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

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

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

Wamp wamp.

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

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

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

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

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

Well, that was a start at least.

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

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

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

WTF’s yo!!

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

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

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

Let the Peeling Begin

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

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

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

Boy was I wrong.

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

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

I digress. The point is:

Why does dermis delaminate?

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

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

Sunscreen upon sunscreen it is.

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

Train Tardies

Mine was a nation called Devastation this past Monday.

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

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

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

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

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

We were running late.

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

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

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

Oh. My. GOD.

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

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

Ugh!

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

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

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

I decided to rename Devastation Nation to Exhilaration Nation.

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

Mister Softee, Saboteur

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Why, Mister Softee, why?

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

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

My fear was realized. He wasn't there.

Super duper sad face.

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

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

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

And then, there it was.

Sigh.

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

I got my fix. And it was pure bliss.

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

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

Pullin' Up Pups

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Buastards!

Ugh. There are just so many no dankes when it comes to being a pedestrian in this city. I know that I’ve tackled cabbies creeping on up peddies in the crosswalk. And of course the citiclists.

But this one may take the cake.

Yesterday as I was crossing 6th Ave at King Street, not one, not two, but THREE vehicles nearly hit me.

Seriously guys? I know this Island makes you feel the need…the need for warp speed. The second you cross over those bridges, or come through those tunnels, you’re poofed into your road rage, lead foot alter-ego.

But come on. There are upward of 10,000 – ten thousand – pedestrians injured on NYC streets each year. Yeah, I Googled.

That’s NUTS!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Are you serious, drivers? Really?

So there I was, prancing along to Lily Allen’s new album (it’s kinda funny that I remember what music I’m listening to when I have these dangerous/upsetting NYC run-ins, i.e. dead RATS).

I waited until the pedestrian light turned white, then crossed.

I hadn’t quite committed yet, and was feeling exceptionally generous, so I let a smallish SUV zoom out in front of me. Fine. Understandable. I was barely a few steps out, they had a green light, so they went for it. I get it.

I was a good quarter of the way into the crosswalk when a white delivery van of some sort sped out in front of me. Being the super cautious, ultra aware girl that I am, I paused. Let him whoosh left onto 6th.

By that point, though, I was growing impatient.

So I went for it. I picked up the pace and started to bolt. But just as I was halfway across, a HUGE, GINORMOUS, GODDAMN BUS bolted right out in front of me.

I was thisclose to being hit. I was so near to the driver that I saw his ugly face and his scraggly, unkempt beard. What a bustard!!!

How I wish I had the frame of mind to flip him off (at least!!!) But I was paralyzed. I had almost been hit by a BUS.
I did manage to shoot him a dirty look (cause I’m at least good at those) and raise my arm a little as if to ask, WHAT??

But for reals, yo. WE HAVE THE RIGHT OF WAY.

The sad part is - I don't think these nutso drivers really even care if they hit someone.

Bustards!

R.I.P.-ed Rats

The only thing worse than seeing a grimy, fat rat scurrying down the sidewalk is seeing a dead one lying in the middle of it.

Actually, no. There is something worse.

Nearly stepping on a sopping wet, R.I.P.-ed, XL rodent is far worse than just seeing one.

No. Thank. You.

There I was, bopping to Franz Ferdinand, umbrella in hand, looking straight ahead, when all of a sudden a piece of trash (I thought…either that or a reaaaaally large pile of dog doo) appeared in my path. I looked closer and screeched. Jumped. Gagged. Nearly tripped.

I looked around, eyes averting the dead rat, to see if anyone had noticed my little freak out.

No. There was no one to share in my grief-ridden disgust at seeing and nearly stepping on that poor, dead-as-a-doornail-Splinter.

Silly rats, why can’t you stay put? Stick to the sewers and the dumpsters and garbage cans where you belong! Quit creeping on the sidewalks.

Or, better yet, quit croaking on the sidewalks!
Now I know that this sodden, ripe little Templeton probably fell for the ole poison gimmick. Dummy. So it was his own fault that his blood vessels burst and that he collapsed, dead. In the rain nevertheless – so very poignant for a rodent.

