N.Y.U.ME.

Sunday was a long day for me. Five-and-a-half hour drive. Two hour train ride. Bee sting dramarama.

But there seriously is nothing like coming home to a city you love.

As we zoomed down 5th Ave, the cab windows open, hitting every green light, a sneaky, involuntary smile found its way to my face, surprising me.

$7.40 later, I was in my ‘hood. The evening was quite lovely - balmy yet oddly cool. I took a deep breath and thought how unabashedly happy I was to be back in NYC.

Then I saw them...swarms of them. Gaggles of new NYU students hanging in the street, meeting and greeting, sizing up one another.

I’d taken for granted how positively peaceful - well, relatively speaking - my street had been for the past three months. No cacophonous kiddies keeping me up, yo!

But with the advent of my most hated season (fine, second most hated), so too come the students. A new influx of freshmen to judge and be judged by (sure, I’m eight years their senior but I’m still a girl).

Thankfully I missed move-in day. Last year was a nightmare - albeit a fairly informative nightmare. I learned that streets in the Village also moonlight as parking lots. New York likes to multitask.

And the SIDEWALKS!! As if they’re not already difficult enough to navigate with all the stupid tourists, they become borderline impenetrable. These kids travel in posses so big it’s like walking behind a herd of elephants.

And, unluckily for me, they’re just as loud.

Not to be too much of a square or anything, but seriously. It’s just not cool to be rudely awakened in the middle of a Sunday night. Especially when your name is Katie Parry and you’ve been - unsuccessfully -willing your body to sleep for hours.

No thank you, shitload of screeching girls.

Nor do I appreciate the inundation of my neighborhood go-to’s. No, I don’t want to wait an hour for a mani-pedi. Um, I am actually legal and don’t want to hang with underagers at Off the Wagon (they just make me feel old). Joe’s pizza has a long enough line without you little shits.

When it comes down to it, though, I’m not sure it’s my close proximity to Teens Gone Wild, New York City redux. Or the fact that they take up so much space. Or that they insist on being loud little assholes when I’m trying to get my beauty sleep. Or that they make parking lots of my streets. 

No. I think what irks me most is the jealousy. They are just beginning an adventure that’s no doubt gonna be on their short list of Life’s Best Experiences.

They’re making new friends and having all sorts of ridiculous, life-changing escapades as I write this (rewatching Mad Men was the highlight of my evening). Perhaps they just puffed their first joint, chugged their first warm Natty, or had their first co-ed sleepover.

No parents, no rules!
They’re all so very young and have so very much to look forward to and I just want to tell them, all of them, even the skanks I just saw going out wearing matching sequined dresses and five-inch heels, to keep their eyes wide open the whole time and not blink because it really will be over before you know it and there’s nothing you can do to get it back. 

Today is September 1st. New Year’s Day on Kathy Cobb’s ideal calendar. I have had two days with these kids and they’re already pissing me off a whole hell of a lot with their über short skirts and their stupid lanyards with their IDs around their necks and their pack-like herds and their incessant shouting.
But again, I guess what it comes down to is that I’m absurdly jealous of this adventure they’re embarking on. And I’m utterly stupefied that my time as a frosh at Muhlenberg College already came and went and that _____ (a lot) of years ago.

Sure, they’re assholes. But I guess they’re allowed to be. They have just started their freshmen year of college, after all. I guess I just wish for the sake of my melatonin-deficient brain that NYU’s campus was in one of the other four burroughs.

The (Wasp) Sting

Thanks to the graciously obliging Schopp family, Ri and I squeezed one last Cape weekend into this crazy-busy summer. A final hurrah. Sayanorah summatime.
(By now you should all know that I’m a self-proclaimed autumn abhorrer...however, I am trying. There are, after all, Mellowcreme pumpkins and hot cider to look forward to.)
But that damn Danny boy ruined it for us. He poured all over our vacation parade.
I hate you Danny.
Alas, we did get in about three hours of beach time. I devoured an amazing book, This Is Where I Leave You, by Jonathan Tropper. My team kicked butt at Pictionary (though the losers are loath to admit it). We alternately danced and froze our asses off at The Beachcomber.
And, to sweeten up our rain-induced bitterness, Colleen whipped up a homemade carrot cake. In between her double shift. After doing laundry. And grocery shopping. And making her infamous buffalo chicken dip. You go girl!
(Yes, we ate our rainy day feelings.)

All in all, ‘twas a lovely, albeit wet, weekend.
Until I was ruthlessly attacked by a vengeful, venomous, vehement yellowjacket.

