This Is Why I'm Hot

Conceited? No. Confident? Yes. But my effortless good looks (and obvious modesty) are not the topic of this post.

Allow me to express the all-consuming misery I feel when Mother Nature unleashes her ability to make New York City feel like the surface of the sun. Or Hell. Or a whole new kind of Hell that is located ON the surface of the sun.

In case you're not following my analogies... It's fucking hot and I am NOT happy about it.

But wait there's more!

These past few days haven't just been hot, they've been humid too! YAY!

From a scientific standpoint, humidity is defined as the amount of water vapor in the air.

From JessHacker's Dictionary for NewYorkers*, humidity is the unbearable moisture that covers your entire body in a thick layer of stickiness as if you just emerged from the depths of a marshy swamp. As a result of the uncontrollable sweating, you take no less than 4 cold showers a day to regain some level of homeostasis. Unfortunately, your efforts will prove utterly useless the minute you put your clothes back on and step out into the un-airconditioned world, where beads of sweat will instantly form on your forehead, mocking your desire to be comfortable.

*This dictionary does not exist. Yet. For now, stick with Merriam Webster.

I've never been to Arizona to experience the "dry heat" that those douchebags always brag about, but I'm starting to think that they may be on to something. I bet chicks out there never have a bad hair day.

I, on the other hand, own** a whole arsenal of hair products that market their "anti-humidity" and "moisture-barrier" capabilities. This, in case you were wondering, is a bigger load of bullshit than World Cup refs not counting USA's goals. Twice.

**waste oodles of money on.

Either way, day after hot and humid day, I apply a different combination of gels and sprays to my soaking wet locks in an attempt to transform them from unruly to "scrunched." Pathetically, it always ends up looking like a half-assed birds nest of messy curls haphazardly fastened out of my face with a headband, 2 scrunchies, 37 bobby pins, and a half a can of AquaNet.***

***No, I don't really use AquaNet. I think this, along with Denture Creme and Depends, is reserved for people over the age of 65.

The only "barrier" that would be effective under these circumstances is an air-conditioned body suit. I can say with certainy that I would put this gift at the very top of my Christmas list and probably even trade most of my worldly posessions to get my hands on one. I would spend a similarly astronomical amount of money on an airconditioned blanket so that sleeping with boyfriend in the summer months would be just as pleasant as they are in winter.

I have not yet decided if I hate rain or heat more, but that's like deciding if Kate Gosselin or Octomom is a worse mother.

Although lately, with her unpredicatable "chances of scattered thunderstorms" and "95% humidity," I'd say Mother Nature is worse than them both.

I Hate... Being Unprepared

Yesterday was somewhat of an "off" day.

I was in a missing-the-boyfriend midweek funk and absentmindedly left my apartment grossly unprepared for the inclement weather.

Being umbrella-less was like showing up for for the SAT's without a calculator. I knew I was missing something but couldn't put my finger on it until the proctor had already started handing out the scantrons. When it finally dawned on me, I tried to rationalize that I could get by without it.

I was very wrong.

Not only was I sans umbrella, I had also blindly dressed myself in a sleeveless shirt, a skirt, and flip flops because I didn't bother to consult the news for a weather report (which probably would have featured the rain cloud below hovering ominously over Grand Central Station waiting for me to leave the office):



Needless to say, trying to walk home in monsoon-like conditions of violent sideways rain made me look like a drowned rat in a wet tee-shirt contest. And oh yea, I destroyed my leather flip flops.

The good news is, I went home to find out that Tosh.O was a new episode! I took the liberty of sharing his "I hate" video here. It made me laugh, hopefully it'll do the same for you.

(This is the beginning of my attempt to blog more often.)

Tosh.0
I Hate Video
http://www.comedycentral.com/
Web Redemption 2 Girls, 1 Cup Reaction Demi Moore Picture

How to Launder Money

Just Kidding!!

First of all, there's no way I would write a post about a criminal activity, I have a reputation to uphold. Secondly, I have no idea how to launder money so my how-to guide would be as effective as sitting in your underwear with carrots up your nose to cure cancer.

This post is actually about laundering clothes.

Wait!! Don't go!! I promise it's (kinda) funny!!

Washing your soiled linens is one of those daunting chores that if you're really lucky (or really spoiled) you won't experience the full level of suckage until you go away to college.

When I was in elementary school, I knew it wasn't magic per se, but it did always seem like a small miracle that my drawers were regularly stocked with clothes that didn't smell like the underside of a wet dog. I really had no idea where my clothes went after I put them in the hamper, all I knew was that my favorite denim shorts and Rainbow Brite tee-shirt were always available when I needed them.

As I got a bit older (arguably more responsible) I still never experienced the complete laundry process. I may have been asked to move the beach towels (an unshrinkable, un-fuck-up-able item) from the washer to the dryer when the machine buzzed but after that I was relieved of my duties and free to spend the next 5 hours practicing my synchronized swimming routine with my sister. When we emerged from the pool soaking wet with wrinkly digits- clean, dry towels awaited us.

I enjoyed being pleasantly aloof to the laundry process until I was in middle school.

It was around the age of 12 that my mom asked me (with audible hesitation) to "sort" my dirty clothes. Up until this point in my life the only thing I had sorted effectively were my Pogs from my slammers and my 'cool' scrunchies from the crappy ones that I would hand down to my sister.

Mom never gave me a proper lesson in the art of sorting, until she observed me stack my clothes into 3 piles: shirts, pants, and everything else. When she stopped laughing she informed me I was both wrong and ridiculous. She was obviously right.

As years passed I learned many valuable lessons about laundry.

1) Downy is NOT detergent. Sadly, while your clothes will be incredibly soft, they will also still have evidence of the previous weekends' jungle juice graffiti party.

2) The hot cycle (intended to bleach whites) will make colors bleed. Every.Single.Time.

3) 24-hour laundry mats are terrifying places to be at night. One would probably be more comfortable wearing a mini skirt and 6 inch plastic stilettos in a poorly lit alley.

4) Care labels exist for a reason. Blatantly disregarding "Dry Clean Only" in favor of the "delicate" cycle will be an expensive lesson to learn on a silk blouse.

5) Stashing Tide-To-Go pens in your purse is more important than chap stick. This is especially true for someone foolish enough to wear a white shirt to a baseball game. Where they serve hot dogs. With ketchup. And mustard. Need I say more?

Despite what I've learned from doing my own laundry (a concept that was once as foreign as a retirement fund) I've decided that it's worth every single penny to have someone else do my dirty work. Literally.

The below advertisement had me at "solution." They obviously recognized that for some people (me) doing laundry is a legitimate problem. They went on to target their audience (me) perfectly... "For Busy People." (I'm not sure if they're hinting that not-so-busy people should be doing their own laundry, but I really don't care. I AM a busy person! I'm too busy to even worry myself with the subliminal message they may or may not be trying to send.)

And although the last line, "just like you would do at home" seems like more of a threat than a promise given my at-home experiences, for 75 cents a pound I was willing to give it a go. Hell, you can't even get cookies at an Italian bakery that cheap!

The results? See for yourself:

Needless to say, not only was I not disappointed, I have not purchased laundry detergent (or Downy) since January and have become what one might call "a regular" at Empire Cleaners. Now if only I could convince (pay) someone to put the clothes away for me.