j-dJSNERQjzLnUu222ss8H_J8uT4saJDwecGPdcODzGthSJb1TqzmbL0CaN1GZj1U/s1600-h/nametag" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimoknpTMEZmqxjKyNJX8vgMXLmelOGHi4JfJu9cUqgQMItp_J9YqBv5HlfoAkJR-5H6o_bAHDrK_j-dJSNERQjzLnUu222ss8H_J8uT4saJDwecGPdcODzGthSJb1TqzmbL0CaN1GZj1U/s320/nametag" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421249863958550642" style="cursor: pointer; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 238px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">It’s really pretty awful. I can.<span style="font-style: italic;">not</span>.retain. I am retention-<span style="font-style: italic;">retarded</span>. </span> <span style="color: black;">And it</span><span style="color: black;">’s <span style="font-style: italic;">embarrassing</span>.</span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">The worst, the absolute positive <span style="font-style: italic;">worst</span> is when I’m being introduced person by person to a big group. Oh this one and that one. I</span><span style="color: black;">’m <span style="font-style: italic;">obviously </span>polite. But there</span><span style="color: black;">’s a secret I keep to my super snarky self: that</span><span style="color: black;"> gleaming</span><span style="color: black;"> smile I plaster on my face is so big and broad, not because I’m so very super friendly, but because I am laughing <span style="font-style: italic;">so hard</span> at my ridiculous forgetfulness.<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrqsphwfqXwAh9s5LlmOs4j15veif58_w6dXy3_maHclW_6mxYfMpVcsLdJOYYssAQeWwIgjdnohb_6VX3eArcDVC44WLomfGejZ0eSahXEflr0ame32C-Ukyvnl__QpBF1n9FYAsspOA/s1600-h/memory" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhrqsphwfqXwAh9s5LlmOs4j15veif58_w6dXy3_maHclW_6mxYfMpVcsLdJOYYssAQeWwIgjdnohb_6VX3eArcDVC44WLomfGejZ0eSahXEflr0ame32C-Ukyvnl__QpBF1n9FYAsspOA/s200/memory" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421248004684236674" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">There’s nothing to do <span style="font-style: italic;">but</span> laugh. It’s so goddamn <span style="font-style: italic;">hilarious!</span> My nada-name-retention-retardation is so outrageously horrific, I can’t even remember names of characters on TV shows that I’ve been watching <span style="font-style: italic;">for years</span>. </span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">I’m a diseased person, I tell you. <span style="font-style: italic;"> Diseased</span>. My brain is putt-putting and petering our right before my very eyes - er, behind them I suppose. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br />I turn green with envy in the presence of people who remember names. </span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />The waiter’s name? Yeah right.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">The new coworker’s name? Ha.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />The guy I woke up in bed next to? Fat chance.<br /><br />(Just joshing! Oh it was <span style="font-style: italic;">Josh</span>, duh!)</span><br />
<br />
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZEn6Gc5CQOGqO8EvXc_B6NXS536BH3rF_tmdUydO5vX-bWsfAIj-osBfgvLtBe4knve71sY68aK6qp-bqHiQ4ZjQPXF4R2ZkQr_ogkJolLRbjwzd29zLGFIpzjvNY56-hN8JMNyMU-dk/s1600-h/name" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjZEn6Gc5CQOGqO8EvXc_B6NXS536BH3rF_tmdUydO5vX-bWsfAIj-osBfgvLtBe4knve71sY68aK6qp-bqHiQ4ZjQPXF4R2ZkQr_ogkJolLRbjwzd29zLGFIpzjvNY56-hN8JMNyMU-dk/s200/name" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5421250811000972850" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">No but for reals. It is a full on disability. Why can’t people walk around with their names taped to their foreheads?<br /><br />And yes, I do mean foreheads - while it may be <span style="font-style: italic;">convenient</span> to pin or hang or tape your name to your chest, looking down to figure out someone’s name is a bit <span style="font-style: italic;">too</span> obvious.</span> And not just a little insulting.<br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Either that or I need some sort of computer chip installed in my head - one that registers faces and sends a signal to my brain, à la Morse code, to remind me of the person’s name.<br /><br />Oh I don</span><span style="color: black;">’t know what</span><span style="color: black;">’s worse - forgetting someone</span><span style="color: black;">’s name or calling them by a wrong name.<br /><br />I suppose they</span><span style="color: black;">’re equally bad - at least for me. Cause either way, if you tell me your name, I shall undoubtedly, 100%, without <span style="font-style: italic;">fail</span> be counted upon to forget it.</span><span style="color: black;"></span>Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-47269350034586833222013-11-04T08:22:00.000-05:002015-04-21T11:03:12.339-04:00“Trick” Indeed<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlKqo-kbF0Icuc9o_IYIVY585jA9hPL8cflOM126I4DMVbCdSHBKI213PLPamtjeEXkAkOKZtz9c2DTRTjQrFfw45KrpCwJ6rRbil1u2bR-Rsr7tf3sktByRL1ZEt3VJcIv1WUfvw8DDY/s1600-h/owl.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhlKqo-kbF0Icuc9o_IYIVY585jA9hPL8cflOM126I4DMVbCdSHBKI213PLPamtjeEXkAkOKZtz9c2DTRTjQrFfw45KrpCwJ6rRbil1u2bR-Rsr7tf3sktByRL1ZEt3VJcIv1WUfvw8DDY/s200/owl.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399896134888820450" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px;" /></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Maybe it’s just that I’m getting up there in years, that I’m so far removed from anything “kid”. I mean, I have been an “adult” for quite some time now. Kinda. (Kelly and I carved that cute little owl pumpkin!)</span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">But seriously, <span style="font-style: italic;">what has happened to Halloween?</span></span></span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Where did it </span><span style="color: black;"><i>go?</i><br />It’s become <span style="font-style: italic;">such</span> a manufactured holiday. Like every single other holiday out there, it has been engineered to make money for candy (and costume) corporations. But it’s also become synonymous with “slutty” - a day fully dedicated to socially acceptable <i>skanks</i>. So <span style="font-style: italic;">sad</span>.</span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjdAqmw7_gQY3-2vM4MHJcol4FoCeVKiM0ck0-Z7hMt7FZadP7QNfLwo_65dsYVSIO5GFqOrAfNbDuZRSfYhM4eZfkan1jsB_OwsUZK6NmdGwJ6gvCc2HwUyDw8S1zev2RhSynermSQhw/s1600-h/costumes.gif"></a>Everyone jokes how it’s the one day a year that it’s actually OK (and <i>legal</i>) to dress like a prostitute, but I find the dime-a-dozen minidress-donning French maids, flight attendants, nurses/cops/Playboy bunnies/cats and witches <i>so <span style="font-style: italic;">boring</span></i>. So <span style="font-style: italic;">unoriginal</span>. So <span style="font-style: italic;">annoying</span>.</span></span><br />
<br />
<div align="center">
<a href="http://www.someecards.com/card/2581"><img alt="I can't decide this Halloween whether to go as a slutty witch, a slutty nurse, a slutty schoolgirl, or just a total slut" src="http://d3gkbha1s7sr56.cloudfront.net/someecards/filestorage/hal_15.jpg" /></a></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Has my memory once again left me high and dry? Perhaps. But I don’t recall such “sexy” costumes being a staple of yesteryear Halloweens.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Maybe it’s New York that’s done it to me. It’s sad to see kids trick-or-treating at restaurants and coffee shops and retail stores! My Aunt Meg used to march us kids all <span style="font-style: italic;">over</span> Danbury. Our legs would be <i>screaming</i> in agony from walking, our arms <i>numb</i> from carrying so much candy, but it was so exciting, such a good time. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Even when I was a teenager, my friends and I would have tons-o-good, clean fun! Yes, it involved some shaving cream, fine. But it was 97% innocent.</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0wzKn6Onm7Jp2I7ad7MqL7qEyZBm6w6suMACDVlENPmU9AM2IuN5QfIwBOQl0Iwx2vq0IGgCoekDTQqfKc77VP7Jw3e_47DVYhghBDnOTOKIX0vldDU0HDMMOgt37PEocKyJuX-2CJcc/s320/six.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399897333362556034" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></span> <span style="color: black;">Me and my pals have <i>always</i> been clever costumers. We put our <span style="font-style: italic;">imagination</span> into our outfits - along with our blood, sweat, and tears. Take college, for instance, when we dressed up as a homemade six-pack of Bud Light.</span><span style="color: black;"> We cut the material, stenciled on the logo, and colored it in. A-maz-ing.</span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbv1gLrQq8n29QM3yAF_ZHXK5HWqW6GGVUs-ClD2H05uTqdcdzhvXg8s1F7JQQGOxrBHASGLmIx5-cHtJ5Yx1DwMUp1q0NiGWjGs41HbPXjuDWkrdxOFn_1Xudbe-iwX9Acq-Q5fa_L2o/s1600-h/costumes.gif"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbv1gLrQq8n29QM3yAF_ZHXK5HWqW6GGVUs-ClD2H05uTqdcdzhvXg8s1F7JQQGOxrBHASGLmIx5-cHtJ5Yx1DwMUp1q0NiGWjGs41HbPXjuDWkrdxOFn_1Xudbe-iwX9Acq-Q5fa_L2o/s200/costumes.gif" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399897549624628050" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>You really just <i>don’t see that</i> these days. Now it’s just <span style="font-style: italic;">all-slut-all-the-time</span>. It’s not “Oh let me spend some time thinking about what I want to be.” It’s, oh let me just go into this Halloween Super Store and pick out the most bootylicious-service-provider outfit POSSIBLE!</span></span><span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Where is the <i>Halloween</i> <i>love?</i> The desire to don something clever and crafty, something you won’t see on 67 other people that night.</span></span><span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Don’t get me wrong - of course I’ve showed a little leg and painted on thick mask of makeup on All Hallow’s Eve . I’m just saying be more <span style="font-style: italic;">original</span> about it. Preserve the <i>integrity</i> of the holiday, people. Don’t buy a bagged costume, buy a dress on EBay and make your costume <span style="font-style: italic;">around</span> it, like I did this year.</span></span><span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI9xRzfBuMzvuGf3oKV9Ye-nhOxRctGjbwhG339-3_piRhXnLvfBT5FwWkjM3hZbObXx1MavpTY0phIvg4XVfuHIYi2HlMcI_GK-Nd7Xo5tY08wsyQWExhslOTSvPhEzs6y0RPgDOBsMc/s1600-h/peach.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjI9xRzfBuMzvuGf3oKV9Ye-nhOxRctGjbwhG339-3_piRhXnLvfBT5FwWkjM3hZbObXx1MavpTY0phIvg4XVfuHIYi2HlMcI_GK-Nd7Xo5tY08wsyQWExhslOTSvPhEzs6y0RPgDOBsMc/s320/peach.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399898542820814818" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 240px;" /></a>Well, I can’t <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> take credit for the idea - we were Super Mario Land at work (the winning department!), so I just recycled my Princess Peach costume. But it was original - that dress was <span style="font-style: italic;">definitely</span> a one-of-a-kind from the 80s. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">But my smartypants friends actually <i>made </i>their costumes. Take for instance: Ri and Katie Leo as Dominoes, Jared and Mike as Tetris pieces, Burke as a Rockette, Kelly as Holly Golightly, Michelle as Taylor Swift (on the weekend). </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">It was <i>so</i> refreshing to be at a party where <i>so</i> many people put <i>so</i> much thought and <i>time </i>into their costumes. Bravo!</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">I don’t know, I guess I’m just disappointed in the commercialism of Halloween, the way it has become. It used to be so pure and fun, like <span style="font-style: italic;">Hocus Pocus.</span></span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Now it’s <b>nada</b> but hussies and harlots, “tricks” if you will, walking the streets on October 31st. (With a side of mellowcreme stomachaches and skull funnel headaches.)</span>Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-19115023426612614302013-09-24T08:12:00.000-04:002015-04-21T11:14:03.826-04:00Faded Black is NOT the New Black<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzDZe0yehTO0qGytDNTB6_MimYotX_y6lUw9LY-lIVUZSqbsz7LfoeUblk4YlScrxL-y19gYWV_qVKOl7g2Hsno0Ca1DUxm3gTn0Z_unAq-f7WyvG4V1ahivhAWQZZgc8UXLDkU1gTxu0/s1600/coco_chanel.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjzDZe0yehTO0qGytDNTB6_MimYotX_y6lUw9LY-lIVUZSqbsz7LfoeUblk4YlScrxL-y19gYWV_qVKOl7g2Hsno0Ca1DUxm3gTn0Z_unAq-f7WyvG4V1ahivhAWQZZgc8UXLDkU1gTxu0/s200/coco_chanel.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407303929983868018" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 147px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Thank you Coco Chanel for institutionalizing the Little B<img alt="Add Image" border="0" class="gl_photo" src="http://www.blogger.com/img/blank.gif" />lack Dress (and the color black for that matter). <br /><br />Now it’s not like I’m one of those girls who wears <span style="font-style: italic;">all black all the time</span>. In fact, I would much rather don neon or jewel hues. Purple, orange, hot pink, kelly green. I <span style="font-style: italic;">love</span> me some color!</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />I think it’s borderline <i>obnoxious</i> that some New Yorkers don’t flirt with color. That they wear onyx “uniforms” every.single.day. <span style="font-style: italic;">Live</span> a little, people! </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />They can be boring, fine. What irks me <i>most</i> about these uptight, unoriginal, indigenous NYCers is the fact that their blacks are always <span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-weight: bold;">so</span> black</span>.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />The only obvious reason for such brilliant blacks (said in the least oxymoronic way possible, as if a non-color could be <i>brilliant</i>), is that these single-color-minded people are <span style="font-style: italic;">wealthy</span>. They’s got the big bucks so they can <i>afford</i> to buy a gazillion blouses and slacks and knits and skirts and LBD’s.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyroqUtoQ95JMUgNQcjW9Je787Q5SsEW3OB4mnSzVANbOM89PTBMF30S0OMhRWZyIEmn6Oa4EbcypwBnnqW2WHb4V3LY0vgwstwlpm8IfiDZK2_IsqWiFbj1875SOqNoXM_wAg3ZI5yb0/s1600/angiestjohns-main_Full.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgyroqUtoQ95JMUgNQcjW9Je787Q5SsEW3OB4mnSzVANbOM89PTBMF30S0OMhRWZyIEmn6Oa4EbcypwBnnqW2WHb4V3LY0vgwstwlpm8IfiDZK2_IsqWiFbj1875SOqNoXM_wAg3ZI5yb0/s200/angiestjohns-main_Full.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407305470505687874" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 150px;" /></a>Yes, that <i>must</i> be it. There are just <span style="font-style: italic;">so many</span> clothes in their unilateral wardrobe rotation that each article gets plucked from obscurity once every two or three <span style="font-style: italic;">months</span>.</span> <span style="color: black;">Hence the non-faded-blacks.<br /><br />Alas, the greater part of the population, we <span style="font-style: italic;">peasants</span> - whose apartments are 1/8 the size of aforementioned</span><span style="color: black;">s’</span><span style="color: black;"> walk-in <span style="font-style: italic;">closets</span> - are forced to wash <i>our</i> blacks every other <span style="font-style: italic;">week</span>. And what happens when blacks are washed too often? Anyone? Anyone?</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">They fade</span>.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />Selfish, malicious, malevolent cotton! Frankly I don’t <span style="font-style: italic;">give</span> a damn if it’s the fabric our lives! It ain’t the fabric of <span style="font-style: italic;">my</span> life! <br /><br />OK that’s a lie...I love cotton. Especially when it’s soft and loose and flowy and stretchy (Thanksgiving countdown, <i>YIKES!</i>)</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />But what I <span style="font-style: italic;">don’t</span> love about that popularity-contest-winning fabric is that it can never seem to get its shit together.</span><br />
