Maria and her Dress do NOT Make Beautiful Music

OK. I’m gonna throw it out there cause we all know it’s true. I’m just not afraid to admit it. Captain von Trapp is hot. Judge away.

The fake one, of course, not the real one. I’m talking ‘bout Christopher Plummer, yo! You know he is.

I’ve watched The Sound of Music approximately four (alright, seven) times in the past month. Yes, I know. Again: Judge away. It was on ABC Family over Easter and with the life-changing advent of DVR, I practically own it! I can watch and re-watch and re-watch again. It’s almost as wonderful as my homemade Dunkaroos (aka Lorna Doone's + frosting from a can).

If you have not experienced the film in a while, here's a little montage refresher. To see the real dance, unfortunately, you'll have to rent it - goddamn copyright laws. But I'm sure this will make you want to add SoM to the #1 position in your Netflix queue. (And you will LOVE the Love Actually music!)

Anyway, so after not seeing the film for many years, it was pretty much like experiencing it for the very first time.

When I was younger, I loved it as a children’s movie. I mean it is chock-full-o-kiddies. Singing kiddies at that! I always wanted to be Gretl sitting on the stairs singing about the sun going to sleep.
Later I wished I was Liesl, dancing around clandestinely with that hot Nazi, Rolfe (scandaloso!) I loved her dress so much. And yes, I wanted to try champagne but my dad always said no too. (Sad face.)

However, with this most recent viewing (or viewings, shall I say…such a SoM glutton), I found myself really enjoying the love story between Maria and Captain von Trapp. I used to despise the part where they’re singing “Something Good” in the gazebo – I’d fast-forward my video as fast it’d go. That was Liesl and Rolfe’s gazebo! No Maria! No Captain! I thought it was absolutely blasphemous. Sneaks! Stealers!

But I digress, per usual. My whole no dankity has to do with Maria’s dress at the ball. I know she’s not actually in attendance but COME ON. They could have put a cuter dress on her. Yes, fine, it’s a 60s film representing the late 30s and true, those are probably flowers on her dress, but for real costume designers? It looks more like a 1980s, puffy-painted, Spin Art-ed, poufy-sleeved, jean-vested monstrosity. It belongs in saloons, slugging Jack Daniels. Certainly not sipping champagne at a fancy ball, dancing the Laendler. 

Yes, Maria is a governess and yes she is (nearly) a nun and, fine, she should be dowdy. But this is the pivotal scene of the movie people! The sexual tension is palpable. First Marta calls her out for being red faced (brat!), then there’s that awkward moment with the Baroness, and THEN the Captain looks back at Maria and makes an even MORE uncomfortable comment about the

weather to the Baroness – it’s undoubtedly one of my favorite romantic cinematic moments.

But Maria’s dress ruins it! Why oh why does she have to be donning something so perfectly hideous? (Don't mind the mptv logo - this one was the best example for so many reasons.)

Ugh!
So long, farewell,
au revoir auf wiedersehen!
If I were him,
I’d certainly abstain!
(But if she wore a different dress, ya never know!)

Cityclists are Psychos

If New York is a city of pedestrians, then it is also most certainly a city of bicyclists. And the latter is much more dangerous than the former.

In fact, we poor pedestrians often fall victim to those most ruthless and barbarous bikers, tisket-tasket-basket and all. City bikes are evil personified. Especially those driven by deliverymen. Evil I tell you!

Perhaps I’m just bitter towards bikers because the dear old ‘rents told me I was not allowed to have one in the city.

“Please Mom! Please Dad! I want a pink one!”

“Absolutely not.”

They fear their little child would kill herself amidst the vicious sea of endless cabs and crazy drivers. And yes. Yes, I do believe I would.

Resentment and bike-envy aside, I really detest cyclists. They’re so obnoxious. They think they personify coolness, sitting atop their vintage touring bikes. No, no - these stupid cityclists (yes I made that up) wouldn’t be caught DEAD on a Huffy or a Trek or a Schwinn. They have to have an über cool, funky-colored-clanker of a bike. With a basket. And a bell. And maybe some pretty little pom-poms.