The scene: Ri and I putting recyclables (aka bags and bags and bags of beer bottles) into the cans out back - innocent partiers helping to clean up.

But to those nasty ass wasps, we were alien invaders entering their comfortable garbage-can home.

Suddenly there was a searing pain in my shoulder. I looked down and started shrieking and dancing around. Then I was screaming and frantically blowing and swatting at my arm.


Somehow, some way, a sneaky little yellowjacket had taken it upon himself to sting the shit out of my shirted shoulder. Didn’t think it was possible to sting through a thick cotton shirt? Neither did I. But believe me, it is.

Oh man, it is.

Ass aimed at my red shirt like a bull’s horns at a matador, that sucker really gave it to me. His little body was bent in half with a resolute effort to heave his stinger into to my shoulder. That's how hard he was trying.

If I didn’t hate the shit out of that yellowjacket, I’d have given him props for protecting his brood and his food with such tenacity. Cause HE DID NOT LET GO. And I did not stop hopping and screaming until Ri (brave friend-o-mine) flicked the bastard away.
I cannot rightly remember the last time I was stung by a wasp. Sure, there’s always the handful of baby yellowjacket stings around my parents pool. But those infants are dumb and bumbling and use their half-ass stingers half-assedly. Their stings hurt, sure, but it’s more like a horse-fly hurt.

Big bad adult yellowjacket stings hurt like whoa. Like unbelievable, infinitesimal whoa. Like nothing’s hurt me that bad in a long, looooong time. I’d rather get my blood taken every day for a week or have five flu shots than get stung by one of those mother suckers.

Twelve hours later, it was still bothering me. The worst part was the combination of horrific feelings. Painfully hot and sore. Itchy and uncomfortable. Throbbing and red. Even my goddamn shoulder muscle was killing me.

Twenty-four hours. Still hurting.
I guess I really can’t talk shit about those eleven-year-olds who cry like babies when they’re stung cause boy oh boy I really felt like I was thisclose to crying and fifteen years wasn’t much of an excuse at all. 

Worst part? That little dastardly yellowjacket, unlike its cousin the bee, will live to sting another day.

SAND, man!

Do you ever wish you could go back and change the past? Tell your girlfriend that she looked beautiful, not bountiful? Enthusiastically ensure your boss his idea was cataclysmic, not catatonic? Rhapsodize, not repulsorize, your friend’s wedding dress? (Fine, that last one was stretching it.)

Well my friends, we’re only human. We’re not perfect. We all wish we could take back events from our past. Redo them. I know I had many moments just this summer I would like a do-over for.

Indeedy, just like that bone-chilling, boom-boom-cracking last night (was that unbelievable or what?), specific momentitos are crashing and flashing before my eyes.

(You are going to judge the shit out of me in exactly five seconds...yep, I counted how long it takes to read the next sentence.)

Yes, yes my dearest comrades. There were dozens upon dozens of times this summer that...that...that...I wished there was such a thing as a sandless beach. And, sad face, those are expired experiences that I cannot redo nor relive. Sigh.
If given the chance, though, I promise I’d be better about bitching. I promise I’d be perfectly perfect and not whine or complain or go bonkers one bit. If only I could have a do-over, if only I could go back to Nauset Light or Craigville or Misquamicut or Longport or Sullivan’s Island, I promise, Girl Scout’s Honor, cross-my-heart-and-hope-to-die-pinky-swear that I wouldn’t utter a peep about the sand all over my bags n’ bod. 

I can’t tell you many seconds, minutes, wasted breaths, senseless air time with an imaginary mike in my hands I’ve spent grumbling, bellyaching, and cursing about how stupid sand gets everywhere. This summer especially! (Maybe that’s just because I’ve beached up up a whole lot more than I have in a long, long time. I know – I’m a brat.)
Seriously though. Sand is like air the way it encompasses you, coats you, cloaks you in a fine mist; how those finely granulated rock and mineral particles infiltrate your bags, your hair, your bathing suit; how, like birdseed on honey, those teeny tiny grits glue themselves to your wet, sunscreened, oiled up skin.

And don’t let go.

But I must say that perhaps my hatred is only on the surface – albeit a sand-encrusted-skin surface.

You see, last week when I was on my nightmare train trek back to the city, I opened my book and out fell – can you guess? – particles of Cape Cod beachness. And I smiled.

If sand granules could make me smile in the midst of a miserable Metro North experience, I guess life really is a beach.

