ALL Highways are Hell

Where oh where does time go?

I can’t believe my 16th birthday was that long ago. Poof! Like that.




But even before I had my license, before I had my permit, my mom let me drive us all over. Sometimes as far as New Milford, forty-five minutes from my house.

I thought it was the coolest thing ever. I felt so badass, so grownup, so responsible.

Now I can’t believe that sixteen-years-olds are allowed to drive. They’re babies. I’d sooner let them have a beer than get behind a two-ton vehicle.

Whoever picked 16 as the magical driving age musta been smoking a doobie.

Driving is pretty much the scariest thing in the world.

Well, let me rephrase. If you are no longer a “driver”, then driving is a fright-fest shitshow.

I’m not talking about traversing back roads around my country home. I thoroughly enjoy zooming round those parts. Especially in the jeep (sans top, obvi).

Oh no. I’m talking highways. Mass Pike, Interstate 84, getting lost in downtown Hartford horrifying.

I think most people who have driven with me would agree that I’m a good driver. Sure, there were those two horrible weeks in my driving career - speeding ticket, flat tire, forgetting to put my car in park then watching it crash the gas grill into the garage door, hitting a parked car in my high school parking lot.

But other than that, I have a fairly impeccable record. I'm cautious. To this day, Fred Schopp makes fun of me for the time (eight years ago) that I set my cruise control to 65 mph on the way to Cape Cod. Hey, it was shortly after another speeding ticket.

But there arises un poquito problema when one does not drive often and the occasion - or shall I say necessity - to do so presents itself.

There were three such occasions this summer and they all started with a Cape and ended with a Cod (with a Rhode Island in between).

Now, in no way am I complaining. I am such a lucky girl to have three different houses to visit on the Cape. But driving there is bollocks.

I’m more scared of driving than I am of walking home at 4am in New York City. It’s petrifying! There’s so many things that can go wrong. And it’s almost certain death if there’s an accident.

Maybe that’s why I’m so afraid every time I step into a car - as a driver or a passenger. Maybe that’s what ten more years of life have taught me - how pathetically mortal we are. How, with the typing of a text or the tuning of a radio, our life can be snatched from us.

My last trip to the Cape was especially scary...for many reasons. On the way there it was dark, late, there was traffic, I was tired. Though I could not see my hands, they were, undoubtedly, white from my death-grip on the wheel.

10 and 2 boys and girls, 10 and 2.

Then Tom Tom messed with my head on the way home and got us lost in Hartford - I hate you Tom Tom. You’re such a dummy.

Cars are very, very dangerous things. Convenient, yes. But at what cost? Motor vehicle accidents are one of the leading causes of death in the U.S. - and we’re a country full of traffic lights and stop signs and speed limits and laws.
Unlike, say, Sicily - where I very much feared for my life every time I got near a car (they don’t really have rules).

I’ve always scoffed at New Yorkers and their sans-drivers-license-ness but I’m sure the day will come when I must return to suburbia.

And I ain’t looking forward to it - to having a constant vise grip on the steering wheel, to roads filled with crazy drivers, to the necessity of speeding along on highways.

Oh yes. I assure you, I will be dragging my anxiety-ridden body in reluctant retreat to the burbs. My head will be down and my heart heavy with the knowledge that I will, once again, have to drive.

Lost in Transition

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

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

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

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

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

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.

Not-So-Pretty Nails

Nail salons are about as common as rats in New York City. Alright, alright – I embellish. But they’re pretty ridiculously common. Common and cheap. Best combo ever!

Because they’re so reasonable and so omnipresent, I began to make it part of my weekly routine to get a manicure. Some places are $8, others – cleaner, choicer polish options, an altogether better atmosphere and ambiance, like Spa Belles on 6th Ave – are $13. Still pretty practical.

But since we are in a recession and since I pretty much pay my LIFE away to live in Greenwich Village AND since I work in book publishing which, let’s face it, is not the most lucrative industry – I decided to cut back on my manis. I have enough different polishes to suffice a weekly swap.

I recently had a birthday – which, by the way, aren’t that glamorous after 21…not that 21 is by any means glamorous, but you know what I mean. Anyway, I decided to treat myself to a mani. Of COURSE I’m a pushover for pretty new polishes, so I was over the moon when I saw that Essie had come back from their 2008 fluorescent romp with a spanking new line-o-neons. Yippee!

It was a Saturday afternoon. The clouds had dissipated, leaving in their wake a lustrous cerulean sky. The birthday gods were shining upon me! Kelly, my steadfast mani-buddy, decided on Punchy Pink for her nails. After some debate, I opted for Perky Purple.

One bottom coat, two matte layers of polish, and one glossy topcoat finish later, we chatted amicably whilst the solvents evaporated. Not one, not two, but three cycles under the dryers later, we decided they were good to go.

Thankfully our conscientiousness paid off. There was no smudging of the polish. However. Only a few hours into the night, the Perky Purple was losing its perk. Yes, it's true. My $13 mani was chipping – and with little to no exertion on behalf of my hands. The horror! Ruined my birthday.

OK not really, but I was pretty peeved.

Manicures are supposed to last at least a week without flaking. Especially the more “expensive” ones. Ugh!

Half-chipped nail polish is pretty disgusting. It makes one appear unkempt, disheveled, even dirty. Sure, I’m guilty of not removing my polish when it has passed its prime. But I can still judge the shit out of grody, scraped off, half-lacquered fingernails.

With all the innovations the nail polish remover industry has seen, it’s a no-brainer. So por favor: if your Pretty Nails ain’t so pretty anymore, just use one of those nifty little polish remover pads and take it off.

When Life Gives You Artificial Ingredients, Make Beverages

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!

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!