But I thought rat-a-tat-tats were supposed to bring the poison back to their lair and share the wealth? I thought they were supposed to seek out their watering hole or something? I thought they were supposed to die in the comfortable confines of their own sordid nests???

Why, then, did I nearly step on a deceased, rain-soaked rodent?

Ugh.

And of course I have the audacity to feel bad for any and all NYC pests (fine, except water bugs). But pigeons and mice and seagulls and rats – no matter how vulgar and unpleasant they might be, they can’t help it. They’re just trying to make a living, ya know?

So on top of being completely nauseated and not just a little unnerved, a wave of sadness struck me as well.

Poor little buddy.

If it was 1993 and I was on my farm with my friend Sarah Tuthill, I probably would have buried that sad little rat. With a headstone saying, “Here Lies Templeton.”

Cause yeah. We did that.

Red Light = STOP, Stupid

If the mood strikes, I can be quite a dutiful daughter. That’s why, on a whim, I decided to take the train to CT to spend Mother’s Day with that lovely mom-o-mine. Fine, fine – it was pretty much (yet another) Katie’s Day, but time spent in the tranquil countryside did me good.

I took an afternoon train back and, armed with bags of purchases from a double-Daughter’s-Day worth of shopping, I hopped in a cab and headed downtown.

I was still riding high on the vapors of my Northwest Corner visit – the chirping birds, the lush greenery, seeing my beloved pooch, Coop-de-doop – but wham, bam, thank you ma’am, I was jolted back to urban life in a New York second.

Why do cabs and cars and buses feel the need to inch up at intersections when the light is red? I don’t understand. Red means stop. It does not mean go. It’s so senseless, useless, pointless. I mean the light goes from yellow to red, they slow then stop, and two seconds later they’re creepin.

Such creeps! For so many reasons.
I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. New York is a pedestrian city. Why don’t drivers get that? Why don’t they understand? It’s so frustrating to be crossing the street – legally, when the signal is white, not jaywalking – and cab drivers ease off the brakes.

They’re always inching and slinking and stealing forward.
They think they’re so badass, so threatening. Puh-LEASE, I think I’d feel pretty damn intimidating behind the wheel of a two-ton vehicle, too. Bullies.

There have been times when idiotic cabbies have been thisclose to bumping into me. And I’ve witnessed countless close encounters of cross-walkers and those ne’er-do-wells. Of course they’re in the wrong, but after I (and believe me, I can offer up a nasty-ass stink-eye), or the aforementioned strangers shoot them a dirty look, they actually have the nerve to HONK.

EW!

Quit yer pussyfooting, ya big yellow ninnies. Cabbies and car drivers and and MTA buses: You’re not gonna GET anywhere while the light is red. Or if you do, you’ll get a ticket. Or perhaps even a felony charge for manslaughter.

So annoying.

Please pedestries, until those nincompoops learn their lesson – be vewy vewy careful.

Receipts for No Reason

Now. Let me preface by saying I know that excessive receipts are no fault of the poor, innocent cashiers. After all - they’re just doing their job, trying to make a buck. But honestly, I don’t get it.

Why the waste of paper? The extending and the grabbing of a stupid little scrap? It’s such a superfluous motion. An unnecessary transaction that pilfers precious seconds of your day, minutes of your week, months of your life.

Stop the incessant, needless receipts!

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve begrudgingly walked back towards a shouting cashier to accept a receipt from their overextended, impatient paws.

The worst culprit is DD’s. I know, I know - I No Dankes Dunkin’s a lot - but the criticism is fairly well deserved. They are the most erroneous receipt tosser’s of them all. No, thank you, I DO NOT want a receipt for a coffee that cost $2.37. Really, thank you, I don’t.

Alright, I'll admit it. Cashiers do give me a tinge of anxiety. Of course I don’t want the receipt they’re demanding I take. But I always feel such unbearable pressure to run back and grab the proof of payment. Especially because I know that if I try to run away, the employee will put on their pissy, peeved-off face and exaggeratedly crumple it up in front of me while shouting, “NEXT!”