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<img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi7GRPelQJ67GshKIZ-FRqUycp6756ZZwEU8hVUXBILtQLH2c85w1YQr56bR3rgSoXpTBz0zPmZg5j_YI_AS2YUhJ9a327PaByYTJrIZ9ac4vMT_dYnSV1xgBw-42dPc089a4ElXTVH85c/s320/black.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407305764798067234" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 270px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 279px;" /><span style="color: black;">Quit losing your <span style="font-style: italic;">dye</span>, cotton. Stop fading when I wash your soiled little ass. I don’t <span style="font-style: italic;">appreciate</span> it.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Nothing says frump-de-la-dump more than bleached, blanched, washed out, lackluster <span style="font-style: italic;">black</span>. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Perhaps I’m overly sensitive to faded-out fabric because I suffered through ten months of incessant black wearing at Bloomingdale’s. A lot of retail stores - or maybe just Federated Department Stores - make their employees don monochromatic ebony ensembles. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">(I find this fact fairly funny - wouldn’t it be <span style="font-style: italic;">far</span> more interesting if we modeled the goods on the sales-floor?)</span><br />
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<img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7UCvmTmZZY2sPGYpZQlLwvqyMYCLMgoe4L6bEwMoggtMXyPqkkqi_KGyjA-E-7SKPoXp_5Iu3-2un-RvSGnfGy1o69Bwf5Jo7GKOO-pmdVT95VY7xe2pOdiBHpXalS4zRBhp9_xpPXtM/s320/bloom.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407307344767202290" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 213px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /><span style="color: black;">Nevertheless, I bought up lots-o-black. White House Black Market scooped up a <span style="font-style: italic;">ton </span>of my moolah.<br /><br />I wore and washed and <i>rewore</i> and <i>rewashed</i>. And all the while, I played by the <span style="font-style: italic;">rules</span> - color safe detergent, cold water - hell, it’s not like there were even other colors to mess with my laundry loads, THEY WERE NADA BUT BLACK.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-tRbGpSIcTaa7kOirB3hA4eGziT_dDUffsfbsDsG9Kii_iwRR-RaaKBMwkrfTCKGQTUcMf3DNNAK6VxqNCXOKvFJKtQ2SvFl4PruSeAKB_5SyDTxha1tJI2RXTWwbm03bJ_e0fEUMHPw/s1600/faded.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-tRbGpSIcTaa7kOirB3hA4eGziT_dDUffsfbsDsG9Kii_iwRR-RaaKBMwkrfTCKGQTUcMf3DNNAK6VxqNCXOKvFJKtQ2SvFl4PruSeAKB_5SyDTxha1tJI2RXTWwbm03bJ_e0fEUMHPw/s200/faded.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407306696628440130" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px;" /></a>All to no avail. It didn’t make any difference that I Woolite-d because no matter <span style="font-style: italic;">what</span>, black clothes fade like a mofo. There’s no helping it. There</span><span style="color: black;">’</span><span style="color: black;">s nothing you can <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span>. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />I had an <span style="font-style: italic;">extremely</span> productive day yesterday (shocking, seeing as how we </span><span style="color: black;">tailgated</span><span style="color: black;"> Ivy-League-style <span style="font-style: italic;">all day</span> Saturday!) - and ended the nonstop madness with a grocery trip to my new fave Whole Foods haunt (Bowery). </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />Let it be said that I don’t condone sweatpants in public, but yoga pants <i>are</i> permissible. So I was bumming around in my circa 2002 Hard Tails - which have <span style="font-style: italic;">significantly</span> altered from their original onyx state. They’re soft, yes, but they’ve diminished to a fairly embarrassing dark grey.<br /></span><span style="color: black;">I contemplated changing. Wrestled with myself back and forth, to and fro, pros and cons - </span><span style="color: black;">it was a struggle, but in the end I let my faded flag fly!</span><span style="color: black;"> (My anxiety for an overcrowded Whole Foods the longer I waited and debated outweighed my anxiety for strangers seeing me in faded black pants.</span>)<span style="color: black;"><br /><br />Sadly, methinks last night was their finale. Time for them to retire, to be relegated to apartment-only status.</span><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgONJ-LQ5comB8yicFK2r_W6uAKsATq9_2OosLswc01GtqQxXuCOUGsv1l_v3YLVxC_AZiKhnjz9sKQcX_jJLL2NZHHnVLbVJDfLWusv_T7tRx6LrWWkqBnyk8AKsKxlMAvGkLw6vpjXfM/s1600/hair+dye.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgONJ-LQ5comB8yicFK2r_W6uAKsATq9_2OosLswc01GtqQxXuCOUGsv1l_v3YLVxC_AZiKhnjz9sKQcX_jJLL2NZHHnVLbVJDfLWusv_T7tRx6LrWWkqBnyk8AKsKxlMAvGkLw6vpjXfM/s200/hair+dye.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407309435241793346" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Sob, sob, sniffle, sob, sob, but </span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">’tis true</span>. There comes a time in the <span style="color: black;">life of a black cotton staple that you just<i> gotta let go.</i> </span></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br /><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span><br /><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Preferably you, the owner, will <i>see</i> the time is near, will <i>realize</i> it, and will wrap that shit up before you</span><span style="color: black;">’re seen schmoozing in a black-cum-charcoal tee. Because faded black anything - well, in the wise words of Liz Lemon, “That’s a dealbreaker!” </span></span><br /><span style="color: black;"></span><br /><span style="color: black;">They should sell black laundry dye - like hair dye. Wash all your blacks in this special detergent/dye every other month or so and voilà, no more telltale whitish, ashy, seemingly lint covered <span style="font-style: italic;">clothes!</span></span><br /><span style="color: black;">Come on</span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"> Garnier Fructis and L'Oréal Paris - think of all the money you and Tide could make if you tag teamed! </span></span>Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-34190319792360565762013-09-19T08:25:00.000-04:002015-04-21T11:12:42.096-04:00The Trouble With Turnstiles<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4C_-oXBBRv11LcOnBPyFiFFXnyWf3_Htuz8_QWnkVJ4PmfvF8cFafdQwEwCY_hegr6PU33xRTEBh6WSXwN_K6uG8Q1-GDHhv0Wc6pX-YFQnPU-E6Xseu61dtbfUR8B7T7_-J7BfflkJU/s1600/doors.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh4C_-oXBBRv11LcOnBPyFiFFXnyWf3_Htuz8_QWnkVJ4PmfvF8cFafdQwEwCY_hegr6PU33xRTEBh6WSXwN_K6uG8Q1-GDHhv0Wc6pX-YFQnPU-E6Xseu61dtbfUR8B7T7_-J7BfflkJU/s200/doors.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405561452388740370" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 156px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I just have a serious aversion to office building gateways. Exhibit A: disdain for revolving<a href="http://nodankes.blogspot.com/2009/05/revolving-door-revolt.html"></a>. Exhibit B: lack of enthusiasm for elevators. <br /><br /><span style="color: black;">And now, drum roll please, Exhibit C: hostility towards…<i>turnstiles</i>.<br />Turnstiles, as we know them, were introduced at the 1939-1940 World’s Fair. <i>Ingenious </i>mechanisms, insert a coin and gain passage through the three armed monster!<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlaWoZmt56WGzpxrO1zjpMjaOdZ0qx-O4qiQIqSJYqdhZZhpRY0NKbU9Ob9DTUA9vqhTXzXzFV22biHFmclH-JcxYGnZlvlghQ_XuJW9706dD1FUrcWArKppXOhOZCwMGuFc70WbF9gPI/s1600/ele.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjlaWoZmt56WGzpxrO1zjpMjaOdZ0qx-O4qiQIqSJYqdhZZhpRY0NKbU9Ob9DTUA9vqhTXzXzFV22biHFmclH-JcxYGnZlvlghQ_XuJW9706dD1FUrcWArKppXOhOZCwMGuFc70WbF9gPI/s200/ele.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405561840601804530" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></span></a></span><span style="color: black;">The concept of these loathsome machines hasn’t changed all that much in 70+ years. Their <i>ingeniousness</i> has translated to staying power. But just because they’re <i>good</i> at restricting access to people who have paid (as in subways or stadiums), or people who are authorized (as in Manhattan office buildings), doesn’t mean they deserve an A+.<br /><br />Turnstiles – apparently also known as “baffle gates” – can be EXTREMELY…well…<i>baffling</i>. Unbelievable, I say! Frustrating. Exasperating. Annoying.<br /><br />They’re vindictive little <i>shits</i>. Always, always, <i>always</i> on a power trip. “Oops, sorry. You’re gonna miss that subway, buddy, cause you monthly card <i>just expired</i>.”<br /><br />Or, “Tsk, tsk, that microchip in your ID card ain’t working, to the front desk you go!”<br /><br />“Five cents short? NO ADMITTANCE FOR YOU!” </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiBQPwxMyih1HJDKUqE7A7URHToMpVsbLibfGjJGlKbRNh53lQTfTNnyWewnGLgCLA51utIB0I9XjKaEXJ52nan1aagmcQ8ICU5ewMLTBSVKIJRn1ghMJM3O_cPDOzk40SPGO_OdXweMnI/s320/CardReader.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405562796984330210" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 134px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 144px;" />Turnstiles are simply <i>inescapable</i> in our world. Amusement parks, concert venues, stadiums, subways, and yes, even office buildings.<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Cl6LY2oIOYnCBgKoM5xf_X-qghMld1MxBr9zK0n9X0kKXbQJU_6r6fUavntwHll4DObpZvtjrxCdyPG07CQlTBPHu5qvOG0Zahbt9_kngUfbViEK8BR6Q6pzkCdnOjCmyGy1qzHAlFA/s1600/yankee-stadium-walkway.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg4Cl6LY2oIOYnCBgKoM5xf_X-qghMld1MxBr9zK0n9X0kKXbQJU_6r6fUavntwHll4DObpZvtjrxCdyPG07CQlTBPHu5qvOG0Zahbt9_kngUfbViEK8BR6Q6pzkCdnOjCmyGy1qzHAlFA/s200/yankee-stadium-walkway.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405563334825018706" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 165px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;">Granted, they keep count of peeps to prevent overflowing. And they’re cost-effective <i>regulaatooooors</i>.<i> </i>So yeah, they succeed at their tasks, but come <i>on </i>turnstiles!<br /><br />There’s nothing worse than seeing the lights of an approaching train, hearing the screech of the brakes, feeling the whooshing wind – and not making it on. We <i>know</i> another train will be along shortly, but that’s beside the point. It’s seriously the most maddening thing in the world when you card <i>just isn’t good enough</i>.<br /><br />Oh no. You’ll be pumped, not <i>believing</i> your luck, a train’s entering the station the same time as you, OMG! But Big, Bad Mr. Turnstile has got different plans for ya. Swipe, double beep, SLAM. <i>Re.ject.ed</i>. Furiously fumbling that MetroCard, you swipe again, rush forward, and <i>bam</i>...de-<i>nied</i>.<br /><br />We should get one free pass. If the train is there, the turnstiles should just <i>let us by</i>. It’s blasphemous. As if the fare hike WAS NOT ENOUGH. Oh no, you’re gonna hold it against us for being five cents short? EFFFFFFFFF YOOOOOOOU TURNSTILES.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhiT4IQhmpnWQazGCFiWiUQkYIOt_76skkUvOp3QE1_PDkQN2mq9PFbUKEPaxokCp2JLZkANRPygfZfTu2Qr6X2MEI7ZFAk1xnO3cMoznUvrh-NHXA74N_sHbUP6-FXOBB0DYOc7UIek2A/s320/turnstile.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405563601411407762" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 225px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" />And eff you <i>people</i>, too. It’s really infuriating – no, stronger than infuriating…<i>violence-inducing </i>– when a train has arrived and people are pouring out through the turnstiles, hogging every.single.one so you can’t get <i>in</i>.<br /><br />Clink, clank, clonk go the arms, spinning in the exact opposite direction you want them to be. You want to scream at the stupid, selfish people that won’t let you pass. You want to smack that stupid, <i>selfish</i> turnstile for only letting people out, not in. (There should be <i>rules</i> and <i>regulations</i>.) Come on, come on, COME ON, you want to shout (and sometimes do), while the doors are closing and the train is pulling out of the station.<br /><br />It’s just <i>not fair</i>.<br /><br />And those are only the first turnstiles of the day.</span></div>
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<img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9SZbtfYBDihRM3CotWrzdDE9fqIKEzH1To0gmLW-50GdOnqxf4VyJGn1_wqhOS3vkR2Eq5S8lZFW01eVsVb339Mrjq8dinYaUQIBCNOkgH0vJyBpYHPKJ3T6ZMO9AUvMERv9HFH8hWkI/s320/turn.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405829624205141794" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 166px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 221px;" /><span style="color: black;">Turnstiles in offices are a different beast entirely. And I do mean <i>beast</i>. They shun their three armed cousins, look down on them in disgust, cause man oh <i>man</i>, Buddy Boy’s be <i>automated</i>.<br /><br />Automated? <i>Automated</i>. You scan your ID card or your bar-coded guest pass, two arms open outwardly, and you zoom into the super special, closed-off universe that <i>is</i> a New York City (or any city) office.<br /><br />That is, of course, if you manage not to get <i>caught</i>. For these more futuristic turnstiles are pretty terrifying. They shriek at you, literally a high-pitched, buzzing-honking <i>shriek</i>, if you even THINK about TRYING to get by their super sensitive sensors.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTzTkiEM4GdtTmq1TkAJeEwRP2r8YWjD1EAM5MzlA_IL5UUCGe5BS1SI-4FBZQHN2cO3NlqzgsyTRMUabNRazCfjuTT7pUSupewHhIypLgyjhWN0PheVz_bzDkV3PnB9kggTiUzesXA90/s1600/turn+2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTzTkiEM4GdtTmq1TkAJeEwRP2r8YWjD1EAM5MzlA_IL5UUCGe5BS1SI-4FBZQHN2cO3NlqzgsyTRMUabNRazCfjuTT7pUSupewHhIypLgyjhWN0PheVz_bzDkV3PnB9kggTiUzesXA90/s320/turn+2.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5405830381668612562" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 166px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 221px;" /></a>They snap at you if you’re lollygagging and don’t walk through fast enough (ever wonder why NYCers are speed demons?), or if you are too lazy to bust out your ID card and try to creep in on the heels of someone else.<br /><br />And beware: these turnstiles and their fangs (aka their two bitchy little arms) WILL bite you if you get too close for comfort. Yes indeed. They will snap shut on you <i>in a second</i>. I’ve witnessed peeps getting caught - YIKES.<br /><br />I could care <i>less</i> about people who don’t pay the exorbitant subway fare, or who’ve lost their building pass and need to sneak by, or if a stadium needs to count how many customers they’ve had that day. Turnstiles are just line-creating, fright-inducing, hassle-<i>full</i> pieces of machinery that I could, simply, do <i>without</i>.</span></div>
Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-33036434128865021102013-09-10T08:02:00.000-04:002015-04-21T10:37:51.369-04:00Port-O-Hell<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPWqaqsMOmflB58X0YMHoY6rfuSe8apn8sO2yZAbBaNTfY8aDxmiYN5raKzJsv5ppdB6TknfT1L4cPO136O8SN8zGm1l3NQ-cfepCAWlqULUEnPXc64jN0VebQrZjpnQP_T0emjwraNc/s1600-h/steub.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgJPWqaqsMOmflB58X0YMHoY6rfuSe8apn8sO2yZAbBaNTfY8aDxmiYN5raKzJsv5ppdB6TknfT1L4cPO136O8SN8zGm1l3NQ-cfepCAWlqULUEnPXc64jN0VebQrZjpnQP_T0emjwraNc/s200/steub.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383910532638446306" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;">What a lovely, <i>lovely</i> weekend! One last hurrah before the official end of summer. And boy oh <i>boy</i> was there a lot of hip-hip-hurraying. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">The annual German-American Friendship Day (ridiculous, I know), was last Saturday in Central Park. It took some bullying, some sneaking through gates, some getting screamed at by security, but once we were in it was <i>all German all the time</i>.</span></span><span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Steins of beers, lederhosens, bratwursts, and crazy Deutschland bands abounded. Me and my lovely lassie posse enjoyed personal pitchers-o-beer and potato pancakes.<br /></span></span><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn32s1pi6yecuMTIYQaV0FhK3-2Kq-JGeS6fkkz7hEw9yOITv-4nyixka9_KEKBLNVsXD9un8hQFCP4ysYX7bwW7Jvp1hJxrtv-WaxfrGZIWqGaa_XzP1XN3BoNvUlJSmOABHyIgQUqBk/s1600-h/beer.bmp"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjn32s1pi6yecuMTIYQaV0FhK3-2Kq-JGeS6fkkz7hEw9yOITv-4nyixka9_KEKBLNVsXD9un8hQFCP4ysYX7bwW7Jvp1hJxrtv-WaxfrGZIWqGaa_XzP1XN3BoNvUlJSmOABHyIgQUqBk/s200/beer.bmp" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383910747488070562" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;">Oh yeah. We “Zicke, zacke, zicke, zacke, hoi, hoi, hoi-ed!” <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> afternoon.<br /></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Let’s just say that I’m glad Germans and Americans have been reunited. It feels<span style="font-style: italic;"> soooo gooood</span>.<br /></span><span style="color: black;">However. All that cheers-ing came to a screeching halt when nature came a calling. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Port-O-Potties are undoubtedly the most horrific experience known to peeing-kind. Seriously. They’re <span style="font-style: italic;">deeeesgusting</span>. But these particular POPs were the most revolting, the most sickening, the most <i>odious</i> Ports I’ve ever encountered.</span></span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq2oGHYtmBAIqBmjy_UOVdKvIa-OrW57nTEK9L9pZJ7UcARz3pZB4-xhUHFAVPm_60zBJVWu01b_Kq3yJYZltmIhsD9g3SbzZiu8ezLm-BwvgRxDAzeO2LWyqaeAVmPr7a0EDTwIir6Sk/s1600-h/line.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiq2oGHYtmBAIqBmjy_UOVdKvIa-OrW57nTEK9L9pZJ7UcARz3pZB4-xhUHFAVPm_60zBJVWu01b_Kq3yJYZltmIhsD9g3SbzZiu8ezLm-BwvgRxDAzeO2LWyqaeAVmPr7a0EDTwIir6Sk/s200/line.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383912498235163730" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;">First, there was the ratio of boys POPs to girls POPs. There were four - <i>FOUR</i> - dedicated to men. And only three to women. With one handicapped. “Is this real life?” I asked myself over and over. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">People, <i>peeeeople</i>. Don’t you <span style="font-style: italic;">understand</span> that women pee more than men? That we take longer? That it’s a much more complicated task for us than for you?</span></span><span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">To lighten the mood, take my mind off my bladder, I engaged in some banter with the other ladies-in-waiting. “Can you BELIEVE there’s more boys rooms than girls? They are such dummies!” But the women simply laughed and flew off on German-speaking tangents. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">(It’s funny that we Americans believe the octave of our voice has a direct correlation with language comprehension. I repeated myself a few times before giving up, each repetition louder than the last.)</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgw5ojlojPizMPXzEmVhoxHvm6R8WSv8nStY6gqv1s4_xvFqrU4wvqtzK7NwYNy8WlOLpZpmO2Xjk8RVCfJEj8VzBpVVCDsiHKsSjk5uBA_qUcFMo5aMnLoXU5M4gFy9YwA6f81WYHyWZA/s320/port.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383922068650281938" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 320px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 240px;" />Then I gave up and stared blankly, shrugging, as they “Ich bin-ed” and “Hamburg! Hamburg-ed!” all <i>over</i> my ears. I smiled politely and eye-averted. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjUZQMq6mUZ9S0lsPfh5_r8wXT1kTeOfJ4UpGhuXWm5wGzf7gpUmPyee2k2yHnv55dIbozz0j95TkmOcsG7nE5JjU81bz-ppx0A-kIA_osvyAscei25FhYXyz7iZtkKBTUZOhRzd1GO1S4/s1600-h/port.jpg"><span style="color: black;"></span></a><span style="color: black;">Yup, I was forced to wait it out sans entertainment. And then, joy of all joys, it was my turn. At <i>last</i>. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">I seriously don’t know what I was expecting. I know Port-O-Potties are nasty-ass <i>cesspools</i>. But this was <i>atrocity</i> personified. (Of course this pic is not the one I experienced...I don’t want my handful-o-readers gagging, now!)</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />Never have I <i>ever </i>experienced such a fetid, foul, <b>FULL</b> Porto. It was topped <i>off</i>.<br /></span><span style="color: black;">And the smell - <i>ugh</i>. A positively toxic mix of waste and reeking blue solution. Can we say <span style="font-style: italic;">N-A-S-T-A-A-A-Y?</span></span> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">What irked me most, though, was not the smell. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Well - fine. The stink is always the worst part about the Port. But in a <i>veryvery</i> close second was the fact that THERE WAS NO TOILET PAPER. </span><br />
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgStUEWS2uRok2fY_AySIux5SeWjVeO0CJoWi2rJw1hEcFzYCFupbiehCsdExBxgA09qDpxMjILxi8ZKIVoyHwZlaXQxtYfiIXqIGf34mooLjg-1vIoJhalWFCU6xWT-oZv_DFoHziP4g4/s1600-h/slum.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgStUEWS2uRok2fY_AySIux5SeWjVeO0CJoWi2rJw1hEcFzYCFupbiehCsdExBxgA09qDpxMjILxi8ZKIVoyHwZlaXQxtYfiIXqIGf34mooLjg-1vIoJhalWFCU6xWT-oZv_DFoHziP4g4/s320/slum.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5383919238087690114" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 213px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 320px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;">Whhhhhhy, <i>whhhhhhhhhhhhhy?????</i></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />And of course no potable water and soap to wash my hands with. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Omg. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Unfortunately, though, my options going forward are quite limited. Cause when it comes down to it, I'm not gonna give up enjoying me some brewsky’s . I guess I’ll just have to enjoy a few <i>more</i> so that the Port-O-Potty usage isn’t <i>so </i>disturbing. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">I’ll also have to re-watch <i>Slumdog Millionaire</i>. Nothing – <i>nothing</i> – could be worse than what the youngest Jamal experienced. Traumatizing. Simply traumatizing.</span>Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-54619798151181725332013-08-28T08:22:00.000-04:002015-04-21T10:29:44.373-04:00N.Y.U.ME.<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjQuKNGMjI9MXaYp7UzlCwXocaJR-u0lmHzEQhwnaadEAk17O8NT6eu4SBUhRNXEoL_3KARHAVu30gR_Fr4_MNyzixq8fuP9HuaEJis5M9gL5Ta7e7YRFW9AjWN7rCOuIW17rhsw7Wo-8/s1600-h/nyc.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgjQuKNGMjI9MXaYp7UzlCwXocaJR-u0lmHzEQhwnaadEAk17O8NT6eu4SBUhRNXEoL_3KARHAVu30gR_Fr4_MNyzixq8fuP9HuaEJis5M9gL5Ta7e7YRFW9AjWN7rCOuIW17rhsw7Wo-8/s200/nyc.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376507250254649378" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 133px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Sunday was a long day for me. Five-and-a-half hour drive. Two hour train ride. Bee sting <i>dramarama</i>.<br /><br />But there seriously is <i>nothing</i> like coming home to a city you love.<br /><br />As we zoomed down 5th Ave, the cab windows open, hitting every green light, a sneaky, involuntary smile found its way to my face, surprising me.<br /><br />$7.40 later, I was in my ‘hood. The evening was quite lovely - balmy yet oddly cool. I took a deep breath and thought how unabashedly happy I was to be back in NYC.<br /><br />Then I saw them...swarms of them. Gaggles of new NYU students hanging in the street, meeting and greeting, sizing up one another.<br /><br />I’d taken for granted how positively <i>peaceful</i> - well, relatively speaking - my street had been for the past three months. No cacophonous kiddies keeping me up, yo! </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg7acRwdf7HZCyiH3ay3z9th0R8Jas6WXbh6bMZYI5kiqfUZR4qWPd5YOqjDBs-QhG2nijdEXMhcgBNN5Aco6QPJ-yUwjvNL5imz-QiiQZbqxOQ215ggi1-0QVHhP6DOppr2D5o54tH13k/s320/nyu-mercer-st_4818.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376508675455393954" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 248px;" />But with the advent of my most hated season (fine, second most hated), so too come the students. A new influx of freshmen to judge and be judged by (sure, I’m eight years their senior but I’m still a <i>girl</i>). </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">T</span><span style="color: black;">hankfully I missed move-in day. Last year was a <i>nightmare </i>- albeit a fairly <i>informative</i> nightmare. I learned that streets in the Village also moonlight as parking lots. New York likes to multitask.<br /><br />And the SIDEWALKS!! As if they’re not already difficult enough to navigate with all the stupid tourists, they become borderline <i>impenetrable</i>. These kids travel in posses so big it’s like walking behind a herd of elephants.<br /><br /><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiLHiYX7CGkWLehyphenhyphenPVp6vVBiuj_jsHc7lVnEdmwqVc-6PmMiJHmQ0FqFCPkcJGq-dfj8Iqp52a_i4PGeb1qkObACMQE-BFl1fBTqPhyj2mdwsC4m0kpNMI6J9Y8j-IGaTAlJPCJiQ3n66Q/s200/nyu.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376507491399665586" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 150px;" />And, <i>un</i>luckily for me, they’re just as loud.<br /><br />Not to be too much of a square or anything, but seriously. It’s just <i>not cool</i> to be rudely awakened in the middle of a Sunday night. Especially when your name is Katie Parry and you’ve been - unsuccessfully -<i>willing</i> your body to sleep for hours.<br /><br />No <i>thank</i> you, shitload of screeching girls.<br /><br />Nor do I appreciate the inundation of my neighborhood go-to’s. No, I don’t want to wait an hour for a mani-pedi. Um, I am actually <i>legal</i> and <i>don’t</i> want to hang with underagers at Off the Wagon (they just make me feel old). Joe’s pizza has a long enough line <i>without</i> you little shits.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqKb4Oo-qcNZZ0JfiL5jU6jsgHm9YWmrOrplQ1XQpYgUC070gyQy2kzHCAK5357S_ZIbLmjcLIKJdQxmjCjZyRMqaZdCdeTnT4Hkcwgt1qu-5YRZ1Yus3FADfkrs5ks5Wq1ZAZlTHutKA/s1600-h/off+the+wagon.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgqKb4Oo-qcNZZ0JfiL5jU6jsgHm9YWmrOrplQ1XQpYgUC070gyQy2kzHCAK5357S_ZIbLmjcLIKJdQxmjCjZyRMqaZdCdeTnT4Hkcwgt1qu-5YRZ1Yus3FADfkrs5ks5Wq1ZAZlTHutKA/s200/off+the+wagon.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376509190722337954" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 143px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a>When it comes down to it, though, I’m not sure it’s my close proximity to Teens Gone Wild, New York City redux. Or the fact that they take up so much <i>space</i>. Or that they insist on being loud little <i>assholes</i> when I’m trying to get my beauty sleep. Or that they make parking lots of my streets. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">No. I think what irks me most is the <i>jealousy</i>. They are just beginning an adventure that’s no <i>doubt</i> gonna be on their short list of Life’s Best Experiences.<br /><br />They’re making new friends and having all sorts of ridiculous, life-changing escapades as I write this (rewatching <i>Mad Men</i> was the highlight of my evening). Perhaps they just puffed their first joint, chugged their first warm Natty, or had their first co-ed sleepover.<br /><br /><i>No parents, no rules!</i><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5UZNhvFWYcwbGlPHZyUxR2I-Inj3kZOJXS0PKprOIlYnVN_o72TGgx5dRnrlzFMi0KYetqA6usngTL0Y_zG7OK28vgNGi6wILvpqGB7OPRT4YKej5KafVzTJNMj8YqNFP244TXaOXF-g/s1600-h/natural_light.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg5UZNhvFWYcwbGlPHZyUxR2I-Inj3kZOJXS0PKprOIlYnVN_o72TGgx5dRnrlzFMi0KYetqA6usngTL0Y_zG7OK28vgNGi6wILvpqGB7OPRT4YKej5KafVzTJNMj8YqNFP244TXaOXF-g/s200/natural_light.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376509481815019026" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 139px;" /></a>They’re all so very young and have so very much to look forward to and I just want to tell them, all of them, even the skanks I just saw going out wearing matching sequined dresses and five-inch heels, to keep their eyes wide open the whole time and not blink because it really will be over before you know it and there’s nothing you can do to get it back. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">Today is September 1st. New Year’s Day on Kathy Cobb’s ideal calendar. I have had two <i>days</i> with these kids and they’re <i>already </i>pissing me off a whole <i>hell</i> of a lot with their über short skirts and their stupid lanyards with their IDs around their necks and their pack-like herds and their incessant shouting. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">But again, I guess what it comes down to is that I’m absurdly jealous of this adventure they’re embarking on. And I’m utterly <i>stupefied</i> that my time as a frosh at Muhlenberg College already came and went and that _____ (a lot) of years ago. </span><br />
<br />
<img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9Ex9VdNf8BpmdHWxZ4rzreD1vxgUeVR7vl_2pr9tJefAEVRIwWMsdUW5aTnviCkMP2Ys6sZdi_8U1N-1hP7t9U582KTziMtFYKd-7YjuMqEtvr3eRN0cpNbGB9PKvwfEwW2fDJi_qbI0/s320/haas.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376528409022534706" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 214px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /><span style="color: black;">Sure, they’re assholes. But I guess they’re allowed to be. They have just started their freshmen year of college, after all. I guess I just wish for the sake of my melatonin-deficient brain that NYU’s campus was in one of the other four burroughs. </span>Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-91225619394530066382013-08-26T08:18:00.000-04:002015-04-21T10:28:53.583-04:00The (Wasp) Sting<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_HFadlfF2B96hra-gib0zhgfIFB18xfjIlfjI-8Y31ki449Dlsc5eC0yE8t887UVZkaCa8B2irt-a52Jp9ouWdvec09P3L1b8frbsgss0o-mydZJAYtOx-Bvo6355H89TJWx3F_TZ49A/s1600-h/danny.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg_HFadlfF2B96hra-gib0zhgfIFB18xfjIlfjI-8Y31ki449Dlsc5eC0yE8t887UVZkaCa8B2irt-a52Jp9ouWdvec09P3L1b8frbsgss0o-mydZJAYtOx-Bvo6355H89TJWx3F_TZ49A/s200/danny.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376129442742835170" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 132px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 165px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Thanks to the graciously obliging Schopp family, Ri and I squeezed one last Cape weekend into this crazy-busy summer. A final hurrah. <i>Sayanorah summatime</i>. </span><br /></span><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="color: black;">(By now you should all know that I’m a self-proclaimed autumn abhorrer...however, I <i>am </i>trying. There are, after all, Mellowcreme pumpkins and hot cider to look forward to.)<br /></span><span style="color: black;">But that damn Danny boy ruined it for us. He poured all <i>over</i> our vacation parade.<br /></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">I hate you Danny.<br /></span><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9pOfRzIDhv29PubOoXPk9wr-AyehKZt_vPLCBylWLd2zjRWyXDPHD0pR4uF6vFy8RIuxrpQb3ZxE9HFoQlHPwXpumYq2DG31065nI1YYCSqxkRhVjK6d2hDoLzZQaGthzk61DmOBtz8M/s1600-h/wellfleet-beachcomber.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh9pOfRzIDhv29PubOoXPk9wr-AyehKZt_vPLCBylWLd2zjRWyXDPHD0pR4uF6vFy8RIuxrpQb3ZxE9HFoQlHPwXpumYq2DG31065nI1YYCSqxkRhVjK6d2hDoLzZQaGthzk61DmOBtz8M/s200/wellfleet-beachcomber.