Stinky Sidewalk Soup

Hallelujah. Amen. Color me happy. Omfgees. Shit yo! It’s actually been NICE for more than two days together!!

Is that you, summer?

Yes. Yes I do believe it is.

I’m just gonna go out on a limb here and say we’ve all been wishing and hoping and thinking and praying for beautiful, warm weather. And yet...and yet.

Ignorance is bliss. Fo sho. That is to say, we were all ignorant of the stench that descends upon this lovely little city of ours when it’s hot. And that was certainly blissful.

But apparently we cannot have our cake and eat it too.

No, no. Apparently we have to make do with the stinky street soup that inundates our nostrils when heat and humidity settle upon us.

One whiff of that virulent pottage and I want to faint. Or maybe I just want to faint because I’m asphyxiating myself with breath-holding.

Ugh.

Let’s take a look at what this street n’ sidewalk stew consists of, shall we? What makes up the bouquet, if you will.

The top note is comprised of a plethora of cheap beers. Namely Bud, Bud Light, and Miller Light. These somehow end up coating (layer upon layer) the sidewalk. So much so that if I was blindfolded, I'd think I was at a college frat party.

Then of course there’s the rancid reek of urine - human and canine, obvi. There’s no excuse for those crazies pissing in phone booths! Dogs, fine. It’s not their fault their selfish owners force them into apartments the size of closets.

And then there's the occasional poop...adds some color and some texture to the soup.

Let’s not forget our proteins now, shall we? There’s plenty of dead rats and mice and pigeons and birds and bugs to go around for everyone.

Pepper in some cigarette butts and ashes, a few gnawed off pizza crusts, a McD's cup or two, and couple of loogies for flavor and you got yourself some nice ingredients for the stew!

But really, that's all just the beginning. As if all this littering and dumping wasn’t bad enough, store owners decide to up and wash the sidewalk.

The crème de la crème, the crowning glory, the goddamn consommé that pulls this foul concoction together is the soap and the water.

Why do store front owners insist on scrubbing the sidewalk? It’s a sidewalk. It’s concrete. It’s not a floor in a house.


So gross! It sends ripples of disgust through my entire body when I see someone with a hose.
Generally it’s first thing in the morning. When I’m actually clean and fresh looking, ready for work. But, oh, wait - let me just walk through a few toxic eddies and some rank, rancid puddles.

I hate hate hate that my toes get wet and I, inevitably, splash the mixture up the backs of my legs.

Please store owners, PLEASE: Stop the scrubbing, Put an end to the stinky sidewalk soup. Because I certainly am NOT ready for this gorgeous weather to end!

Not-So-Smooth Move

For a very long time, I thought there was nothing worse in the entire world than moving.

My first experience with this phenomenon, this exchanging of a home for a house, happened the summer before 7th grade. My parents sold the farm I grew up on and bought a house a couple of miles away.

Though we were simply moving from Sharon Valley to Sharon Mountain, I felt like the balloon that was my life had burst brutally open. My barn, my swamp, my hundreds of acres of wide open playground were downsized, overnight, to an odd five.
I was a mess. An absolute mess. I wrote my parents threatening letters: How dare you take me from the only house I’ve ever known! The house that I grew up in, was taken home from the hospital to! I can’t believe you’re doing this to me!
I nicknamed it The Goodly House and glared at anyone who dared refer to it as The Old House.

It took me a few years to get over the move. Talking about The Goodly House was a very, very sensitive subject. I couldn’t even drive past it without a sinking, sentimental feeling of homesickness yanking at my heartstrings.

But, sure enough, life goes on. I survived that earth-shattering experience, and have inhabited numerous abodes since. I’m on my 6th (excluding dormitories), so I’ve obviously experienced many a move-in day.

Some moves were fairly easy...others were quite frightening. Nuclear bomb scary. Great White attack scary. Baby panda sneezing scary (you’re welcome).


(Let me just take a moment to say that I think the
crème de la crème of horrendific big-schlep nightmares was my move last year from one West Village apartment to another. And I think I can safely say all eight of us who participated in that catastrophic-doomsday-tornado agree.)

Anyway, so my buddies Ri and Michelle found themselves a mansion of a place on 11th Street. Amazing, yes. Bravo lassies! But heavy lifting + four flights of never-ending stairs + 95 degrees = holy shit. Major no dankies!
My memory-failure-of-a-mind had forgotten what moving is really like. Not so luckily, though, I was instantly reacquainted with my dormant disdain for the act of relocating.

