Most of my urban transplant friends and peers have mixed feelings about moving to Croton. Sometimes, this rather nice suburb feels more like the country side, which can evoke feelings of peace in some and panic in others; generally, I am with the others. The scarce sidewalks, sparse entertainment, subpar pizza, and rare but dull conversations on the playground remind me just how far away we are from the concrete jungle where ironically, the grass seems to be greener.
Well, those WERE my feelings some of the times, but no longer… Why? Because in Croton… in Croton, we have everything one may need. River views, tranquility, a hippy coffee shop, a good ice cream joint, and now, vajazzling. What’s that you ask? I will let you google it yourself but will reveal that it involves swarovski crystals and someone who probably refers to herself as an artist. I am really hoping that vajazzling will put Croton on the map. I feel that as a village, we have finally arrived. Some true genius assessed the market opportunity in this area and decided that this is the place to introduce vajazzling!
Who needs a book store when you have a vajazzling salon? Vajazzling is undoubtedly a game changer. Next time you see a familiar mom on the playground with a twinkle in her eye, go ahead and ask “something is different about you – did you vajazzle?”
Tuesday, July 12, 2011
Monday, March 21, 2011
Me, Myself, and I
As an avid reader of bullshit articles on the internet, you know… those promising to reveal something life-changing through a human interest story, I find myself unable to get past the atrocious grammar and properly contemplate how to be a better communicator, cut unnecessary expenses, look and feel my best, etc. Take the first paragraph from a heart-warming article titled The Marriage Secret Nobody Tells You by Lyz Lenz: When one of my friends got engaged, he was over the moon. At dinner one night, he told my husband and I how much he was in love. Really? He told “I,” Lyz? You fucking genius. What is it with people thinking that using “I” in place of “me” makes them sound smarter? More importantly, what is it with people who don’t know when to use “I” getting paid for writing? It strikes me that, in the recent years, we have excelled at rewarding incompetence and redefining success.
I was so taken by Lyz’s idiocy that I clicked through to the full text article only to read: “I am forever indebted to a couple who told my husband and I a story about their epic battle over putting together a bookshelf.” Learn some elementary grammar, Lyz, before you come up with cutesy ways to spell your name.
Some other favorites include commonplace emails that ask to contact “So-and-so or myself if you have any questions." I do have a question for yourself, moron.
I am sure this and all my preceding entries are sprinkled with grammatical errors and spelling mistakes. I am, however, writing pro bono. And, as we know, you get what you pay for (yes, that is a preposition on the end).
P.S. The most recent bumper sticker: Smile, your mom chose life. I don’t even know where to start.
I was so taken by Lyz’s idiocy that I clicked through to the full text article only to read: “I am forever indebted to a couple who told my husband and I a story about their epic battle over putting together a bookshelf.” Learn some elementary grammar, Lyz, before you come up with cutesy ways to spell your name.
Some other favorites include commonplace emails that ask to contact “So-and-so or myself if you have any questions." I do have a question for yourself, moron.
I am sure this and all my preceding entries are sprinkled with grammatical errors and spelling mistakes. I am, however, writing pro bono. And, as we know, you get what you pay for (yes, that is a preposition on the end).
P.S. The most recent bumper sticker: Smile, your mom chose life. I don’t even know where to start.
Thursday, January 6, 2011
THAT Lady
Today, I was THAT lady.
I woke up in the morning to find only one contact lens in my case. Like a drug addict, I searched the whole house for a spare, looking in every purse and drawer while cursing profusely, as though this magic combination of profanities would make the contact gods take pity on me. While my frustration was inadequate to say the least, I cut myself some slack as I fully understood that getting a box of contacts today would be a nearly impossible and likely a very expensive undertaking. In fact, I think I’d have a much easier time buying me some crack. You can’t get contacts without a current prescription and I don’t have a current prescription, so I called Wal-Mart. Donald, the receptionist, was SUPER nice, but informed me that it would be against the law for him to sell me contacts without the proper authorization (proper authorization resides in Brooklyn and is on vacation). “Donald, please, I really really really need them for tomorrow. My daughter is getting surgery and I have to be able to drive!” I pleaded on the phone. I had to stop myself from saying “I’ll do anything” to this nice man. I do own one pair of glasses, the one that makes me look like a young orthodox Jewish mother exercising on Ocean Parkway in a below-the-knee skirt, but Maddie stretched them out and they keep falling off. The ones that made me look like an 8th grade spelling bee winner are broken after Maddie got a hold of them. After about six calls back and forth, Donald said he could possibly release the two boxes to me if I got there before 2:30.
