No Dankes. Yes Bitte!

Greetings.

2011-06-12T18:29:00.013-04:00

To blog or not to blog.

That, in one helluva stereotypical cliche sentence, has been the question.

It’s not that I haven’t wanted 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!

I’m a bit hard on myself. Always have been, hope to not always be. But it’s been struggy town, I tell you.

Writing is an exercise--the longer you go without, the harder it is to get bac

k in the swing of things. My, how apropos this metaphor is considering I’ve recently taken up running!

Truth be told, I’ve been avoiding writing because I fear I’ve no longer got what it takes. I used to easily just sit in front of ye olde laptop and plug away until I had something I wanted to share.

And now it’s gone so far as I’ve practically wanted to hide my laptop! There is sits, mocking me, knowing what a lazy ass I’ve been about blogging. Whenever I open it, I almost hear it tsk-tsk-tsking away.

SO...

...so. I’ve decided to retry blogging. But things are going to be different this time. Because life is all about changing and evolving!

I still complain. A lot. About a lot of things! BUT happier days are here to stay, methinks (mehopes), so I’m adding a Yes, Bitte! portion (thanks to Ri and Will for the idea)--sounds a little better than Do Dankes and it’s in keeping with the Germanness of the bloggie.

There may not be as many pictures. There may be way more spelling errors. Maybe some HTML-whatever errors. Funniness might be lacking. Creativity, too.

But I promise to actually put forth some effort because I do miss belonging in that coolest of cool clubs (currently on the outs?), that band of bloggers. And besides, it was a little fun giving the site a little makeover--even if physical books are on the outs, too.

So, friends. Holler! I'm back.

Things That Go Bump in the Night

2010-10-05T07:50:00.004-04:00

It was a dark and stormy night.

OK fine, maybe not so much. But it was cold and rainy. Hi fall, hi. So not happy to see you again.

Nevertheless, I had my A/C on. Still. Yeah, yeah – waste of electricity galore. I know. But I can’t sleep without some sort of distracting white noise. And my little GE does its job to a T.

Well, until last night that is.

I’d gotten home from volunteering around 9:30. There was lots of heavy lifting, banned-books-scavenger-hunting, sweeping, and shelving. Needless to say I was fairly keyed up.

I took a warm shower. Painted my nails. Dipped into the latest 1,000-pager I was reading. Tried to avoid all unnecessary stimulation of the senses – i.e. Gossip Girl. All to no avail.

Of course I failed to notice it until I was tucked in, lights out. Then, like a celebrity on a New York City street, it jarringly appeared as if from thin air.

Bang.rattle.pow. 70 seconds later. Bang.rattle.pow. 83 seconds later. Bang.rattle.pow. 45 seconds. Bang.rattle.pow. And so on.

Alright so maybe it didn’t really sound exactly like bang.rattle.pow. But it was a definite thump. Smack. Boom. And I was definitely piss(sssssssssss)ed the pow off.

As if I don’t have enough trouble sleeping already, no. No, no. My scary mansion of an apartamento deemed it hilarious to add more fuel to the bump-in-the-night fire.

I slammed the wall. Rustled the cords under my bed. Rocked my mattress. Where was it coming from? I turned on the light, went into the living room. Hit that wall. Hard. The corner, it was coming from the corner. I jumped up and down on the floor.

I returned my cozy queen-sized nest, triumphantly assured that my jaunt had undoubtedly jostled and freed whatever was making that most disruptive noise.

Alas, wary as ever of things that go bump, I couldn’t help but listen. Wait for it. Expect it. My senses were piqued. The longer the unwanted knock-knock-knocking was kept at bay, the more confident I was it had desisted – like a battle against the hiccups

Wrong.

Three more hours I lay in wait. Sleep evaded me. I popped a melatonin. And another. I tried to ignore the thump. But the more I ignored it, the more my ears focused. The more they honed in and waited for the bang. I stomped out of bed and retraced my thump-obliterating steps, increasing my efforts tenfold.

Seriously though, what is up with that shit? Why do we always focus on the things me most want to not focus on? It’s so unfair.

My delirious, sleepy, zombified mind resolved my apartment was haunted. No, there was a living, breathing Sloth tied up in the basement. No, a bomb – I was going to be blown to smithereens in the matter of minutes. No, wait…wait…

The sounds intensified. Louder, heavier – did my bed just move? What the what??

2:30 am. Just when I stopped fretting over what the mysterious noise was, when I stopped being outrageously and disproportionately pissed about the banging that was keeping me awake, I miraculously drifted off.

Only to be awoken three hours later by a cacophony on both sides of the wall.

It sounded horrific. Like a demonic ghoul bashing (and I mean bashing) a one-ton pipe organ with wooden bats. There was hissing, spitting, clanking, clanging, clattering, clinking, shaking, POUNDING. What was happening? Had Armageddon arrived two years early?

Oh no.

My stupid, stupid hot-water radiators were coming alive, readying themselves for the winter ahead, and making it very well known.

Guess it’s time for the A/C to be put to bed. Along with my dreary, dead-tired self.

Lost in Transition

2010-08-18T19:04:00.008-04:00

My, my how taciturn I’ve been with my blogging! Especially after all that “back with a vengeance” preaching.

But you see, there simply isn’t enough time in the day! I could rattle off a list of excuses a mile long - pretty much all pertaining to work, work, work (which is a good thing, I suppose) - but I feel bad for being blogless! Sowweeeeee.

Anywho, back to bitching.

I work in book publishing. I like books. Scratch that, I love books (as evidenced here).

I love everything about them. The font, the way they smell, the crispness of the pages, the prettiness of the package, the first letter of the first word of each new chapters and how it varies book to book, the story, the emotions they make me feel.

If you know me, you know this.

If you know this about me, chances are you also know that I hate when an utterly awesome book transitions into a positively heinous mess of a movie.

Why, why, why do those dummies (dummies!) in Hollywood feel the need to shred a beloved book to pieces? To commercialize the shit out of it? To mainstream it beyond recognition?

I really don’t get it.

Do they feel they need to dumb it down, tone it down, tame it to a tolerably tepid paste so that Middle Americans can digest it? Maybe it’s just me. Maybe I’m a bit snobbish cause I hail from Connecticut and now I hail taxis in Manhattan. But it takes a lil extra summn summn to impress me.

Let’s start with dialogue. Why the hell did Julia have to serve up an extra stinky platter of brie in Eat, Pray, Love? Why did the director think it was OK to take a true life goddess divine (in my opinion) and make her a stoopid mere mortal?

Rachel McAdams is one of my faves but she could NOT carry off Clare Abshire, the illustrious love interest of a time traveler (SHE DIDN’T EVEN HAVE RED HAIR!!!! Blasphemy.)

Any and all Nicolas Sparks. Travesty. Travesty! (Though I must except The Notebook. Even in my cynical heart of hearts, I hearted that one.)

Dearest Mr. Hanks - I loved you as Forrest. Loathed you as Robert Langdon.

Love in the Time of Cholera really just pissssssssed me off.

I seriously don’t understand the logic behind turning certain books into movies. He’s Just Not That Into You . (Yes, that period is meant to be read aloud.)

They couldn’t even get it right back in the day when Hollywood was a tad more noble and a bit less greedy - War and Peace? Snooze-fest. The Grapes of Wrath? Less than great. The Fountainhead. Phooey. For Whom the Bell Tolls oh.my.god. Awful!

I think there should be a stipulation when transitioning from page to screen. The integrity of the book must be kept intact.

Also, important plot lines (they didn’t even mention the fact that Miss Gilbert was sent traveling with a book in mind...and as much as I enjoyed The Girl with the Dragon Tattoo, the ending was all wrong! Lisbeth is supposed to fall in hate with Blomkvist at the end!! RUINED!)

(They’re not all bad. There’s the few redeemers. Of course I can’t think of any at the moment. So maybe that means there ain’t. Can you think of any?)

Alas, the big fat cherry on the big fattening sundae, the sloppiest slap in the face ever is Atlas Shrugged. I thought Angelina would be the perfect Dagny. And now - because the slow poke dummies were going to lose book rights - it’s going to star all unknowns and be directed by someone who’s resume is topped with One Tree Hill.

Oh Hollywood. I suppose it’s just my naiveté peeking through. It is all about the Benjamin's after all. They could care less about being faithful to the plot. They are not upright citizens! All they see is dollar $ign$.

But hey, if these paltry, pale imitations of the real thing, the written word, actually sell books, then I suppose I’ve gotta suck it up. And avoid the theater like Coney Island on a Saturday.

Dancing Falling in the Street

2010-07-29T07:02:00.003-04:00

Last weekend, lucky duck me was part of a ridiculously (outrageously, uproariously, hilariously, et al.) hysterical conversation about falling.

I shall not name names - I dare not inflict any additional embarrassment on this person - I shall only mention the fact that they were cycling over some railroad tracks (slippery little suckers!) One minute they were cruising along, à la Lancey-pants, and the next second, bam - they found themselves way down in Mangled Town without a second of reaction time to be found.

This catastrophe, this falling down is nothing new to me. I fall. A lot. (Boy do I dread my twilight years something fierce - especially cause I hate milk - oh heeeey osteoporosis! I have premonitions of re-breaking my hip the second the cast comes off.)

I cannot precisely pinpoint when I became a klutz. Hmm. On second thought, I don’t think there was ever a time when I was not.

I liken myself to the Abominable Snowman - sans proper motor skills. Actually, worse. Stick him in high heels, make him clumsier, and picture him three sheets to the wind. (Then add a few more sheets.)

(Who am I kidding, sheets don’t even need to be part of the clumsiness that is Katie “Abominable” Parry.)

I am an unbalanced, uncoordinated sad excuse for a biped. My reflexes are so slow, I don’t even realize I’ve fallen until I’ve been on the ground for a good five M-i-s-s-i-s-s-i-p-p-i seconds!

I’d like to blame heels but I just don’t wear them all that often. Of course there have been heely incidents - like my birthday when I was dying laughing at Fred aka Kyle Orton, and dropped like a potato sack on my back.

It didn’t really bother me - I’m an animal. I demanded to chomp off a bite of pizza before being helped up (just like ye olde Sasquatch, food takes precedence over filthy sidewalks dirtying up whatever pretty party dress I’m donning).

Last weekend I fell twice - once off of a hammock (I blame those ménage à trois sheets flapping in the wind...and hey, hammocks are tricky little contraptions, to be fair), then I ate it again on a trail heading back from the beach - and I was sober town.

I’ve fallen down on 6th Avenue in the midst of morning rush hour. I’ve taken spills in bars (and been dip-dropped while dancing with the not-so-trusty Mary Rita). I’ve tumbled down slick rooftop slopes. I’ve bottomed out on icy sidewalks because I was running home (mouth watering, McD’s in hand). I’ve been tackled and tripped in sports. Skidded on my ass down slippery green grass (those stains are the worst!) I’ve mistakenly missteped and missed the curb (or stair) completely. I’ve crashed into trees (and people) while skiing. I’ve walked into glass doors (and glass museum dividers) and been knocked backward. And, perhaps most infamously of all, I’ve fallen off a table while dancing to that Crazy Town “Butterfly” song.

The irony in all of this is that I’m quite terrified of the fall itself. Of diving, crashing, tripping, tumbling, keeling, collapsing (and I used to be a soccer goalie, imagine that). So scary! Our worst fears lie in anticipation. But once I’m down on the ground I’m usually laughing my ass off and picking myself up, dusting myself off, just like it was any other chore. Just like I was tidying my apartment.

I feel like falling is misspelled - that it should be k-a-t-i-e-p-a-r-r-y. Or at least that I should be an honorary synonym.

I blame it on the shoes. I blame it on the surface. I blame it on the a-a-a-a-a-alcohol. But really, it’s unfair to blame anything except my über-klutzy self.

(And no, that’s not me - I wish I could be so lucky as to have such a great action shot!)

FYI: If you ever witness me taking a spill, please - laugh away. Cause I know I’d be the first to return the favor.

Flying in Not-So-Fashionable Skies

2010-07-28T07:32:00.001-04:00

Everything about flying is uncivilized.

Stale air. Lackage of snackage. Getting a cupful of soda (really, I can’t have the can? Really?) “In-flight entertainment.” Feeling like you’re going to die every time you hit an air pocket.

Yet all that naysaying has one common denominator: we have no choice about any of it. No control whatsoever! As passengers, we’re at the mercy of those spry, gorgeous flight attendants.  

So maybe they’re not all gorgeous. But a shocking percentage of them are. And if they ain’t got gorg genes, they at least have some smart genes in ‘em. They know how to fix their hair, paint on some makeup, choose their most flattering outfit (pants vs. skirt vs. dress, sweater vs. button down vs. jacket, decisions, decisions!), and they all always look pretty damn dandy for being up in the air all day every day.

I thank my lucky stars every chance I get that I’m not a flight attendant (though I’d probably be super skinny for lack of appetite - hellooooo turbulence-induced anxiety attacks!)

I’m heading west twice in the next two months - first off to Denver for work, then San Fran for Ryan and Ali’s wedding (!!) - and let me just say: I’m dreading my co-passengers outfits as much as the turbulence.  

Why do people think it’s OK to wear pajamas on airplanes? Plaid pants? Cartoon character flannels? Chambray drawstrings? Omg, bathrobes? Why, why, WHY?

It is beyond unacceptable that peeps think it’s perfectly fine to wear their pj’s in public.

Even folks donning sweatpants in the street gives me the heeb jeeb’s. If you’re a lazy ‘lil housecat who likes being ‘comfy’ all the time, then stay put in the house. Do not pass go, do not collect 200 dirty looks (from me - 200 different ways...oh yes, I can).

No one wants to see what you wear to sleep. That’s like seeing your coworkers in bathing suits.

Plane-time pajama pants are unnecessary visual vomitus that’s bound to be regurgitated at extremely unwelcome times.

Ew, visions of ugliness! OH MAN, those Scooby Doo sweats? Paul Frank? Tweety Bird? Joe Boxer? Santa Claus in July? I will now be forced to mentally judge the shit out of you every time I pull on my super civilized toile pants (whose hours of usage are strictly enforced, 10:30pm-8:00am only).

I digress.

The point is, people, that it’s totes unacceptable to wear your plaidies when you’re a mile high.

Especially when you’re traveling overseas. As my lovely lady friend, Jill Smith, aptly observed - we are representing America. Our foreign friends (foes?) already have a scathing sense of us - lazy, obese, etc. - so why are you middlings purposely trying to sabotage your civilized countrymen?

I ain’t saying your outfit has to be anything fance. But pull yourself together. Like me and K. Cobb on our way to Charleston. Throw on a cute cardi and necklace. Ditch those old Asics. And for crying out loud, leave the slippers at home.

Go-Go Girl

2010-07-27T08:02:00.000-04:00

Clad in a miniskirt. Sipping on a Manhattan. Doing the twist at Peppermint Lounge on West 45th. Living the Mad Men dream (/nightmare).  

Sigh.

Unfortunately this kind of go-go girl isn’t that kind of go-go girl. Yeah, I’d much rather be up on table twisting till my heart’s content. But I’m in a car. Or on a bus. Or a train. Or a plane. And I’m just going, going, going, gone. Kinda like this summer.

Everyone concurs - summa summa summatime has flown by. Like that seagull that sneak attacked your sandwich, it’s over and done in a millisecond.

Is it a mean trick of the Universe? Has the Clockmaker sped up time? Are we on a crash course to Armageddon? All signs point to yes. And being a girl on the go hasn’t helped slow anything down.

I know, I know. I’m a ridiculously spoiled brat. CT, Cape Cod, Rhode Island, Maine, Hamptons, more Hamptons, Colorado, San Fran - I cannot complain. Life is ridiculously damn good. I am enjoying the shit out of it. What I’m not thrilled about, though, is being constantly on the go.

I would just like to drop and smell the daisies, you know? Instead of rushing to make the train, running to the subway, thinking about what I need to pack for the weekend, or what’s the most efficient way to get where I’m going, or about the million things that must get done come Monday.

Allow me to reiterate - I know I’m pretty gosh darn lucky to be doing all the things I’m doing. I know. I guess I just wish there was a way to apparate. (Why hasn’t someone invented that shit yet? Ms. Rowling can you get on it already? )

How much better would things be if you could easily get from Point A to Point B without so much as lifting that hot pink polished, dainty little finger.

My weeks are full of sleeplessness (did I pack my toothpaste, my bronzer, my razor, omg!), of Newtons Fruit Crisps for breakfast, lunch, and dinner, of never-ending schedules and Tom Tom’s and public transportation systems. Traveling is tough, yo!

I’m physically and mentally spent. I have no time to get a mani/pedi. I haven’t been grocery shopping in weeks. I don’t get around to watching True Blood until Thursdays at the earliest.

My knee joints hurt, my footies hurt, I’m dizzy with going.going.going. I don’t even have time for No Dankes (hah)! Blasphemy.

I don’t like living à la suitcase. I don’t love sleeping in beds that are not my own, sandwiched between two females (no matter how much I love them). I hate my clean clothes gettin that damp, dingy smell (and the wrinkles, the wrinkles! – thank god once more for Downy Wrinkle Releaser!)

There’s sand everywhere - in suitcases and crevices. Travel shampoo bottles. Unpacked bags and dirty clothes strewn about mi apartamento. My poor little plant seems two steps from death’s door for lack of watering. I need to sweep, I need to scrub, I need to do laundry, I need to sleep. But there’s just no rest for the travel weary.

It’s nada but go.go.go.go all day every day. I feel like an ant in a hole who doesn’t stop, doesn’t sleep, is always walking, dragging a big ole ass behind me.

But then - but then - I’m where I’m supposed to be (a party in the Hamptons, perhaps). And the sand is no longer only in the bottom of my beach bag, it’s actually under my toes. And the waves are crashing. And the gulls are swooping in for my delicious sandwich. And frankly, I don’t care.