Remembering back to that 7th grade move, I was stricken with envy for my eleven-year-old self. She had nothing to contend with but nostalgia and hurt feelings. Emotional burdens have got nothing on physical ones when it comes to changing one’s address. I can’t believe I was so upset by the idea of moving. If only my twenty-six-year-old self could have told that little girl to dry her eyes, to quit being a baby...that there are far, far worse things when it comes to Moving Day...like, say, the actual move.

The packing, the PACKING! I, apparently, am no good at that game. I never have anything packed and ready to go. But that But Michelle Carberry was an absolute pro. I mean, she should quit teaching and start her own TV show on how to pack up a house (yes that's her old room...crazy, right?)

You would think, because these lady-friends-o-mine were sooooo organized, that the loading of the truck, the unloading, and the carrying of boxes up those incessant stairs, would happen somewhat quickly.

But no. We friends, and hired movers included, were all sloths made lethargic by heat and humidity.

The heat, the heat! Those weather wardens were quite unkind. It was hot. Scorching. Sweltering. Boiling. Blistering. We’re talking a Mastiff-day-of-summer hot. Hot, hot, hot. It was one for the record books.

You could have filled a kiddie pool with our combined sweat. We were snatching up Gatorade’s like dolla bills on a New York City sidewalk.

The stairs, the STAIRS! Trip after trip after trip up unrelenting steps.

I think I can safely say that it's a truth universally acknowledged: moving suuuuuuuuuucks.

But at least I can count my lucky stars that, this time, I didn't have to unpack and set up shop.

G'luck girls!

Glamping Ain't Always Glamorous

For those of you who have never heard the term “glamping” – I say to you: Where have you BEEN? And to those who have never experienced what it is to glamp, I say: Dude...that sucks.

We are NOT talking pitched tents and fire roasted weenies here. No, no. We’re talking about glamorous camping. It does sound like quite an oxymoron, but seriously. Why pitch a tent when there’s a memory foam mattress at your beck and call?

Yes sirree, I’m talking about a bona-fide, state of the line Dynamax motorhome – outfitted with a dedicated bedroom, two flatscreens, Bose surround sound, and a pull out couch. And of course the amenities de rigueur: bathroom, shower, fridge, stove, microwave, etc.

Oh yes. I was l-i-v-i-n it up fo sho. But, per usual, that shoulda been my sign that something bad was going to happen.

Indeed. There was to be a terrible, horrible, no good, very bad bug attack.

Perhaps it was my inner city-dweller side rearing it’s fancy schmance face. Or maybe it was simply because I detest the residue it leaves. Or the fact that I always end up getting it in my eyes and mouth. Or that I hate the stink of it.

Or maybe I was just pretending, like those people who don’t wear sunblock to the beach thinking they won’t get burned (gad those people are so irritating!), that I was invisible to bugs.


Alas, I am not.

And boy oh boy, those mother suckers are annoying!! I can’t believe I’d forgotten what a sweet girl I am! Mosquitoes have always loved my blood. But the skyscraper-lined alleys of Manhattan certainly have got nothing on the shoreline backwoods of Rhode Island.

Eventually, after about eight or so sucking-of-the-blood encounters, I caved. (And, of course, got bug spray in my mouth. That shit tastes baaaad!)

I hate mosquitoes! What horrific little creatures they are! How dare they suck human blood! I mean, if they were vampires I would consider allowing them a taste. Especially if their name was Edward Cullen or Bill Compton.

However, those selfish little buggers are good for nothing but swollen-ass bites that itch for days on end!

Not to MENTION the fact that they carry diseases. Anyone for a little West Nile? How about some malaria? Yellow fever? Elephantiasis? No? Didn’t think so. Maybe I shoulda just donned the bee-keeper-esque mask à la Trissi.

Other than this not-so-glamorous aspect of glamping (no matter how many stars you wish upon, I think there’ll always be mosquitoes) – oh, and the fact that my parents locked the keys in the RV while the engine was running (thanks AAA!) – I would say it was a pretty amazing time.

Especially, espeeeeecially because of the gourmet food we ate. Delicious (delicious, delicious ) clam chowder, homemade on a campsite travel stove before my very eyes, baked clams, a ridiculous Vietnamese chicken dish, an even more absurdly lip-smacking marinated grilled steak, shrimp and bacon quesadillas, shrimp fra diavlo...