NYC bikers deem themselves invincible…AND invisible. They think they can just cruise down the sidewalk or zoom in and out of traffic and go unnoticed, come out unscathed. I want to scream at them, “YOU DO NOT BELONG ON THE SIDEWALK!” Why are they so egotistical? Sidewalks are for walking, ya jerks, not biking.

A couple of weeks ago I was crossing the street (yes, the walk signal was white…though I am a notorious jaywalker). I had looked both ways - like my parents taught me - when all of a sudden out of nowhere this stupid deliveryman flew into me. And he had the nerve to start yelling at me. Really buddy? Really? You’re in that much of a hurry! You can’t watch where you’re going, ya big dummy?

I guess my only reward for having to deal with these psycho cityclists is seeing them crash into opening car doors. It's pretty hilarious. And while you may be only be lucky enough to see a couple of these car door bike-strikes in your lifetime, the chuckles are well worth the annoyance that idiotic, psychotic cityclists ensue.

LOL is, like, so not funny.

No really, it’s not. Not at all. Not even one little bit.

Now I love me some abbreviations - or should I say abbr.’s. I'm pretty much addicted to anything and everything abbreviated. They’re the best thing since Cake Man Raven's red velvet. Many people can't stand my vernacular inventions, but my good friend Kelly and I are pretty much the sisters in Nell with their ridonculous language. We totes speak and type almost exclusively in tongues.

However, there is one – well, two – abbr.’s that drive me (and Kelly) absolutely, positively crazy.

The first is LOL. The second is LMAO.

I don’t understand why people use LOL. Where did it come from? It’s an unnecessary shortening. There’s no need to condense “haha”. Fine, I know some people prefer not to type out a phrase that isn't really a word but rather a sound. But to these people I say: LOL is not a word, either. Therefore it should not be substituted as such.

(Yes I made that LolCat. Even though they're annoying, you should probably buy our book: http://www.amazon.com/Can-Has-Cheezburger-LOLcat-Colleckshun/dp/159240409X)

This morning I was iming with Kelly. She asked what the blog would be about today and I simply wrote: lol. Her reply is copied and pasted below:
 
kelly: ohhhhhh god! i thought you were saying it for real!
whew!
kelly: my mouth dropped!
ahahahah
 
Never, EVER will LOL or LMAO ever, ever creep in and disgrace our conversations with their presence.

Please, dear friends. I know there are certain situations when things may be really funny and deserve more oomph than a petty “haha” can offer. But I implore you, instead of employing a "laugh out loud" LOL or a "laughing my ass off" LMAO, just abuse the hell outta those two keystrokes and type "hahahahahhahahahahahahahahah". That will suffice! I promise! 

'Tis far, far better to read someone’s typed "hahahahaha's" - you can actually picture their tummy-rumbling-cheeky-chuckles, imagine the laugh-ee rolling around and heaving with hearty snorts and howls. Who wants to envision the chuckler holding down the shift button and typing those stupid three letters: LOL. It's the most unfunny phrase ever. It ruins the funniness of whatever was laughable in the first place.
And LMAO - ugh. That is arguably the most uncomfortably configured abbreviation in all the land. In no world do those letters belong together. It goes against the stars, against the universe!

LOL and LMAO are not entitled to stand for anything, imply anything. They are an abomination to the abbreviation institution. I cringe when I see them in emails and IM conversations. What ARE you, LOL? You are nothing but awkward and awful! And LMAO, you are nada but a pile of two consonants and two vowels. Worthless! Hapless! Hopeless! And utterly disgusting.
So come on friends and foes. Please forthwith strip your mind of the atrocities that are LOL and LMAO. Use them nevermore, nevermore. Por favor, por favor.

Call me "Baby" and I will hit you...100 MORE times!