(That is, until I am en route home, the weekend is over, and it’s back to go-go.)

Unpunctual Punks

2010-07-23T07:22:00.003-04:00

Manners, people. They’re called manners. Some of yas have ‘em - and others I find lacking. Sorely.

Now I’m not gonna place blame where blame’s not due. There’s to be no, “Oh well it’s because my parents were always late everywhere we went” excuse. You are your own person, a grownup (perhaps), and need to start acting like one.

Nor shall I deem it permissible that you “weren’t ready yet”. Or that you had to finish cleaning, or cooking, or eating. Or that you were on the phone or walking your dog or decided to change your outfit (again).

No, nope, nein - not happening. Sorry! You were late and that’s that. Stammer and stutter and excuse all you want - it’s not OK.

(Of course there are those acts of God that no one can help - car accidents, explosive diarrhea, power outages, Titanic on TBS, a sudden cerebral hemorrhage…fine, you have five excuses, but that’s it.)

I’m not perfect, of course I’m not. There have been times that I’ve forgotten an umbrella, or a cardigan, or my lunch, (or my mind) and been a few minuntos behind - it happens. (Even so, in such cases my anxiety levels reach beyond astronomically high points and I make it my prerogative to not be late next time.)

For me, being late is the exception - not the rule.

For others, the opposite is true.

I’m talking about are those tardy tarts that are constantly, consistently, ceaselessly, without fail late - be it to an important date or one that’s second rate. I don’t care. It’s those foes that make being unpunctual the rule and not the exception that I’d like to have my wordy way with.

What is it in your nature that makes you so…so…so selfishly righteous? What part of your genetic makeup enables you to think being late is acceptable? Why do you deem it OK?

I know, I know - I should exhaaaale and let go and not be rushing from one place to the next, one day to the next, one year to the next. That’s not what life is about. Living is enjoying the present, being in the moment, feeling happy where you’re at and what you’re doing.

I know.

But how the hell, might I ask, can I enjoy the ballet, or a fancy schmanse dinner, or the sunset if I’m an hour late? What’s the point of it then? I was there, raring to go see the goddamn sunset, but oh wait, gotta wait for _____. Oh but it’s getting darker…and darker, and aww hell, it’s gone. And still no ______.

Methinks it a sorely sad fact and pathetic universal truth that the only person you can count on 100% is your good old self. Other people disappoint. They let you down. They make you miss previews at the movies, the free food that’s passed at the start of parties, the best spot on the beach, the most spectacular seats at the venue. And boy does it suck.

As I said, I’m the exception, not the rule when it comes to being late. Unfortunately same goes for dealing with said tardy tarts. Loads of people know how to remain cool. Keep calm and carry on. (I think it’s called patience???) I know not how.

I get exceptionally angry if I am made late by someone else’s err. I turn into a bear. A very tall, very blonde, exceedingly grizzly bear who would like to smack you across the bottom with all the oomph I could possibly muster behind my perfectly manicured paws. I wish. Mostly I specialize in seething, scathing looks (just ask Ri, she could tell you a thing or two).

How dare you be late. How dare you make me late. It’s plain rude. Especially because tardiness is so unnecessary!

Put your makeup on in the car. Eat your sandwich while we’re walking. Don’t wait for directions to print - you have an iPhone, dummy! walk + talk. drive + eat. plan + plot + pack. Paint your nails (bravo, Mary Rita!), brush your hair, brush you teeth, change your dress, change your shoes (in the car)…change your mindset.

Being tardy is not a necessary evil - it’s something everyone could do without. Belatedness is a choice. A poor, obnoxious, self-righteous, super selfish, ugly little choice. You can choose to think only of yourself and be late - or you can think of the other people you’re affecting and depending on you to be prompt and punctilious and make a concerted effort to be prompt and punctilious.

I know my vote.

Frankly, My Dears, I Don't Give a Damn

2010-07-22T07:14:00.001-04:00

I’m tempted to begin this semi-op-ed entry with “Dear Diary” - cause I fear that’s the kind of rant this is shaping up to be.

Nevertheless, here goes.

Do you find yourself checking this lil ole blog every morning, wishing and hoping and thinking and praying there might be a new post? Have you missed the bygone days of binging on the bitchiness spewed by yours truly? Do you need your daily dosage Katie Parry complaining?

Well folks, just call me T.I. (Willis) - cause I’m back…with a vengeance.

Friends and foes, lovers and haters - it has been a while. Blame it on my summering self. Or all the excellent books that have kept me so rapt. Or my quasi there-but-not lingering Lyme disease (“I’m tiiiiiiired.”) Or, as my former cubie Melissa aptly observed, my new job for “taking away my funny bone” (but giving me lots and lots and lots of other things to do in return).  

Truth be told, No Dankes’ absence was mainly due to a cataclysmic culmination of cattiness. What really got me going - or stopping, rather - was a bunch of peeps no dankesing what I was writing. Blasphemy!! - that’s my job. That’s the whole point of No Dankes!

And yet...and yet...the complaints kept on coming. In droves.

Yeah, yeah - I know. I sold my soul to the blogroll devil and forfeited all of my don’t you dare talk shit bout me rights.

Who was I to whine about what gets said de moi in cyberspace.

Why should I be allowed to care if perfect strangers be taking me down to the smackdown hotel? I did write a post and toss it out into the network universe, after all.

Alas, instead of standing up and supporting my blog like a fierce little tigress, I whimpered and cowered in a corner. I rejected No Dankes. Every time I had a great idea for a post, I dashed it from my thoughts. I didn’t want to write anything. I didn’t even want to think about writing anything. My poor little bloggie became an enemy of my mental state. I hated it for making me feel bad. I wanted nothing to do with it.

Then people started asking why the hell I hadn’t blogged in so long. Then more people, and more people - and suddenly I realized (cue angels and harps and light, lots of light) - that it doesn’t matter what other people think. No Dankes is mine, all mine, and I can do with it whatever I please. (By the way, thank you thank you for reading and for your support!! I appreciate it more than you know!)

Still though - it makes me a little mad. I’m sorry people, but really - it’s not like I said your baby was ugly (even though I probably thought it). I didn’t tell you change your outfit cause you look like a stuffed sausage in that not-very-natural casing. I don’t make fun of homeless people who smell like sewers and look like cavemen.

I have a conscience, fools.

Hey all ya’lls, have you ever heard of a little something called the 5th Amendment? I know, I know - it was a long time ago. Junior year in high school methinks. So I don’t blame you for forgetting. I’ve already forgotten what I ate for din last night.

Allow me to enlighten you (pretend you’re the Congress and I’m the press):

“Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances.”

So I’m sorry - I no longer deem it necessary to (somewhat) sugarcoat and sweeten things up. I shall not cater to what yous may think and want me to say. I refuse to not write something or say something or do something just because it might piss someone off.

I’m going to be myself.

By the same token I implore you: be yourself. If you disagree, let it be known (Miss Shannon Solheim has done an excellent job of being quite contrary, bravo!)

Because here’s another little something something that doesn’t need an amendment to light upon: you’re entitled to your opinions...and so am I.

So to those of you who dislike what I write, I say (in the oh-so-wise, oh-so-wordly words of the Schopp boys): Go pack a lunch.

When Life Gives You Artificial Ingredients, Make Beverages

2010-06-15T07:55:00.003-04:00

Now that doesn’t sound as sweet as lemons making lemonade now, does it?

Of course not. Because what we throw down the ole gullet each and every day is not nearly as cut and dry as water, lemons, and sugar.

Oh no.

What we humans sip and slurp and gulp is certifiably gagable!

As I type away (for the first time in a long time, soweeee), I am drinking a Vitamin Water Zero. The flavor? “Squeezed Lemonade”. The ingredients? Unpronounceable. Unintelligible. And undoubtedly indigestible.

Fancy water aside, let’s see. (Unfortunately I was ready for a full-on bash fest...but those folks at Glacéau are smarties - they list the purpose of the indecipherables. I shall do no such thing).

Here we go: rebiana, erythiritol, calcium lactate gluconate, magnesium chloride, potassium phosphate, citric acid, “natural flavors” (such as...?), gum acacia, glycerol ester of rosin, zinc gluconate.

Now I do appreciate Glacéau’s very, very clever attempts at marketing their poisonous product - their super witty copy and very pretty packaging (it’s shiny! - hah, maybe cause that makes the ingredients harder to read).

But why can’t they just bring us all back to their simpler days of crisp, delicious Fruit Water? It was by far the best brand out there. And so much healthier than anything containing “glycerol ester of rosin”.

Please peeps, I’m not all water all the time - far from it, in fact. I love me some DCL (ah hem, sorry, Diet Coke with Lime). I thoroughly enjoy coconut iced coffee from DD. Ginger Ale is a necessity on the weekends (made with “Real Ginger” - oh, OK Canada Dry, whatever you say). And fine, I do make vats of powdery, processed Crystal Light. Omgees, and root beer? I would have a love affair with A&W if I could.

So believe you me, I’m not preaching. I’m sure there are enough toxic, carcinogenic ingredients (and sugar...and saccharin) in my aforementioned faves to kill a newborn New York City rat.

Alas, that doesn’t necessarily mean imma stop drinkin’ em! It just means that I am filled with crippling disgust and remorse right before I take that first sip. Only the first one, though, cause after that I’m just floating away on a root beer float sized bubble.

It’s kind of funny that human bodies can function on nothing but coffee and Mountain Dew and Budweiser alone (case in point: Fred Schopp). How do they not shrivel up, all dehydrated and malnourished? Yikes.

It kills me how Coca Cola is portrayed as a thirst quencher. Oh I’m just dying of thirst - what oh what do I want to drink? Let me just reach for that syrupy little concoction that used to be made with cocaine and will surely give me hiccups and make my stomach bloated.

Oh yes, yes, good plan, very good plan!

Knowing what I know and reading what I read about the ingredients in beverages I consume, I’d like to say I’m good with water from here on out. But I’ll be damned, I know that when someone puts a fountain rootbie with no ice and a big straw in front of me, all my inhibitions will go straight out the window.

Some more drinks I love: birch beer, Hawaiian Punch, blue raspberry ICEEs, coffee from Wawa (and their flavored creamer!), fruit punch Gatorade, margaritas, blueberry beer, Tang, Five Alive, limeade, Cran-Apple, lattes, Capri Suns, did I mention root beer?

Some more drinks I loathe (besides Mountain Dew and Coca Cola if that wasn’t obvi): Dr. Pepper and its stupid 23 flavors, milk (especially milk that is stored in a cabinet and not a refrigerator), Pepsi, Sunny D, prune juice, all non-green varieties of Mountain Dew, Nestea, Red Bull, lemon lime anything, Jolt (remember that?)...

...I could go on (and on and on and onnnnn)...but I WANT YOU to tell me: what beverages do you loathe (or love - but loathing is more fun).

Do (No?) Dankes: Take a Hike!

2010-06-09T07:24:00.001-04:00

Aaaah, Memorial Day. The barbeque season has begun. Beers and pools abound. It’s legal to wear white. ‘Tis the season for vacations and beaching and outdoor partying and…hiking? WTF!!

Well really, it’s my own damn fault. With so many things in life, I vomit the word “YES” before weighing the repercussions. Without really thinking about the follow-through. Without realizing the consequences may not be all ponies and rainbows.

Per usual, I planned on heading to CTees for the summer-kickoff. Last Christmas my brother, Timmy, said he’d be hiking-it-up that weekend. Which sounded like a lovely idea when I was sitting fireside nice and toasty. I barfed out, YES, please!

Oh man. It’s been nearly two weeks and my body is still hurting.

Rooftop gyms with elliptical workouts do not a mountain-hiking-body make.

Hiking to the highest point in Connecticut sounded great in theory - alas, it was anything but in practice. A fact which me and three of my fellow NYCers learned fairly quickly.

I’m not sure how I swindled Melissa, Meg, and Kelly “The Fly Trap” Cobb into coming with - but they did Metro-North-it all the way to Sharon, so they somewhat begrudgingly, somewhat enthusiastically agreed to go for a hike. The Northwest Corner of Connecticut is pretty and pastoral, after all!

We set off around 10:15 Saturday morning. It was raining - hard - on the drive over. I think it’s safe to say that I was not the only one cursing myself for agreeing (yes, I mean that they were cursing me too). A 6 mile hike? In the rain? Hell to the no dankes!

Fortunately (or unfortunately - cause that meant there was no backing out) the rain stopped just as we arrived at Bear Mountain in Salisbury. Luckily (or is it unluckily?) we secured the last spot in the lot. Water bottles in hand, we set off.

Who knows what we were thinking. Rather, what I was thinking. I’m no hiker. I’m no avid sportswoman. I don’t like nature! OK, fine, I heart nature - but still.

I don’t know how to pace myself - not with eating, drinking, swimming...and especially not with hiking.

Timmy warned us not to be too overzealous. But in all honesty, it was kind of hard not to be - our New York City aggressive power-walkingistas reared their ugly heads within seconds. And boy, I (for one) was winded ten steps up the trail.

It’s funny how one always thinks themselves capable of so much more. I (in more ways than one) think of myself as being 17 - not 27. I think I can run and dive for the ball and race in the pool and hike up the highest mountain in Connecticut - all without being fazed in the slightest.

But, surprise surprise, I can.not. I’m an old lady, yo! After five long ass minutes, I was over it. O.I. I was wondering where the hell the summit was and if I would be able to make it (there were times when I sincerely doubted my abilities). I whined to myself (fine, not exclusively to myself): Are we theeere yeeet?

My feet clodhopped along, stumbling on sticks and stones, rambling over roots and rivers, dodging piles of poopy land-mines and miserable swarms of horseflies and skeeters.

Boy oh boy were the bugs were out in full force. Poor Kelly’s head was circled like shark-bait by a minimum of two horseflies the entire time. Literally. Even after we all but dunked her head in Off. She pretty much ran up (and down) the mountain to try and escape them - with no luck.

Higher and higher we went. I wanted a car, a golf cart, a horse, anything to carry me and my two lazy legs. But upward I climbed. Whining all the while (a lot).

Like the hands of a clock on a workday, we marched onward but went nowhere. Until, at last, we approached the tree line. We were there, we did it, we were on top of the world!

Oh, but wait...no we weren’t. I wanted to stop.stop.stop - for the view was spectacular and I was spectacularly spent. But Timmy told us we’d know when we were there. So we trudged. Sigh.

Finally, after an hour and a half of upwardness, we were there for reals. My feelings, in this precise order, were: relief (we made it at last!), awe (the view was absolutely gorgeous - albeit a bit hazy), and horror (we had to go down now?)

We climbed the 125 year old monument (my favorite part - too bad you can’t read the inscription on the mason’s tablet!) and looked out upon lakes and hills and valleys. We drank water and ate Timmy’s homemade trailmix. I forced him to take pictures with his cell (thanks again!) And then...and then...we descended.

I’m all for changes of scenery - taking new a new route, a new path, seeing even more nature. Except when said path involves climbing down super steep, super slippery boulders. Shit was scary, yo!

We tripped, stumbled, rolled ankles, fell. We saw a dog carrying its own little pack (adorable), spotted snakes, were spooked by chipmunks acting 1,000 times their size. And though I did very much enjoy nature at its most natural I couldn’t help but - can you guess? - whine, whine, whine: Are we theeere yeeeet?

Down, down, down our tired, aching, leg-shaking bodies went, yearning all the while for piña coladas and poolside sun. But holy shit, that trail did not want to end! Were we lost? Did we take a wrong turn? Why is it TAKING SO F-ING LONG!

Then suddenly, after power-hiking downwards at an alarming pace, we rejoined with our first trail. Hallelujah, amen! Free at last. I felt like a marathoner with the finish line in full view.

And yet...and yet...where the hell was the parking lot?

It came into focus like a desert oasis. And boy was I loopy, drooling over the thought of lunch and frozen drinks and lounging by the pool - so close!

5 and 4 and 3 and 2 and 1 and...drumroll...DONE! 2,316 feet, 6 miles, countless bug swats and aches and pains later - we were finished. And boy did it feel good.

Though I shall not be saying yes to another hike anytime soon, it was a lovely feat to have accomplished. And while this post mostly berates our excursion, it was super fun...when all was said and done. Thanks for leading us city girls on an adventurous expedition, Timmy!

Ch-Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes

2010-05-25T07:26:00.003-04:00

Get your caboose in gear cause this train is going all the way to Ch-Change Town (and yes, David Bowie is aboard).

My very wise cubemate, Miss Melissa Presti, once told me there are three life-altering things you should not, not ever, attempt to tackle all at once: your abode, your career, and your love life.

Too bad I just moved into a new apartment, earned myself a promotion, and got a big ole ring on my finger.

OK fine, I keed about that last one. Even though two gay men lived my lovely apartment before me, there is no room for a guy in my living space - or my life, for that matter (at least not at the moment).

I was never a big fan of change. I’m sure I’ve blogged about my melodramatic younger self before - how she wouldn’t shut up when my family moved from Sharon Valley to Sharon Mountain (I left my ‘rents semi-suicidal, super-threatening notes chock full of how-dare-yous and woe-is-me-ness. I did not want to move!)

Change has always been to me what Smokey was to the people on the Island - a monster.

I think - scratch that, I know - that I’m having a hard time coming to terms with growing up. According to my college friend, Meghan, we graduated five years ago this past weekend. She said it seemed like only yesterday. I feel like it was .2 seconds ago.

Not to get all cheesy and Lost-y or anything, but life really does pass by in the blink of an eye. The flash of a light. Poof, game o-v-a. Heaven awaits (or whatever that was.)

So shit yo, you gotta roll with it (how very poignant that Oasis was singing those exact sentiments to me in the background as I typed away...I put on some Bob Dylan next.)