...the menu goes on an on. All thanks to my magnificent Uncle Chris, Chef Extraordinaire (and good sport! We made him model the bug mask and he acquiesced). I seriously did not think it was possible to gain ten pounds in just two days, but guess what? It is.

Even though my first few bites of food tasted depressingly of DEET, sacrifices gotta be made to save your hide. Mosquito bites are no fun. Especially when they're on your feet and face and arms and legs and – aw hell, anywhere you get em, they suck. 

I suppose, just because you’re glamping, ya can’t skip the spray. Them there skeeters don’t know they’re meant to stay away. They’re vapid, ignorant little creatures who don’t know right from wrong.
Till next time, over and OFF!®

Nail Clipping Nastiness

Personal grooming is a precarious pursuit.

On one hand, it’s disgusting if you do not comply with the unspoken guidelines outlining personal hygiene.

Those acts that must be done on a very regular basis include, but are not limited to: plucking, shaving, brushing (teeth and hair), clipping, cutting, washing, and filing.

However – and this is where it gets tricky – the aforementioned acts of grooming are not – I repeat, NOT – to be executed in public.

Alas, for the sake of this entry, I shall focus on the one particular personal act that drives me up the wall when done in public.

Dat iz de clippingz of ze nailz.

Mega no dankes!

I’m not a particularly skittish person. I watch Nip/Tuck without grimacing. Screeching subway cars, no prob. Bratastic kiddies squealing on the sidewalks piss me off, yeah, but I can handle it.

Clip your fingernails in front of me, though, and I’ll rip you a new one.

OK well I won’t really – I’m far too passive aggressive for that. But I will be quite cheesed off. And extremely grossed out.

Perhaps my disdain for public nail clipping began when I first moved here. My very first New York City boss used to sit at his desk (he was a pretty pig-headed a-hole) and cut his nails.

Really buddy? You’re really going to do that AT WORK?

I don’t care if you’re the boss of an eight person company or the President of a huge corporation: it’s simply not permissible to do that at your desk (or in public), PERIOD.

It’s unsanitary. Fingernails are filthy. It’s unprofessional. “Oh, let me see that report, please...um...is that a fingernail?” It’s the shrillest sound around – the dull snapping of dead keratin. It definitely makes me cringe.

Please, yo. Take a hint from everyone else’s favorite lady, Carrie Bradshaw, and clip that shit in your own Secret Single Behavior time! Not on the subway, nor the bus, not the street, or Starbucks, and especially not in your office.

"Dress Up!" - From Innocent to Indecent

I never think it’s cute when people teach little girls the “Dress Up!” trick. In fact, I find it quite tasteless. 


Yes, they’re adorable, what with their rhotacistic little voices - “DWWWESS UP!”

But seriously moms, why you teaching your baby girl to show off her little lady parts? It’s an endearing joke for about two minutes, then it simply goes south. (Umm and hello, what if child molesters are stalking the playground??)

I can’t remember ever playing this game when I was a toddler. But fast forward twenty-something years...New York City...the West Village...and I’m pretty much an old pro.

The Scene: Traveling to Connecticut for the weekend. Large over-the-shoulder travel bag. Walking from work from work to Magnolia Bakery to get mi madre a cumpleaños treat.

(Ugh, and if there’s a numero uno tourist magnet in the West Village, it’s Magnolia Bakery. Thanks Sex and the City!!)
I glared as obnoxious, insipid tourists pawed their way past me in the tiny, overrated bakery. Finally, cheesecake in hand, I hurried along to the subway stop on Christopher Street. 

Everyone says New Yorkers are always in a hurry. I heartily agree. We’re also programmed to ignore any and all hecklers/panhandlers/tourists. That’s why, when a man in a minivan started shouting, “Excuse me, miss!” at me, I ignored him. 

Why the hell would I pay attention to someone on a catcalling drive-by mission? “EXCUSE ME, MISS!” he yelled for a second time, a third time.
 
I turned to face his minivan, scowl on my face. (I do not appreciate the talkers.) “Your dress is tucked up a little in the back.”
I thought I misheard. I took off my sunglasses (because obviously that’s what people do when they can’t hear something). “I’m sorry?”
“Your dress is tucked up in the back.”

My heart dropped. Fell, rock-like, down to that dirty, dingy sidewalk. My white-pantied bottom has just been exposed to the entire West Village. And not one person had told me.
 
If I could have melted, Wicked-Witch-of-the-West-style, into that stinky sidewalk soup, I woulda.