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376130032589600402" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>Alas, we <i>did</i> get in about three hours of beach time. I </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">devoured</span><span style="color: black;"> an amazing book, </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;"><a href="http://www.amazon.com/This-Where-I-Leave-You/dp/052595127X">This Is Where I Leave You</a></span><span style="color: black;">, by Jonathan Tropper. My team kicked </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">butt</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"> at Pictionary (though the losers are loath to admit it). We alternately danced and froze our asses off at The Beachcomber.<br /></span><span style="color: black;">And, to sweeten up our rain-induced bitterness, Colleen whipped up a <i>homemade</i> carrot cake. In between her double shift. After doing laundry. And grocery shopping. And making her infamous buffalo chicken dip. You go girl!</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaJmSuzibkiA-i4uzy2IgOjFYImFxjutAtph_dM97rxJvi898Iz8qo82idIg5rITHc_hRq3IKtzYU1RT1F-gTbFQs1PcGNyoFlyVzOpbltRtcF1sUY1LYLzp2R-FVvjO16At3zuKmY1b4/s1600-h/carrot.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjaJmSuzibkiA-i4uzy2IgOjFYImFxjutAtph_dM97rxJvi898Iz8qo82idIg5rITHc_hRq3IKtzYU1RT1F-gTbFQs1PcGNyoFlyVzOpbltRtcF1sUY1LYLzp2R-FVvjO16At3zuKmY1b4/s200/carrot.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376130281642838818" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></span></a>(Yes, we <i>ate</i> our rainy day feelings.)</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />All in all, ‘twas a lovely, albeit <i>wet</i>, weekend.<br /></span><span style="color: black;">Until I was ruthlessly attacked by a vengeful, venomous, </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">vehement</span><span style="color: black;"> yellowjacket. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">The scene: Ri and I putting recyclables (aka bags and bags and bags of beer bottles) into the cans out back - innocent partiers helping to clean up. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">But to those <i>nasty ass</i> wasps, we were alien invaders entering their comfortable garbage-can home. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Suddenly there was a </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">searing</span><span style="color: black;"> pain in my shoulder. I looked down and started shrieking and dancing around. Then I was <i>screaming</i> and frantically blowing and swatting at my arm. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj0dxlErqwXJxy_-Clhr5LBi3rhQUTUwxKU7JkXRL2K3wWoVUcPcMy4rQgpOm0ZASJorOPjwiWMNZnqZGsrD2iYHSg4Ed98oXqGesYBrAuGpCXYVs3hxSAJTdOJPVNjdLqZIjV5Mfv3f34/s320/yellow-jacket1.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376130519538632402" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 191px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Somehow, some <i>way</i>, a sneaky little yellowjacket had taken it upon himself to sting the </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">shit</span><span style="color: black;"> out of my shirted shoulder. Didn’t think it was possible to sting through a thick cotton shirt? Neither did I. But believe me, it is. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2fEtrgkwJsy6_StPeT8neQAsrhQ0iHDp-a1ZKMVmnu02oMbQ2LnzLVNnaa4oxkmebufOatPWl-9dGbqnYD28E4__MeiK8keasSdf8jrHVkqTZ2z1pthBjCKkhfgV6EKuGVEhw4qMExII/s1600-h/bee.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2fEtrgkwJsy6_StPeT8neQAsrhQ0iHDp-a1ZKMVmnu02oMbQ2LnzLVNnaa4oxkmebufOatPWl-9dGbqnYD28E4__MeiK8keasSdf8jrHVkqTZ2z1pthBjCKkhfgV6EKuGVEhw4qMExII/s200/bee.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376130966205077362" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 182px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;">Oh </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">man</span><span style="color: black;">, it is. </span><span style="color: black;"></span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Ass aimed at my red shirt like a bull’s horns at a matador, that sucker really gave it to me. His little body was bent in <i>half </i>with a resolute effort to heave his stinger into to my shoulder. That's how <i>hard</i> he was trying.</span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><br /><span style="color: black;">If I didn’t hate the <i>shit</i> out of that yellowjacket, I’d have given him props for protecting his brood and his food with such <i>tenacity</i>. Cause <b>HE</b> <b>DID NOT LET GO</b>. And I did not stop hopping and screaming until Ri (brave friend-o-mine) flicked the bastard away. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidi6hF6hrEA2OOEqQcJ0NiKiUqheqAa-oRuZAoGwgqVbjE-7csvHMQBllaZPMtPoHZNOyh0dSKW-zoNPk1AasSutMZRGCWWjLydSNRAGw_9ZvwbnYaRVsQ6pByygKkHoEqWkmIL83ziUY/s1600-h/beesting.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidi6hF6hrEA2OOEqQcJ0NiKiUqheqAa-oRuZAoGwgqVbjE-7csvHMQBllaZPMtPoHZNOyh0dSKW-zoNPk1AasSutMZRGCWWjLydSNRAGw_9ZvwbnYaRVsQ6pByygKkHoEqWkmIL83ziUY/s200/beesting.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376131330279385458" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 130px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;">I cannot rightly remember the last time I was stung by a wasp. Sure, there’s always the handful of baby yellowjacket stings around my parents pool. But those infants are dumb and bumbling and use their half-ass stingers half-assedly. Their stings hurt, sure, but it’s more like a horse-fly hurt.</span></span><span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Big bad </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">adult</span><span style="color: black;"> yellowjacket stings hurt like </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">whoa</span><span style="color: black;">. Like unbelievable, </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">infinitesimal</span><span style="color: black;"> whoa. Like nothing’s hurt me </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">that bad</span><span style="color: black;"> in a long, looooong time. I’d rather get my blood taken every day for a week or have five flu shots than get stung by one of those mother suckers.</span> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSanAdYbODxntbHNIiFNDOl_-LlEE91KyThNuncJ9eUVG2vZsatEzz0Y9B0xTCtvy-fahpmoSNJZb9kP9rbF7grPYDCaPvr60hlAfeA7lHNuD1rXLiMUYuGq7jFt2aEkKfefmuVS1JRiY/s1600-h/kid_crying.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSanAdYbODxntbHNIiFNDOl_-LlEE91KyThNuncJ9eUVG2vZsatEzz0Y9B0xTCtvy-fahpmoSNJZb9kP9rbF7grPYDCaPvr60hlAfeA7lHNuD1rXLiMUYuGq7jFt2aEkKfefmuVS1JRiY/s200/kid_crying.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376131684664038002" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;">Twelve hours later, it was still bothering me. The worst part was the combination of horrific feelings. Painfully hot and sore. Itchy and uncomfortable. Throbbing and red. Even my goddamn </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">shoulder</span><span style="color: black;"> <i>muscle</i> was killing me. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Twenty-four hours. Still hurting.<br /></span><span style="color: black;">I guess I really can’t talk shit about those eleven-year-olds who cry like babies when they’re stung cause boy oh boy I really felt like I was </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">thisclose</span><span style="color: black;"> to crying and fifteen years wasn’t much of an excuse at all. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Worst part? That little dastardly yellowjacket, unlike its cousin the bee, will live to sting another day.</span></span><span style="color: black;"></span>Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-2325444617551988152013-08-12T08:17:00.000-04:002015-04-21T10:23:43.243-04:00SAND, man!<div>
<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-1eeIeqe_lM41eVpQ9o_AFW9lQ5UJpdwQ9Qoc4XBXiB_fnt2HFajCkVdBpwMA_jQTka3whqimXiikW-FNobWsO3DXAWreP3L1v6c-J4ZU332ArFJ0vwwXWp4zqhSWHn30EAXjReKOjXKQ/s1600-h/beach+1.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi-1eeIeqe_lM41eVpQ9o_AFW9lQ5UJpdwQ9Qoc4XBXiB_fnt2HFajCkVdBpwMA_jQTka3whqimXiikW-FNobWsO3DXAWreP3L1v6c-J4ZU332ArFJ0vwwXWp4zqhSWHn30EAXjReKOjXKQ/s200/beach+1.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371665044483955938" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 133px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;">Do you ever wish you could go back and change the past? Tell your girlfriend that she looked beautiful, not bountiful? Enthusiastically ensure your boss his idea was cataclysmic, not catatonic? Rhapsodize, not repulsorize, your friend’s wedding dress? (Fine, that last one was stretching it.)<br /><br />Well my friends, we’re only human. We’re not perfect. We <i>all</i> wish we could take back events from our past. Redo them. I know I had many moments just this <i>summer</i> I would like a do-over for.<br /><br />Indeedy, just like that bone-chilling, boom-boom-cracking last night (was that unbe<span style="font-style: italic;">lievable</span> or what?), specific momentitos are crashing and flashing before my eyes.<br /><br />(You are going to judge the shit out of me in exactly five seconds...yep, I counted how long it takes to read the next sentence.)</span></div>
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwvn1VdLVfwOjXx_B7FqOTZJwiN_b0HqeYCQKopX__90h1fpB_m3sO4dmR-fwzWGaYqxv8LFOxI4-gvGm5Pe_XwK6ELtkaspbhXGt0n1jnVIJdHeNhX9HAQrfqM30avL_nvKoGu13R-GzA/s320/beach+2.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371665337669655906" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" />Yes, yes my dearest comrades. There were dozens upon dozens of times this summer that...that...that...<span style="font-style: italic;">I wished there was such a thing as a sandless beach</span>. And, sad face, those are expired experiences that I cannot redo nor relive. Sigh.<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT5BAIjwPuTYAhEs5OZo9lj5K7vFwXkHiSv-faMz-Qa3hLdFCDez3X0sxuNvN-4B9ru_Bry4V04pMb2F-mMdq1lpPX8krdg_g8zEixf62r9Syo59oXerVZtS_78h9AUXcQdnRMehhy916g/s1600-h/beach+4.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT5BAIjwPuTYAhEs5OZo9lj5K7vFwXkHiSv-faMz-Qa3hLdFCDez3X0sxuNvN-4B9ru_Bry4V04pMb2F-mMdq1lpPX8krdg_g8zEixf62r9Syo59oXerVZtS_78h9AUXcQdnRMehhy916g/s200/beach+4.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371666013164477298" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 150px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;">If given the chance, though, I promise I’d be better about bitching. I <span style="font-style: italic;">promise</span> I’d be perfectly perfect and not whine or complain or go bonkers one <span style="font-style: italic;">bit</span>. If only I could have a do-over, if only I could go back to Nauset Light or Craigville or Misquamicut or Longport or Sullivan’s Island, I promise, Girl Scout’s <span style="font-style: italic;">Honor</span>, cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die-<span style="font-style: italic;">pinky</span>-swear that I wouldn’t utter a peep about the sand all over my bags n’ bod. </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">I can’t tell you many seconds, minutes, wasted breaths, senseless air time with an imaginary mike in my hands I’ve spent grumbling, bellyaching, and cursing about how stupid sand gets <i>everywhere</i>. This summer especially! (Maybe that’s just because I’ve beached up up a whole lot more than I have in a long, long time. I know – I’m a brat.)<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIR3D2mz4-nVDg7NaWiJ1E4NNl__SIQI353IWXIb1MKj-0gfKSnjWH5aU3mXaLosrRKhZMRkDn8t8CaudiVrL2WAdaD2m42b9GwchfM-ZirK_Tp3GCnqFsfcYhH6p5zMk72KPPzbgATg3s/s1600-h/beach+3.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiIR3D2mz4-nVDg7NaWiJ1E4NNl__SIQI353IWXIb1MKj-0gfKSnjWH5aU3mXaLosrRKhZMRkDn8t8CaudiVrL2WAdaD2m42b9GwchfM-ZirK_Tp3GCnqFsfcYhH6p5zMk72KPPzbgATg3s/s320/beach+3.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371666139590455250" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 289px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;">Seriously though. Sand is like <i>air</i> the way it encompasses you, coats you, cloaks you in a fine mist; how those finely granulated rock and mineral particles infiltrate your bags, your hair, your bathing suit; how, like birdseed on honey, those teeny tiny grits glue themselves to your wet, sunscreened, oiled up skin.<br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">And don’t let go. </span><br /><br />But I must say that perhaps my hatred is only on the surface – albeit a sand-encrusted-skin surface.<br /><br />You see, last week when I was on my nightmare train trek back to the city, I opened my book and out fell – can you guess? – particles of Cape Cod beachness. And I smiled.<br /><br />If sand granules could make me smile in the midst of a miserable Metro North experience, I guess life really <span style="font-style: italic;">is</span> a beach.</span> </div>
Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-17302474236026495632013-08-05T08:32:00.000-04:002015-04-21T10:16:13.589-04:00Stinky Sidewalk Soup<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqagefUIQi25QEF0ZkxvcJjdjtn4jdIe46w1OYfzd7K8_OiuRhdLjvxoZVxMyuEwzXLXq_ZTqv4CDYWFa7XZ9EFT93xh-bUF9SEd8kIz9Nof81dMb4rbGgBaEks7U-_EIZIomX8_qO4AeT/s1600-h/1.bmp"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhqagefUIQi25QEF0ZkxvcJjdjtn4jdIe46w1OYfzd7K8_OiuRhdLjvxoZVxMyuEwzXLXq_ZTqv4CDYWFa7XZ9EFT93xh-bUF9SEd8kIz9Nof81dMb4rbGgBaEks7U-_EIZIomX8_qO4AeT/s200/1.bmp" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360931134844801170" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">Hallelujah. Amen. Color me happy. Omfgees. <i>Shit yo!</i> It’s actually been <i>NICE</i> for more than two days together!!<br /><br />Is that you, summer?<br /><br />Yes. Yes I do believe it is.<br /><br />I’m just gonna go out on a limb here and say we’ve all been wishing and hoping and thinking and praying for beautiful, warm weather. And yet...and yet.<br /><br />Ignorance is bliss. Fo sho. That is to say, we were all ignorant of the stench that descends upon this lovely little city of ours when it’s hot. And that was certainly blissful.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCD-QNUlVUT51ZhSzU_Djd2Jr50qbA280aPDTOq248XuDbm29NqQS8nQOgGJbKyKMGu3hT7_p9mcxXgskJx9nZ1YmAym692g2AyQjU0haA4EzwBLInnmrTMDUU0MetXNKnPVp9uGHWIMY/s1600-h/2.bmp"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhOCD-QNUlVUT51ZhSzU_Djd2Jr50qbA280aPDTOq248XuDbm29NqQS8nQOgGJbKyKMGu3hT7_p9mcxXgskJx9nZ1YmAym692g2AyQjU0haA4EzwBLInnmrTMDUU0MetXNKnPVp9uGHWIMY/s200/2.bmp" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360931259925351410" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 133px;" /></a>But apparently we cannot have our cake and eat it too. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">No, no. <i>Apparently</i> we have to make do with the stinky street soup that inundates our nostrils when heat and humidity settle upon us.<br /><br />One whiff of that virulent pottage and I want to faint. Or maybe I just want to faint because I’m asphyxiating myself with breath-holding.<br /><br />Ugh.<br /><br />Let’s take a look at what this street n’ sidewalk stew consists of, shall we? What makes up the bouquet, if you will.<br /><br />The top note is comprised of a plethora of cheap beers. Namely Bud, Bud Light, and Miller Light. These somehow end up coating (layer upon layer) the sidewalk. So much so that if I was blindfolded, I'd think I was at a college frat party.<br /><br />Then of course there’s the rancid reek of urine - human and canine, obvi. There’s no excuse for those crazies pissing in phone booths! Dogs, fine. It’s not their fault their selfish owners force them into apartments the size of closets.<br /><br />And then there's the occasional poop...adds some color and some texture to the soup.