I waited 16 years and 4 months to get my driver’s license - now I live in a city where I don’t even need it. I’ve been a sun-aholic my whole life - now I think it’s safe to say my worshipping days are done.

I’m beginning to see the effects of goddamn gravity on certain body parts kept under wraps. Crows feet are starting to circle my eyes. Hell, even my feet aren’t immune to change: I used to wear a size 9 and now I don a 7.5. WHAT??

The definition of change is to make or become different. I’ve made a lot of changes myself. I’ve tried acupuncture, dabbled into Buddhism, stayed out way past my bedtime on a school night (attempting to be spontaneous), started a blog (!!), decided to interview for my new (now) job, chopped off my hair.

And - gasp - I’ve liked, even enjoyed lots of these things.

Hmm...I love my new apartment...I can’t wait to start my new job...

...have I changed my mind about change itself? Have I been so stuck in my anti-change-ness that I’ve failed to see what is so ridiculously obvious? That I’m embracing change? That I’m liking change?

I talked to my dad the other night and couldn’t help but notice how happy he sounded when telling how he’d won first place in his tractor pull competition on Sunday.

Oh yes. He’s retired, jobless for the first time in over four decades, and I thought I was talking to a teenage boy about his car. (Though instead of a car it was an antique tractor pulling thousand and thousands of pounds - he beat the next best puller by 2 feet!)

I think I like change. Well, let me rephrase: I like change when it’s for the better. Weeeell, that seems a bit unfair. OK I’ll rephrase once more: I am going to be as open as possible when it comes to change.

Yes, as open as possible...even if that means coming to terms with the fact that my father has just hopped the choo-choo (cuckoo) train to Hicksville and I’m leaving my wise, hilarious, sarcastic cubemate for the solitary existence of an office.

Do Dankes: acu.pun?sure!

2010-05-24T07:12:00.002-04:00

(Boy was that a sorry excuse for a pun. But I just can’t help myself - I love puns. My friend Jeffery and I could hold a conversation exclusively in puns and abbreviations - in fact, we often do.)

Alas, the point of this post is not, in fact, to perfect a plucky little pun (nor is it to utter incredibly awesome alliterations).

Instead it’s to sing praises of that prickly Eastern practice: being poked with needles.

Acupuncture has been around since the Stone Age. Vicodin? Not even a hundred years (you do the math).

I, however, didn’t get around to trying the former until last week - and honestly, it doesn’t surprise me one bit that insurance companies don’t cover this form of holistic medicine. Pharmaceutical giants would drop faster than marathoners on a hot day!

Not only do they not cover it - they frown upon it. Look down on it. Turn others against it.

It’s pretty ridiculous how acupuncture is so pooh-poohed by mainstream medicine. Unfairly and unjustly so. Yeah, it’s confusing and not just a little intimidating, what with all the lingo - meridians and channels and qi and zang-fu - and how the hell does it actually work!

But who cares! There are lots and lots of things we don’t understand in life (or Lost). So whatever - cause I sure do think it works wonders.

There are so many ailments acupuncture alleviates: aches, pains, anxiety, stress, sickness, depression, forgetfulness. Instead of ingesting 10 different pills for each of your symptoms, the simple solution is a few sessions of this most brilliant Ancient Chinese practice (it’s cumulative so it takes a bit to see results).

I’ve heard about the magic that is acupuncture firsthand. Kelly has often raved about it. Even my mother, Queen of Western Medicine, turned to acupuncture for her chronic pain (shocking, I know!)

But as I said, insurance don’t cover it - and it’s not cheap, especially in the city.

Reason #1,892 K. Cobb is awesome? She does her research - all I have to do is reap the benefits. That’s how we ended up at a Community Acupuncture last Wednesday. Only $25!

Needles don’t make me nervous - in fact, I was more curious and excited than anything. I sat in the anti-gravity chair, rolled up my pants, and watched as the acupuncturist plotted, examined, and stabbed. Four in each leg, a few in my chest, and one in my scalp.

Immediately there was a sensation of energy swirling and pulsating through my entire body - like someone had turned a faucet on. It was pretty crazy. I’ve not experienced anything like it ever.

The more needles she stabbed into my skin (they’re super thin and go in about a quarter of an inch), the more I felt my blood flowing. The deeper my relaxation went. The more I let go and the less I cared about the million things I had weighing and pressing upon my mind. It was a bit nirvana-esque.

Sure, it’s called “Community” for a reason - there’s other people in the room with you, there’s no wooden pipe-y/chanty music, the lights aren’t dimmed - but for $25, who cares.

I didn’t want to be un-stuck. I was sad when she said she was going to start removing the needles (there was a teeny spot of blood on my legs but other than that, A-OK).

All in all, ‘twas a lovely experience. Kathy Cobb had a brilliant suggestion for next time (inspired by my Obsessive Impulsive Disorder post: I should ask them to stick a needle in the spot that makes me shop - maybe that will stop me!

Some More Hair-Raising Atrocities

2010-05-19T07:04:00.001-04:00

Last fall I posted a blog about hair. But apparently I underestimated the “everywhere” part cause oh man, I hadn’t seen nothing yet.

Why do people find hair so luxurious, so glorious, so glamorous? Commercials, celebrities, photographs, magazines, ads - so many forms of media leave us girls (and the occasional superficial man) with an acute case of hair envy.  

Why?

Hair is gross. It’s keratin - dead, filamentous cells - and yet we bleach it, dye it, blow-dry it, cut it, style it, pull it, spray it, comb it, straighten it, braid it - all in the name of beauty.

While I count myself among those plagued by the stigma surrounding baldness (poor men! POOR women!), that doesn’t really change my viewpoint on how dreadfully vulgar stray strands of hair can be. Let me count the (additional) ways.

There’s the free-falling follicle you feel tumbling down your arms and back - creepy. And chances are, that creepy little tress is gonna lodge itself in some inconvenient crevice until your next shower. Ew.

There’s the massive clumps of hair in your brush that must be cleaned out - nasty business I say, nasty. But if you don’t do it (and do it often), then you’re just brushing your clean little locks with dirty deadness. Brushes full-o-hair skeeve me out...

...especially on brushes where there should NOT be hair. Oh yeah, I have recently experienced hair wrapped around my toothbrush.

As my Sonicare was scrubbing and vibrating and rumbling away, I felt that super distinct sharpness poking my tongue (how do cats DO it??) I pulled the brush out of my mouth and nearly spit out my mouthful of Marvis on my wooden floor.

I found this all quite perplexing seeing as how I brush n’ blow-dry in my bedroom. How did I stray hair end up on my TOOTHBRUSH?

I pulled and tugged and unraveled as best I could - but I didn’t finish scrub-a-dub-dubbing my pearly whites that night. I was far too disgusted.

And though I thought I had taken care of the offensive fallen-follicle felon, I did NOT. It was still THERE the next time I brushed. Ick, ick, ick.

But I suppose D) All of the Above is nein, nada, nothing compared to…drum roll please…when other people’s hair is in your food.

Yeah, yeah - I’m sure we ingest all kinds of bugs and dirt and, yes, hair in our lifetime. But does that make it OK? No! NO!

This past weekend I had two such unlucky experiences - the first was a bug on my sangria Saturday night. The second was a hair in my aloo matar Sunday night. And it was from Whole Foods. Whole Foods!

Always happens with Indian Food. Always! Two years ago there was an exactly identical culprit - short, thick, black, and juicy (though that is a disguuuusting word to use, it did, in fact, look juicy) - in my vegetable malai (a few months later a friend of a friend got dysentery from the same restaurant, Ghandi Cafe...I’m glad my incident was only a hair).

And while I was sick to my stomach over that juicy hair in my hot food bar meal, I wanted to keep eating it. Sucks! I had a few bites from the opposite end of the bowl then tossed it.

Needless to say, I don’t think I’ll be eating Indian anytime soon.

Obsessive Impulsive Disorder

2010-05-18T07:01:00.003-04:00

Compulsive, impulsive - I’m a little bit of both. The latter especially as of late.

I blame my new apartamento. You see, I didn’t want to go out and get supplies and decorations upon decorations when I moved into my rabbit hutch. But I’m just beside myself and overcome with excitement over my new mansion (chicken coop shall we call it?) that I’ve shopped, shopped, shopped - and boy has my checking account dropped (dropped, dropped).

I suppose I’ve always been impulsive. It’s kind of like having a split personality - I’ll be in a store and my Miss Moneybags persona takes over, all reassuring and calm and confident. Of COURSE you can buy that and oh! That’s cute, you better get it now before it’s gone! Whatever it’s such a bargain!

I blackout and I buy. And then I regret.

I blame Bloomingdale’s for escalating and encouraging my impulsive behavior (my fabulous, glamorous former co, Miss Samantha Chu, has a fabulous blog - how I miss her!)

I was surrounded by clothes, clothes, clothes all day long - can you really blame me for not walking out of my shift with purchases in hand? Working there taught me to take shopping lightly. To snatch things up before someone else did.

Miss Moneybags was a semi-OK persona when I was at Blooms - unfortunately for Miss Parry, though, her bad habits endure to this day. In a more expensive city. Where discounts don’t apply.

My impulsiveness, like nausea, comes in waves. Every few months I’ll crack the proverbial whip and put myself on mandatory retail probation. If I don’t pass below Houston, the shops in SoHo cannot collect my Monopoly money. If I avoid sample sales, my wallet can puff back up a bit (a very slight bit).

No manis, no pedis, no waxing, no threading - I try my darndest to suck it up and invoke my inner D.I.Y.onista.

I was on one such self-mandated probation until mid-April when I upped and moved. Then the itty bitty shopping bug bit me - and apparently it’s still biting and sucking and draining bill after bloody bill from my bank account.

I don’t know how to reason with myself. I can’t argue both sides. It’s like sense of urgency tinged with anxiety takes hold and consumes me. I’m all tunnel-vision all the time - if I see something I like (within reason, obvi!), I simply have to have it. There is no thinking it over, no rationalizing that I already have four navy blue skirts (do I really need another??), or that because something is only $5 that means I must buy it. And absolutely not, not ever, ever are there thoughts of saving for the future (do people actually do that?)

Alas, I think it’s a good sign that I recognize my impulsivity - that’s the first step, I do believe. And I am happy to report that I can no longer blame myself for my ne’er-do-well-ness.

You see, this horrific trait-o-mine was not something I learned - like my ABCs or how to ride a bike - oh no. It was something innate, something I inherited from my mother and my father, an imprint on my DNA if you will.

Father-Mother-Daughter all share this same Obsessive Impulsive Disorder gene. (My brother I must exclude - he actually takes time and thinks through his purchases...that’s why he’s going to be a millionaire and I’m going to be a poor little pauper begging him for money all the time.)

I didn’t really put two and two together until a few weeks ago. My mom was in the market for a new recliner for the living room and found one she thought she liked. She stared and sat and talked to the saleswoman and then she bought it. Only when the chair was in our house did she ask what the return policy was (there wasn’t one). Cue Anthony Marentino, “HATES IT!”

Oh and then there was the time my dad decided to get a bulldozer. I mean a boat. I mean an RV.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.

Let’s see. There was the shower curtain I just had to have on target.com (even though I knew I would be going to an actual Target Store within the week). I got it, liked it, went to the real store and loved a different one they had. Fail!

There was the TV stand I just had to have before I moved in and knew what my space would be like. Not enough room. Fail!

Then there’s the million little holes in my freshly painted walls from impulsive picture frame hanging placements gone awry - fail! (Still a work in progress - need to get me some plaster to fill dem holes!)

I have so many shirts, dresses, pants, necklaces, earrings, rings, shoes, bags - all purchased in Monopoly-money-blackout-moments, all never worn.

What’s a girl to do, though? Never shop again?

Don’t make me laugh. I just think they need to invent a pill for OID.

Real Estate Heaven (Parte Deux)

2010-05-12T07:02:00.002-04:00

As if the stress and duress of finding a new apartment to call home isn’t enough - no. No, then you actually have to move into it.

I’ll admit, I was pretty psyched. Eh, that’s an understatement: I was ridiculously pumped. I had me a case of the chronic Christmas morning jitters. I was counting down the days, the minutes, the hours until Wednesday April 22nd.

But along with the good so too comes the bad. There are just so many un-fun things that exchanging abodes implies. For example: the cleaning and scrubbing of new AND old digs, the switching over of bill addresses and magazine subscriptions, the plotting and planning of new setups, the dread of not getting your security deposit back, the organizing of jewelry boxes (it took me HOURS), the coordinating with Supers and movers.

Boy, that last one nearly pushed me over the edge.

The Fred Schopp moving company was unavailable for a midweek move so I (gasp) had to hire real movers. At least for my big funiture - for the smaller stuff I hired a moving company called Friends and paid them in pizza and beer (thanks Kelly, Katie L., Kerry & Ri).

Apparently I was so strung out with packing and updating all those damn addresses that in my semi-conscious state of mass confusion, I saved the movers in my phone under “Valon Super” (pronounced Val-en).

When I called Valon (or who I thought was Valon) to ask about fixing the faucet in my tub and to find out whether or not I could cover the ugly gas meter in my kitchen, the man (aptly and not-so-conveniently named Allen), responded with a “Yes, we bring tools and fix better than you can.” But he failed to understand what, exactly, I was talking about.

Our conversation went on for approximately 10 minutes. All the while, Allen seemed super confused - which majorly confused me - why didn’t he understand what I was talking about?? He’d been in the apartment a million times!

Allen said he needed to get keys from me before fixing up the tub. “But you have keys to my apartment,” I said, thinking he must have misplaced them and that I could simply hand off my spare set. He said I needed to be there. “No, I trust you!” I said. And he thanked me - and though I thought that odd, my fuzzy little mind still didn’t put the puzzle pieces together.

When we were ending our conversation, Allen asked if I wanted to move on Tuesday instead of Wednesday. “No, no, you don’t have to MOVE me, you’re my Super! I hired movers!” Lightbulbs exploded. Umm, yeah. He was the mover.

WOW. Really, just wow. I had just had an intensely frustrating, ten minute long conversation with someone I thought was my Super.

Foreshadowing of ill-luck to come?

Wednesday morning couldn’t arrive quickly enough. I felt like a five year old listening for reindeer. Instead of Santa, though, I got two cute Chinese men in a circa 1987 mini-van. They assured me they could fit everything in their van and asked if I could sit in the drivers seat and “You know, drive around the block” if cops came (there was no parking to be had). Umm...OK.

Everything was moving along nice and smooth until the couch. The couch! Ugh. It didn’t wanna go out and it sure as hell didn’t wanna come in. Good thing my father, the hero (/genius), was there to take the legs off at the old apartment.

If only he’d had the foresight to take the door off the new one - man, it was like shoving a square peg in a round hole. And I mean shoving.

My kooky (albeit super sweet) next door neighbor came out into the hallway to see what the ruckus was - apparently they were heaving and hoeing so hard, her pictures were falling off the walls.

Scratches and scrapes and ripped cushions aside, there rest of the day was drama free. It was a long one to be sure - though not quite as bad as my epic Leroy-Sullivan move.

After the unpacking, the organizing, the decorating, the cleaning, the weeding through and throwing out, my new apartamento finally feels like home. I can’t believe how lucky I am! To have a one bedroom in Greenwich Village on the FIRST FLOOR that’s cheaper than my fourth floor studio!

I’m in love, I’m in love and I don’t care who knows it! (As evidenced by my photographic homage!)

I’ve ‘Lost’ Interest

2010-05-10T07:14:00.001-04:00

I started watching Lost on iTunes when the show was midway through its second season. Just like my first taste of Mister Softee, I was immediately hooked.

I devoured the first season and was devastated - kind of like all the Mad Men newbies are - when I finished watching all available episodes and - gasp - had to watch but one a week. With commercials.

My heart hurt during the 3rd season when I read that Lost was going to end in May of 2010. Noooooooo, I thought. They can’t!!!

My, how people change.

Now I cannot wait for Lost to be over. O-V-E-R. Because boy oh boy am I so over it.

Maybe it’s because, like 24, everything is interminable; so little time passes. It’s the same day for two, three, four ep’s. By the time night has fallen, I’ve forgotten the OMG moment from that a.m.

Perhaps I’m being too harsh - maybe it’s just me and my inability to remember every single little detail of what makes _____ such a big deal.

Lost was so cool when it was realistic. OK well not “realistic” per se - people don’t survive massive plane crashes and polar bears don’t live on tropical islands and there’s no such thing as smoke-comprised monsters. Fine.

I’m talking realistic in the what-are-we-going-to-eat/drink/DO, how are we going to survive on this ISLAND in the middle of NOWHERE? Realistic in the sense of The Others (who ARE they?), the Dharma Initiative (what IS it?), the crazy French woman with the gun. Charlie’s heroin problem. Claire’s baby. Kate and Jack’s unrequited chemistry.

I loved Lost when it was...relatable? Sure, I live on an island called Manhattan, not some magical disappearing island - but still. It was a story of survival. Now it’s somehow become some ridiculous, sci-fi-ridden story of Good vs. Evil. What? What?

Lost has, for me, been demoted to the ranks of Heroes. Nip/Tuck. The Hills. I started out with so much interest, so much enthusiasm - and now I dislike. Lost has lost me in all of its ridiculousness.

I don’t know what I deem the most outrageous - time traveling, sex in cages, parallel universes, the metaphoric God vs. the metaphoric Devil, dead people coming back to life, how the hell Hurley has not lost a single goddamn pound since he’s been on the island, or Crazy Claire’s HAIR.

I’m going to stick it out - but believe you me, it will be most begrudgingly so. I’m loyal to fault with my TV shows (excepting The Hills - I was too furious that Lauren Conrad “wrote” a book - well, and Heroes - Sylar scared the shit out of me).

It’s pretty unfortunate that there are over four hours left to watch - that’s precious time I could spend writing way better posts than this.

