A Snip by Any Other Name

The title of this blog, Snippets, was chosen because of the nature of its contents (little bits of everything) and because my long-time nickname is Snip.  When hearing the nickname, people always want to know where it came from. "Why Snip?" as if there's some easy explanation.

There are really only two kinds of nicknames, the obvious ones (Al, for Alison, or Scottie, for our Scottish receptionist at work) and the ones that came about in a bizarre way, after a bender in Vegas, or have evolved over the years.  Snip is one of those kinds of nicknames, minus the Vegas part. It came about in a bizarre way, almost 12 years ago, and evolved from its original form. And now that I'm an adult, retelling a story that happened when I was (ahem) 14 years old just doesn't seem appropriate.  Recently, I've been tempted to make things up.

Why do they call you Snip?
My teacher thought I had a snippy personality.

Why do they call you Snip?
I loved Rice Krispies so much--remember Snap, Crackle, and Pop?--that my parents joked I was the fourth Krispie elf, Snip.

Why do they call you Snip?
I work part time as a moile.

Are any of these the real story? No. Am I going to tell you the real story...

Behind the Headlines

In the news: 


CINCINNATI -- Police arrested a man after he was found passed out in a drive-thru line Tuesday night in Colerain Township.

Deputies say 52-year-old Thomas Tauscher of Arcanum, Ohio, drove to the Skyline in the 10000 block of Colerain Avenue and fell asleep in the drive-thru line.

The part they didn't print in the paper:

The drunk driver was discovered asleep by the people in the vehicle behind his.  "He was slumped over the steering wheel, man," said the red-eyed driver, who declined to give his name. "I was like, move it dude, I want my chili!"

"I really wanted some cheesey chili," said the passenger, who also declined to be identified. "I was going to get me a three-way. Ha! Three-way!" The passenger then laughed for four minutes before getting back into his vehicle, which smelled vaguely of skunk and incense.


Read the true story here: Drunk Driver Passes Out in Drive-Thru
And if you've never been to Cincinnati, and have no idea what a three-way is: Skyline Chili

Don't Do What to the Alligators?

I took this photo during a recent trip to Florida.


Somewhere the alligators  have a sign that says: "Danger!  Beware of humans offering food.  They may be trying to lure you in so that they can molest you!!"

My Imaginary Comedy Routine

Sometimes I think that if this whole writing thing doesn’t work out, I should try standup comedy.  No, really.

I’ve thought about it a lot actually.  What would be my angle?  My opener?  I’ve decided I would definitely be one of those self-deprecating* comics. Most of my act would involve making fun of myself: my gangly-ness, my klutziness, my knack for getting myself into extremely awkward situations.  Like the time I thought it would be awesome to take up power lifting.  (More on that later.)  Or the time I thought it was a great idea to take in the stray cat I’d found that had cajones the size of tennis balls.  Or the time I helped a visually- and hearing-impaired man complete a marathon—while he took a smoke break every two miles.

So that would be my angle.  And I’d have to make fun of my appearance too, of course.  Every great comedian has done that: Farley, Belushi, Candy.  But since I don’t exactly have the “funny fat guy” thing going for me, I would probably riff on my tiny golf ball head or my bony knees. But I think my main shtick would be, "Attractive, but not attractive enough."  Here's how it works. I'd get on stage and say:

“I'm attractive enough that guys hit on me in bars, but not attractive enough that the losers still think they have a shot. Like, someone will buy me a drink—yeah!—but he's got a leering expression and he’s a little cross-eyed.  And he’s creepy enough that I have excuse myself to the restroom just to pour out the drink—because I'm 90% sure there's roofies in it.”

Are you rolling on the floor yet?  No?  Well, then I’d have a hilarious (true!) story to back this up:

“This one time, I was out with some girlfriends in Chicago. And I hadn't seen one of the girls in years, so I was really excited to catch up with her. But this random guy—I don't remember what he looked like, probably pretty average in every way—kept trying to talk to me. And I was blowing him off, because I was more interested in talking with my friend. So eventually he gets the hint, looks me up and down, and goes, ‘You're not that good looking.’”

Zing!  Get it?  Like, I was attractive enough for him to hit on, but ugly enough that I should have been grateful for his attention…I swear, if I told it on stage it would sound funny and not totally pathetic and sad.

Okay, the material’s a little rough, but there’s something there!  Either way, I think I’ll stick to the writing thing, at least for now.

*I’ve also thought of a comedy bit about a self-deprecating rapper.  This joke hasn’t gotten past the idea stage, but I think there’s a lot to be mined here: someone who raps about having no money, aluminum fillings, scuffed sneakers from Payless, and how he can only hook up with girls with bony asses.  Hilarious.

Call Me "TwatTurtle"

Okay, so I saw this graffiti in my neighborhood the other day.  I'm no expert on tagging, but, really?  DickChicken?  Is that supposed to be cool or intimidating?  I think the other graffiti artists told him it was a great idea, and are now laughing at him behind his back.

T.S. Eliot Was Right

April is still the cruelest month.

But my boyfriend came back,

and now the smoke detector is fixed.

It went off today as I made dinner.

WTF Photo of the Day

It says, "This plant is free but it has lice.  Take at your own risk (if you can treat it)."

Park Slopians, you are so strange sometimes.