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYthSpRU9xQXT5gAH-DmVzFuX3QKXkxVhORIet2KVKIlkpOlQeDNjMgETF3QycdsvkSFR431CRvU-ebNacJWlNouAVPj4_wnJ4N5tOBSJwtZI4iVeCM9imUWVaI0DSLuogfYGL-g2frCWO/s1600-h/3.bmp"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgYthSpRU9xQXT5gAH-DmVzFuX3QKXkxVhORIet2KVKIlkpOlQeDNjMgETF3QycdsvkSFR431CRvU-ebNacJWlNouAVPj4_wnJ4N5tOBSJwtZI4iVeCM9imUWVaI0DSLuogfYGL-g2frCWO/s200/3.bmp" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360931368503731922" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 124px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a>Let’s not forget our proteins now, shall we? There’s plenty of dead rats and mice and pigeons and birds and bugs to go around for everyone.<br /><br />Pepper in some cigarette butts and ashes, a few gnawed off pizza crusts, a McD's cup or two, and couple of loogies for flavor and you got yourself some nice ingredients for the stew!<br /><br />But really, that's all just the beginning. As if all this littering and dumping wasn’t bad enough, store owners decide to up and <i>wash the sidewalk</i>.<br /><br />The crème de la crème, the crowning glory, the goddamn consommé that pulls this foul concoction together is the <i>soap</i> and the <i>water</i>.<br /><br />Why do store front owners insist on scrubbing the sidewalk? It’s a <i>sidewalk</i>. It’s concrete. It’s not a floor in a house. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcXVwLLHvJM0sqI_W3CvnC-OGUOmydvhaA6U5XOF3lN9wbjRxqrEku0ZLdNi-4tVctrvB32wyVT1emxLjuRDPPYb2Y5PIyTrwjOSNMd3NQF_CXiYGdNjVS1gqPoLnI_4H-hrgu1MONpHQE/s320/4.bmp" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5360931492606913922" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 213px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /><br />So gross! It sends ripples of disgust through my entire body when I see someone with a hose.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Generally it’s first thing in the morning. When I’m actually clean and fresh looking, ready for work. But, oh, wait - let me just walk through a few toxic eddies and some rank, rancid puddles.<br /><br />I <i>hate hate hate</i> that my toes get wet and I, inevitably, splash the mixture up the backs of my legs.<br /><br />Please store owners, PLEASE: Stop the scrubbing, Put an end to the stinky sidewalk soup. Because I certainly am NOT ready for this gorgeous weather to end!</span>Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-14938921771730188322013-08-03T08:13:00.000-04:002015-04-21T10:22:56.818-04:00Not-So-Smooth Move<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE89dqBoP405QmR8mgrz8ILgolIBprjrkzv45RqiNvyZFwk1hGRnGl1k1TFRE6DjOn-DUPx-vNA6j0m6LLngKoPMQnIhxUS7B_-zfedrlaugWpWfBvHXLBBdDjd7oo-cvTMItyYjDBYfq_/s1600-h/uhaul.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhE89dqBoP405QmR8mgrz8ILgolIBprjrkzv45RqiNvyZFwk1hGRnGl1k1TFRE6DjOn-DUPx-vNA6j0m6LLngKoPMQnIhxUS7B_-zfedrlaugWpWfBvHXLBBdDjd7oo-cvTMItyYjDBYfq_/s200/uhaul.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371115398830185938" style="cursor: pointer; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; width: 200px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">For a very long time, I thought there was nothing worse in the entire world than <i>moving</i>.</span> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">My first experience with this phenomenon, this exchanging of a </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">home</span><span style="color: black;"> for a </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">house</span><span style="color: black;">, happened the summer before 7th grade. My parents sold the farm I grew up on and bought a house a couple of miles away.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Though we were simply moving from Sharon Valley to Sharon Mountain, I felt like the balloon that was my life had burst brutally open. My barn, my swamp, my hundreds of acres of wide open playground were downsized, overnight, to an odd five.</span><br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibWouOx2v3YPOIY12tJJDlJjI7NNa4NgiKJnzsX81evT-1UtvtQryzS6gdM0fk09ORdv4pf1ozDMVKXPGGm-RPhIeMlHz8ITOo9yLd7u-YfO4VmMBpoG_kOhLCvuwijEHp4n7mOFV74sh6/s1600-h/hills.jpg" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibWouOx2v3YPOIY12tJJDlJjI7NNa4NgiKJnzsX81evT-1UtvtQryzS6gdM0fk09ORdv4pf1ozDMVKXPGGm-RPhIeMlHz8ITOo9yLd7u-YfO4VmMBpoG_kOhLCvuwijEHp4n7mOFV74sh6/s200/hills.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371116896993107682" style="cursor: pointer; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0pt 0pt 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">I was a mess. An absolute </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">mess</span><span style="color: black;">. I wrote my parents threatening letters: </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">How dare you take me from the only house I’ve ever known! The house that I grew up in, was taken home from the hospital to! I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!<br /></span><span style="color: black;">I nicknamed it </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">The Goodly House</span><span style="color: black;"> and glared at anyone who dared refer to it as </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">The Old House</span><span style="color: black;">.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">It took me a few years to get over the move. Talking about </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">The Goodly House</span><span style="color: black;"> was a very, </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">very</span><span style="color: black;"> sensitive subject. I couldn’t even drive past it without a sinking, sentimental feeling of homesickness yanking at my heartstrings.</span> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">But, sure enough, life goes on. I survived that earth-shattering experience, and have inhabited numerous abodes since. I’m on my 6th (excluding dormitories), so I’ve obviously experienced </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">many</span><span style="color: black;"> a move-in day. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Some moves were fairly easy...others were quite frightening. Nuclear bomb scary. Great White attack scary. </span></span><a href="http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kuDDhj1Eky8" style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Baby panda sneezing scary</span></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"> (you’re welcome).</span> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgz8o73VDNGGDfoOWzCk81bTOdJJ8LLQSLVKV28R9ArWt1ocvlL8n3G4Nlu8PagUlF9JwWIRprFRSjOTSzRKPbt-JrMy-iZ1og5glHvAq984Nxpj642knwCik84cIopmQyjkjXz4fLBzwyM/s320/ri.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371289724259192642" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" />(Let me just take a moment to say that I think the </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><i style="color: black; font-style: italic;">crème de la crème</i><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;"> </span><span style="color: black;">of horrendific big-schlep nightmares was my move last year from one West Village apartment to another. And I think I can safely say all eight of us who participated in that catastrophic-doomsday-tornado agree.)</span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF0XOs_epdvbCqrnMaYgeIKvniwEuMQo13EfnEgOUF6afUQC4oGXOdRiTmNg4aTS3UyBhNe8cKFFwGBpYF_dglb4VlFIp62-a_mtObsogpaiEifCKjFUtIjL4OLcDiaXyVEAOvdi9A3MSY/s1600-h/move+1.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjF0XOs_epdvbCqrnMaYgeIKvniwEuMQo13EfnEgOUF6afUQC4oGXOdRiTmNg4aTS3UyBhNe8cKFFwGBpYF_dglb4VlFIp62-a_mtObsogpaiEifCKjFUtIjL4OLcDiaXyVEAOvdi9A3MSY/s200/move+1.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371289985078673714" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;">Anyway, so my buddies </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Ri and Michelle found themselves a mansion of a place on 11th Street. </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">Amazing</span><span style="color: black;">, yes. Bravo lassies! But heavy lifting + four flights of never-ending stairs + 95 degrees = holy </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">shit</span><span style="color: black;">. Major no dankies! </span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">My memory-failure-of-a-mind had forgotten what moving is really </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">like</span><span style="color: black;">.</span> <i>Not</i> so luckily, though, I was <i>instantly</i> reacquainted with my dormant disdain for the act of relocating. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><br /><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Remembering back to that 7th grade move, I was stricken with envy for my eleven-year-old self. <i>She</i> had nothing to contend with but nostalgia and hurt feelings. <i>Emotional</i> burdens have got <b>nothing</b> on <i>physical</i> ones when it comes to changing one’s address. I can’t believe I was so upset by the <i>idea</i> of moving. If only my twenty-six-year-old self could have told that little girl to dry her eyes, to quit being a baby...that there are far, <i>far</i> worse things when it comes to Moving Day...like, say, the <i><b>actual move</b></i>.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">The packing, the <i>PACKING</i>! I, apparently, am no good at that game. I <i>never</i> have <i>anything</i> packed and ready to go. But that But Michelle Carberry was an absolute pro. I mean, she should quit teaching and start her own TV show on how to pack up a house (yes that's her old room...crazy, right?)</span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhntQ-ul7uyEjINdU7PzWC_EuLsmXZxsTjPiRFtHh1zOesGwHJXZTJilN3XXq921n8AvTy5waK2UGoXC8bme1byXzEjZoQco8S4Qh0lmsM907JMYMBqbaoQx4Ey9BvZLxHHhRhROxU5AyUN/s320/mich.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371290301869407634" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" />You would think, because these lady-friends-o-mine were </span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">sooooo</span><span style="color: black;"> organized, that the loading of the truck, the unloading, and the carrying of boxes up those incessant stairs, would happen somewhat quickly. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">But no. We friends, and hired movers included, were all sloths made lethargic by heat and humidity.</span> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibEiz7zcNhlED7vcY0z4aV-YbhbVX4abwfNp7G9N04OMN53t4H2DiW1ZM3jUnUOJ45ilqLcyy5Ovf7uSULKDnZ-6IBMHXtEvjou5Odb2PE3VQFzHPYfBujcT5kocVmLOcI-OksJfx1lqx6/s1600-h/move+2.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEibEiz7zcNhlED7vcY0z4aV-YbhbVX4abwfNp7G9N04OMN53t4H2DiW1ZM3jUnUOJ45ilqLcyy5Ovf7uSULKDnZ-6IBMHXtEvjou5Odb2PE3VQFzHPYfBujcT5kocVmLOcI-OksJfx1lqx6/s200/move+2.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371290579940269970" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></span></a>The heat, the <b>heat</b>! <span style="color: black;">Those weather wardens were <i>quite</i> unkind. It was hot. Scorching. Sweltering. Boiling. Blistering. We’re talking a Mastiff-day-of-summer hot. <i>Hot, hot, hot</i>. It was one for the record books.</span></span><span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">You could have filled a kiddie pool with our combined sweat. We were snatching up Gatorade’s like dolla bills on a New York City sidewalk. </span></span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">The stairs, the STAIRS! <i>Trip after trip after trip</i> up unrelenting steps.</span></span><span style="color: black;"> </span><br />
<br />
<span style="color: black;">I think I can safely say that it's a truth universally acknowledged: moving <i>suuuuuuuuuucks</i>.<br /><br />But at least I can count my lucky stars that, this time, I didn't have to unpack and set up shop.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">G'luck girls!</span>Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-52260372302391659632013-07-15T08:03:00.000-04:002015-04-21T10:22:00.383-04:00Glamping Ain't Always Glamorous<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA4oJEQgRt_p0mhRaEc92hS9nN-Of08qwvks6is5zJSJ63kYJFI9hf3g_enxRvkp6SSJjkV9q1bL6347kPPtlRhNRePjOgYarP3jmDGLe1Gr9ItpJamDG2nPUYu-_fWkaS1KBiMkYfIK5-/s1600-h/camp+1.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiA4oJEQgRt_p0mhRaEc92hS9nN-Of08qwvks6is5zJSJ63kYJFI9hf3g_enxRvkp6SSJjkV9q1bL6347kPPtlRhNRePjOgYarP3jmDGLe1Gr9ItpJamDG2nPUYu-_fWkaS1KBiMkYfIK5-/s200/camp+1.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370924358160840722" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">For those of you who have never heard the term “glamping” – I say to you: Where have you BEEN? And to those who have never experienced what it is to <i>glamp</i>, I say: Dude...that sucks.<br /><br />We are NOT talking pitched tents and fire roasted weenies here. No, no. We’re talking about <i>glamorous camping</i>. It does sound like quite an oxymoron, but seriously. Why pitch a tent when there’s a memory foam mattress at your beck and call?<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8smtWzLU2dZawyXig_Z1Noz3m7QsAsAFHo2q9F7IyPOI-FbCu3tN1Y6mG5JB8ccy_qCUju89vnzEGA4IQBSJolYG4vbdC3PM6fJ9xts1r1-PpYC6RhOdlIiQ6MQe140uWnTD4R9xI21Nj/s1600-h/camp+2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi8smtWzLU2dZawyXig_Z1Noz3m7QsAsAFHo2q9F7IyPOI-FbCu3tN1Y6mG5JB8ccy_qCUju89vnzEGA4IQBSJolYG4vbdC3PM6fJ9xts1r1-PpYC6RhOdlIiQ6MQe140uWnTD4R9xI21Nj/s200/camp+2.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370924660476279266" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>Yes sirree, I’m talking about a bona-fide, state of the line Dynamax motorhome – outfitted with a dedicated bedroom, two flatscreens, Bose surround sound, and a pull out couch. And of course the amenities <i>de rigueur</i>: bathroom, shower, fridge, stove, microwave, etc.<br /><br />Oh yes. I was l-i-v-i-n it up <i>fo sho</i>. But, per usual, that shoulda been my sign that something bad was going to happen.<br /><br />Indeed. There was to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad bug attack.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEi2lck_5IwMUcXFPl56XxMYMWF28vc7HASDXUAVxsAxeFv-KWiy7TS-E4sECNzrJhZ5En8HxDBxrttN6CwoQaSEVbsJGM9-jQO_JQ3zDJm1wh0yHrvR-MD7wlERKLo9KS4fuuAdhN8vRHYq/s1600-h/mosq.jpg"></a>Perhaps it was my inner city-dweller side rearing it’s fancy schmance face. Or maybe it was simply because I detest the residue it leaves. Or the fact that I always end up getting it in my eyes and mouth. Or that I hate the stink of it.<br /><br />Or maybe I was just pretending, like those people who don’t wear sunblock to the beach thinking they won’t get burned (<i>gad</i> those people are <i>so</i> irritating!), that I was invisible to bugs. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhP4W3Moh6HSBWJjRY1u1N7Ld5Bd5oV2QRsXtehG-hqp-qH187mS3uprY8ffjSKwwkb0DQcJRBTR1pbA5aV0h-8pwXQCjt_49AbXLtZQSjmmR6Eh8J6PhCfw0wB8X1Ms53X_YI1Qww_8HP5/s320/mosq.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370925164920420402" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 283px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /> Alas, I am not.<br /><br />And boy oh boy, those mother suckers are <i>annoying</i>!! I can’t believe I’d forgotten what a sweet girl I am! Mosquitoes have always loved my blood. But the skyscraper-lined alleys of Manhattan certainly have got <i>nothing</i> on the shoreline backwoods of Rhode Island.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSkwgmWKgo0CypI96BjmW5H8gg2w1cFguf2IpMmcDNkGICjcEAXPbrnSCQ0uIqU9KBVNPw3PSyDqm4smEBYeNYOxhoIncfiAfiZmdOT2o5loqSfpZv_Gvn9gvjOJ2w6k5NgvFYCxc0fEVO/s1600-h/bill.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSkwgmWKgo0CypI96BjmW5H8gg2w1cFguf2IpMmcDNkGICjcEAXPbrnSCQ0uIqU9KBVNPw3PSyDqm4smEBYeNYOxhoIncfiAfiZmdOT2o5loqSfpZv_Gvn9gvjOJ2w6k5NgvFYCxc0fEVO/s200/bill.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370925444808223714" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 133px;" /></a>Eventually, after about eight or so sucking-of-the-blood encounters, I caved. (And, of <i>course</i>, got bug spray in my mouth. That shit tastes <i>baaaad</i>!)<br /><br />I <b>hate</b> mosquitoes! What horrific little creatures they are! How <i>dare</i> they suck human blood! I mean, if they were vampires I would consider allowing them a taste. Especially if their name was Edward Cullen or Bill Compton.