It’s really quite unfortunate that there are so many innate dangers with dress-wearing. Dresses always make the best outfit. They’re simple, comfortable, flattering. No love handles, no tight-jeans marks when you sit down. One piece. Easy, peasy, Japaneasy.
 
Alas, dress-donning deserves some bright yellow caution tape. For reals. Because if you’re carrying a big bag and it gets caught up, or if that wild NYC wind whips through those street tunnels, flouncy little frocks are sure to go a-flying.

It’s the labyrinthine streets. It must be. A wind-spiracy. Because seriously, a flying up of the dress happens to me at least once every two weeks. Sometimes every week. A superpower gust will zoom through the streets and bam, my butt is front and center in the WV.

Of course I squeal like a child, make overt downward tugs, swivel my head around quicker than an owl to see if anyone is staring or giggling at me.

It’s such a common thing that, I suppose, I shouldn’t be as easily embarrassed as I am. But it’s not fair! It’s not like my dresses are exceptionally short or swirly or lightweight. They’re just regular, everyday, normal dresses.

Wamp wamp.

Fine little kiddies, fine. Show off your pretty pink pantaloons while you still can. Cause sooner than later, it won’t be cute. It will be indecent exposure.

Ice Ice Baby

There’s nothing like frosty glass of ice-cold lemonade.
At least some people think so.

I, on the other hand, prefer a sans-condensation, ice-less, cool (preferably pink) glass of the stuff.

Actually, with this bipolar summer we’ve had - faux fall temps, goddamn, never-ending rain - I truly wonder if anyone has even been craving an ice-ridden, sugary drink.

(So sad, but I don’t think I can rightfully talk about the end of summer nearing and ice-cold glasses of lemonade without sending myself into a hyperbolic depression.)
(Pausing.)
(I’m sorry, I need to take a few deep breaths.)

OK.

No more talk about summer ending. For the duration of this entry I shall restrict my ruminations to that most loathsome, clunky, clinking invention: the ice cube.

I don’t suppose I can rightly call ice an invention. It is, after all, a naturally occurring phenomenon. But if it weren’t for that sly fella Lloyd Groff Copeman (yes, I Wiki-ed), there would be no such thing as an ice cube.

Said in an I-hate-Uncle-Jamie voice: “I haaate Lloyd Groff Copeman!”

Seriously people, what is the obsession with ice? Some of yous just can’t get enough. Good thing it’s free (at most places) cause if they charged you for it, you’d all be broke.

I can’t think of one good thing to say about ice.
It’s a pain in the ass to make. Especially if you - like me - have to manually fill trays with water.

The cubes, being in your freezer amongst a plethora of dead animals, invariably end up stinky and stale.

Then there’s the noise. The noise, noise, noise, NOISE! That cracking, that twisting, that horrifying screech the cubes make when they’re popped from their tray formation.

Even the constant dumping of the automatic cube-erator is annoying!
Not to MENTION the chinking of cubes in shakers and glasses.
And those painful, crackling, hissing sounds they make when they’re hot! Ugh!

Ice is made from water (obviously). So why would you want to add additional water to, say, your coffee? All you end up with is

extremely watered down coffee. What’s the point? Who wants to drink watered down anything?

Filling glasses or plastic cups up to the brim with ice is simply a money maker for restaurants. Really, it is. More free chunks of frozen water means less of the stuff they actually charge for - fountain soda, alcoholic beverages, lattes, juice.

Alas, it’s we the people who have to suffer through the selfishness of these businesses! I can’t tell you how many times I’ve gotten the stinkeye at Dunkin’s for saying, “Not a lot of ice, please,” in the sweetest possible voice.

Then I watch as they shove as many cubes as possible into a medium size cup - simply to spite me. I, being the passive aggressive person I am, say nothing in opposition, opting instead to skip their tip.

For reals, though. This is all child’s play compared to what irks me MOST about those solid cubes-o-agua.
Yes indeed.

If anything ever sent more shivers up my spine than an R.L. Stine book, than a Scream movie, than watching the news - it is the sound of people chomping down on ice cubes.

Seriously. I don’t understand how any levelheaded, normal human being can do such a thing. Can want to do such a thing. It’s positively grotesque, not to mention utterly chilling and cringe-inducing. Even popsicles. Even when people bite ice cream, I involuntarily shudder.
Don’t those brats have sensitive teeth?

Maybe that’s it...that’s why I hate ice so much. Because my g-d Sensodyne doesn’t work and my teeth freak out when ice cubes touch them.

Hmph.