Let me begin by saying that I am not adverse to romance. Without a doubt, I appreciate amour à la Elizabeth Bennett and Mr. Darcy. I think some couples are super cute – all cuddly on a blanket in the park or sitting on a bench watching the sunset over the Hudson. Tasteful PDA is certainly OK.

But there is one thing I absolutely detest when it comes to two people in love. Yes, even more than lewd public displays of affection. It’s a very common endearment, arguably the most common of them all. And really I do not understand why. There are a few variations, all seemingly innocent at a tidy four letters. They are as follows:

• Baby
• Babe
• Bebe

Seriously, I don’t get it. Do people think it’s cute? Really?

If you are one of those most foul baby/babe/bebe-calling offenders, if this heinous word passes through your lips while whispering sweet nothings to your significant other – it is to you I direct this simple question: Why?

There are but three explanations I can conjure for this most grotesque travesty.

First, and most obvious, is that your sweetheart is, in fact, a baby. This baby needs to be coddled, comforted, and coaxed in order to stop its crying. All it does is shit, spit up, sleep, and shriek upon waking. Congratulations, I’m so glad your boyfriend has you to help change his diapers! That there is true love.

Now, if you are one of those people that calls your bf or gf babe, that must mean that they are, indeed, Babe. If this is the case, you shall NOT pass Go, you shall NOT collect $200, your ass is going directly to J-a-i-l for bestiality.

Seriously, no one wants to be associated with a pig.

Finally (and this one really makes me cringe) - there is that horrendously accented utterance of affection – bebe. No, utterer, you are not Italian. You are not French. You are not Spanish. You lack any suaveness because you are American! The explanation, then, must be that your gross significant other is an employee of Bebe (that tacky, skanky, polyester-happy line of overpriced clothes, most famous for ugly crystal-encrusted shirts bearing its heinous name).

Baby and its derivatives are really the stupidest endearments ever. There are plenty out there that are far more adorable. Take, for instance, sweetheart. Or how about darling. Or there's lovey, beautiful, cupcake, bubby, handsome, peaches, hon (most definitely not hun, though - is your first name Attila?), or pumpkin. I'll even take pickles. All of these are exponentially better than baby, babe, or bebe.

Please people, step away. Step away from the b*** name-calling. It’s not healthy. It’s not attractive.

I do have one disclaimer, though. One exemption. Uno in a world of billions of offenders. That is, of course, Jennifer Grey’s character in my most beloved Dirty Dancing:

Though I must say, while watching that for the umpteenth time, it suddenly struck me. Baby was in the corner because that is the only place where people with that nickname (or who utter that nickname) belong!! That's right, in the corner. So if you insist on persisting to call your significant other baby, babe, or bebe - then please. Go sit in the corner, out of my hearing range. And practice, try something new, move ON from the b***'s. Onward and upward, my friends. Onward and upward.

Gosh Darn Girl Scouts!

Spring is my favorite time of year. The days are longer. The wind tunnels on Hudson are slightly more bearable. Birds chirp happily outside my widow - along with the garbage trucks and drunken NYU students de rigueur.

But there is one thing that my pre-Alzheimer's ridden brain always forgets to associate with springtime:

Well let's not kid ourselves, it's

more like this actually...

I have heart palpitations every year as I rip into my first box of Samoas and hurriedly devour their chocolaty, caramely, coconuty deliciousness. My mouth waters while anxiously waiting for the Thin Mints to finish their rendezvous with the freezer (because really that's the only way to eat them).

However, this ridiculously cold spring has brought with it two unfortunate events. Said events have turned my excitement over the advent of Girl Scout cookie season into bitterness and despair.

About a month ago, I was wandering down the baking aisle of Gross-tedes. I had to purchase some Devil's Food cake mix - the likes of which they don't sell at Whole Foods. I was innocently bopping around, listening to my iPod, getting it done, when all of a sudden the Girl Scouts sneak attacked. I spied out of corner of my little eye SAMOAS ICE CREAM. What? Is this a dream? I thought to myself. I darted to the freezer and sure enough, Edy's (goddamn you Edy's!) was selling a Special Edition Samoas flavored ice cream. I kid not.