<br /><br />However, those selfish little buggers are good for nothing but swollen-ass bites that itch for days on end! </span><br /><br /><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcCNQbJK9wlR2Rosg1HO5yLx4Urq0GqMndKctTO6XxL_AzkthOPeUYp-Q-ehZZA_CByFkEZgCM1ESOxL9cAWA_PVZM93XoE86fhXI8HW2N2-JWR-jvqdfPI0KIrt0Sw6T5BdY_Z3rM5tjZ/s1600-h/mom.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjcCNQbJK9wlR2Rosg1HO5yLx4Urq0GqMndKctTO6XxL_AzkthOPeUYp-Q-ehZZA_CByFkEZgCM1ESOxL9cAWA_PVZM93XoE86fhXI8HW2N2-JWR-jvqdfPI0KIrt0Sw6T5BdY_Z3rM5tjZ/s200/mom.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370926734072563826" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 150px;" /></a>Not to MENTION the fact that they carry <i>diseases</i>. Anyone for a little West Nile? How about some malaria? Yellow fever? Elephantiasis? No? Didn’t <i>think</i> so. Maybe I shoulda just donned the bee-keeper-esque mask à la Trissi.<br /><br />Other than this not-so-glamorous aspect of glamping (no matter how many stars you wish upon, I think there’ll always be mosquitoes) – oh, and the fact that my parents locked the keys in the RV while the engine was running (thanks AAA!) – I would say it was a pretty amazing time.<br /><br />Especially, <i>espeeeeecially</i> because of the gourmet food we ate. Delicious (delicious, <i>delicious</i> ) clam chowder, homemade on a campsite travel stove before my very eyes, baked clams, a ridiculous Vietnamese chicken dish, an even more absurdly lip-smacking marinated grilled steak, shrimp and bacon quesadillas, shrimp fra diavlo...</span><br /><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhe8so5yMaU02T4ZsTTYsXsjn5mDXAED3r-rhTXRFUbSL_1PyyNxJEGpMcx1bTFw9xfRLkPWXzPus8G5K1nx38xpY-2OQhyphenhyphen7OmvzHREsU-2bLZ8SipxYE9SEps6NDkdqIE2mQfIJtsDyWyL/s320/chris.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370926921334323458" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" /></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">...the menu goes on an on. All thanks to my magnificent Uncle Chris, Chef Extraordinaire (and good sport! We made him model the bug mask and he acquiesced). I seriously did not think it was possible to gain ten pounds in just two days, but guess what? It is.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKPVsJWBRkKzbHF8WHfgM6niYIgp_fL0T3kZd7Pqi97J35BOB7kv9NGDMwqe9uRn_dG7NUJtk1HOjXGwFbPvpnjKKIxxC7SUOJbrc0iNb7cyIuqHsMlYyMrQQuFi7vGqLcctB-7ncjpvBy/s1600-h/off.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKPVsJWBRkKzbHF8WHfgM6niYIgp_fL0T3kZd7Pqi97J35BOB7kv9NGDMwqe9uRn_dG7NUJtk1HOjXGwFbPvpnjKKIxxC7SUOJbrc0iNb7cyIuqHsMlYyMrQQuFi7vGqLcctB-7ncjpvBy/s200/off.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5370927349766978642" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a>Even though my first few bites of food tasted depressingly of DEET, sacrifices gotta be made to save your hide. Mosquito bites are no fun. Especially when they're on your feet and face and arms and legs and – aw hell, anywhere you get em, they suck. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">I suppose, just because you’re <i>glamping</i>, ya can’t skip the spray. Them there skeeters don’t know they’re meant to stay away. They’re vapid, ignorant little creatures who don’t know right from wrong. </span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Till next time, over and OFF!®</span>Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-63534651909679347132013-07-06T08:20:00.000-04:002015-04-21T10:10:42.898-04:00Nail Clipping Nastiness<div>
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<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8siQUKk5p_Jnz9XAZ-b9nY05HvlHCeSudAsd-YTExstkqr2iQrrQCPLS3QN7I4PVI5u381wU_oTJOOcWwEPABokmeN1oUJkOXVC442ETwSs-5GKEsD1VocO7v_OxWWbHTfsf8sMtm3U5T/s1600-h/nails.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg8siQUKk5p_Jnz9XAZ-b9nY05HvlHCeSudAsd-YTExstkqr2iQrrQCPLS3QN7I4PVI5u381wU_oTJOOcWwEPABokmeN1oUJkOXVC442ETwSs-5GKEsD1VocO7v_OxWWbHTfsf8sMtm3U5T/s200/nails.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355343472051998706" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 133px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;">Personal grooming is a precarious pursuit.<br /><br />On one hand, it’s disgusting if you do not comply with the unspoken guidelines outlining personal hygiene.<br /><br />Those acts that must be done on a <i>very</i> regular basis include, but are not limited to: plucking, shaving, brushing (teeth <i>and</i> hair), clipping, cutting, washing, and filing.<br /><br />However – and this is where it gets tricky – the aforementioned acts of grooming are not – I repeat, <b><i>NOT</i></b> – to be executed in public.<br /><br />Alas, for the sake of this entry, I shall focus on the one particular personal act that drives me up the wall when done in public.<br /><br /><i><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrlWTwGqjLoSgukge97KLxCGPZqemqYBDteFBDQ17G8z8eiUDkytmP2JHtGSq973y7adRIV6Boe8r_c4QHAZaPPYD_71v5H4aFWcRtoWoN461G4EFXTH-Tj9ONsvnHZA6-RcyWFQBHvIG5/s1600-h/nail+2.bmp"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgrlWTwGqjLoSgukge97KLxCGPZqemqYBDteFBDQ17G8z8eiUDkytmP2JHtGSq973y7adRIV6Boe8r_c4QHAZaPPYD_71v5H4aFWcRtoWoN461G4EFXTH-Tj9ONsvnHZA6-RcyWFQBHvIG5/s200/nail+2.bmp" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355343951136485762" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>Dat iz de clippingz of ze nailz.</i><br /><br />Mega no dankes!<br /><br />I’m not a particularly skittish person. I watch Nip/Tuck without grimacing. Screeching subway cars, no prob. Bratastic kiddies squealing on the sidewalks piss me off, yeah, but I can handle it.<br /><br />Clip your fingernails in front of me, though, and I’ll rip you a new one.<br /><br />OK well I won’t <i>really</i> – I’m far too passive aggressive for that. But I will be quite cheesed off. And <i>extremely</i> grossed out.<br /><br />Perhaps my disdain for public nail clipping began when I first moved here. My very first New York City boss used to sit at his desk (he was a pretty pig-headed a-hole) and cut his nails.<br /><br />Really buddy? You’re really going to do that AT WORK?<br /><br />I don’t care if you’re the boss of an eight person company or the President of a huge corporation: it’s simply not permissible to do that at your desk (or in public), PERIOD.<br /><br />It’s unsanitary. Fingernails are filthy. It’s unprofessional. “Oh, let me see that report, please...um...is that a fingernail?” It’s the shrillest sound around – the dull snapping of dead keratin. It definitely makes me cringe. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgAuAUXZ739-7jaloJuHSdW0PQfoNQ9HrxlEnfn7KEor7dfyLPuL1DHBMargIiitKHq-BnGfEgOjvjZk0n7lTVUq28Hois0XEmztVNhyeAzGrH5WeSqXtovduzFLw2sX_XcR-3gKoVJoz4o/s320/nail+3.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355345926855273682" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" />Please, yo. Take a hint from everyone else’s favorite lady, Carrie Bradshaw, and clip that shit in your own <i>Secret Single Behavior </i>time! Not on the subway, nor the bus, not the street, or Starbucks, and <i>especially</i> not in your office.</span></div>
Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-23241379625718899502013-06-18T08:04:00.000-04:002015-04-21T10:36:59.338-04:00"Dress Up!" - From Innocent to Indecent<div>
<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimLcose4M86t92yTd_oVFhNkJsI3xR45tWM5ZqtpwzHkU8WESDasrki0Kozp8X42AExxOfZwFdE_zFFaLFrA5pAYzBhEM7f5dRuUE5JdlrEOU9Bnn9SJ0qBm7I0x2tySXHM5V2-NR11VU/s1600-h/dress+up.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEimLcose4M86t92yTd_oVFhNkJsI3xR45tWM5ZqtpwzHkU8WESDasrki0Kozp8X42AExxOfZwFdE_zFFaLFrA5pAYzBhEM7f5dRuUE5JdlrEOU9Bnn9SJ0qBm7I0x2tySXHM5V2-NR11VU/s200/dress+up.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381707696105872146" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 150px;" /></a><span style="color: black;">I never think it’s cute when people teach little girls the “Dress Up!” trick. In fact, I find it quite tasteless. </span><span style="color: black;"> <br /><br />Yes, they’re adorable, what with their rhotacistic little voices - “DWWWESS UP!”</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">child molesters</span> are stalking the playground??)</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">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.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />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. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgd9gztyWygyAury5WTmlLkcJ_-4kIW_EmrCBV1UqzhYckYeUz4Vp3CFx_5ET9tPgtvkNuDS76EZDxlZFzAgLYvqBX5mB2xYIVNb0MEceb0nUUXNdW0C0nfgq8Q_T0_ab5mrmunq4mxkdQ/s320/magnoliabakery.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381708128402918194" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /> (Ugh, and if there’s a numero uno tourist magnet in the West Village, it’s Magnolia Bakery. Thanks <span style="font-style: italic;">Sex and the City</span>!!)<br /></span><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgbgK3kQMGFEAXM-oiVINonmRy8CRDn2mXPHqxM2w-CGCjzegjQUwPC_RHmOE7fHCidKVmyCzgmB7ESGtWqiBWmHm4P0zEHSxVqjVAfgqPGJykizMQV-i3Ka3VOd0cJm-a8uwPCPN-DldQ/s1600-h/new+york.jpg"></a><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIaQddsm2Bq3z54NJYcgU6dktWTuHtfp6zj7tBsBZGGAQmP96X3Sp3hC0Th7v0NQAAlnrUPsXIY8dscDjhq5l9l7yIIMXtOguFP0wBZRPM3KxSx16zj8dLQOMchyAL4p4Dtbu1YepwjRY/s1600-h/new+york.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgIaQddsm2Bq3z54NJYcgU6dktWTuHtfp6zj7tBsBZGGAQmP96X3Sp3hC0Th7v0NQAAlnrUPsXIY8dscDjhq5l9l7yIIMXtOguFP0wBZRPM3KxSx16zj8dLQOMchyAL4p4Dtbu1YepwjRY/s200/new+york.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381734230906091442" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 140px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>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. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Every</span><span style="color: black;">one says N</span><span style="color: black;">ew 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,</span><span style="color: black;"> “Excuse me, miss!” at me, I ignored him. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Why the <span style="font-style: italic;">hell</span> would I pay attention to someone on a catcalling drive-by mission? </span><span style="color: black;">“EXCUSE ME, MISS!” he yelled for a second time, a third time.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEg9QcMi6sh_cUg16ZSMkYPQj7lD_-R7l8me77fdv_9gKOmqAckKiuoHfyMJrBnsapGpT2KKtt0Ij2ArG1VYDvUEKFgZyToDOS0yFukTluXjk41QZXotw3-OLvE3E7r3RV-KgCd78TcqC3w/s200/white+und.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381727467337559746" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" />I turned to face his minivan, scowl on my face. (I do <i>not</i> appreciate the talkers.) “Your dress is tucked up a little in the back.”</span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">I thought I misheard. I took off my sunglasses (because <span style="font-style: italic;">obviously</span> that’s what people <span style="font-style: italic;">do</span> when they can’t <i>hear</i> something). “I’m sorry?”</span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">“Your <span style="font-style: italic;">dress</span> is tucked up in the back.”</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">My heart dropped. Fell, rock-like, down to that dirty, dingy sidewalk. <span style="font-style: italic;">My white-pantied bottom has just been exposed to <span style="font-weight: bold;">the entire </span>West Village</span>. And not one person had told me.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> </span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">If I could have melted, Wicked-Witch-of-the-West-style, into that <a href="http://nodankes.blogspot.com/2009/07/stinky-sidewalk-soup.html">stinky sidewalk soup</a>, I woulda. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicgHBPUnW-gJeaLTv5HS-TscqpkW7sDGaAVrj4Nn8v2atO8o-EP1_dXg0I6OsT8in5CRzaKqeK5bphuBVqY-6-zUTIhK89hV3D9rfu4-miX89RqGk6RxTWPhD8Uf85c1uu3_CL3FITSWM/s1600-h/dress+upp.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEicgHBPUnW-gJeaLTv5HS-TscqpkW7sDGaAVrj4Nn8v2atO8o-EP1_dXg0I6OsT8in5CRzaKqeK5bphuBVqY-6-zUTIhK89hV3D9rfu4-miX89RqGk6RxTWPhD8Uf85c1uu3_CL3FITSWM/s200/dress+upp.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381777850598680978" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 140px;" /></a>It’s really <span style="font-style: italic;">quite</span> unfortunate that there are <span style="font-style: italic;">so</span> many innate dangers with dress-wearing. </span><span style="color: black;">Dresses always make the <i>best</i> outfit. They’re simple, comfortable, flattering. No love handles, no tight-jeans marks when you sit down. One piece. Easy, peasy, Japaneasy.</span><br />
<span style="color: black;"> </span> <br />
<span style="color: black;">Alas, dress-donning deserves some bright yellow caution tape. For <span style="font-style: italic;">reals</span>. 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-<span style="font-style: italic;">flying</span>.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />It’s the labyrinthine streets. It must be. A <i>wind-spiracy</i>. Because seriously, a <i>flying up of the dress</i> happens to me at <b>least</b> 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. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSABfScwIfeUFNu5nWqLsO-JNAYOsGJCLTSXKiRSqtYZF3WCxUcQNzc_cu_9Kd7-qMhevv2SxTqNbSqu6LXBtltPSxt5GKHg5VuiMVE5Q5ie1OuisaHQOy__WTAaeC4bpspl7UlTK2S7I/s1600-h/wind.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSABfScwIfeUFNu5nWqLsO-JNAYOsGJCLTSXKiRSqtYZF3WCxUcQNzc_cu_9Kd7-qMhevv2SxTqNbSqu6LXBtltPSxt5GKHg5VuiMVE5Q5ie1OuisaHQOy__WTAaeC4bpspl7UlTK2S7I/s200/wind.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381728689363107378" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a>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.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />It’s <span style="font-style: italic;">such</span> 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. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="font-style: italic;">Wamp wamp.</span></span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br />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<span style="font-style: italic;"> indecent exposure.</span> </span></div>
Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-79798753849986327302013-06-12T07:18:00.000-04:002015-04-21T10:27:56.507-04:00Ice Ice Baby<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4CnCgpORUJRJFUcd5UFoaUoCDcSYHh2xaWlpsIEhzfoS3jrT-8Vi-Mm_gFetEw3FK-U6EnhmQifs0BT0X2q2hzjmSA0NT1M1pwtB4L758ZergH9kn6Q-xuUEBSJFS9W1Ft6He9EF_P0HB/s1600-h/lemon.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj4CnCgpORUJRJFUcd5UFoaUoCDcSYHh2xaWlpsIEhzfoS3jrT-8Vi-Mm_gFetEw3FK-U6EnhmQifs0BT0X2q2hzjmSA0NT1M1pwtB4L758ZergH9kn6Q-xuUEBSJFS9W1Ft6He9EF_P0HB/s200/lemon.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374624787159172226" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 200px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 122px;" /></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">There’s nothing like frosty glass of ice-cold lemonade.<br /></span><span style="color: black;">At least <i>some</i> people think so.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">I, on the other hand, prefer a sans-condensation, ice-less, </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">cool</span><span style="color: black;"> (preferably pink) glass of the stuff. </span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Actually, with this bipolar summer we’ve had - faux fall temps, goddamn, never-ending </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">rain</span><span style="color: black;"> - I truly wonder if anyone has even been craving an ice-ridden, sugary drink.</span> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT6ZowHPrEWpWvCKeOI697GuSDV_QMQVLIpSH4hHIhj1mq0_VZd93sEQ4n9zs1E3NO9ai3RRaj-k90lm5cLpjT26QVBYWps_EmsAivkHTA1IU0QZbfpp8GzGiHskSTEdrm4JvDrWzNahg/s1600-h/pink.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhT6ZowHPrEWpWvCKeOI697GuSDV_QMQVLIpSH4hHIhj1mq0_VZd93sEQ4n9zs1E3NO9ai3RRaj-k90lm5cLpjT26QVBYWps_EmsAivkHTA1IU0QZbfpp8GzGiHskSTEdrm4JvDrWzNahg/s200/pink.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374625118863148130" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>(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.</span></span><span style="color: black;">)<br /></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">(Pausing.)<br /></span><span style="color: black;">(I’m sorry, I need to take a few deep breaths.)</span> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">OK. </span></span></div>