Red Eyes

2010-05-05T07:18:00.001-04:00

How have I never no dankesed this before? There are SO MANY things in the red eye familia to talk smack ‘bout.

First and foremost - demon eyes in photos (Shan and Beth are so pretty! I bring the picture down, down, down).

I’ve been a lifelong red eyer and believe you me - ‘tain’t cool. I don’t get it. I’m not an albino bunny. I’m not a dragon or a white mouse or a robot. I’m not a evil little bug or a piece of red velvet cake (though that would be nice). I’m not the Devil (believe it or not).

I was over the moon when those red eye pens came out in the late 90s. Though I was fairly heavy-handed and a little too overzealous - ended up hiding lots of pics at the bottom of my drawer because I was ashamed of my marker-blue peepers.

Come onnnn yo! It’s so unfair! Why hasn’t someone invented a reasonably priced RED EYE FREE camera? Enough with that reduction shit, it don’t work!

Every.single.picture.ever - red eyes. Like, ever! Thankfully Mr. Jobs invented iPhoto.

Moving on before I get too heated...

I was never a hugely allergy-ridden person. (Well that’s not entirely true - they were about to cut me open and perform exploratory surgery when I was a baby because I was allergic to milk and they didn’t know it. Let’s hear it for the goats!) I guess I’ve just never had those kind of allergies - the eyeball kind. Pollen, hay, dust - bring it on.

Ben Stein and GO: For dry, red eyes, Clear Eyes is awesome. So I’ve heard!

Allergies, pink eye, contacts, no dankes! I hate ‘em all - if only on behalf of my friends and fam (poor Miss Carberry and her little poisonous kiddies with their pernicious, pervasive little pink eyes; poor Papa P with his terrible, awful, no good, very bad allergies; poor Shannon with her hard contacts!! GAH!)

What I have had, though, is a cold in my eyes - yes a COLD (sniff sniff) in my EYES (red red water water crust crust gross gross). I hate burning! I hate crustiness! I hate having red eyes in real life in addition to red eyes in pictures! So not fair.

Anyway. So as we all know, the English language is filled to the brim with nonsensical phrases and double meanings and tomfoolery - I count my lucky stars that I’ve had 27 years to learn it cause I can’t imagine starting now (and to those of you who’ve had longer than me, the Grammar Police says: GET IT RIGHT, already!!!)

To make matters confusing (because hell, that’s our language’s forte), there are a few things that fall under the Red Eye umbrella but are not, in fact, fiery little scarlet eyeballs.

Case in point: the flight. Usually it’s from Cali heading east. Or NYC to Europe. When I was in the Foreign Travel Club at Housy, I never quite understood why we left in the afternoon, flew for a long time, and didn’t get to go to sleep when we got there. We hit the ground running - well, other people did. I, for one, was dragging my feet (surprised?)

Those flights are misery personified. At least for the unlucky select few of us who aren’t capable and/or talented enough to fall asleep in planes, trains, or automobiles (it’s really quite unfortunate - I very much envy those narcoleptic friends-o-mine who can fall asleep sitting up).

I suppose the one saving grace of the repertoire that is “Red Eye” is that most delicious drink: Coffee with a shot of espresso.

I always wanted to be in the Red Eye club at Starbucks. I’d hear people order them - clandestinely, I swear - and wonder what the hell it was. Good thing my friend Jeffery was already a member. Once he told me what was it was, I immediately went out and ordered one. It was love at third sip (once the shockingly strong, shockingly hot initial jolt worked its way through my hater-percolator).

I wish I could say that that last Red Eye - so rich and potent and almost creamy (I heart you Starbs!) - cancelled out the other, more loathsome lot of red eyes. But alas, it does not. Sigh.

Do Dankes: 27 Candles!

2010-05-04T07:12:00.002-04:00

What do I want to be when I grow up?

I think about that question a lot. Like, a lot a lot. Probably more than someone in their late 20s should. But I suppose it’s fairly fair - at least according to those AARP commercials.

Nobody likes getting older. Every day that passes, every hour, every breath is one that brings us closer to our death. Morbid, yes. But also true.

Needless to say, I wasn’t looking forward to turning 27. Late twenties? Omfg. I seriously feel like it was just last year I was reading “Seventeen Things to Do Before You’re 17” in my high school library. When did I grow up?  

But I had such a wonderfully spectacular, fantastically fabulous, super fun filled weekend that I feel I can no longer complain about birthdays. Birthdays are awesome! 

This was the first one in as long as I can remember that I forgot - literally forgot - to feel depressed. It was such an extravaganza filled with so much hoopla that there really was no time. And as much as I sing her praises all the time, I feel I must throw one more shout out Kelly Cobb’s way - she is the world’s BEST best friend!

I don’t want to bore you with every single little detail - but here are some highlights:

It kicked off Thursday with a gallery/store opening in the East Village. There was a sangria fountain. Yes, a fountain full of sangria. What! As if that wasn’t enough, there was also a super cute oilcloth clutch purchase. There was dining al fresco. There was great conversation and lots of laughs. And that was only the beginning! 

Friday ‘twas even lovelier! There was more al fresco dining - complete with white wine and strawberries in plastic cups. There was cupcakes from coworkers, a reading in Chinatown, DRINKS in Chinatown where the bartenders wore shirts THANKING us for coming to Chinatown. There was kick-ass nachos and Sam Summer.

And my birthday wasn’t for two more days!

Saturday my friend Sarah came all the way from DC. Manicures, pedicures, coconut ice cream cones and lunch - can you guess - outside! The weather was glorious.

There were party dresses and pretty ladies galore at my delicious bday dinner where I was sung to not once, not twice, but THREE times with THREE different desserts including a most delicious funfetti cake by Kelly. There were words describing me (Ri’s idea - so sweet!) ranging from “opinionated” (ha) to “Titanic” (amazing) to “generous”.

There was a big ole table being held outdoors at Bull McCabe’s and so many friends I can’t even list them (and let’s face it, I was a little tipsy by then so my memory isn’t 100%). Hugs and kisses, kisses and hugs! AND red velvet cupcakes my mom baked. There was late night Joe’s pizza where some someone thought Fred was Kyle Orton (QB for the Broncos) - without missing a beat Fred said yes, yes he is, and proceeded to take two pictures with the guy and his young son (it was amazing and kinda sad at the same time). (It is quite uncanny though - can you guess which one this is below?)

Yes, then there was some stumbling. Sarah asked Fred why he didn’t catch me and he said “You can’t catch a falling tree”. True. Before helping me up I told him to wait a second I wanted to take a bite of pizza first (at least I’ve got my priorities straight).

And all this before my ACTUAL BIRTHDAY. Omg, how lucky am I?

On Sunday there were phone calls and texts and Facebook posts galore. There was a not-so-hot brunch (helloooooo toilet) - but I perked up shortly thereafter. There was more outdoor drinking (hair of the dog that took a HUGE bite out of me), present opening (beautiful packages and BEAUTIFUL gifts), there were cards, cards, cards (my brother’s enclosed gift nearly gave me a heart attack, that generous sibling-o-mine!), and to top it all off there was a strawberry milkshake and burger at the Shake Shack. Whew!

So this post was pretty much a huge list outlining how spoiled I am (cut knee aside). Not my intention to make ya’lls jealous! Just wanted to write a bit of an homage to my wonderful, generous, thoughtful, beautiful friends and family.

I guess I don’t need to worry too much about what I’m doing with my life cause as long as I’m surrounded by such great people I know that at least I must be doing something right.

Real Estate Hell (Parte Un)

2010-04-26T07:12:00.002-04:00

A thousand million apologies, my most beloved followers! Apparently I’ve become a diva since turning one.

No but for reals, I’ve been deep in the depths of real estate hell. And boy was it b-a-d. I’ve finally escaped - though not unscathed. (Be forewarned, this is only part one.)

I’d come to love my cozy little rabbit hutch. But that’s what it was - a rabbit hutch. Two years in 170 square feet was more than enough - it was time for something big...ger (I don’t think it’s possible to go “big” in Manhattan unless you’re making da BIG bucks). So let’s just say I was ready for a real apartment. After all, I’m a real girl!

I was chomping at the bit with excitement and anticipation - the countdown to May 1st had begun. This was to be my first NYC apartment that I actually spent time searching for. Boy oh boy oh boy!

I’ve had fairly good luck finding abodes in this city. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that I’ve been overeager and overanxious and said YES without truly searching. My Leroy Street place was the second one I looked at. I filled out the application in the hallway and celebrated getting it later that day. The Sullivan Street apt. was only the third one I saw - I signed that lease the following day.

New York real estate is ridonculous - even if you don’t live here, that, at least, you know. It’s do or die. Eat or be eaten. Sign on the spot or LOSE what you’ve got. Oh, and you have approximately four weeks (oftentimes far less) to find and sign.

I think apartamento hunting is the most cutthroat thing you’ll ever do as an NYCer. (Well perhaps that’s an overstatement...might be a tossup between that and sample sale hunting - that gets pretty damn ugly, too.)

But really, the former is quite outrageous. You’ve gotta be prepared for a throw-down showdown between youself and the 10 other peeps who are (inevitably) vying for the same spot. You’ve gotta have your credit scores handy, make 40x the rent (or have a guarantor who makes 80x), a letter of employment - and you have to be prepared to pay up - first, last, and security...all notarized and bank certified, obvi.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. That right there’s the fun part. The easy part (well, for me at least - not necessarily for Papa P...he looked like he was about to go into cardiac arrest).

It’s what comes before all that initialing and signing and paying your life away that’s the true pain in the ass.

I had a picture in my mind of what I wanted in a new apartment: a huge living space, separate bedroom, laundry in the building, lots of light, a dishwasher, tons of closet space, an on-site super, no higher than the second floor, NOT facing the street, exposed brick, very reasonably priced (as if anything in Manhattan is reasonable), more turtles in a fountain and a courtyard - and, of course, in Greenwich Village. (No, no marijuana was not consumed during the penning of that statement.)

I’m sure realtors had quiiiite the chuckle when they read my wish list. Many didn’t respond; those who did pretty much pooh-poohed me; and everyone told me I had to either look further east OR raise my budget.

I was willing to do neither. And holy shit was it a shitshow.

It’s hard out there for a primp! I mean, I consider myself pretty cool and easygoing. I can handle shabby, dark hallways and dust bunnies on parade. But of the 10ish places I saw, a mere 1/5 were not cringe-inducing.

I retracted my apartment-hunting-in-NYC-is-easy-for-ME mentality immediately. It was not relaxing, leisurely, or enjoyable. In fact, there was nothing positive about it.

No, no. I didn’t see any mice. Or waterbugs, for that matter. What I did see were apartments smaller than my rabbit hutch. Darker, dirtier, smellier, graffitier hallways. Narrower stairwells. 2' x 2' stand-up shower stalls. Places sans ovens. SIXTH FLOOR WALK-UPS.

It was outrageous. OUTRAGEOUS, I say!

Was I crazy? Did I need a lobotomy à la McMurphy? I didn’t want it too be too small. Or too expensive. Or too high up. I wanted it to be juuuuust right. Apparently that was just too much to ask for!

I strongly considered moving to the East Village. Or even - gasp - to Chelsea. OMG! But late one afternoon I saw a posting on Craigslist. There were no pictures (sketchy), but it was a one bedroom...one block away from Sullivan...and less expensive. I gave it a whirl.

Ding ding ding, ladies and gentlemen, we had a WINNER! It had me at hellooooooo.

Buh-bye Sullivan Street! Holla atcha Thompson Street!

(To Be Continued)

Do Dankes: Spring Done Sprung

2010-04-07T08:06:00.000-04:00

And all I can say is YAY!

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

But seriously, spring is the most wonderful time of the year.

Aside from the bikini-baring-body countdown (yikes), ‘tis the season to be chipper. How could one not be, what with all the chirping!

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

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

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

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

Then, on Sunday afternoon we had an Easter egg hunt (obvi...but it was a good one, those eggs were full of cash!) I didn’t find the golden egg but my uncle spied what he thought was a cat. Or a rat. But oh, it was too small for a rat.

Then my aunt Lissette screamed, “It’s a bunny, it’s a bunny! It’s an Easter miracle!” We laughed and jumped up and down like we were five years old.

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

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

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

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

But that first nice day of the new year, people remember how to smile. They remember how to laugh, how to be polite, how to be happy.

So fine, so that sounds a little melodramatic, but you get what I’m saying. You know it’s true.

Spring is so alive, so beautiful. Waaaay prettier than every other season (though I daresay when May 2nd rolls around from now on it’s gonna be ugly...I don’t waaaant to grow up!!)

I love walking down the street and seeing a myriad of blooming tulips, cherry blossoms elegantly weighing down limbs, trees with bright green buds. I love waking up to the sound of birds chirping - even if they’re dirty NYC birds and they’re screeching. I love how the air is warm and everyone is escaping from the wintertime-woodwork, how every restaurant and bar sets up tables on the sidewalk, how everyone is carefree and genuinely jolly.

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

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

A Year in Blogrospect

2010-03-31T07:08:00.002-04:00

In typical Katie Parry fashion, I forgot that yesterday was the one year anniversary of my blog! Aren’t you pumped? Well fine, I don’t blame you. I do, however, thank you for reading! thankyouthankyouthankyou.

To celebrate and commemorate, I thought it would be “fun” to write about the trials and tribulations, the ups and downs, the pros and cons, and yeah, the sheer awesomeness that being a blogga for 365 - er, 366 days - has entailed.

Some of the highlights:

Getting friended on Facebook by Derek Warburton! I received the friend request but two hours after my semi-snarky post, Celebridiculous Redux, went up this past Monday. Flustered, I fretted. Was it because I had volunteered at his Housing Works VIP Gala? Was he friending everyone who helped out?

I ambushed Kelly the second she came on gchat. Nope, she had not been friended.

I read and reread the post. Was he pissed at me? Would he e-yell at me? After tons of reassurance from Miss Cobb that Mr. Warburton wasn’t actually going to turn me into fashion sidewalk-kill, I accepted. Very shortly thereafter, I received a message: “thank you for your interesting commentary about the Housing Works event tee hee. xxx Derek”. Ahhh! So cool! And cooler still that he didn’t loathe me.

Obviously I’d like friend requests from the other celebrities I mentioned - Robert Pattinson, Kate Winslet, Robert Pattinson - but I guess I’ll take my victories where I can get them.

Then there was the FB message from Emily Wells (semi-famous singer) that she sent after reading my raving love-fest of a post about live music. She said, “Katie... thanks for the rad review... glad to have inspired a self proclaimed cynic... cheers... see you again in NYC.”

So yeah, those are some of the more blindingly bright spots I’ve reaped in my blogger career.

Some less star-striking - but just as stellar - experiences:

Hearing that people actually read and actually like and sometimes even relate to my posts. It feels good to know I’m not the only person in the world who complains (even if I do do it more than the next person).

Getting new followers without having to threaten their livelihood! (If I make it to 100, Melissa will bake me cupcakes...so pretty, pretty please with some sprinkles on top, just click that FOLLOW button already, sososo easy!) I also love when perfectly perfect strangers (no not Balki…I wish) become followers.

Comments! Love comments. Can’t get enough of your comments (and by you I mean Jeffery, Melissa & Kelly - thanks buddies!) Alas I would LOVE for some new peeps to comment, too! I heart hearing what ya’lls have to say. It makes me feel un-alone, like I’m really not just chillin in cyberspace with my blog and my Mac. I don’t want to be a blogMac lady! (I aspire to be more interactive but to no avail. What’s the fear, ladies and gentlemen? I judge, you judge, we all go down…to the hot place. Whatever. Comment!)

When I hear people using “no dankes!” like it’s part of the English language canon or something. Like it’s a real phrase, next stop Oxford Dictionary! (Well OK, so it’s mostly my friends saying it...when I’m around...but still. It’s cool to hear them use this weird ass invention of a phrase to talk shit about shit.)

Honestly I think I’ve loved about 92.8% of the world that is No Dankes! And 99.7% of that percentage comes from my friends and family and family’s friends and quasi-Facebook-friends and co’s aaaaall banding together to support me and pat me on the back and rah-rah-rah in my face at me to keep it up.

Cheesy as it sounds, I don’t think I would have lasted one month in my negative little cyberspace universe without your compliments, your consistently positive reinforcement, your encouragement.

Thank you. Truly.

But enough with the happy-go-lucky Do Dankes! bullshit. I’m here to No Dankes! And what better way to end this entry than on a negative note?

A few No Dankes! regarding No Dankes!:

Chronic complaining is hard on the heart and heavy on the brain. Apologies for my lousy 2-posts-per-week showings as of late. I’s been having me a case of writers block. Dare I say - gasp - I’m more chipper than I was a year ago? Har-de-har-har. Like that will ever happen. No worries, dear friends and followers! Snarky McSnarkerson will never become all nice all the time.

My mom yelling at me every time I say “goddamn.” If one were to overhear her scolding me, one would guess I’m about to celebrate my 7th birthday - not my 27th (yikes). Trissi would probably relish in sticking a bar of soap in my mouth - but alas she cannot, for: a) I live in a different state, and b) I am now bigger than she is.

The typos. The typos! I abhor them. But as much as I aspire to be an officer in the Grammar Police Brigade, we can’t win em all. I could edit and reedit and reword and rework all.day.every.day. But then there would be no posts! And the point of a blog is, after all, the posts. So it’s pretty lose-lose. (But like the MTA, I beg you: If you see something, say something. I don’t enjoy the Cone of Shame that a spelling or grammatical error forces me into.)

Annnd I’m gonna stop there. Because I’m sure one of YOUR No Dankes!, dear fair-weather readers, is my long-winded-ness.