SABOTAGE!! Why oh why oh why! I paced around the aisles, debating with myself, the Devil bickering with the Angel - "But it's a limited edition!" - "Yeah but it's still ice cream!" - "But it's Slow Churned!" Usually I wouldn't give a shit about the calories. But since this stupid city has just become one big, giant, in-your-face calorie counter, http://www.usatoday.com/news/health/weightloss/2008-04-16-nyc-calories_N.htm, I have become hyper-sensitive to everything I throw down the old gullet. Ah, I digress.

Needless to say, the Devil won. If you know me, you know I canNOT say no to anything sweet. Not ever.

It wasn't love at first spoonful. But after the third bowl a week later, I was officially hooked. Suddenly I was nervous - the words "LIMITED EDITION" flashed before my eyes. I wanted more, more, MORE and what if there wasn't any left!? Ever the hoarder, anxiety pressing upon me like a heart attack, I booked it to Gristedes the next day after work, foregoing the gym.

Woe was me that rainy afternoon when, hands frozen from pawing through the freezer, arms numb from holding too many gallons while I excavated, despair encroaching, tears welling - it hit me. There was nothing but some Thin Mints and some Tagalongs left. Sigh.

I reached for the Thin Mints with a heavy heart. Eventually, though, my super stubborn taste buds gave way and I will admit that, while not as delicious as my beloved Samoas, it was pretty yummy. I daresay that I ended up liking the Thin Mints more! But, ever the little shits, the Girl Scouts begrudged me once again.

I went to three, THREE different Gristedes and one Dag's in my search for the Thin Mints ice cream. But noooooo, it was a Limited Edition and thus available nevermore, nevermore. I settled for some Edy's Loaded Cookie Dough. It was fiiiiiine, but seriously? All I can say is goddamn you Girl Scouts and your once a year cookie selling spree. Why oh why must you torture me so?

Up yours Edy's! Up yours Girl Scouts!

Feeling very bitter and depressed about the Limited Edition Samoas AND Thin Mints, I came into work with a giant (chocolate) chip (with stupid cookie dough) on my shoulder. Things were somewhat looking up though - I had discovered that my friend has an ice cream maker - I could MAKE my own Girl Scout cookies ice cream! Brilliant! Alas, when I opened my Outlook and scanned subjects for levels of import, one email with three small words immediately caught my eye: Girl Scout Cookies.

WHO ARE THESE IMPOSTERS? Pah, they call themselves Girl Scouts? Where is the decency?

These young girls do not deserve to raise those sacred three fingers and say that most hallowed oath, "On my honor, I will try/To serve God and my country/To help people at all times/And to live by the Girl Scout Law." On your honor - you dishonorable little brats! Having your parents email their friends and coworkers, peddling away your cookies while on the clock with more pressing matters at hand? And apparently it's a growing phenomenon:

http://www.cnn.com/2009/LIVING/02/04/girl.scout.cookie.ethics/index.html?iref=newssearch

Fine, fine, so going door to door may be a little dangerous these days but seriously, in the words of Bon Jovi: You Give Girl Scouts a Bad Name. No dankes! Now go sell em yourself, you little lazies! Like I did with my most honorable Brownie Troop #186 in Sharon, CT so many years ago:

Yes. Yes that is indeed a box of Thin Mints in my hand.

So although those gosh darn Girl Scouts have two strikes against them, my knees will no doubt grow weak at the first mention of "Samoas" each spring. And until they get that third strike, I will continue to gobble them down a box at a time.

It was my name first.

As if having a name as common as Katie Parry wasn't bad enough, someone had to come along and sing a song about kissing a girl and liking it. Katy Perry: no dankes.

