Paper Cuts are PAINFUL!

I’ve always been a very avid reader. Be it Little House on the Prairie or War and Peace, I love nothing more than to get completely lost in a book. That’s why I love my job! Duh.

But there’s one aspect of working in book publishing that I was in no way prepared for.
Das paper cuts.

And boy do I sure get a lot of them. They hurt, yo!

I’m a Klutz (got that? capital K!) Perhaps my big ole body never got used to its size, but I am forever crashing into things, stubbing toes, jamming fingers, whacking my head, tripping over my own two feet.

That’s why, I guess, it comes as no surprise that I attract paper cuts like human blood attracts vampires.

It’s simply unavoidable.

Whether I’m flipping through papers, turning the page of a book, ripping open an envelope, or filing a folder, those stupid pulpy fibers always find a way of slicing my finger open.

Never in a million trillion would I have guessed that a small little sliver of a wound could be so terribly painful. The stinging, the stinging!!

It’s like a needle being dragged back and forth below your skin. I’m wincing just thinking about it.

And man oh man, as if the paper-family cuts weren’t bad enough, my Klutziness has formed a new acquaintance. Plastic.

I was carrying my groceries home in a reusable Stew Leonard’s bag the other day (good kid!) Of course it was filled to the brim. As I went to shut my door, somehow – I have no idea how…blame it on the c-c-c-c-c-clumsiness – I sliced my elbow on the arugula container.

Really. Really?

And that sucker bled! I actually had to put a band aid on it!

Wamp wamp.

Wish I could ditch that jfkdahga Klutz.

Fruit Fly OUTTA Here!

Now everyone knows – or at least should know – that I have a very adverse reaction to all things creepy crawly. I shan’t go into further details, just read down a few blogs and you’ll see.

But a seemingly harmless little bugger (no pun intended) has really started to bother me as of late.

Yes, Drosophila melanogaster, I loathe thee.

Fruit fly, fruit fly, shoo shoo shooooo!
There just simply isn’t enough room in my teeny apartment (as much as I adore it) for those pesky little pests! My lack of separation between kitchen and bedroom is totes fine...until the fruit flies come a begging.
Seriously. I don’t understand why those pernicious little creatures have to weasel their way into MY apartment.

There are no lackadaisical bananas browning themselves for banana bread. No apples exposing their sweet, waxy skin in a come-hither-esque way. No strawbs or bluebs or rasps bejeweling my counter.

Why? BECAUSE I HAVE NO COUNTER!
Therefore I never, ever leave fruit out. Or food for that matter. No bread, no cheese. No tomatoes. Rarely a glass-o-vino

My abode offers no temptation for those wretched little scoundrels. So why oh WHY do they insist on lumbering lazily around? Especially around mealtimes? How do they know????It must be those ginormous, über vicious, crimson colored eyeballs (so scary!), because I highly doubt they have the olfactory glands of a hound dog. There ain’t no room on that body!

Where do they come from? Perhaps they fly under my door. Maybe my neighbor is a banana bread aficionado and his apartment is ridden with dark brown bananas. And because there's so many of their brethren over there, they fly on over to mine in search of mas bananas.

Or perhaps it’s my Warm Vanilla Sugar (2001, anyone?) hand soap. Or my pomegranate dish soap. Or my other coconut milk hand soap.

Maybe they're totes into peony/tuberose/coconut/Japanese blossom/grapefruit lotion (once a product girl, always a product girl).
But I suppose my one saving grace in this lose/lose situation is the fact that those little shits have a lifespan of ten days.

Hallelujah.

(Please, I beg you - for the sake of my sanity, don’t mention the fact that they lay eggs within the span of that week and a half life cycle. I do not want to think of more baby bugs growing up in my apartment.)

Gym's Are For Getting Buff - Not Being IN the Buff

I was totes out of commission on Saturday. I guess that’s what a sweet tea vodka/pink champagne/Brooklyn lager combo will do to ya.

So I was pretty much holed up all day watching “16 and Pregnant” (obsessed). I felt so guilty, so remorseful, that I made SURE I was up and at ‘em Sunday morning. Like, 10am up and at ‘em. UnHEARD of in this city.

After a lovely brunch with Olivia, I beat it on over to my gym.
But I wasn’t just “going to the gym.” I was going to sit poolside on the breezy, beautiful rooftop of Printing House. And boy was it fantabulous. (I give you full permission to haterate.)

I spent my day resting, reading, and relaxing in the cool, cool summer breeze. Took a couple of dips in the pool. Then decided that I should perhaps go for a stroll on the ole treadmill.
With a grin plastered on my face (how could I not be smiling after such a gorgeous afternoon!) I walked on into the women’s locker room.

Then – THEN – in my buoyant, rapturous, smiling state, with a spring in my step – I nearly rammed smack into a buck naked, saggy old lady.

Seriously. I don’t understand it!!!!!!! Why do people have no shame? No shame whatsoever.

I’ve never seen such a group of immodest people. They’ve never even heard the word. They don’t even know what it means.
Perhaps I’m a tad overly self-conscious. I mean, sometimes I go into the bathroom to change. If my towel slips the wrong way after I’ve taken a shower my heart drops. Literally, drops. And I start sweating (thankfully not enough to need a re-shower...but still).

I certainly ain’t saying I’m any great shakes. But my 26-year-old bod looks a tad different than a 40, 50, or 60-something with all that sag and more rolls than a Shar-Pei.

Yet it’s me, not them, who is über bashful. They have no problem whatsoever walking around in the buff.