Thanks so much everyone! Especially to those of you who made it to the end of this post! As a reward, you get the chance to participate in a really fun contest: Post a comment below about something you’re maaaayjahly no dankes-ing at the moment. Perhaps it’s one of mine too! If I write a blog about your comment, you will get a super special, super top secret prize. Comment away! xoxo

The MousekeTears

2010-03-30T07:12:00.003-04:00

Don’t get me wrong now. I’m not saying I love mice. I’m not about to get me a pet Mickey or anything. What I am no dankesing is mice in my apartment.

Who wants to share a room with a rodent?

I get it. Buildings are warm and cozy and there’s food aplenty - very unlike the cold, wet, dangerous outdoors.

Hell, if I was a mouse I would prob be suicidal - albeit smart (well, maybe: No do NOT eat that cheese Katie, no, NO!...snap...I guess we can’t win em all) - rather than remain cold, wet, and starving.

Luckily I am not a mouse. Unluckily I live in a city where rodents outnumber humans 6 to 1. Nastiness!

My friends and I have had some fairly heated debates regarding the Bug vs. Mouse sitch. Ri, for instance, would rather have a bug infestation (this coming from the girl who had bedbugs - that’s a pretty bold statement), pointing out that mice have fur and are warmblooded.

I, on the other hand, would opt for mice cause I.hate.bugs.

This preference was reaffirmed on Sunday when I found a mostly dead cockroach in my bathroom. But - and there is a but - this partiality is probably due to the fact that - knock on wood - I haven’t had a mouse problem in my Sullivan Street apartment.

My Leroy Street apartamento was a different can of worms entirely. And that can was chock full of squiggly squirmy pests.

All I can say is thank GOD I was living with my ex-boyfriend Ben at the time

One winter night, in the wee small hours, I got up to go to the bathroom. I tend to not turn on the light (I’m a middle-of-the-night-bathroom-break pro unfortunately). But for some reason on that particular night, I flipped the switch - and as soon as I did, I knew a mouse would come running out from behind our hamper.

Needless to say, I was right. (Totally made me believe in that New Age bullshit that is The Secret.)

I squealed as that fat little porker, let’s call him Jerry, skirted and skidded around the corner towards his oh-so-original mouse hidey-hole behind the fridge.

I made a panicked effort at waking Ben up - but come on, what could he do? Jerry had already made his escape! So I tried to go back to sleep. Fail! Half an hour later, back to the bathroom I went to get me some Tylenol PM.

I turned on the light - dummy! why do I not learn from my mistakes! - and there was another mouse...dangling...from the medicine cabinet. Literally. This time I screeched and screamed and shouted - decibels upon decibels higher than one imagines a human possible of making. I stumbled into the shower and watched as skinny, ragamuffin little Minnie (she was no doubt fatso Jerry’s deprived girlfriend) fell into the sink and frantically scrambled to get out. Picture a hamster running up the inside of a slippery ball. Then I pulled the curtain closed and screamed some more.

No mice were captured and no sleep was to be had that night - the first of many nights over many weeks and months of mice sneak attacks.

There was the mouse who tight-roped along our door frame and fell into my shoe rack after we shined the flashlight spotlight on him. There was the mouse who ran across Ben’s bare feet while he was making dinner. (I would have died.)

Ben called himself the Mouse Hunter - and hunter he was. Fo sho. He must have caught a dozen mice. Thankfully I never saw a one corpse - though I did smell a few decomposing. They were disposed of immediately.

But it made me sad, the slaughtering of so many innocent little critters. Really sad, actually. They were just trying to keep cozy and find a snack!

There was one especially upsetting occasion when we tried out a newfangled “reusable” mousetrap - Trissi’s purchase, obvi. Picture a clothespin. And no, a clothespin isn’t strong enough to kill a mouse.

That night I awoke to incessant flopping and banging and mouse-sized crying around 4am . The mouse wouldn’t die. Ben threw that trap out along with the poor, semi-dead little rodent.

It’s a toss-up! Of course I didn’t like the fact that The Hunter caught so many mice. But would I want them scampering around all footloose-and-fancy-free in my apartment? No.

Yet...yet...there was that other time when I spotted a huge, horrifying water bug traipsing across my shower rod. I squeaked and squealed and freaked out and called my mom and cried and jumped up and down. After a few minutes of I think I can pep-talk, I went into the bathroom armed with a broom. I aimed, closed my eyes, and smashed the shit out of the bug. Then I ran out and slammed the door behind me. Ben cleaned up the remains when he got home from work.

I guess the grass is always greener. If I lived in an apartment overrun with water bugs and cockroaches, I would wish for mice. But if I saw jimmie-like Jerry turds and heard scurry-scurry-scratch-scratch every night, I would probably long for bugs.

Or would I. Actually, I think not.

Maybe it boils down preference based on cuteness.

So fine. If I had to pick one, I’m sticking with my original choice. Mister Mouse.

Celebridiculous Redux

2010-03-29T07:02:00.004-04:00

Yes. Yes I did stalk Robert Pattinson last summer when he was filming Remember Me. And yes. Yes I did get super duper psyched when the scene I saw being shot unfolded on the big screen. (And I must say, I thought the movie was much better than critics are making it out to be. Bring tissues.)

Robert Pattison epitomizes the anti-celebrity celebrity. He wishes he could walk down the street without getting recognized. He longs for the days of not getting hit by taxis while running from a gaggle of shrieking girls.

Major Do Dankes! props to that particular brand of celebs. They like to live their lives behind the scenes. Johnny Depp, Gwyneth Paltrow, Leonardo DiCaprio, and Kate Winslet are a few laid back faves.

They very rarely flaunt their famous faces on the streets of L.A. They don’t seek out paparazzi - they shun it. They don’t don outfits that scream, “Look at me!! LOOK AT ME!” (Fine, maybe Mr. Depp does frequently don quirky clothes...but whatever.)

Lucky duck me had the opportunity last week to fraternize with the antithesis of these peeps. And by fraternize, I mean with mingle with their cups...that I was throwing away...when garbage cans were literally.right.there.

I mentioned in my previous post that one of the perks of volunteering was the partays - but I failed to elaborate. You see, being seen at the scene means also means you’re gonna spy with your little eyes tons-o-outrageousness.

There wasn’t anything über posh about the opening of the Hell’s Kitchen Housing Works Thrift Store - but it was sponsored by Derek Warburton. Derek Warbur-who? Derek Warburton, Socialite Stylist, DUH! He’s also been on The Real Housewives of NYC and is (er, was) good buddies with Jill. (UPDATE: Umm...2 hours after I posted this blog he friended me on Facebook...I accepted. Does Mr. Warburton read No Dankes? Yikes yo!)

Though Jill wasn’t present and accounted for after her Snarky McSnarkerson comment, there were plenty of other celeb-annabes taking up space. Ramona, that gem! She tried to enter through the exit and when sweet, soft-spoken Kelly told her had to go to the front door she excused her behavior by saying, “I’m tiiiiiiiiiiiiiired.”

Ramona...dearest Ramona. You didn’t just whip a tornado-riffic store into shape in under two hours. You got your hair done, your makeup done, your nails done, your outfit picked out. All you have to do is smile. Quit your complaining.

It was a pretty eclectic mix of reality show stars, singers, and designers. Among the semi-famous C-listers: Alex and Simon (couple extraordinaire), Epperson and Kevin Christiana from Project Runway, Kristine Elezaj, Allison Parris, and, drumroll please - my least-favorite favorite: Malik (NOT) So Chic. Omg I peed a little when I saw him. I think you will too. Those glassssses, gaaah!

I know what you’re thinking. This is an event, of course the famous folks are gonna break out their (borrowed) designer duds. They’s gonna get did up to the 9’s. They are going to be photographed the shit out of, after all.

But I guess my numero uno qualm with all the hoopla lay in the simple fact that fashion does not have to be outrageous. You don’t have to be so in.my.face with your over-the-top ensembles. You can remain fashion-forward without being a freak of nature, like this other he-she-it person below.

I don’t know. I suppose society does dictate that celebrities must assume a preposterous persona in the name of show-biz.

But come on...I think you can tone it down a few notches and still manage to make the pages of Us Weekly. Or Life & Style at the very least.

Some of my most abhorred celeb-annabes:

HEIDI. MONTAG. She seriously got plastic surgery just so she could be in the rag sheets.

The Olsen Twins - sorry Rio, sorry Jeffery. I just don’t what ya’lls find so appealing. They’re haggard.

Miley Cyrus. Vanessa Hudgens. Olivia Palermo. Lauren Yeah-Right-You’re-An-Author Conrad. Kate Gosselin. Omfg, Kate Grosselin. I’m gonna end it on that note because I don’t think there’s anyone worse than her. Vile.

Do Dankes: Kiss Me, I’m a Volunteer

2010-03-25T07:10:00.005-04:00

vol·un·teer
– noun
1. a person who voluntarily offers himself or herself for a service or undertaking.
2. a person who performs a service willingly and without pay.
3. an awesome, awe-inspiring human being.

If kindhearted volunteers didn’t exist, the impossibilities would be endless. Think about it. There would arguably be no Obama. Hundreds upon hundreds more lives might have been lost in Haiti. New houses may never have been erected in New Orleans.

And I don’t even want to think what America would be like without an (undrafted) military, or auxiliary police officers, or volunteer firefighters.

Volunteers really do make the world go round. Let’s hear it for the ‘teers!

I began donating my time when I was 15 (cannot believe that was over a decade ago). Every Saturday for three years I volunteered at the Sharon Hospital Gazebo Gift Shop – usually back at the snack bar cause my 80+ year old co’s weren’t so very spry.

While I did not enjoy snarky New Yorkers asking if the coffee was “fresh” (my oh my how the tides have turned), I loved hearing stories of life in the Big Band Era.

Since dipping my toes in the volunteer pool, I’ve enjoyed a myriad of experiences. Some faves:

Helping women who were reentering the workforce pick out an interview outfit at Perfect Fit (yeah DZ!). Installing drywall, painting, hanging cabinets, and fighting off tumbleweeds at a Habitat for Humanity site in New Mexico with my friends Catie, Sarah, and Jackie, and Catie’s mom Lynn (lots-o-pics!) Bowling with and subsequently being stalked by my “Best Buddy” (I got a new Bud asap).

Then there was the Just for Kids after school program. I’ll never forget the look on those middle-schoolers faces when I introduced them to cream cheese and olives (disgust) or when I broke out a huge bag of Beanie Babies as BINGO prizes (delight).

There have been many other days and projects here and there – but it’s been 5 years since I’ve done anything worthwhile. And lately, as you are well aware, I’ve noticed myself becoming a bit too cynical, a bit too snooty and negative and whiny. Helloooo, No Dankes!

Methinks I’ve become a bit too much like that fresh-coffee-seeking New Yorker I despised back in 10th grade.

I quarter-heartedly looked into community service days – cleaning up parks, painting, helping kids with their homework...mostly with New York Cares. But nothing came to fruition.

Then Kelly Cobb, my idol (because let’s face it, she really seems to be just that, what with all these shout outs!), made it one of her New Year’s resolutions to start volunteering regularly. And, true to form, she discovered the.ideal.spot to donate her time: Housing Works Bookstore and Café.

She said, “It’s charming and I thought it looked like an Ivy League library...which was especially appealing in the fall when I made the resolution.”

A few months later, I followed suit. Every Sunday from 12-4, tired or chipper, hungover or hungry, I’m there. And honestly I notice a difference in my attitude. Well, at least for those four hours.

There are even some perks! We get discounts on books (!!!!!), free soda or coffee, AND we get the opportunity to volunteer at some super cool events, like the Hell’s Kitchen VIP Party earlier this week. (We saw a few of the Real Housewives of NYC, some Project Runway designers, and a few other celeb-annabes. You can see Kelly in the background of this pic and my stockinged, booted leg. To see more click here.)

There’s no high like a volunteer high...truly there isn’t. Volunteers are selfless. They’re noble. They’re inspiring. They’re gracious. They don’t dedicate their time seeking recognition or righteousness – they do it because they care.

Some of my other favorite idols: Trissi! Mi madre has spent every Tuesday for the past 13 years at the Noble Horizons Gift Shop. She was also head of the Nurse’s Association for 20 years (!!) AND she loves to donate...maybe because she also loves to collect. (Those Beanie Babies? Yeah that was her. Can you imagine where else I would have gotten them? She still has Rubbermaid trunks full…)   

My 11th grade history teacher, Mike DeMazza. This summer he will be volunteering at a school and orphanage in LeCanta, Haiti. UnBELIEVABLE! (Please send me a message if you would like to donate!!)

Melissa Presti, cubemate. Every Wednesday morning at 7:30 (yes, a.m.), she helps 1st, 2nd, and 3rd graders with their reading. What a perfectly patient publishing angel!

Brad Pitt, because he looked hot building houses in Louisiana.

Everyone who has ever fought for our country. (Especially during World War II – watching Band of Brothers and The Pacific...holy shit horrific).

Actually, you know what? I idolize all volunteers everywhere. There is nothing more honorable than donating your time to help others.

The In-Between Routine

2010-03-24T07:12:00.002-04:00

I’ve got the fevah. Spring fevah, that is!

Last weekend was positively gorgeous. Gorgeous, I say! But along with summery sunshine in the late winter months, so too comes bad fashion.

I’ve been seeing tons-o-fashion roadkill the past few weeks. Fashion faux pas. Bloopers, blunders, flops, flubs, fouls. It’s left me wanting to scream: N to the O, no, no, NO people!

These sinners, these extremely offensive offenders, belong almost exclusively to the fairer sex - unfortunately.

Alas, I cannot lament about these criminals so very much, for I am guilty as well.

This transition time is killer, I tell you. Killer!

Take last weekend for instance. It was 70-something degrees - but ‘twas also mid-March. Un problemo, yo!

Well let’s be serious - choosing an outfit is always a dilemma. But this quandary is made infinitesimally more difficult when the sun is shining, you’re sweating, and iPhone is telling you that spring has not officially sprung.

You feel super silly wearing sandals. Shorts? Absolutely not. Tanks? Permissible with a cardigan-to-go. Dresses sans leggings (at least)? Hella no.

It’s not summer, dear friends (and foes). You can’t break out those strappy shoes and miniskirts without escaping a variable walk-of-shame wrath from your fellow city-dwelling homegirls.

By the same token, it’s majorly frowned upon to don opaque tights and knee-high boots with a sweater dress and peacoat. It’s not 20 degrees out, lassies!

So here’s the million dollar question...the question that even Kelly Cobb, fashionista extraordinaire, has trouble answering: What does one wear for your in-between routine?

(Methinks it’s rhetorical.)

But I do believe there are a few simple guidelines we can all follow for the next month or so.

For instance, I don’t think it’s permissible to wear neon just yet. Nor do I deem it right to wear wool. Scarves are OK if they’re cute and cotton - none of that Burberry plaid bullshit. Fugg no to Uggs - and keep those Rainbows under wraps. Steer clear of Icelandic-esque sweaters (hmm...that rule might apply for all 12 months, especially for that there couple), but bring on the pretty pink n’ purple cardis. Pack up that camel coat and break out your khaki trench. Replace those turtlenecks with boatnecks. And keep those toes closed in until April at least.

Annnd that’s all I got.

I truly don’t think there’s an easy or graceful way to get through these transition periods. I suppose layers are key - light layers, not heavy ones.

Ugh, boys totes have it easy, peasy, lemon squeezy. They can wear sport shorts and stupid man-tanks and no one will judge them.

Why are girls so harsh? Why we always giving - and receiving, let’s be serious - that savage, holy-shit-what-is-that-chick-wearing stare/glare?

Yeah, I’m guilty of dishing it too - mostly behind my passive-aggressive-protective sunglasses. But like I said, mea culpa when it comes to committing fashion faux pas.

It’s so goddamn difficult to balance! Talk about tight-roping between seasons. I suppose semi-spring ‘tis the season to be judgey. But let’s at least try to bring peace and harmony to New York fashion - one (cotton) layer at a time.

St. Paddy’s Fray

2010-03-18T08:42:00.002-04:00

I contemplated writing a Do Dankes! about St. Patrick’s Day - and all things Irish. But after my ode to Trissi’s corned beef and cabbage, I was kind of over it. I just didn’t have that much to say.

Silly me - always putting the carriage before the horse (is that even the saying? hmm...doesn’t make sense...)

Then the holiday arrived. And now there is much to NO Dankes! about the drunkest drunkfest of the year.

About how green bagels and green beer are actually permissible foodstuffs. About how prices are unfairly jacked up to exorbitant amounts (case in point: Mr. Dennehy’s) simply because bars know we will pay. About how guys don kilts the right way - fully aware that tipsy girls will lift them up, thus exposing their manly parts, then complain when we do.

Over pints of Guinness and Harp and Magners, my friends and I wondered about the origins of this well-loved holiday: A day when everyone is Irish.

After Wiki-ing, I must say - I’m disappointed and fairly appalled that (Saint) Patrick was nada but a glorified missionary. He preached Christianity all over Ireland, coercing and converting people from their native pagan traditions (which were way cooler).

No wonder March 17th has become such a hot mess fest - with all that proselytizing, Patrick undoubtedly drove people to drink.

And boy oh boy do people drink.

St. Patrick’s Day, in my opinion, is the sloppiest day of the year. And we all know that along with alcohol so too comes drama. What starts in good fun ends in bad times. As my Nana used to say: Laughing leads to crying.

The more you drink, the more you pee - and when you’re a girl that’s un problemo. Come ON guys, be chivalrous. Share your line-free bathroom with us and quit yer bellyaching!

The crushing of toes and shoving of bodies is endless. Ceaseless. Hapless. Hopeless! I can’t even tell you how many times I was pushed - starting with a waitress at lunch. (I was fixing my scarf and the biotch batted my elbow out of the way with a glare/stare. EW!)

Bars become cattle cars. Sticky, stinky, sweaty bodies crammed in a space that’s 5,000 times too small. People become dominoes - one topple is all it takes for you to all fall down.