Ugh.

Self-apprehensions and nervousness aside, it really is quite sinful to be squandering perfectly good paper on a receipt for a package of Big Red. No, no, Gristedes, I do not need evidence that I’ve purchased yet another half gallon of ice cream.

I could wallpaper my apartment with all the receipts I’ve rounded up in the past year. Or, let’s be honest, the past month (yes, my horse stall/rabbit hutch is very teeny tiny, but still…it’s the principle of the matter).

Yes, there are occasions that warrant a little white slip. Namely the purchase of clothing and – umm – well that’s all I can think of actually. Come to think of it, even clothing receipts are paltry! When I worked at Bloom’s, people would come in with years-old garments and we always found a way to look them up and return their money. Like magic. Really, really annoying f-ing magic.

Where there’s a will, there’s a way, people.

So come on now. Let’s all be grownups and do away with receipts. If not for our sanity of not having to walk back and grab the slip from a cashier, then at least for the trees. Yes everyone, let’s do it for the trees.

When 100 Calorie Packs Turn Into 1,000 Calories

100 Calorie Packs are undoubtedly the most dangerous innovation the food industry has seen since fun size candy bars. Why, you might ask? BECAUSE NO ONE CAN EAT JUST ONE! (BTdubbs, whoever worked for Lay’s and came up with that slogan is, quite simply, a genius.)

Perhaps I speak in generalizations far too grand. I know that I, at least, certainly cannot consume but one 100 Calorie Pack. No, no. For me they are “diet” sabotage…for sure.

When the aforementioned packs are nearby, I become a crazy woman with the approximate self-constraint of a monkey in a cage chocked with bananas, or a seal swimming in a pool full of dead fish, or Cooper with his dog dish drowning in American cheese.

In short, if there are 100 Calorie Packs in my cabinet, my name might as well be Eve. The temptation is far too great.

Yes, yes. Those teeny tiny portion control packets are good in theory, bad in practice. Am I the only person that can’t stop at one? Oreos and Cheetos and Doritos oh MY. The Chips Ahoy are chocolicious. The Teddy Grahams are cinnatastic. The Goldfish are saltisfying. Well that last one didn’t really work but hey, you win some you lose some.

I’ve enjoyed maaaany of the varieties many a time. And by the time I’ve had enough – well let’s just say it’s more like 600 or 700 calories that I’ve consumed.
Perhaps, though, my ultimate 100 Calorie low was a few weeks ago when I got the brilliant idea to recreate those most beloved Dunkaroos. Remember them? I sure do. Obvi.

Alone within the confines of my apartment, the necessity of being clandestine removed from my shoulders, I ripped open a few (no need to call myself out on how many precisely) 100 Cal packs of Lorna Doone’s. They are by far my most favorite 100 Calorie variety (one of my favorite full cal cookie varieties, and one of my most favorite books).

I hurriedly dumped the mini-Doone’s into a bowl and snatched my half empty container of Pillsbury vanilla frosting from the fridge. Don’t worry, I had bought it to ice a cake – my brilliant idea of Dunkaroo-inspired nostalgia didn’t come until after the icing had already been opened and partially used.
In a fit of madness, I dove that little shortbread cookie downward, dunking and swirling it round the tub of too-surgary, too-processed frosting. And boy was it – dare I say – better than the Dunkaroos of middle school’s past.

It’s a conspiracy, really. 100 Calorie Packs are such nonsense. No one can seriously eat just one. We just feel better about eating them because “100 Calories” seems like nothing. And I’m here to tell you, it’s something. Particularly when you’re throwing down 6 or 7 or 8 packs. And ESPECIALLY when you insist, like I so grotesquely do, to dip them – DIP them – in vanilla frosting.

Oh hello Mr. Simon. “…why am I soft in the middle now,” you ask? Because these stupid, sadistic manufacturers, à la Nabisco and Keebler and Frito-Lay and Hostess, have all banded together in a great, treacherous scheme!

Grocery stores I implore you, ban the 100 Calorie Packs! Or at least, for the love of my love handles, ban the frosting!