So I got there as soon as I could, looking horrible with messed up hair, a questionable outfit and a screaming toddler. Maddie, who is normally a well-behaved, though independent young lady, was pretty impossible. After filling out multiple forms and telling Donald what a fine human being he is for helping me out, I couldn’t resist a little shopping in that fine establishment. Of course, like a true idiot, who just grabs anything that screams “organic” on the package and has a picture of a decent looking baby, I grabbed some biscuits for Maddie – only to pull one of them out of her mouth as I read that the deliciousness was made in China. To reward myself for such a successful trip and for not losing my shit as Maddie cried on the never-ending line, I stopped by Old Navy. “That’s a nice little sweatshirt…” thought I…”Let me go try it on…” WHAT THE FUCK?! Nice sweatshirt? Try it on?
Our next stop? Wendy’s drive-thru! That’s right! Regretting my decision to pull into that hell hole, I reluctantly order a salad. Then regretting that decision again as I look at the calories, I revise the order to half a salad…and fries. We drove home with the Music Together CD blasting in my “fuck you mobile.” The fuel efficiency meter read 14.7 miles per gallon. That’s the life. The man on the CD really worked on his Russian-sounding Rs as he sang something that sounded “ran tan tan tannaa..ran tan tanaaa ran ran.” Maddie liked it and quietly sang along. Taking the opportunity to eat at the traffic light, I shoved some lettuce in my mouth with bare hands and looked at the lady in the car next to us, realizing what a sorry, but not uncommon, spectacle I was.
Tomorrow will be a better day, I am convinced. And today wasn’t that bad, of course. And the sweatshirt fit quite nicely and I’ll be wearing it for years, I am sure.
P.S. Back to the bumper stickers, a car parked in front of Wal-Mart, had one that read: “An American by Birth. A Biker by Choice. A Patriot Forever.” You go, man, you show’em! Fool me once…
I woke up in the morning to find only one contact lens in my case. Like a drug addict, I searched the whole house for a spare, looking in every purse and drawer while cursing profusely, as though this magic combination of profanities would make the contact gods take pity on me. While my frustration was inadequate to say the least, I cut myself some slack as I fully understood that getting a box of contacts today would be a nearly impossible and likely a very expensive undertaking. In fact, I think I’d have a much easier time buying me some crack. You can’t get contacts without a current prescription and I don’t have a current prescription, so I called Wal-Mart. Donald, the receptionist, was SUPER nice, but informed me that it would be against the law for him to sell me contacts without the proper authorization (proper authorization resides in Brooklyn and is on vacation). “Donald, please, I really really really need them for tomorrow. My daughter is getting surgery and I have to be able to drive!” I pleaded on the phone. I had to stop myself from saying “I’ll do anything” to this nice man. I do own one pair of glasses, the one that makes me look like a young orthodox Jewish mother exercising on Ocean Parkway in a below-the-knee skirt, but Maddie stretched them out and they keep falling off. The ones that made me look like an 8th grade spelling bee winner are broken after Maddie got a hold of them. After about six calls back and forth, Donald said he could possibly release the two boxes to me if I got there before 2:30.
So I got there as soon as I could, looking horrible with messed up hair, a questionable outfit and a screaming toddler. Maddie, who is normally a well-behaved, though independent young lady, was pretty impossible. After filling out multiple forms and telling Donald what a fine human being he is for helping me out, I couldn’t resist a little shopping in that fine establishment. Of course, like a true idiot, who just grabs anything that screams “organic” on the package and has a picture of a decent looking baby, I grabbed some biscuits for Maddie – only to pull one of them out of her mouth as I read that the deliciousness was made in China. To reward myself for such a successful trip and for not losing my shit as Maddie cried on the never-ending line, I stopped by Old Navy. “That’s a nice little sweatshirt…” thought I…”Let me go try it on…” WHAT THE FUCK?! Nice sweatshirt? Try it on?
Our next stop? Wendy’s drive-thru! That’s right! Regretting my decision to pull into that hell hole, I reluctantly order a salad. Then regretting that decision again as I look at the calories, I revise the order to half a salad…and fries. We drove home with the Music Together CD blasting in my “fuck you mobile.” The fuel efficiency meter read 14.7 miles per gallon. That’s the life. The man on the CD really worked on his Russian-sounding Rs as he sang something that sounded “ran tan tan tannaa..ran tan tanaaa ran ran.” Maddie liked it and quietly sang along. Taking the opportunity to eat at the traffic light, I shoved some lettuce in my mouth with bare hands and looked at the lady in the car next to us, realizing what a sorry, but not uncommon, spectacle I was.
Tomorrow will be a better day, I am convinced. And today wasn’t that bad, of course. And the sweatshirt fit quite nicely and I’ll be wearing it for years, I am sure.
P.S. Back to the bumper stickers, a car parked in front of Wal-Mart, had one that read: “An American by Birth. A Biker by Choice. A Patriot Forever.” You go, man, you show’em! Fool me once…
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