And bathrooms aren’t the only place for lines. They’re ubiquitous. It’s impossible to get a slice of pizza let alone a beer. Patience, as you well know, is not an exemplary quality of the inebriated. - so you get two drinks every time you go up. And you drink and drink and drink some more. But hey, it’s OK because everyone else is doing the same thing.

Where does all that double fisting lead? To fights. Fights, fights, fights, FIGHTS. What would a bar be without fights? What would St. Patrick’s Day be without drama? B-o-r-i-n-g I suppose. We had the lucky duck privilege of seeing two. And man, they were outrageous. The first in particular.

Some gross(sssss) dude with a cane (don’t be fooled into feeling bad for him like I first did), threw a bottle at a girls head. Really? REALLY? She flipped her shit, obvi, and started kicking his face. Yes, kicking his face with her feet. He hobbled up off his lazy ass and proceeded to slap her. Once, twice, again - till her man friend broke it up. She cried, he got the boot. It was totes ridic.

This dramarama drunkfest is not, I daresay, the celebration St. Patrick had in mind when he traipsed across the rolling green hills of Ireland converting peeps.

March 17th has become synonymous with superfluous libations-ness. With sheer sloppiness and far too many cases of “Irish Flu” the following morning. With people partaking in one too many brews, then puking on the sidewalk (or in my apartment building entrance, as evidenced here - sorry guys).

I don’t know where this blog is going. Perhaps my brain is a still fried from too many Harps.

But I do know I’ll be making the rounds at Irish pubs next year - and that I don’t agree with Fr. Vincent Twomey and his desire to “…reclaim St Patrick's Day as a church festival.” All I ask is that you simply tone it down a bit, people.

(Like that will ever, ever happen.)

(D)umbrellas

2010-03-16T07:26:00.002-04:00

I know what you’re thinking: How many blogs can this chick write about the rain? But I tell you, there ain’t nothing RIGHT about all of this RAIN.

After a rough-and-tumble weekend, I.am.so.beyond.over.it.

Have I ever mentioned the fact that I’m spoiled? Quite spoiled. Rotten, I daresay. But in this particular case, so were my friends.

We all know what tomorrow is - St. Patrick’s Day! And for those of us who have a bit of Irish in our blood (which, let’s face it, is practically everyone), that means corned beef and cabbage. Holla!

There I was outside of Grand Central. Two corned beef briskets, two cooked heads of Savoy cabbage, ten pounds worth of boiled baby carrots and potatoes. All in addition to my regular groceries and Target purchases.

The taxi line was around the block. Obviously. Why wouldn’t it be? So instead of waiting around for the next downpour, I opted to take the subway. And it’s not like I live close to the 6. My body is still sore from hauling all that food. And it’s all the rain’s fault.

My über wet, debacle-full trek from 42nd Street should have been a sign: DO NOT GO OUT TONIGHT. But all I wanted in my vehemently annoyed state was a drink. And so I had one. (OK fine, a few.)

After some lovely pink champagne (thanks Andrea!), I headed to Ri’s apartamento. I arrived, as Katie Leo can attest, looking very much like a dog who had taken a dip in the backyard pond. Not at all like a real girl.

I don’t think I possibly could have been any wetter. I was windblown, dripping, bedraggled, miserable, and bloody. Yes, bloody. Me and the elements had it out and apparently I got my ass kicked.

Flash back 10 minutes. There I was on the corner of Broadway and Hell, watching the wind make waves (yes, whitecaps) on the sidewalks. There were mini rushing rivers on every street. It was a monsoon. A blustery, jet-plane-engine-wind monsoon.

Suddenly my not-so-trusty umbrella collapsed. A feeble, shriveled little mushroom. I tried to perk it up. I tried again. And then its already broken metal arm sliced my finger. No DANKES!

But really, of course it was broken. And of course it would break even more. Why wouldn’t it? Umbrellas are the best worst inventions ever. The smartest dumbest idea. The most excellent exasperating objects in the world.

They’ve been around for thousands of years: Ancient Egypt, Ancient Greece, Ancient Rome, Ancient, Ancient, ANCIENT. And yet...and yet...no one has invented a bonafide-breeze-proof-bumbershoot.

I own five, count ‘em, 1-2-3-4-5 pretty little rainshades. And they’s all b-r-o-k-e-n. Every single one (sad, aren’t they?):

Now. Not that I’ve ever read it, but I don’t recall there being a, “And God said let there be torrential rain-con-wind storms all the time to make New York City dwellers miserable” passage in the Bible.

Hudson Street is my arch-nemesis. That there wind tunnel has sabotaged a.l.l. my ‘brellas. Such a diva, that street!

Alright, I guess it’s not Hudson’s fault. And I can’t rightly place blame on my pretty little parasols - I mean, I could have tossed them. I could have sent them a-packing to the Umbrella Graveyard.

But you see, I have a bond with them and their adorable stripes and polka dots. Like all those shirts I’ve had since high school that I’ll never wear again but just can’t get rid of.

And really, let’s face it: I would rather use an already damaged umbrella when wannabe-hurricanes attack our city. Who really wants to break a brand-spanking-new cutie pie?

Misery aside, bandaged finger be damned!, we had a lovely dinner in my rabbit hutch. Seven of us crowded around and ~~devoured~~ enjoyed Trissi’s meal. We had our corned beef and cabbage and carrots and potatoes and soda bread and rye bread and green sugar cookies and beers - and hell yeah, we ate it (all) too.

As for dumbrellas - that’s just how it goes, I suppose.

Murray Hell

2010-03-11T07:12:00.002-05:00

WARNING: If you live in that area of New York City cleverly named Murray Hill, think twice about reading this post.

And let me just apologize to my few friends who inhabit the precinct: I’m truly sorry ~~you live there~~ if I offend you with the following rant.

That being said, I think Murray Hill (which shall henceforth be referred to as Murray Hell) is the.worst.hood in ‘hattan.

My first up-close n’ personal encounter with this Midtown Eastish locale was in the summer of 2004. My friend Jackie (unlucky lass) was assigned to those NYU dorms.

I hadn’t been formally introduced to the West Village yet so my love affair/obsession was nonexistent. Midtown and Murray Hell were the only areas I had some familiarity with. I thought that ugly high rises, filthy litter, ceaseless construction, countless bodegas, disgusting restaurants, and douchebag bars were de rigueur in Manhattan. I thought Manhattan was just plain gross.

My next visit to Murray Hell was a year-and-a-half later when I (unfortunately) stayed at a hotel right in the heart of the hood. Vomitus. I was dragged to packed bars full of underage kids, too-loud music, and too-expensive Bud Lights. I was submitted to “healthy” falafel chains instead of standalone pizza joints. Blasphemy! Insanity!

That second stay sealed the No Dankes! deal. I was in hate with Murray Hell. Never did I ever want to return to that most loathsome location. And I’ve done a pretty stand-up job of avoiding it the past 3.5 years.

Alas, it was my most unlucky lot in life to waste the past two Saturdays in - can you guess? - Murray Hell. Sob sob.

As I mentioned a few entries ago, I participated in the AMC Best Picture Showcase extravaganza with my friends Melissa and Meg. It was fine inside the theater, I guessss. But walking to and from the train, taking breaks outside, trying to find something for dinner - well, it was sheer misery.

I wonder if Murray Hell has a higher suicide rate than any other neighborhood in NYC. Probably. Hmm...definitely.

It’s so inaccessible. Even subways hate it round there! There’s nary a train - well there’s the 6, but that’s way over on Park. There’s still Lex, 3rd, 2nd, and 1st to go. And honestly, I don’t blame the trains for not wanting to plummet deeper into the depths of Hell. In fact, I give them two very big thumbs up.

The Buildings. Methinks people realized just how awful Murray Hell was way back in the day - that’s why there’s no cute, charming apartamentos with character. It was (and still is) a hood of denizens by denizens for denizens: tasteless, classless peeps who wouldn’t know a brownstone if it smothered them à la Wicked Witch of the East.

There’s nothing but apartment building after apartment building. All of them heinous with horrifically horrible names. Names! Do they think they’re plantations or something? Wtf.

Some of my favorite least favorites: The Leonard, The Sycamore (so original), The Wilshire (really? is this Beverly Hills?), Chesapeake House, Manhattan Promenade. Ick! Each block is worse than the last.

The “restaurants”? Revolting! Who wants to chow down at Lyric Diner or Mike Due Pizza. Mike Due Pizza?? That doesn’t even make sense. People who live and work in Murray Hill apparently didn’t pass grammar school English.

Nope, there’s not a single place worth eating at. OK, maybe one - Penelope where my darling friends Ri and Will work. But because it’s the only decent joint, the wait (for people not in with the staff) is always ridiculous. And that pretty much cancels out any goodness.

The bars? Oh I’m sorry, I didn’t realize a magical time machine had beamed me back to the Maingate in Allentown, PA circa 2002. And dem der memories ain’t pretty, believe you me. Joshua Tree? Atrocious. Galway Hooker? Hella no. Tonic East and Hook & Ladder and Red Sky and PS 450 - no no no no NO.

The street litter is more vile. The construction workers more miserable. Shit yo, even the SNOW is dirtier and uglier than our Greenwich Village snow!

What sane person with any iota of an IQ would want to live in a hood chock full of cookie-cutter high rises and shitty restaurants? Where bars are called The Hairy Monk? Where you can’t step foot outside without crashing into armies of JAPs donning Tory Burch combat flats and cradling Louis Vuitton rucksacks?

This video sums up all that is my own personal version of Hell:

O to the m to the f to the g NO DANKES!

The Bachelor.

2010-03-09T07:14:00.002-05:00

I remember the first time I ever watched The Bachelor. I was a junior in college - yes that pic is old! - and my friend Sarah (who suffered from Obsessive Compulsive Reality Show Disorder - remember Paradise Island - she loved even that), got me watching it. Along with American Idol which, thankfully, I have not seen since.

Nevertheless, I’ve been watching da Bach for 7 years now and can say without a doubt - this was the worst season I have ever seen.

Why oh why does this show have to be such a train wreck in so many ways!

And yet...I can’t not watch it. No matter how badly I wish to avert my eyes, no matter how much physical and emotional pain I inflict on myself when viewing, or how traumatizing the characters (yes, characters) are, I just can’t look away. I can’t stop recording it. I can’t go to bed without knowing who da Bach gives the final rose to that night.

I’ve had a love/hate relationship all along. But Jake’s season - and I say this with 100% conviction - I loathed.

First of all, why have you stretched this show out for two hours, ABC? It’s interminable. Quit previewing what’s COMING UP LATER...I don’t need to know what’s going to happen later on because I’M GOING TO SEE IT LATER ON. Morons.

It’s sometimes unfortunate that I’m such a loyal lassie. For instance, I’ve used the same shaving gel since high school. And so, as with my Gillette, so too with my Gossip Girl. I just don’t stop watching shows. Even Nip/Tuck! And we all know how ridiculous that got towards the end. Yizzikes.

(Well fine, I did break up with Heroes - but really, who didn’t?)

The thing I’m most embarrassed about is the fact that I liked Jake at first. I thought him and Jill made a cute couple.

Then he became a psychotic, weepy nut job stalker. Oh but lo and behold, America loved him (blonde? blue-eyed? pilot? YES!)

So I was already nervous for the season to begin. Jake just ain’t funny or charming or witty or clever - or tall. His twang made me flinch. Then they went and played On the Wings of Love. And I threw up a ~~little~~ lot in my mouth.

The girls, the girls! I guess all the smart, normal ones know better by now (my co’s want me to go on the next season...HA). But could they be any more trashy? Deeeesgusting. So fake, so YOUNG. Omfg.

But this isn’t about the bachelorettes, it’s about The Bachelor.

Jake was the most awkward, inarticulate, boring, nerdy wannabe ever to grace the reality show small screen.

Actually no, I take that back. There was nothing graceful about him. He didn’t grace shit. It was painful to watch him. When he cried - gross!! (Not that I don’t appreciate a man in touch with his feelings. But come onnnnnn.)

I do not understand why anyone liked him. He is a tool - and not even a cool tool. He ain’t no power screwdriver. He is a level. Yes, a level. And far too level-headed and unfun to fill the shoes left for him by gems like Andrew Firestone. (Actually, he wouldn’t fill them regardless. He probably wears a size 8...8.5 max.)

Vienna. He picked Vienna. Of the 25 broads, he picked the broadiest, bawdiest, fakest of them all. Goldilocks? More like Doggielocks.

She is so repulsive. I was ill watching that last episode. Her tacky Rave clothes, her omnipresent George Washington hair. Her dumb acrylic nails and huge silicone implants. Her stupid dolphin tattoo and lazy-crossed-bug eyes. Ew ew ewwwww.

Now I ask all of you the same question I’ve been asking myself: What’s the draw? I could not believe the outburst of Facebook updates happening in real time as Jake was dumping Tenley (you are totes better off, girlfriend!) and proposing to Vienna. Really Jake? REALLY?

And yet - we watched.

Why are we all addicted to this awful, awful show? Are you guys going to watch Ali on The Bachelorette? I am traumatized after this season but who knows. It’s a train wreck, I tell you. And yet...I...can’t...escape...it.

When is this nonsensical hot mess of a show gonna release us from its super fabricated, super stupid vise-like grip? And now Jake the Loser (who apparently cannot dress himself without his TV show stylists, thanks Jeffery!) is going to be on Dancing with the Stars.

Stop ruining my life, Jake.

Gotta go...it’s Gossip Girl time.

I’m Pickin’ Up Bad Vibrations

2010-03-03T07:20:00.003-05:00

Get your head outta the gutter, yo! ‘Tain’t those kind of vibrations.

Oh no. ‘Tis a far, far more loathsome kind: The vibrating alarm.

Never did I ever think this would be a No Dankes! topic. Who would?

I suppose I am partly to blame. Shame on me for getting too familiar with a vibrating wake up call. But you see, a few months ago my regular radio alarm failed to go off. And I failed to wake up. Hence, failed to make it to work by 9 o’clock.  Unacceptable!

Enter: iPhone. Each and every night since that most fateful morn, I’ve set myself two alarms. Clock radio and iPhone.   

Now. I abhor phones dinging every time a text arrives. To abate any contribution of text-arrival-noise-pollution, I set my cell exclusively to vibrate. Same thing for phone calls. And so that sadly translates into alarm clocks, too.

When my very own Apple brand Bell Tower starts chiming at 8:12 a.m., it also starts vibrating (such a multitasker, that iPhone!) This vibrating buzz-iness can be pretty goddamn loud, especially when your ears (like mine) are super sensitive.

You know how those perfumery peeps are called “Noses”? Well if I were known by a sense, my spectacular nickname would be “Ears”.

Whew, that was a long-winded introduction – alas I suppose you’ve grown to expect that from me…otherwise why the hell are you reading this?

Let’s get to it, shall we? As I mentioned yesterday, I didn’t go out boozing Friday night. Thus I was enjoying a superpower-sober-sleep Saturday morning – not passed the hell out as usual while my body worked through its surplus of barley and hops.

Because of this, my sleep was a far cry from any sort of R.E.M. My snooze was so light, I daresay even a quiet breath could have awoken me.

But there were no breaths. No loud music. No car alarms, even. Nope. What did, in fact, wake me up was nothing other than someone else’s phone alarm vibrating. Yup.

At 6 a.m. on the dot, I was awakened by a nasty bout of incessant, repetitive, alarmingly loud (well, to my sensitive ears at least) alarm clock vibrations. Like the phone was just chillin on the floor next door and it wanted to send its signals through the wooden floorboards to torture me. The worst part is, I don’t even know if it was on the floor. It was somewhere. I heard its buzz through walls, through concrete, through brick – I couldn’t for the life of me figure out where the hell it was coming from.

There I was, tossing and turning, with a phantom vibration annoying the shit out of me. 6:16, :26, :36, :46. I was sleepily wide awake.

For an HOUR it went off. And worst of all, the vibrations weren’t even. They suffered from some sort of arrhythmia. No joke! They were all over the place. Sure, they occurred every other second or so, but to my sleep-addled-perfectionist mind they were unbearably unsymmetrical.

I walked down in the hall in my nightgown and sleepmask. I stomped on the floor and banged on the walls and ceiling. I ate canned frosting with my finger out of sheer frustration.

I was beyond stressed and depressed and tired and pissed. I felt like Ingrid Bergman in Gaslight, like people were slowly and methodically trying to drive me mad. Except I’m no actress and my sober Saturday morning was no movie.

I sandwiched my head between two pillows, turned my air conditioner on high. I screamed as loud as I possibly good to TURN THE ALARM OFF. I cried. I was actually happy when I heard the garbage trucks rolling down the street. Anything to distract my ears from the interminable whirring that was occurring somewhere thisclose. But where, I did not know.

The arrhythmia confused me, tricked me into thinking it was finished. I got pumped when the vibrations skipped a few beats, I could drift peacefully off to sleep for an hour before my movie marathon! But no. Then they started up again.

One. Full. Hour. Later. They stopped completely. My sanity was barely salvaged. If these cruel and unusual vibrations find their way to my ears anytime soon, I don’t know what will happen.

Sober in a Sea of Drunk

2010-03-02T07:12:00.002-05:00

Last weekend saw me perfectly sober both Friday and Saturday – a feat which has not transpired…well…since I don’t know when. Thumbs up! Who knows if it’ll happen again anytime soon.

I must say, though, it was quite lovely.

I barely remembered what it was like to wake up before noon on the weekends, or have a non-shattered brain, or to not hang my head over the toi toi.

Thank you, thank you AMC Movie Theaters.

It all began a few months ago when my friend Melissa mentioned their Best Picture Showcase. 13 hours of sitting in a movie theater + 5 movies = a big enough excuse to forego the sauce Friday night and a perfectly excusable reason to fall fast asleep asap that night.