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<div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">No more talk about summer ending. For the duration of this entry I shall restrict my ruminations to that most loathsome, clunky, clinking invention: <i>the ice cube</i>.</span> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">I don’t suppose I can rightly call ice an </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">invention</span><span style="color: black;">. 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 </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">thing</span><span style="color: black;"> as an ice </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">cube</span><span style="color: black;">.</span> </span></div>
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<div>
<span style="color: black;"></span></div>
<img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhzMW-oHc01uGjhwPeHIoOR18zbMPZzR3p1hTtAn9aM8-K9BZ2JUTSAPVQNnHe1_pm4DjQmg2_UzBZw4NbkurFr8l6nDKcidS15jspIapCd7Rtg99uHpPNPpQdf6JuJcKtHSAbWxLR72Nw/s320/ice_tray.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374625917961785602" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 208px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /><span style="color: black;">Said in an I-hate-Uncle-Jamie voice: <i>“I haaate Lloyd Groff Copeman!”</i></span><br />
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<div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Seriously people, what is the obsession with <i>ice</i>? Some of yous just </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">can’t get enough</span><span style="color: black;">. Good thing it’s free (at most places) cause if they charged you for it, you’d all be </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">broke</span><span style="color: black;">. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUzbzm-Cw1ah-owbbraeyjmnkrBJQMdQxyalMY2GaYVZZy9Z1HExW2xNR4N0-lqYkwlnss3w7y8bWAHUu7PAONX0uEW7HZfWbDvYK1IWuEyIkcXuU6quz0DXqvwBDkDXAognePUlNzVLc/s1600-h/cramped-freezer-746699.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiUzbzm-Cw1ah-owbbraeyjmnkrBJQMdQxyalMY2GaYVZZy9Z1HExW2xNR4N0-lqYkwlnss3w7y8bWAHUu7PAONX0uEW7HZfWbDvYK1IWuEyIkcXuU6quz0DXqvwBDkDXAognePUlNzVLc/s200/cramped-freezer-746699.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374625998257541106" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 133px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a>I can’t think of one good thing to say about ice.<br /></span></span><span style="color: black;">It’s a pain in the ass to make. Especially if you - like me - have to manually fill trays with water. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">The cubes, being in your freezer amongst a plethora of dead animals, invariably end up stinky and stale.</span></span><span style="color: black;"> </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;"><br /><span style="color: black;">Then there’s the noise. The <i>noise</i>, <span style="font-size: 180%;"><span style="font-size: 100%;">noise</span>, <i>noise</i>,</span> <b><span style="font-size: 180%;">NOISE! </span></b>That cracking, that </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">twisting</span><span style="color: black;">, that horrifying <i>screech</i> the cubes make when they’re popped from their tray formation. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Even the constant dumping of the automatic cube-erator is annoying!</span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKrspY1WXeux-fMvSkEHQ6TykbVz4k53PBv4ADhu6Tq6b-jHc6Yr6wgJpYsKBGRvKK3MPqokZv3KyW8ZXlsLNa2GkyI6tjz7la6TGft6pZXbflZz1dqrnTHHql3PPBKAZ7vcNE3Qc7LL4/s1600-h/crushed-ice-shaker_~949085.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgKrspY1WXeux-fMvSkEHQ6TykbVz4k53PBv4ADhu6Tq6b-jHc6Yr6wgJpYsKBGRvKK3MPqokZv3KyW8ZXlsLNa2GkyI6tjz7la6TGft6pZXbflZz1dqrnTHHql3PPBKAZ7vcNE3Qc7LL4/s200/crushed-ice-shaker_~949085.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374626499160664098" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 163px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></a>Not to MENTION the chinking of cubes in shakers and glasses.<br /></span><span style="color: black;">And those painful, crackling, </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">hissing</span><span style="color: black;"> sounds they make when they’re hot! <i>Ugh!</i></span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;"><br /></span>
<div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Ice is made from water (obviously). So why would you want to add <i>additional</i> water to, say, your coffee? All you end up with is </span></span></div>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">extremely watered down coffee</span><span style="color: black;">. What’s the </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">point</span><span style="color: black;">? Who wants to drink watered down <i>anything</i>? </span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Filling glasses or plastic cups up to the brim with ice is simply a money maker for restaurants. Really, it is. More <i>free</i> chunks of frozen water means less of the stuff they actually <i>charge</i> for - fountain soda, alcoholic beverages, lattes, juice. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc_erWHAwgwsDy12jAAbONGM5qSSMdOqqrswQRBJgzHMJCYmLmGG5Hn52oH3mEKB3ryx0XwqLwMEFoTzJg2-6DAaayPFs_yLzal4CHcmJ7hzhuINE_IaKkkPqbWerNa-jxK0D0stP_nHE/s1600-h/iced_coffee_image.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgc_erWHAwgwsDy12jAAbONGM5qSSMdOqqrswQRBJgzHMJCYmLmGG5Hn52oH3mEKB3ryx0XwqLwMEFoTzJg2-6DAaayPFs_yLzal4CHcmJ7hzhuINE_IaKkkPqbWerNa-jxK0D0stP_nHE/s320/iced_coffee_image.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374627008978147890" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 320px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 293px;" /></a>Alas, it’s </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">we the people</span><span style="color: black;"> who have to suffer through the selfishness of these businesses! I can’t </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">tell</span><span style="color: black;"> 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. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">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.</span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">For reals, though. This is all child’s play compared to what irks me MOST about those solid </span><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">cubes-o-agua. </span></span><span style="color: black;"></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">Yes indeed. </span></span><span style="color: black;"></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><br /><span style="color: black;"></span></span>
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">If anything ever sent more shivers up my spine than an R.L. Stine book, than a <i>Scream</i> movie, than watching the </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">news</span><span style="color: black;"> - it is the sound of people chomping down on ice cubes.</span> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Seriously. I don’t understand how any levelheaded, normal human being can <i>do</i> such a thing. Can </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black; font-style: italic;">want</span><span style="color: black;"> to do such a thing. It’s positively grotesque, not to mention utterly chilling and cringe-inducing. Even <i>popsicles</i>. Even when people bite <i>ice cream</i>,<i> </i>I involuntarily shudder.</span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;">Don’t those brats have sensitive teeth?</span><br />
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<img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEidWcyCSHhwiMwpdwJxwOg9xJvqLSxt6E-5MKduaWww-EhvhVA-92Ts3DJlZqA9ZwGyU5JKs6sbOIIishIcO6AjWP-l8vuZNgwN_ok59ix7zdSUX0UEPhSPoLFngyaen1sUqKkXwTfy7WI/s320/me.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5374627414214935970" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 240px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 320px;" /><span style="color: black;">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. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Hmph.</span>Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-3894566123107678872013-05-16T08:12:00.000-04:002015-04-21T10:30:36.797-04:00Where Have All the ChapSticks Gone?<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE2sTdiuMSPHPV7uLnqgrxbgfmllWMnZ0oapMhd6kjZxjl5O9TXuPFQ2qq5vkNiH_fLjFr0pXJPoseAfov26A5x2C6Q6MndyYyV3N2j63bczCbcus1Jl_16mU0HybwBn6nWAMVYWFpMyY/s1600-h/american-flag.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiE2sTdiuMSPHPV7uLnqgrxbgfmllWMnZ0oapMhd6kjZxjl5O9TXuPFQ2qq5vkNiH_fLjFr0pXJPoseAfov26A5x2C6Q6MndyYyV3N2j63bczCbcus1Jl_16mU0HybwBn6nWAMVYWFpMyY/s200/american-flag.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376862400130433666" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 134px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">America is a culture built upon a slippery slope. We are a people of the addiction, for the addiction, by the addiction.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Just think about it: Alcoholics. Overeaters. Smokers. Druggies. Sex addicts. Potheads.</span> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">If there is a commodity, we will - un<i>doubtedly</i> - abuse it.</span></span><span style="color: black;"> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">But there is one addiction that I fear does not get anywhere <span style="font-style: italic;">near</span> enough attention from the media.<br /></span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLvzHRlzEYE4TqnOBaN3bCftkAJM9TTQFVauWkNp5gcZugebwOH3ekoKdc3lwYoUcT9aID-DXZ47KHu8F5qOBK9n8ufZ7srOx8bh8nSUB-wIZ8_2tA52cVc6I6ewl2DCD5dyqtH4wKTA8/s1600-h/classic_main_img.gif"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgLvzHRlzEYE4TqnOBaN3bCftkAJM9TTQFVauWkNp5gcZugebwOH3ekoKdc3lwYoUcT9aID-DXZ47KHu8F5qOBK9n8ufZ7srOx8bh8nSUB-wIZ8_2tA52cVc6I6ewl2DCD5dyqtH4wKTA8/s200/classic_main_img.gif" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376857251850102018" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 164px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;">Chapstick</span></span><span style="color: black;">. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Seriously. There are two types of people in the world - those who are addicted to Chapstick and those who will break out the Blistex only on the driest of wintry days. Only when it’s ten degrees below and their lips are cracking and bleeding and they’re on a chairlift heading up a mountain.</span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;">I, unfortunately, belong to the former group of people - the abusers. (And let me just say that it has NOTHING to do with <a href="http://http//nodankes.blogspot.com/2009/03/it-was-my-name-first.html">Katy Perry</a> and her stupid Cherry Chapstick.) </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Yep, I have an a<i>stick</i>tion. My name is Katie and I'm a <i>ChapStickaholic</i>.</span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span><br />
<span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">If there is not a stick or a pot or a tube in sight, I pace around like a heroin addict waiting for my fix.<br /></span><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcu_O734B4caHLeqHUN-Y1q3mOy4xU45dsXYf5b85XI7jmsiBs4HccEpMyVPHjEwBSt-a8s94Rd54enBwGGskkhfT8EHSdOWmiCfzito_ts955ZIZPV7yMWyxbQgHER0n6pA-IQfMRJ9A/s1600-h/chap.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhcu_O734B4caHLeqHUN-Y1q3mOy4xU45dsXYf5b85XI7jmsiBs4HccEpMyVPHjEwBSt-a8s94Rd54enBwGGskkhfT8EHSdOWmiCfzito_ts955ZIZPV7yMWyxbQgHER0n6pA-IQfMRJ9A/s200/chap.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376857983690752594" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 174px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a>The more anxious I become about my lack of chap, the redder my lips get. They scream and burn with <span style="font-style: italic;">hatred</span> over their owners’ stupidity. I have to resort to <i>licking</i> them as consolation which really only <span style="font-style: italic;">exacerbates</span> their chapped-ness. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">I’ve been an addict for as long as I can remember. I don’t remember how it started. But either you’re a member of that club or you aren’t. <i>So</i> many people I know <i>never need</i> that stick-o-crack. But for me - well, there’s just no escaping Burt’s vise (<i>such</i> a vice!)</span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">I don’t particularly <span style="font-style: italic;">mind</span> being a lip balm junkie. Unless it’s one of those rare occasions when I’ve changed bags and forgot - the <span style="font-style: italic;">horror</span> - to throw one in.</span> </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8n-RLoAAxRAZ3Emb-lNy0kyd-4QQHp5EHPznORcVZCCV4o2csTagrBa6xl9kH3m8G0jOnF3bm_zbxJy30o6KVNSthsIfzb2iZ6_EjLFmDMiJLLIbnuuXPbbURdETBQLoumCUOoF5_P10/s1600-h/kids.bmp"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEh8n-RLoAAxRAZ3Emb-lNy0kyd-4QQHp5EHPznORcVZCCV4o2csTagrBa6xl9kH3m8G0jOnF3bm_zbxJy30o6KVNSthsIfzb2iZ6_EjLFmDMiJLLIbnuuXPbbURdETBQLoumCUOoF5_P10/s200/kids.bmp" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376858786213869346" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 200px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 198px;" /></span></a>R<span style="color: black;">eally, though, I’m usually quite good about remembering my chapstick. I’d give myself an A- (and that’s pretty <span style="font-style: italic;">amazing</span> considering my forgetfulness). Before I leave my apartment, my mental checklist is something like: purse, <i>chapstick</i>, phone, keys. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">Oh yeah, it’s <i>numero dos</i> on my list de importantes. </span></span><br /><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"></span></span><br /><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;">That’s why it’s so <span style="font-style: italic;">difficult</span> to understand why I have such a poor track record with my sticks and pots and tubes-o-lube. It’s so <span style="font-style: italic;">unfair</span>. Where do they all go???</span><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">It’s like that book <i>The</i> <i>Velveteen Rabbit</i> except all the <i>chapsticks</i> in my apartment come alive while I’m asleep and party the night away in true NYC style, hiding themselves by morning. </span></span><span style="color: black;"><span style="color: black;"> <br /><br />Does anyone else have this problem?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: black;">I collect chapstick. Let’s see (now this does NOT include lipgloss or lipstick, otherwise we’d be here for hours...oh, and yes, this is my actual lip-stuff drawer. Don’t judge).</span></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEj71BuRO_xyI9yFErNPeQ5qXrQ2VyRlGv7bacUaUq3cZcfjgkUeqeivUbfJxYEKIyQkkNQwsc5x09xkSyVE_qK1wHtL2ObYQ_DMsCSe8k7CfXwomIZTXmZw_0semzTqgZqWi8Rg516Ggu4/s320/chaps.