And it’s not like, Oh let me just drop tow (towel not trou! hahah) while I put my panties on.

Oh no. It’s more like, Oh let me stand here naked while I slab lotion all over my wrinkles and rolls and boobs and butt; while I blow-dry my hair (oh GOD the bending over, kill me now!); while I put on my makeup; while I TALK ON THE PHONE.

It seriously blindsides me. Like peripheral vision vomit. Like eyesight pollution. Like toxic wasteland scenery. Like a horrific horror flick. Like shit yo, if I see one more naked booty I’m going to SCREAAAAAAAAAM.
Kudos to them, honestly. But in what world do they think it’s OK to parade around interminably in their birthday suit whilst fellow gym-goers have to endure it?

All I ever want is to ellipticize in peace. The gym should be a place of relaxation, not refluxation.

I like me some buns, sure. But they’re cinnamon flavored and gooey and covered in frosting. Dunkin’s comes after the gym, not at the gym.
So come on ladies, keep those buns covered!

To steal a line from Lily: “It’s not fair and it’s really not OK, it’s really not OK, it’s really NOT OK!”

Obsessive Impulsive Disorder

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 chair 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.

Erratic Ellipses

El-lip-sis [i-lip-sis]: (plural ellipses; from the Greek: ελλειψις, élleipsis, "omission") is a term in printing and writing that refers to a mark or series of marks that usually indicate an intentional omission of a word or a phrase from the original text. An ellipsis can also be used to indicate a pause in speech, an unfinished thought or, at the end of a sentence, a trailing off into silence (aposiopesis).

The most common form of an ellipsis is a row of three periods or full stops (...). Forms encountered less often are: three asterisks (***), one em dash (—), multiple en dashes (––), and the Unicode Ellipsis symbol […]. 

The triple-dot punctuation mark is also called a suspension point, points of ellipsis, periods of ellipsis, or colloquially, dot-dot-dot.
 
Copied and pasted from Wikipedia, I kid you not. Of particular interest to me for the sake of this entry are those three small dots: “…”. I find it positively mind boggling that some people insist on using only two, as in: “..”. 

Hellooooo Grammar Police.

Ugh! Even as I’m writing this, Microsoft Word is underlining the aforementioned two dots with a green squiggle. Green squiggles mean something is wrong. Duh! All you have to do is right click and IT WILL AUTOCORRECT FOR YOU, easy-peasy-Japaneasy.

Technology: I heart thee.

Yes, I understand that most people do not write emails and Facebook status updates and wall posts in Word. I’ll give ya’ll that ¼ of an excuse to work with. But, unfortunately for you, the other ¾ of non-excuse blows that measly .25 out of the water.

Everyone, evvvvveryone, learns what an ellipsis is in middle school grammar. It’s one of the foundations of the English language. It should be crystal clear – if you are an avid reader of this here blog (thanks Papa P!) – that ellipses are an integral part of my writing. I use this convenient, neat little tool in its numerous forms – case in point – at least twenty-three times a day.

The Grammar Police part of me explodes, erupts, goes kablooey in a fit of madness when I see .. instead of … Really it does.

It takes a part of a fraction of a millisecond to strike the . key. A part of a fraction of a millisecond, people! Come on!

Repeat after me: dot-dot-dot.

Dankes!

Are You for Real, Rain?

Just a little addendum to my previous rain post.

I shan't dwell but seriously, WTFFFFFFFF??? I'm SO OVER THIS RAIN!!!

I think the only person in the entire world who likes rain is Michelle Carberry. Case in point:

Rain, rain, go awaaaay. Wamp wampity.

Sunglasses Sans Sun

What the hell happened to April showers bring May flowers? It’s the first of the month and thus far April showers seem to have brought nothing other than more May showers. WTFs? Me no likes.

Yes, yes. We all know I don’t very care much for NYC in the rain. Hard to believe that I hate sopping wet feet, frizzy hair, and drenched work clothes. However, there is there is one thing that really gets me going when it come to cloudy days. Aside, of course, from the fact that they seem to be here to stay.

I have today off (love my job!) so I was running errands all over the Village and SoHo. I was out the door early this morning, umbrella in hand. Throughout my downtown travels I counted 17 – seventeeeeeeen – people wearing sunglasses.

Really buddies? Really?

I don't get why some people feel the need to show off their shades when it's, well, shady. Not a sunbeam to be found in a sky full of rain and yet...and yet...they just HAVE to cover up in their Chanels.

Do they think they’re cool? Are they aspiring to be to be famous? Or at least insinuate that they are famous by hiding their (arguably faux, contact clad) baby blues? Come on peeps. I've seen Tom Brady in the Village on a rainy day and not even HE was wearing sunglasses - a really ugly sweatshirt, yes - that's what made me notice him after all - but no, he was sans sunnies.

It's positively blasphemous that people break out the ole dimmers when it's cloudy and rainy. Yes, yes, this is NYC - the Village at that - and people need to be all chic and alluring. But it's just so annoying that they strut around in their Ray-Bans when it's a-storming!

Wearing sunglasses sans sun is such oxymoron, ya morons! Can't you SEE that? Please, just put those precious shades away - save them for a sunny day.

Don't Let the Bed Office Bugs Bite

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Office. Invasion.

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

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

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

...we got scared.

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

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

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

OMFG.

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

You're Such a Punk, Parsley

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

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

Parsley: you’re pernicious.

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

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

I. Don't. Get. It.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Yes Bitte! Spring Done Sprung

And all I can say is YAY!

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

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

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

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

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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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