While I still ate my calories instead of drinking them (Twizzlers, Mini-Eggs, Peanut Butter M&Ms, Raisinets, Junior Mints, and unlimited popcorn), I’d take a full-of-junkfood-belly over a full-of-beer sick tum any day of the week.

By the time the last film ended it was almost midnight. (Any ideas or inclinations I had of going out had been squashed by the third movie.) I was tired. I was irritable. I’d eaten too much popcorn. I just wanted to go to sleep.

Have I ever mentioned the fact that I lovelovelove living in the Village? Of course I have. I’d sing its praises from the top of the Empire State Building if given the opportunity.

What I sometimes forget, though, is that other people love the Village too. That it’s a destination for tourists and music lovers and NYU kiddies alike. And that said inebriated Bleecker Street-goers are obnoxious, ignorant, annoying and awfully belligerent.

All these shenanigans can be pretty goddamn annoying when you’re stone-sober, donning bright yellow wellies, barely able to keep your movie-screen-fried eyes open.

As if the wasted dude who couldn’t keep upright on the train wasn’t bad enough (he crashed into me), no. No. Then I had to wade though a sea of drunks on Bleecker (good thing I had my rain boots on).

The shouting, the screaming, the incessant slurring. The asking for directions, the shouting in your face as you pass by. The pushing and shoving and smashing and toe smooshing. The mega-macho-man showdowns and the kitty-biddy-cat fights.

There is nothing more irritating than being in the vicinity of a drunkards when you’re sober.

They bear down on you, break you into little bitty balls of frustration and anxiety.

Their shrill voices envelope and suffocate your rapidly fraying nerves.

Their stupid swaying aggravates and frustrates.

They don’t MOVE out of the way. They’re big, oafy cows. Apparently alcohol desensitizes brains (among other things).

I just hope that, when next I am intoxicated, I have the wherewithal not to be that girl.

Sample Rack Ruckus

2010-02-26T07:34:00.001-05:00

This little gem of a topic can swing both ways – NO and DO. But because I have already exhausted my weekly optimism allotment, the door has swung into NO territory.

After all, I cannot allow too much sunshine and ponies and rainbows and funfetti into one week. Need to keep my negative energy levels up! Boy is it exhausting.

Northwestern Connecticut is a considerably large bubble. Or maybe my high school years simply missed the big fashionista boom up there. Regardless, I didn’t even know what 7 For All Mankind jeans were until I pledged a sorority my sophomore year in college.

Me and my pledge sistas were sneaking drinks before a Closed (party with a frat) and one girl was saying how her favorite jeans were Sevens – to which silly blonde little me replied, “You’re A SIZE SEVEN??” (She was super skinny). Everyone laughed.

Yikes did I feel dumb!

Alas, as I’ve aged in years, so too has the breadth of my fashion knowledge. It’s become a fine kinda wine. (Working at Bloomingdale’s had a huge hand in brand recognition and favoritism for suuure. It’s been tough to go back to H&M and Forever 26 after discounted Vince and DVF and Rock & Republic – but somehow, I’ve managed.)

A big part of my survival in fashion-obsessed New York City is thanks to sample sales.

After Bloom’s, I worked at a young men’s clothing company. Our designers would send color swatches, specs, pattern designs – the whole kit and caboodle – over to India. Then wham bam thank you ma’am, our Indian factories would send back shirts. Magic! Said shirts were called “samples” and the salespeople used them to sell to stores (say that five times fast).

Bigger, better companies than my previous employer (which shall remain unnamed) have so so so many samples that they sell them at a completely more reasonable price. And I buy them.

Enter: Clothing Line. This gem of a warehouse in the madness that is Midtown has some of the best sample sales I’ve ever been to. Theory, J. Crew, Tori Burch, Kooba, Theory, Milly, Alice + Olivia, Theory, Theory, Theory!

How I wish my wardrobe consisted entirely of Theory. Their designs just fit me so well. So flattering. So classic. Love, love, love.

But this is a no dankes and so I shall no dankes.

Sample sales can be pretty gruesome. And pretty goddamn overwhelming.

There’s the line around the block – undoubtedly full of bitchy people bitching about bitches cutting them. Bitch slaps all around.
There’s the messy, disheveled racks. No organization what-so-ever. Not by size, or color, or sample vs. damage, or shirt vs. sweater vs. dress. (Well that last one is a slight exaggeration – some racks had but a few dresses mixed in with the tops and slacks.)

Your arm goes dead with the weight of 25 items (dresses in my case) as you feverishly flip through hanger after hanger, rack after rack, hurriedly browsing through the madness, hoping something will catch your eye.

Oh but then a big burly man walks by shouting “10 ITEM LIMIT, TENNNN ITEMS!!” No.no.no, say it ain’t so!!! I always ignore him.

Finally, when your arms can no longer bear their colorful, deadweight burden, you head to the “fitting room”. There you encounter yet another line. GAH, your arms are going to FALL OFF. But shit you have more than TEN ITEMS. But I DON’T WANT TO PUT THEM BACK!!!!!!!! But you must.

Sometimes you can get away with armfuls if it’s not super busy. More often than not, though, the fitting room man cracks his superpower whip. Ever so reluctantly, you pick through each piece, deeming whether or not it’s worthy of a try-on. Believe me, it’s rough.

You grudgingly place more than half your booty on the put-back rack, hoping and wishing and praying it will be there when you’re done with the chosen group. And then, oh yeah, you wait in line. And you wait. And you wait.

I think I had several heart attacks the first time I visited a sample sale’s fitting room. It’s like my encounters with a naked gym-goer nightmare x 5,000. Row after row of naked ladies stripping and standing and strutting around in front of flimsy mirrors (above is a super classy photo I found...I didn’t want to subject you readers to the real madness).

My modest mouse self needed a few sample sale trips under my belt before I could feel comfortable. And now I’m addicted.

Lines and crowds and messy racks and naked ladies aside, sample sales are definitely well worth it. Especially the Theory ones.

Do Dankes: To the Beach House

2010-02-25T07:24:00.001-05:00

There is no where in the world I would rather not be than in New York City on a snowy, rainy, windy, freezing cold day.  

Much like today. Oh, and yesterday. Annnd the day before that.

What was Punxsutawney Phil’s prognosis, anyway? I have a mind to go down to Pennsylvania and drag him out of his cozy little hole in the dark so he doesn’t see his shadow. I want winter to be O-V-E-R. Yes – yes those are capital letters.

I am ready for sunshine and sand (and, fine, SPF) and popsicles and pools and piñas and ice cold brewskies and burgers and bathing suits – eh, OK maybe not that last one (I have a few more months to get ready, right? RIGHT?)...nevertheless, you get the point.

Helloooooo spring fever.

So I thought, what better way to spend a disgustingly soaking wet day than daydreaming about the beach? Boy oh boy do I love the beach. It is without a doubt my most favorite place to be.

I know I talked smack about sand last summer – and I do stand by that. Super fine sand is super sticky, hence super annoying. But truthfully I don’t think anywhere, anyplace, or anything in the world beats the beach.

At the risk of sounding mega-cheesy, I think the ocean is truly magical.

True, the big blue sea does kinda scare the shit out of me. Seaweed and sharks and skeletons and murkiness and monsters.

But when there’s a shore involved, the ocean becomes more controlled, more reasonable (well, kind of...if you can’t swim you’re screwed).

Waves lapping and crashing and roaring and foaming; cooling your sun-soaked body off in the surf; squishing the slurpy, racing sand beneath your toes; catching glimpses of myriad white shells and quietly vibrant sea glass. That incomparable feeling of being on the edge, on the precipice, overlooking something so incomprehensibly vast and mysterious.

The beach is simply sensational. (Michelle agrees – she was so tickled at Nauset, in fact, that she broke into cartwheels!)

I understand that, like everything, the beach is not without its drawbacks – few as they may be. Screaming, crying, shrieking children can grate on the ole nerves. Combat gulls swooping in for the turkey-sandwich-kill, flying away with your lunch in their talons. And of course the seemingly harmless snooze that results in a wicked, streaky sunburn.

And, well, that’s about it. Oh how I love, love, LOVE the beach.

Yet another thing I adore is how, like thumbprints, no two beaches are the same. Fine sand, coarse sand, black sand, rocks instead of sand. It truly is quite amazing.

Here are my five most favorite beaches – all vastly different, but all beloved:

5. South Beach, FL: Only one visit and this beauty made it into my top five! Fake boobs and far too much PDA aside (there was pretty much everything but the deed happening right before my prudish, averted eyes), this truly was a sight to see. I didn’t think it was possible for Florida to have such tealy blue water. Gorg!

4. Horseshoe Bay, Bermuda: While I didn’t find the pink sand quiiite pink enough, I very much enjoyed the warm, seaweed-free, unbelievably clear water. The Treasure Island cove-like landscape added to my delight.

3. Capri, Italy: This small island (pictured) off the coast of Italy is simply breathtaking. I found it hard to believe that such a place exists in this world. And though the “beach” is sans sand and riddled with rocks (I do not tell a lie, it was impossible to get comfortable), the turquoise water was mesmerizing. So mesmerizing, in fact, that while I was floating on my back, enjoying the super salty sea, I didn’t even notice that my top had gone askew. Yep, I flashed friends and strangers alike.

2. Nice, France: Ahhhh, the French Riviera. Such a glamorous scene. What I wouldn’t give to have lived there in the 50s, be wooed by Cary Grant, and don boatloads of diamonds! I visited long after To Catch a Thief hit theaters, but the scene was just as spectacular. The sand, the ocean, the architecture – it’s another package deal.

1. Cape Cod, MA: I debated where to put this on my list. After all, the water isn’t as clear at Bermuda, nor as stunning as Capri, or as warm as Nice. No, no. There are kids and killer gulls. The ocean is ice cold; freezing, actually, even on the warmest of days. And my most abhorred, most feared enemy of the watery world is usually omnipresent: Seaweed. But Cape Cod has held a special place in my heart since I was a kid and I don’t foresee that changing anytime soon.

There’s something so endearing about preppy boat shoes and Vineyard Vines. Drinking beers in line at our favorite byob restaurant, Moby Dick’s. The Three Sisters Lighthouses at Nauset. The peerless New England-esque history and charm that cannot be duplicated anywhere else: Old drive-in movie theaters and candlestick bowling alleys and flea markets.

Coast Guard and Craigville and Sandy Neck and Nauset Light. Four Seas Ice Cream and Cape Cod chips and sour cream donuts from the Hole-in-One Donut Shop.

I suppose it’s memories that make a beach so special, not all the glitz and glamor. I just hope that one day I own a Cape house of my own.

Until then, I am most grateful to the Schopp family, the Whieldon family, and the Chandler family for letting me stay at theirs...sandy feet and all.

Holey Shit!

2010-02-23T07:46:00.001-05:00

I find it interesting and utterly annoying that tights are beyond disposable – yet their prices are NOT.

Stockings are a fairly one-and-done commodity. Which is infuriating because they’re kind of goddamn expensive. I can’t even tell you how much money I’ve spent this year alone on tights - $8.99 a pair, $10.99, $15 – and from T.J. Maxx and Marshall’s, those prices are totes on the cheaper side of the spandexy spectrum.

My friend Shannon had a terrible, horrible, no good very bad tights day last week – she went through two pairs in as many hours. Whattawaste!!

Why do we subject ourselves to spending, spending, spending on tights?

We spend our time picking out the perfect pair; we spend mucho moolah every time we spy a cute new design; we spend countless embarrassing moments hitching up the shit outta them; we spend tedious instances patching them with clear nail polish. And seriously, I am SPENT.

It’s a crying shame that I’m so taken with tights.  The entire bottom drawer of my dresser is dedicated to them. And it’s overflowing (as you can see...yep that’s my drawer). Pink and purple and blue and brown and black and printed and patterned and fishnet and flowery and me oh me oh my – siiiigh.

Why oh why do manufacturers have to make such charmingly cute ones? Such super seductive ones? Such alluringly appealing ones? ‘Tisn’t fair, I say!

I know I’m not alone in my ripped-tights trials and tribulations, my runny-stockings soap opera. And for that I am thankful.

In fact, I deem me and my clumsy, klutzy, oh-shit-guaranteed-rip gals the rule, not the exception. Some people are just naturally cautious...prosaically perfect, even. But I, for one, am not so very scrupulous when it comes to stockings.

My tricky, traitorous legs always seem to find the stray splinters under my desk – hellooooooo Snagsville.

Low-rise tights are a lowly enemy. For reals. I have a hitching problem – I’ll admit it (whatevs! who doesn’t feel the constant need to hike-em up??) Alas, I’m (apparently) an overzealous hitcher – sometimes my thumbs poke pull-up holes. Guess I can’t really say “I’m a big kid now” cause apparently I haven’t learned to yank gently.

Kitchen tables. Fingernails. Wooden chairs. Velcro! Brushes. Bushes. High boots. Purses. Shopping bags. Zippers. Your pretty little kitty.

Even the most benign, mundane item can become your biggest adversary. Everywhere you go, everything you face – is an enemy. An enemy of your nylons.

Now as much as I’d love to haterate on tights alone, I can’t rightly discuss holes in leggy garments without mentioning my disdain for…can you guess (besides Miley Cyrus and her stupid wannabe trend)?

Holey socks.

Sorry gentlemen – but really. As if it’s not enough to don off-white socks with dress shoes and slacks (yes, dirt has been accounted for), said socks are undoubtedly riddled with big-toe n’ heel holes.

Holey sock? Holy shit. Mayjaaaah no dankes.

Though I am a lady, unfortunately I’m not immune to this most loathsome phenomenon. It seems that my shoes vilify viscose and cotton and wool.

Heels and toes, toes and heels, holy HOLES all around.

I suppose the one saving grace of disgraceful worn-out socks is the fact that they hide in your shoes, snug as a stink bug in a smelly rug, safely out of sight. You don’t have to immediately discard them. Take them off and throw them in the trash.

Tights, on the other hand, are ready and raring to be judged. They get a little snag, a slight run, a teeny tiny hole and they’re done for. 86 or else.

Meditations in an Eye-mergency

2010-02-19T07:22:00.002-05:00

A disclaimer: I contemplated deleting this post when I read it with un-blurry eyes this morning. It’s pretty ridiculous. But as you’ll soon discover, I was not (in fact) drunk or high or drugged. My eyes were dilated and I couldn’t see a thing. I thought it would be a funny experiment to blog and here is the so-so result. Grammar Police: Do Not Enter – or at least leave your badges at the door. It’s rough.

I have been slacking with my Do Dankes. Today was supposed to be a Do Dankes day.

Alas, it is not. I You see, yesterday I had an eye exam. Time to get new glasses for me. The old astigmatism has gotten worse. I told the nice doctor that I was on my lunch break so i didn’t have too much time an sshe said I had to come back after work to do the dilation cause I'd be blurry.

(How awful does thata sound, by the way - dilation? I’m sorry, am I about to give birth? Ick!)

So I went back last night to have my pupilss dilated And on my walk home I realized what a ginormous no dankormous bTHAT was! (The initial drops stinging the shiiiiiiit out of my sockets aside!)

ITo put it in Alanis’s words, I feel drunk but I’m sober. And boy do I feel D-RUNK. Like I just had about 32 beers. And 14 glasses of champagne. And 8 shots of tequila.

So in a deviattion from my much too normal norm, I thought it would be funny for the control freak to lose control. For my inner anti-spellcheck rebel to let her freak flag fly. And here is the result: a masssively mistake and grammatical error-ridden masterpice.

I'm Writing a blog blin d and not going back to correct ANYTHING> cause it’s funnier that way, right? right? AND - hold the phone - there shan’t be any italics. And barely any perfectly placed pictures.

I am verrry luckly Mrs. McCleod taught me how to type so well -and while I don’tt really give myself much credit for many of my shining, shimmering qualities (taco eating, blog writing), I will say that I am an excellent tyist. Typer? Typist. I woulda made Joanie girl proud! (For those of youwho don’t watch Mad Men, get WITH THE PROGRAM, would you?? that means i have twice hoodwinked you - the title of this entry AND theJoan reference. don’t yo feel left out??)

Good lord doI feel sleepy. I look like a drug addict. I am dizzy and narcileptic and trying to make dinner while my head lols backward against my couch and my fingers zoom across the keys writing gibberish. Nonsense. Sorry! Is this what it’s like to do shrooms? That’s the only drug i can think of that affects your vision.

I wasn’t hungry before the appointment but now my tum is a rumbling. I think my beer goggled vision has tricked the ole estomago into belieeving it was gonna enjoy some drunk food . Boy is it in for a huge upset when it gets fed broccoli and cicken and undoubtedly either over cooked or undercooked couscous (cause i cannNOOOT read the directions!!)

I mean no but seriously. The screen is a massive blur of black and grey - it doesn’t even look black. I can’t read my emails!I can’t see my texts! I can’t check my FACEBOOK PAGE! It’s the end of the world.

Do dilation drops have drugs in them? I think imma go pass out now. Please oh please let my vision be back before figure hating - I mean skating - comes on!! Hmm perhaps I should give myself a manicure...now that might be funny. This entry, unfortunately - not so much. Sowweeeee. I can’t help it, i’m dilated!

Figure Hating

2010-02-18T07:13:00.001-05:00

Does anyone else feel unprepared for the Olympics this year? Like they came out of nowhere?

I don’t know why but I’m really just not that into them. And the winter ones are my fave!

Nevertheless, I have managed squeeze in my main squeeze – figure skating! I’ve watched both pairs programs (Shen and Zhao are so goddamn cute, SO happy for them!), and the men’s short program (free skate is tonight).

Flying through the air and falling on your ass aside, there is one aspect of figure skating that I deem positively terrifying. One quintessential characteristic that always makes my skin crawl with disdain.

What, you may ask, is that flamboyant little facet?

Why, can’t you guess?