Now let me just say that I like my name. I often introduce myself with both first and last name - which often gets me the stink eye from strangers. My friends frequently call me by both. Katie Parry just has a nice ring to it. So yes, yes I do like my name. Aside from the fact that my parents decided to change the common spelling of Katherine to the less "Polish" sounding K-a-t-h-r-i-n-e a couple of weeks after taking me home from the hospital. Aside from the fact that it comes up on every single spell check ever (and as we all know, I love me some spell checks). Or the fact that it's been spelled incorrectly on my credit cards, report cards, cards I get in the mail. Or that of the 100ish seniors in my high school graduating class, there were four chicks named Katie.

And, oh, the fact that I've never, ever heard of another Kathrine until last summer when a nurse at the doctor's office told me her daughter's name was spelled the same way. Um yeah, they didn't know how to spell Katherine when they immigrated to the U.S. and only later discovered that "Kathrine" was...well...not the right way.

So, fine - if my first name has always been the boring bottom half of the cake, then my last name is for sure the delicious vanilla icing with sprinkles. Or, to put it another way (sorry, sweets are always on my mind) - I love, love, LOVE my last name. It's silly, yes. But true. Even though people consistently spell the latter half of my moniker incorrectly, I always take pride in saying, "Parry, p-A-r-r-y" - so much cooler than Perry! And there's a far more magnificent definition for the A vs. the E - I mean, "fermented drink usually made with pears" - really? Who's ever heard of that. On the other hand...

parry: [par-ee], -ried, -rying, noun, plural -ries.–verb (used with object)
1. to ward off (a thrust, stroke, weapon, etc.), as in fencing; avert
2. to turn aside; evade or dodge: to parry an embarrassing question.

So much better!

But to be fair, dictionary aside, let's put it to a for reals test. Katy Perry vs. Katie Parry. Lay it all on the line. Who would win? Based on my extremely complicated scoring system, let's see:

• Super cute outfits (for the most part), +75
• A few hit songs, +125
• One horrific Grammy performance, -100
• The inability to come up with an original song title (this one's for you, Jill Sobule), -65

TOTAL: 35
VS.

• I am bigger and would kick ass in a cat fight, +25
• I cannot sing for the life of me...unless I am karaoke-ing in K-town and I've had a few bottles of that disgusting green alcohol (what is that stuff, anyway??), -50
• When I was in ninth grade I briefly dated someone with the last name Perry, -100 (I know, I know. But I swear we weren't related!)
• It was my name first, +35, AND mine has a way more spectacular spelling, +500

TOTAL: 410
Looks like it's 35 vs. 410. So I guess I have to say sorry, Katy, I win.

My relationship with Katy Perry is fairly hot and cold - no pun intended. I do like some of her songs I suppose. They're catchy. And I obvi love cherry Chap Stick. However, I do NOT like my middle-aged coworkers saying "Oh, Katie Parry, did you kiss a girl?" Or people approaching my parents, asking them if it was me on the radio. I'm sick of friends (who will remain anonymous) writing on my Facebook wall:


Have you kissed any girls lately??
March 2 at 3:56pm



And above all else, I'm sick of people not believing me when I introduce myself as Katie Parry. Goddamn you Katy Perry! It was my name first! And again, lest anyone forgets, the spelling of mine is infinitesimally better! So please, go change yours!!! And people, leave me alone!!

(If you have any doubt in your mind that I should not have won the Katy Perry vs. Katie Parry contest, please - watch this:


...that's what I thought). I rest my case.

i before e except after...wait whaaaat?

Dear friends and strangers. You know who you are. You who always fail to put the “i” in the middle of definitely and instead put an “a”. You who fail to recognize the apostrophe in words like you’re and instead say your, thereby changing the connotation entirely. Ah hem, American Eagle:

(Dummies!)

To you I say: Come ON!

My very good friend – who shares my loathing of people who misspell simple things like, well, "misspell" - how embarrassing! – came up with a nickname for us: Grammar Police. We are warriors of the word. We, too, sat through Mrs. Smith’s middle school lectures on homophones and conjunctions, on the usage of singular vs. plural, and the simple rule of i before e except after c. So why, my fellow mid-20ers, WHY have you not retained these rules?