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376859070183186386" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 320px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 240px;" />Four Smith’s Rosebud Salves (two orig, one bramble, one minted). Two Perfumeria Gals. Three Blistex Lip Medex. Two Kiss My Faces. One Banana Republic. One Badger Balm. Four ChapSticks (hate the ones with sunscreen but apparently I’ve got two of them). Some random Aquafina brand kind. Five Burt’s Bees. Bored? OK...I’ll stop there.</span> <span style="color: black;"><br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8xKKznsqeoXmSWc0PqiqG7Yn9NNOD_fPS_iASTQSzm1teOrzU7XYnn4C168UJDt7T_qqvzJ8s7TC_HxuwCMz_M6edsJAhL9Gg_jFn6nJF_9n4g5tgabTpBXhdz0Fb_W681683LetSRQ/s1600-h/labello2.JPG"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgQ8xKKznsqeoXmSWc0PqiqG7Yn9NNOD_fPS_iASTQSzm1teOrzU7XYnn4C168UJDt7T_qqvzJ8s7TC_HxuwCMz_M6edsJAhL9Gg_jFn6nJF_9n4g5tgabTpBXhdz0Fb_W681683LetSRQ/s200/labello2.JPG" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376859895677103874" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 150px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a>I even have a pink Labello chapstick I bought in Rome my <i>Sophomore year of college</i>. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />The messed up thing, in my opinion, is not the <i>fact</i> that I have a <i><b>ridiculous number</b></i> of lip balms. It’s that <span style="font-style: italic;">I can never seem to find one when I’m in need</span>. Don’t think I’m crazy or anything - even if I <span style="font-style: italic;">did</span> just list all the ones I currently have in my drawer. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /><br />You see, like any other addict, I have a preference. A favorito. If you’re a Bud drinker, you’re not really gonna <i>enjoy</i> drinking a Coors Light, now, are you?</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">My drug of choice is Burt’s Bees.<br /></span><span style="color: black;"><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIo_tSaGr32My8k4BEdMte6200WZuN_x1KRHz-xwIDvq1JhbkNQEw9vrotFeL-dbXdTvAvEfw-cwA3VUOjoe_fMIBKkhEDYLJdnbsKe11SrEmm8fRWt2F0VzQeUWYYhttCjnuF0kOz_yg/s1600-h/burt.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhIo_tSaGr32My8k4BEdMte6200WZuN_x1KRHz-xwIDvq1JhbkNQEw9vrotFeL-dbXdTvAvEfw-cwA3VUOjoe_fMIBKkhEDYLJdnbsKe11SrEmm8fRWt2F0VzQeUWYYhttCjnuF0kOz_yg/s200/burt.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376861523827263730" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 123px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 197px;" /></a>But maybe I need to start treating my cute yellow tubes with more </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">R-E-S-P-E-C-T cause seriously, I have never finished one in its entirety. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">It’s nuts! They just disappear on me. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">Damn you chapstick and your stupid magic disappearing acts. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">(Let the record show that after writing this, I cleaned under my bed/couch/butcher block and found three chapsticks in hiding. Makes me wonder. Maybe it’s not the chapstick that’s evil, but rather the apartment...</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">...spoken like a true addict: <i>Everyone’s lookin’ for someone to blame</i>.)</span></div>
Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-897394683366154652013-05-13T08:28:00.000-04:002015-04-21T09:37:05.658-04:00Bitter Cups-o-Café<span style="color: black;">I find it most unfortunate that people who have met me in my adult life know me as a sardonic, sarcastic, sneering individual. Most unfortunate indeed.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZzsZzaKiyrdExw356stRbWAb6Dr4QP_75oJyUeE7h78tgTLKzPLEwNxFZY2W4MGluMwZfElL8LQBvxDX06sFzuxtVJBxmVTCP23f6Ojjf0XJEaleeuTGcMuPJwUk9DoZHgT_nyYfvNhXJ/s1600-h/sharon+hospital.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEgZzsZzaKiyrdExw356stRbWAb6Dr4QP_75oJyUeE7h78tgTLKzPLEwNxFZY2W4MGluMwZfElL8LQBvxDX06sFzuxtVJBxmVTCP23f6Ojjf0XJEaleeuTGcMuPJwUk9DoZHgT_nyYfvNhXJ/s200/sharon+hospital.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330110653268673010" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 117px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></a>Alas, there is nothing to do but <i>tell</i> you that I was once a very sweet, kind, caring person (for the most part...we all have our moments). So amiable and benevolent, in fact, that I deemed it my duty to be philanthropic. At the tender age of fifteen, I gave up my Saturday’s to volunteer at my local hospital. </span><span style="color: black;"><br /></span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Yes, I would wake up at 8:30 every Saturday morning and be dropped off at the Gazebo Gift Shop where I worked the morning shift. While my peers slept the day away, I chatted amicably with my "coworkers" - women old enough to be my grandmother. And because these elderly women weren’t too quick on their feet, it fell upon me to run the snack counter in the back of the shop.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">It was there, in the Gazebo Gift Shop at Sharon Hospital (over ten years ago, <b>gah</b>!) that I had my first encounter with coffee snobbery.</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">The kitchen at the gift shop was certainly no great shakes. We had the standards: bagels, sandwiches, muffins, juice…and java. I made one pot each of regular and decaf, then poured the brew into thermoses. And these thermoses lasted pretty much the whole day.</span></div>
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<img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhjj4rFXaM8aZJKBhdqQgv0NsUYevLjoOIQgNZOUoXFx98LYA-it3RTEIVRyQTZoHEzd7yfAudZfJT-mV1VNN8404nhUXrPRfwuKtio1Z7UaGTN3x8repXX7BojIZWaYgm_AmmsGruIZ4sV/s200/coffee+1.bmp" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330110821153410258" style="cursor: hand; display: block; height: 200px; margin: 0px auto 10px; text-align: center; width: 136px;" /><span style="color: black;">One day, just before my shift was over, a woman asked for a cup of coffee. She wanted to know how long it’d been sitting there and I shrugged. Seriously? Coffee was coffee, after all. I handed it to her, she walked away, sipped, and marched right back, demanding I make a new pot. The nerve! Begrudgingly I did so. And now I understand why. </span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Knowing what I know now, it’s hard to believe that was ever so naïve about a cup of café.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKPB4AUAzWHTgf1hpg0nbtgKItjy6OOJVLr7FyXkeNoXpaNRn2-wL7VKktY2ELaDDUIO_02tHyE26bH_eldq2Id4kqGVMauoBayqfHYzb6Y7PvBmhZp-r6Q9eihBUucpLwKYhTv2UEGq79/s1600-h/coffee+2.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhKPB4AUAzWHTgf1hpg0nbtgKItjy6OOJVLr7FyXkeNoXpaNRn2-wL7VKktY2ELaDDUIO_02tHyE26bH_eldq2Id4kqGVMauoBayqfHYzb6Y7PvBmhZp-r6Q9eihBUucpLwKYhTv2UEGq79/s200/coffee+2.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330112171561328834" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 130px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 170px;" /></a>My relationship with joe really took off when I started high school. I’d make Dunkin’s Hazelnut at home and add International’s French Vanilla creamer. Delish! We’ve been pretty serious since then. But I, unfortunately, have become that woman in the Gazebo Gift Shop demanding fresh coffee.<br /><br />OK, well not demanding. Never demanding. But most sheepishly, passive aggressively trying to get the freshest pot, for sure. I even let people go in front of me if I see that the pot it almost at bare bottom. Because there is nothing worse than old coffee, I tell ya. Nothing. (Alright, well perhaps going to the corner bodega at 3am to find they ran out of Snickers Ice Cream bars is worse.)<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhTSzAX4Epo3QLz1Cy_wFRmKsGMI678tHsZTayz4ngtpYwN2Ki2RG_VeUa55E7t2pBzEZqrgmlMyL4p4ifcX09fb5VP6Tgx2gZtBBBj3Go-u7JczsMpQyBBsjNKkjR3m9idpFjXLJUxtRPG/s1600-h/coffee+2.jpg"></a>For reals, though, freshly brewed coffee is…there are no words. It’s splendiferously smile inducing. Love, love, love it!<br /><br />By the same token, stale, bitter, burnt java is <i>ferooooociously</i> frown inducing. Hate, hate, hate it. Ruins my whole day. Awful! And Dunkin’s is by far the most absurd, obscene culprit of them all. I don’t understand how they get away with serving customers that watery brown sludge. It tastes like burning toxicity. Like you’re drinking poison.<i> Oh, I’m sorry, do you have a tube running from the bathroom?</i> Probably.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY9vMDOBzWR4sfLyXlMySVTsFIL2uFO4IueDPWjLgwyeNmVpODmd8JQJ7ZlWfpCs_NE8CIMiYJm83KATSBfZy0BgFflzU6Chcb0JEuU-KvV6RRs2RX6-h6dJWdQm0r6mT7eiMtQlNrD7E-/s1600-h/coffee+3.gif"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjY9vMDOBzWR4sfLyXlMySVTsFIL2uFO4IueDPWjLgwyeNmVpODmd8JQJ7ZlWfpCs_NE8CIMiYJm83KATSBfZy0BgFflzU6Chcb0JEuU-KvV6RRs2RX6-h6dJWdQm0r6mT7eiMtQlNrD7E-/s200/coffee+3.gif" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330112552277192834" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 158px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 124px;" /></a>I find that the sludgiest Dunkin coffee comes from the vats. Sure, sure, this is New York City and they do get slammed with out-the-door lines every morning. But why can’t they simply make pots instead of putting it in those thermos-like vats? Trust me, I wouldn’t go to DD’s if it weren’t for their hazelnut and French vanilla hot coffee and their coconut (don’t judge) iced coffee - I hate how Starb’s has only the flavor pumps. They jade the coffee flavor even further.<br /><br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhYG-rHOaIL2lI6Mx-E-Ks3tlIq8YRMnVKMgXTPN_PYDxOgzUAgveOGC_Z-PXHggGwM4MEdhJ7RCa93pJ8__JzIVfGnqQHrHIf-ijDJklszZCcoQoq4nzKRXLy8g36eXoO3fMWzw8DDzG4O/s1600-h/coffee+3.gif"></a>Dunkin and their stale vats of dirty, flavored water aren't singularly guilty, though. Practically every coffee shop, diner, restaurant, and cart is culpable of serving burnt coffee. They all leave pots on the warmers, sizzling and frying away. Boiling and thickening down to a sepia colored slop. </span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">All decoction delinquents - stale, bitter, and burnt - are equally virulent. They all leave a coating on my tongue, a burning in my throat, and give me a very acute case of heartburn.<br /><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwMt-et1OUH0TQUx5D8G1gTBZIq0Ale12XpxeDnklFjycLHLsmJZWjZXY5W8LlwPqbU3Q-HnJyCg1w6fX0KNd8sCgvBfa9Bx97Fh3w98EGD_dKb-9tAiJg_Jd1h5sBauy8UpdxNzncU24s/s1600-h/coffee+4.jpg"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEjwMt-et1OUH0TQUx5D8G1gTBZIq0Ale12XpxeDnklFjycLHLsmJZWjZXY5W8LlwPqbU3Q-HnJyCg1w6fX0KNd8sCgvBfa9Bx97Fh3w98EGD_dKb-9tAiJg_Jd1h5sBauy8UpdxNzncU24s/s200/coffee+4.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330112821755366002" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 198px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 206px;" /></a><br />Even though I detest every sip of mutilated java, I haven't the heart to dump it down the drain. Nor can I demand a fresh pot - scarred as I am by that woman demanding one of me when I was but fifteen years old.</span></div>
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<span style="color: black;">So I beg thee, dearest coffee shops: make a fresh pot. If the consistency of the coffee is turning to stale sludge, if it has been boiling on the burner for far too long, <i>please</i>. Please just make a fresh pot.</span> </div>
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Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-3081256179982323451.post-28856257689606340232013-04-21T13:40:00.000-04:002015-04-21T09:34:25.352-04:00Pepper Imposter<a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib05blQaBVRPoughvnjecbi7Q1fpldK1yhpMWiIqwu5FvbXLn_WHetu22IPWQ1QURZ1xqdTdTTAhyphenhyphenKlonUTKe0KhC2xKfiBKViilNex42j7VzQXaJ_WlBx6Jn3ecJ1W9hfCVd0pdsMl8bP/s1600-h/black+pepper.bmp"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEib05blQaBVRPoughvnjecbi7Q1fpldK1yhpMWiIqwu5FvbXLn_WHetu22IPWQ1QURZ1xqdTdTTAhyphenhyphenKlonUTKe0KhC2xKfiBKViilNex42j7VzQXaJ_WlBx6Jn3ecJ1W9hfCVd0pdsMl8bP/s200/black+pepper.bmp" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327204277378202834" style="cursor: hand; float: right; height: 150px; margin: 0px 0px 10px 10px; width: 200px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;">Black pepper is, without a doubt, my most favorite spice. In fact, I find it quite interesting that it’s called a “spice” – I think of it more as a staple. A necessity, really. Like water or legumes or Snickers Ice Cream bars. I do not understand how people dislike pepper. It’s practically the most perfect thing ever – not as acerbic as salt or as fiery as cayenne or as halitosis-inducing as garlic powder.<br /><br />To be asked to eat something without pepper is, to me, sacrilegious. And though I could never <i>not</i> shake, shake, shake black pepper on a dish I’m about to devour, there is nothing worse than the counterfeit, contemptible “pepper” that adorns restaurant tables.<br /><br />It’s positively blasphemous. I do not understand how eateries and fast food joints get away with serving those gray and black flakes of dandruff. Horrific! Such an imitation.<br /><br />For the love of food! Please, <i>please</i> dear restaurants and Dunkin’s, diners and delicatessens, dives and McD’s – please. Can you just provide your devoted customers with some friggin pepper grinders?<br /><br />There is nothing better than fresh ground pepper. Especially when the peppercorns are black and red and green and white. My oh my! I kiss the glass those shriveled berry balls reside in. It's so unbelievably satisfying to flip over that bottle and grind away, to shake those fresh, <i>fresh</i> specks over salad. Or soup. Or, as is usually the case with me, an entire plate.<br /></span><a href="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEy-CUK5dh3oNgtH_yrK8Ih7GyeulONNdxVGWY2lhzewbbGdM5cL8JuYa7A0RKLq3OCImBsmoTBTYfUuqIEHrf1eyR-cBFa2QqV9C-1gBUMDkPmdjBAkPinbffZiRo2aS2wDLpP54KKQNQ/s1600-h/single+pepper.jpg"><span style="color: black;"><img alt="" border="0" src="https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhEy-CUK5dh3oNgtH_yrK8Ih7GyeulONNdxVGWY2lhzewbbGdM5cL8JuYa7A0RKLq3OCImBsmoTBTYfUuqIEHrf1eyR-cBFa2QqV9C-1gBUMDkPmdjBAkPinbffZiRo2aS2wDLpP54KKQNQ/s200/single+pepper.jpg" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5327204708508978354" style="cursor: hand; float: left; height: 178px; margin: 0px 10px 10px 0px; width: 200px;" /></span></a><span style="color: black;">Pepper really makes the dish. Every dish, every time.<br /><br />So why the <i>fjkeajfka </i>do restaurateurs – or households, for that matter – use the imitation stuff? It gives black pepper a bad name. And those packets! Those stupid, minute little packets. Do they really deem that a SERVING? They are such a joke. This isn’t salt, people. A pinch will certainly <b>NOT </b>do.<br /><br />The pepper found in packets and shakers is pretty much <i>The New York Times</i> ripped and shredded and chopped into diminutive crumbs. That’s why they want you to recycle newspapers, duh, so they can make black pepper out of them!</span><br />
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<span style="color: black;">Lets all start a boycott, shall we? No more using those faux flakes that dining institutions call “pepper”. It really is an insult to the <i>Piper nigrum</i> and its most hallowed, venerable vines.<br /><br />Ah. In my dreams. If only I had the strength to reject that phony black pepper. Alas, I cannot. The second food is in front of me I reach for that paltry, pathetic shaker. Perhaps it’s mental, but I suppose I would rather suffer through the imitation stuff than eat something that has not been properly peppered.<br /><br />So until pepper grinders are omnipresent on both plaid, plastic tablecloths and in polished oak dining rooms ‘round the world, I suppose that shaking the bejesus out of the sports section will have to suffice.<br /><br />Sigh.</span>Katie Parryhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15730694257940859249noreply@blogger.com0