The costumes. Good LORD, the costumes! I thought the 80s were over. Through. Finished. Finito. But much to my chagrin and sheer horror, that dreadful decade is destined to live forever on ice. The 80s have immortalized classless, tacky, bedazzled outfits.

The vicious, vision-violating monstrosities that men and women – especially the men, what is WITH all the GLOVES?? MJ tributes all around? – don are downright blasphemous.

Dear, sweet boys: This isn’t the Ice Capades. It’s the Olympics. Could you try a decent costume on for good measure? Could you live your life to a 21st century tune?

I did love Brian Boitano (well to be fair, I think my mom loved him enough for both of us...I must have watched the program that went with that outfit a million times); I liked Elvis Stojko; Brian Orser was OK. But they were no dashing divos. The skaters of this century should take a design hint from the debonair Douglas Dorsey in The Cutting Edge.

Oh how I LOVE the scene where he and Kate are getting fitted in those outrageously contemptible costumes. The seamstress contemplates where to place a piece of flair and our main man Doug says something like, “I know…how about here,” and rips the god awful costume apart. Go Doug! Boy after my own heart.

So you missed Tuesday’s short program performances? No worries. Here are my Kings of Costume No-No-No’s straight from the Vancouver dragway:

Johnny Weir(d)

Evgeni-lociraptor Plushenko

Artem-the-Riveter Borodulin

Kevin van der Halloween (?)

I get it. I understand the need to be over-the-top. To exaggerate the “look”. To stand out.

But really. Seriously buddies. I do not tell a lie: To the viewers and fans, you end up a big, fat farce. And that’s the ugly truth.

Grocery Shopping Showdown

2010-02-17T07:12:00.005-05:00

I know, you hear me? I know. I know that living in New York City, that being one tiny ant in this overflowing hellish hill has its downs along with its ups.

But one of those downs is, unfortunately, a cruel and unusual ~~punishment~~ necessity: Grocery shopping.

It’s one of the most cringe-inducing activities we Manhattanites must endure. (Yes I’ve tried Fresh Direct but I prefer seeing expiration dates and picking out my own produce, thank you very much.)

Now I don’t mean cringe in a holy SHIT, that’s expensive! kind of way - although believe you me, paying double for the same product as our suburban counterparts do can be grating. Especially when we’re strong-armed into paying such exorbitant amounts (I have learned that, unfortunately, one cannot subsist on Oodles of Noodles alone…no matter how we may wish it were so).

Utterly shell-shocking costs aside, there’s another aspect to food shopping that makes me dread Sunday afternoons.

The crowds.

People have no r-e-s-p-e-c-t. LISTEN to Aretha, yo!

They claw their way in front of you, smashing into your heels with their stupid little shopping suitcase - and they don’t apologize. They reach for that last pint of tomatoes, that single Stonyfield Farms blueberry yogurt, practically snatching if from your bewildered hands.

Oh, and if you’re in their way, they scream at you. Unfortunately I’m always oblivious and usually listening to tunes - therefore I often get the ole tap-tap-tap/push-push-push in addition to the ole shriek.

You can’t peruse NYC grocery aisles in a leisurely manner. In fact, I don’t think our sad excuses for stores even deserve the term “aisle”. Aisle implies walkway - not catwalk.

Gristedes and D’Agostino’s, Gourmet Garage and Morton Williams - even CVS and Duane Reade are all sans aisles. In their place are single cart lanes. Alleys. Dingy floors whose square footage can barely accommodate two parallel people let alone outrageously rude shoppers bedecked with produce and pasta, milk and meats, ~~cookies and candies and cakes~~!

Alas, the torment does not end there. After fighting the masses, after lugging around a basket that makes your arm ache with its heaviness, after maneuvering your way through the maze and back again (and again because, at least in my case, I always forget something) - then it’s time to face the lines.

Omfg the lines.

There’s nothing, and I mean nothing like the Union Square Whole Foods on a Sunday afternoon. The serpentine procession of peeps weaving in and out of the bread and dessert section, the cold food bar, the prepared dinner station.

And there’s always 30+ registers open!

It’s madness I tell you, complete and utter madness. You’re corralled like cattle into 5, 6, 7 different queues while a brightly lit television screen calls out your line number - in a slightly British accent, of course. They take their civilized, humanizing little nuances where they can get them.

And don’t you dare steal someone’s register by accident. This happens often - not always on purpose - and can be quite amusing. But as someone with experience on both ends - the stealing and the stolen - pay attention to that television screen. Otherwise you’ll find yourself being whacked on the head like you just cut the old lady in the deli line - 50 pound purses are not pretty.

As if this last legal form of human torture, this sadistic food shopping routine isn’t bad enough - oh no. Then you have to carry your groceries home.

People who complain about bringing their purchased perishables in from the car - to you I say: Shut the hell up. Try lugging those reusable bags on your shoulders (I byob) for a mile, up and up, flight after flight, to your 4th floor apartment.

Heavy as can be bags with taut straps dig into your shoulders, cutting off your circulation. You arms up and die in a hellish fit of pins and needles. Your feet drag with the excess poundage. Your knees hurt from climbing all those satanic stairs. ‘Tisn’t fun.

The crowds, the expense, the teeny tiny aisles and filthy floors, the lugging! - all these trials and tribulations are enough to make me contemplate anorexia. Well, at least until Sunday afternoon rolls around and my bare cabinets and empty tum beg to be fed.

How I miss the days of grocery shopping in the real world. Of strolling through the aesthetically pleasing promenades (aka aisles), gleaming under shiny fluorescent lights. How I long for the comfort of my old Volvo and a Super Stop and Shop. How I yearn to leisurely meander, to get lost in the dozens of aisles. Sigh.

I think it’s pretty ridiculous that I look forward to food shopping when I’m in Connecticut. But, hey. ‘Tis the little things in life.

Spread the Love. Hate the Day.

2010-02-14T12:15:00.002-05:00

Not that I’m necessarily in a fight with Valentine’s Day. Puh-lease - t’ain’t one of those woe-is-me single ladies (faaar from it, in fact). And while my diet this weekend has consisted almost solely of white, red, and pink Peanut M&M’s, it’s not because I’m eating my feelings - my cabinets are, unfortunately, sans food.

I just don’t get what the big deal is about Valentine’s Day. Girls get pissed at boys for not buying them candy and stuffed animals. They stomp their feet and throw pissy hissy fits if they’re not taken out to dinner - “YOU DIDN’T MAKE RESERVATIONS??”

OMG and it is the END of the WORLD if baby don’t get her flowers! So gross - they’re probably ordered from 1-800-FLOWERS and are, undoubtedly, red roses with disgusting baby’s breath - say it with me now: ewwwwwwww. (Note to boys: a little imagination never hurt anyone.)

I’m happy to report that none of my co’s received flowers last Friday (was that the cheaper way to go or something? there were lots of unfortunate status updates happening) - so thankfully there was no flaunting in my office.

Instead, my cynical ~~cell~~ cube-mate sent me a lovely list detailing why Valentine’s Day is simply the stage name for Slit-Your-Wrists Day:

1. In the two week period leading up to Valentine’s Day, American sales of gold jewelry lead to 34 million metric tons of waste.

2. The vast majority of roses sold for Valentine’s Day in the U.S. are imported from South America, wasting fossil fuels.

3. Valentine’s Day traces its roots to an ancient pagan holiday called Lupercalia, in which men stripped naked, grabbed whips, and spanked young women in hopes of increasing their fertility.

4. The Christian martyr St. Valentine was beheaded on February 14 for performing marriages in secret.

5. Research suggests that 75 percent of suicide attempts are attributable to relationship problems.

6. 46 percent of Americans will exchange Valentine’s Day candy.

7. 67 percent of Americans are overweight or obese.

8. The first Valentine’s Day card was sent by Charles, Duke of Orleans, to his wife while he was imprisoned in the Tower of London. He remained a prisoner of war for the next twenty-four years.

9. A recent poll found that one in ten young adults admitted to feeling lonely, insecure, depressed, or unwanted on Valentine’s Day. And that’s just the ones that admitted it.

10. Forty percent of people have negative feelings towards Valentine’s Day.

11. The famous St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, in which seven Chicago gangsters were gunned down on February 14, 1929, was one of the bloodiest in mob history.

12. 64 percent of American men do not make Valentine’s Day plans in advance.

13. Candy hearts taste like shit.

14. Even if you’re really, really in love right now, you’re still going to die eventually.

Yizzikes.

Now let it be understood that my fabulous group of solo lady friends and I are not single bitter bitches. No, no. We simply see Valentine’s Day as a big, fat, commercialization - and really, who doesn’t?

But once we don our rose-colored glasses (unfortunate coincidence), this schmoliday is magically transformed into a far more fun holiday called Galentine’s Day (thanks Ri and Amy!)

Tonight is nada but a ridiculously welcome and super fun excuse to get decked to the nines, drink lots of champagne, and spend time with girlfriends. And of course there will be funfetti and tons-o-belly laughs - way better than pouting your way through an overpriced dinner.

I don’t have a ginormous problem with Feb 14th. For me, this measly mid-month, mid-winter day has always been halfway decent. Maybe it’s cause my parents give me a few presents (and some moolah). Or because I’ve always received anything but roses (thank GOD - red ones?...I would die). I’ve even had a few delicious dinners cooked for me.

* Unconventional is the way to be, boys. *

I just think Valentine’s Day is like your birthday - all the buildup, all the excitement, all the anticipation - then the actual moment comes, the main event - and it never, evvvver lives up to your expectations.

And why would it? Who in their right mind would be satisfied with a cheesy poem in the shape of a heart, an ugly white teddy bear from CVS, and a dozen horrifically horrifying red roses that will die the next day?

Not I.

Romance makes me awkward and squirmy. My idea of ardor is waking up on February 14th to find a cute, simple note on my iPod wishing me a lovely day, saying there’s a new Valentine’s Day playlist - and no, not a mushy one, a sentimental one. (Yes that did happen once, so sweet!)

Come on people. Stop making such a big deal out of February 14th. Stop putting all your hopes and dreams of romance into one itty bitty day - there are 364 OTHERS in the year.

Spread the love. Hate the day.

That is, of course, unless you’re spending it with your lady friends - then I must say, LONG LIVE GALENTINE’S DAY!

hugs and kisses and rainbows and ponies,

kpizzle

Living in a Digital World, and I am NOT a Digital Girl

2010-02-11T08:02:00.000-05:00

I got my first digital camera three years ago* and am ashamed to admit that I have never, ever, not once, printed an actual picture.

(*Actually, that’s a lie. My parents got me a digital camera for Christmas in 2002, complete with all accessories - printer, dock, shiny picture paper! - I used it perhaps once. Maybe twice. Never did like it much.)

While I have - at last - toed my way into the digital world, I think it’s outrageous that I’ve not printed a single picture, that I have nothing to show except 55 albums on Facebook, that I have but one framed picture in my apartment (a bridesmaid gift from my friend Becky).

For some reason I’ve been über bothered by my lack of photos lately. I keep thinking how unfortunate this digital era is. How impersonal. How hapless and forlorn our lives are without bonafide snapshots.

This disdain has forced flashbacks of my first encounter with the world of digital. I was my sophomore year in high school (can NOT believe that was over a decade ago), and my teacher Mr. DeMazza had one. It looked scary. And fragile. But he ended up being quite the trendsetter with this fancy camera! The first of the firsts.

I, however, didn’t really take to these odd clodhoppers - neither as a sophomore in high school or a sophomore in college. (I still don’t think I fully have. I just don’t understand their zillion different settings, their options, their color schemes.)

I thought digital cameras were pointless and a royal pain in the ass. You have to charge a battery? You have to plug it in to upload? What the hell is a memory card??

I preferred my good old Kodak with a flip-up-flash n’ revolutionary Advantix drop-in film thankyouverymuch. (That panoramic option? Coolest thing ever!)

I don’t rightly remember what happened after my little flip-up-flash cam closed for business - sigh. I think I probably replaced it with my mom’s Elph (which I totes swiped from her). Then I switched over to trusty, reliable, super simple disposables - my medium of choice for quite a few years (I still have a handful kicking around that I’ve failed to develop).

That is, until Christmas 2007. That’s the year I revolutionized my digital photography philosophy. Funny that it coincided with the birth of my Facebook career. I don’t think it was a coincidence, embarrassingly.

I am grateful for advances in technology. I appreciate computers. Our lives have been made infinitesimally simpler by the advent of certain smarty-pants machines.

But while I fully admit I am Dark-Digital-Side convert who would never, ever in a million revert back to the paper era (BOOKS ASIDE), I must say: I miss printed pics mucho.

Now it’s like we’re friends with the computer. Our pictures aren’t tangible - we can’t touch them, flip through them, make piles of them. We just click through next, next, next. (Seriously, this simplicity has make stalkers of us all.)

And what’s more is that these computerific portraits are oftentimes pixel-fied. Blurry. Smeary. Boxy. Like when your cable loses its signal and comes in blocky. That’s not what we look like! (Is it?)

So many personal artifacts now reside in the digital world. Planners are practically extinct. Handwritten letters - yeah right. Poems, stories, blogs. Everything is digitized. And while I live my life to a Macbook beat, I still give credence to the notion that a picture is worth a thousand words.

The dearth of physical photos disturbs me.

When I was younger, I painstakingly pieced albums together. I spent hour after hour doing such. Pictures from my travels, from high school, from college. Memories.

I feel like people just don’t do that anymore (perhaps that’s why I can’t seem to remember any meaningful event ever). Facebook “albums” are a poor excuse for the real thing.

The Garbage Man Always Rings Twice

2010-02-10T07:16:00.001-05:00

Garbage is a helluva pain in the ole ass. The overflowingness. The stench. The littering about. The bugs it breeds. The coons that cluster! There’s so much of it. It’s a bottomless, never-ending monster that just doesn’t go away.

And unfortunately there’s nothing we can do about it.

What stinks the most about garbage, though, is the removal of it. I honestly don’t know which method is the worst. But here are my top (er, bottom) three.

1. To the dump, to the dump, to the dump, dump, dump! If you live in the boonies (aka Sharon Mountain), then there is no such thing as a garbage man. (Well, I suppose there is...and his name is Tim Parry.) You have to toss your trash at the transfer station with your own two hands. Hopefully you own a truck (thankfully Papa P does...one for that purpose alone).

2. Yes you can, can, can drag it out to the street. Big Rubbermaid bins house your refuse in your backyard (where nasty ass little hornets prowl, waiting to sting the shit out of you), until the garbage man himself comes. I’ve never experienced this so I don’t quite know how it works. But I believe you leave your garbage out front on a certain day at a certain hour.

3. Hands OFF. This is the most convenient option for we waste-producers (formally known as humans). Luckily it’s also the one I abide by. When you live in New York City, all you’s gotta do is toss your garbage in the proper bin on your way out: trash, bottles and cans, paper products. Easy, peasy, Japanesey. (Well I suppose we’re owed that simplicity in a big way – we do pay our lives away, after all.)

Alas, there is a slight problemo with this last alternativo. Something that irks me, paints scowl wrinkles on my face, contaminates my vision, makes me trip, wakes me up (!!!!). That something is the overreaching, all-encompassing inconvenience of trash being left on our sidewalks, awaiting an a.m. pickup.

When I was Super Shuttling it from LaGuardia back to the Village last Wednesday, a fellow passenger chatted me up. He was born in Detroit, currently resides in D.C., and was visiting New York for the second time ever.

He amiably asked question upon question and I enlightened him – somewhat biasedly – explaining that uptown is where old married couples live, midtown is plain g-ross, and downtown is where it’s at.

I told him to get pizza at Bleecker Street and Joe’s. That there was a good Thai place on 18th and 8th he should try. I pointed out the NY Public Library and the Empire State building and I babbled on – unawkwardly for some strange reason (perhaps I was still in my traumatized trance from the boobs of Miami) – until I had nothing left to say. There was a lull.

He broke it by saying, “Oh yeah, I remember that.” I asked what he was talking about. “The trash all over the sidewalks.”

I was taken aback. I couldn’t help it. Don’t diss my city, dude! Not that I don’t notice the mountains of black bags, I just think I’m a little immune to our unsavory refuse-removal-routine.

Unfortunately he was right. Is right. Piles and piles of garbage on our sidewalks – unsightly indeed! I don’t know what’s to be done about it though. Too many tenants means two tons of trash and no where for it to go but out, out, OUTside. So bags amass and sidewalks topple with rubbish.

Let me acknowledge the fact that I do, indeed, have profound respect for garbage men. No one wants to do that job. No one grows up dreaming of one day working in waste management. In the rain, in the snow, in the bitter cold and the blistering heat. No dankes.

So I suppose I can’t blame them for being pissy. For throwing cans about and revving their engines and leaving the compactors grinding and grunting away. They dawdle down the street in the morning, savoring each noisy moment like a red velvet cupcake. They (probably) abhor picking up our city-folk trash and drag out the process, like have all the time in the world.

At least that’s what it feels like to my narcoleptic, delirious, wishing-for-more-sleep mind at 5:00 every morning.

I’m awake and dreading before the truck even makes its bombastic way down the street. I sense it, I feel it in my bones, like some people feel a storm coming. Then there it is. The squeaky starts and stalls, the boisterous air brakes, the smashing of glass (can’t they be careful with recycling??), the pulverizing jaws of the compactors, the noise, noise, noise!

Once per morning, fine. I understand the necessity of garbage removal. But then, THEN, a second truck comes by – you see, there’s one for recycling and one for regular ole refuse (yes, yes I did just figure that out last week...hence the blue vs. black trash bags).

I lay waiting with bated, über-annoyed breath, yearning for sleep – but cannot slip back into dreamland until truck numero dos barrels down Sullivan. And even then it’s a crapshoot. Couldn’t they at least do both at once? In the name of sanity? Ugh.