Fine. I’m a self-proclaimed grammar snob. It’s my numero uno pet peeve. But it’s a pretty benign one on the pet-peeve-spectrum. There are so many tools, you grammar offenders, at your disposal nowadays. You can be über conscientious with the simple click of a button. For starters, http://www.dictionary.com/. How novel! Email providers offer spell check. There are innumerable books and websites (ever heard of a little site called Google?) on the subject.

To plug one we publish (because really how can I not...you should go buy it, it's pretty great - http://www.amazon.com/before-except-after-Parkinson-Judy/dp/0762109173/ref=sr_11_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1238423072&sr=11-1ie=UTF8&qid=1238423072&sr=11-1) .

Now I know I'm not perfect. Far from it. I've had the Grammar Police take me to the smack down hotel a few times in the not-so-distant past. I like me some abbreviations, some inventions, some slang, some swears. There are probably mistakes in this here blog. But when technology has made things so goddamn easy for us, how can I not judge you for spelling something wrong? All you need to do is click that little check mark at the top of the screen. So easy!

No dankes! No dankes people who say too instead of to, than instead of then, your instead of you’re! In the whiny voice of Charlotte à la "Set the date! Set the date!" I shall impart these three little gems of wordly wisdom to you: Check the spelling! CHECK THE SPELLING!

Above all else, if there is one thing that I can drill into your brain that Mrs. Smith failed to, it is this: You have to be in it to win it. If you take nothing else from reading this blog while you should be doing your work, it is that you WILL LEARN HOW TO SPELL DEFINITELY. To spell definitely you must be in it, as in definitely. There are no a's in this fine word and never, ever will be. No, most definitely not. Not ever. So stop trying to put them there!

Really, there is nothing worse than poor grammar. I find this perfectly succinct:

So my parting words to you, dear friends and strangers, are simply:

Check the spelling! Check the spelling!

Cacophonous Kiddies

Yes. It is 3:10am. Indeed it is. And I am on Blogger.

Why, you might ask? No. No, it's not because I'm just so excited about today's blog that I couldn't sleep. I'm not that devoted.

It's because apparently I missed the memo that TODAY is in fact Mardi Gras, not February 24th like I had originally thought.

Either that or those spoiled NYU kiddies are just soooo excited they graduated, they felt the need to wake up the entire neighborhood.

After a lovely evening of $6.50 pitchers, beirut, and bcq's (buffalo chicken quesadillas...if you haven't tried, you haven't lived...and I don't think we can be friends anymore), I fell blissfully, tipsily asleep with my window open, a lovely breeze ruffling my shades. It was Friday, I'd had a delish din, and all was right with the world.

Insert record screeching sound effect.
WTFFFFFs, yo! Why oh why do people think it's OK to blaaaaast ridiculous music, shout, blast RIDICULOUS music, and shout??? It's a weeknight, ya brats. I've contemplated, in no particular order: screaming out the window for them to shut up (but I know from experience that this will rile them up even more); marching out there and yelling at them (but I'm far to passive for a confrontation such as that); calling the police (aren't there laws against noise?); having another beer (to ease me back into dreams of bcq's); closing the window (but the air is so nice!); taking some sort of sleeping aid (but I don't want to be groggy in the am!). 

Ugh, carefree little chillens. I hate you and your lack of responsibility, your jaunty jovialness, your sickening sunniness. But most of all, I envy your ability to get perfectly sauced on a Thursday night, party in the street, and wake up the entire neighborhood. 

I'm taking a Melatonin, shutting the window, and turning on my AC. I have to go to work in the morning. Night, ya jerks!
 

Sheet-Induced Chagrin

I find that changing my bed sheets is numero uno amongst deplorable household (or apartmenthold) chores. It’s the WORST. When I was a youngin', I used to wet the bed – wamp wamp – and my poor mother would have to come in and change my sheets in the middle of the night. Sorry Trissi! I think that would be probably be my worst nightmare. Karma better not be a bitch, yo.

Later on, when I was at an age when I thought chores were cool and was jealous of my friends who were forced to do them (I, a brat, had none), one of my buddies showed me how to do “hospital corners” on the top sheet while tucking it in. I seriously thought it was the coolest thing ever!

Ah, to be young again. To have someone make my bed for me. To think that folding the corners of sheets under in triangles was cool! Now I dread the loathsome two-week-time-to-change-the-sheets mark about as much as I enjoy New York in the rain.
It’s just so...so awful! It’s time consuming, there’s a ton of up/down/up/down, so much smoothing and tugging and pulling and straightening. I never know which way the bottom sheet needs to go on and when I put the short side on the long side, I have to start all over again. And of course my bed skirt always gets stuck and tucks in with the top sheet. And the pillowcases! I either have really fat, fluffy pillows, or extremely miniature pillowcases. It’s always a pushing, shoving all-out battle!

I will say that thankfully, in my current apartment, two sides of the bed are exposed. In my last abode, there was only ONE side exposed. That was a ridiculous nightmare I never wish to relive.

Then you have the quilt. Again, I am always perplexed and positively befuddled. It never looks as right as it did when I took it off. Ever! And of course, in my infinite obsessive-compulsive-perfectionism, it takes me ten minutes to fold over the top flap of the quilt so it looks just right. It never does!

Why can't there be a better way. Seriously? Because really there is nothing better than freshly changed, super soft, ridiculously cozy sheets.

Ah, to say - "Mom, I wet the bed!" and have brand new sheets, abracadabra.

Wampity!

Insomniarama

It’s quite unfortunate that this country, this city, is full of workaholics. Seriously. I mean, we got cannoli and paella from those most languorous nations of Italy and Spain – why oh WHY didn’t their soft spots for siestas melt into this pot that is NYC as well?

We live in The City That Never Sleeps. What an excellent connotation. Ha. Perhaps that’s why, since moving here, I’ve joined the ranks of insomniac denizens.

And I haaaaaaaaaate it.

Sleeping is, apparently, very hard work. It’s takes a knack, a talent – and I seem to have lost all capacity for being “good” at it.

You name it, I’ve tried it – Simply Sleep, Tylenol PM, Melatonin, Ambien. I’ve guzzled NyQuil, and popped Benadryl. I’ve misted my pillows and my face with “Tranquil” spray. Rubbed my temples with “Relax”.

I’ve tried all the teabags. I’ve lit candles and listened to instrumental music. I have a sleep mask. I “changed my routine” so I no longer read in bed. I don’t drink caffeine past 11am. I’ve even tried Trazodone.
And yet…slumber evades me.
I don’t know WHAT my problemo is. It’s kind of a joke, actually. There I lie in my cozy, ridiculously comfortable bed. And my mind hums not with dreams, but with thoughts of how funny it is that I can’t fall asleep.

I do have noble intentions. I don’t automatically resort to the pill – I try to resist the temptation of immediately popping one before I slip between the sheets. Especially since I read on the Melatones (as my co Jeffery and I so fondly call it) label that you should only take for the tabs for two months, with a week off. I was up to EIGHT per night – this has since dwindled down to one or two. But I’ve been taking them for two YEARS, not months!!

Shit yo!

No wonder why my brain is turning to mush. Why I can never think of what exactly is is that I want to say. That I am drowsy every single day, dizzy and forgetful, clumsy and off-balance. That I see things floating around in my vision that aren’t really there.

Umm…can we say s-c-a-r-y?

I recently read “One Hundred Years of Solitude” by Gabriel García Márquez (a positively gorgeous book, I HIGHLY recommend). At one point, the town of Macondo (in which the novel takes place), is plagued by insomnia. The inhabitants, delirious and forgetful with lack of sleep, begin to label everything.

However, even with pieces of paper saying what everything is, the residents start to dread the day when the labels will have no meaning because they themselves will have forgotten how to read!

I sympathize with those lovely fictional residents of Macondo. Only I live in the very real city of New York.

And there aren’t any gypsies coming along to cure us NYCers of that most loathsome malady, insomnia.

Boo hoo.