PKE4U9MSBVHK

Anger Mismanagement

I wouldn't normally consider myself an angry person.  I'm a patient person, perhaps even a nice person.  But even nice, patient people have their breaking points.


This has been the Week That Everything Went Wrong.  And I can't discuss any of it—in most cases, because it's private, and in one case, because I am under oath.


So today, I snapped.  I was attempting to cook two pounds of bacon, and the smoke detector kept going off.  And it's really really loud.  So I was running back and forth between the kitchen and the smoke detector—which, I might add, I need a stool to reach.  And because my attention was divided, the bacon started to burn.  I'd have to run back to take it out of the pan.  Then the smoke detector would start going off; I had to run back to press the button.  Over and over and over.


Eventually, I had it.  I started cursing.  I started whaling on the smoke detector.  I ripped it out of the ceiling.  The noise stopped.


Now my cat is terrified of me, I could die in my sleep tonight in a fire, and I am totally dead when my boyfriend gets home and sees what I've done—but it was worth it.  The dish I was attempting to make for a potluck tonight is in the oven, I'm no longer waving a towel under the smoke detector, and the apartment is blissfully and completely quiet.

Proof Good Things Do Happen

After a very long and difficult week, I received this e-mail today.  I'm not sure if I can make it, but I will try:

Dedication of Central Park Reservoir Running Track To Alberto Arroyo, "The Mayor of Central Park."

Monday,  April 12 at 6:30 p.m. at the Pump House,  south end of the Reservoir Running Track 

You're all invited to come and honor Alberto Arroyo who, for over seven decades, spurred so many of us on with his calls of: "Hey, looking good!"

Central Park Conservancy President Douglas Blonsky and Commissioner of Parks Adrien Benepe will unveil a plaque officially dedicating the path to Alberto, in recognition of his dedication to the park, the city, and its people. 

If you don't know who Alberto Arroyo is, you can read about him here:
A story from the Times last year
His obituary on Gothamist
A mention on Runner's World


It's too bad he wasn't alive to see the dedication—but I guess that's how these things usually work.

Kittens!

Needed something to cheer me up.  Thanks to the other Steph for the link!




I want pie! I want beef jerky!

I MAKE YOUR DREAMS COME TRUE!

I freaking love this commercial. It only comes on after 1 A.M. in the NYC area, or maybe just Brooklyn. I'm not sure.

I wanted to share because:

1) It's hilarious

2) Whenever someone thanks me for something, I will now respond by making a sweeping arm motion and saying, "We make your dreams come true!" in a stilted, accented voice. I want to make sure people get the joke.

Tough Day

Reina has had a really rough day. Some dogs have moved in next door, and they've been roaming around the yard and barking. She's spent the whole day looking out the windows and walking around with a bristly tail. (For those of you who aren't familiar with cat body language, a bristled tail is feline for, "HOLY S*&$!") Now it's time for a much-deserved nap.

Queen of Hearts

What I'm about to confess may seem shocking, even enviable, but I'm here to argue that it's actually a burden. Here goes: I've never been dumped.

Okay, this is not entirely true. I was dumped by my very first boyfriend, Pat M—, in ninth grade. That courtship lasted approximately 11 days, during which time we saw one movie (his sister drove us), talked on the phone a few times, and never even kissed. I remember being sad for a few days afterwards. His reason for dumping me? He wanted to date my friend Jessica S— instead. I can't really blame him. While she and I shared similar attributes: we were both in Advanced Math, were thin and had brown hair—Jessica was endowed with the more ample chest. And while she and I shared the same circle of friends, she had the edge when it came to popularity. She had her pick of guys, which is probably why she and Pat never went out. Good thing too, or my misery may have extended a whole week.

I Heart Hipsters

So I’m headed to Williamsburg, Brooklyn Thursday night for a concert. For those of you who live in NYC, you know what this means. For those of you who don’t, I will sum it up in one word for you: hipsters.

No, this isn’t going to be a screed against hipsters. In fact, I can’t understand why people hate them so much. They are so fun to observe, especially in their natural habitats. Also, I feel I have a lot in common with hipsters. They drink beer; I drink beer. We listen to a lot of the same music. Sometimes I think the only reason I’m not a hipster it just seems like too much work, too much keeping up of appearances. Also, I think it’s cool to like things.

But I guess the main reason I like hipsters is I love it when a certain group consistently lives up to its stereotype. (Which is probably the reason I love Jersey Shore so much.) The last time I went to a concert in W’burg, you could have pooled a random group of attendees and found that each person was wearing either a) a flannel shirt, b) skinny jeans, c) plastic frame glasses, d) a beard, or e) some combination of the above. It was funny, and also comforting. Because I knew I could hold my own if any sort of fight broke out.

Sorry, couldn’t help myself. Hipsters, you know I love you.

Gratuitous Pet Shot

I tend to be long-winded, and I heard somewhere that people get put off by huge blocks of text. So I figured I should include a funny photo of my cat being silly, just to break things up. I think her bug eyes make her look like a lemur.

Vanities, or, The Longest Essay Ever Written About Eyebrows, Part 2

A “professional” brow waxer, in the confines of Shelby Township, Michigan, was Sandy, the woman who cut my mom's hair at the local salon. She knew nothing of arch and shaping, and would just drip on the wax and rip away. Sometimes she would leave the wax on for too long, and it would get cold and hardened. As a result, when she ripped off the strips, a good portion of my skin came with it. I'd be forced to go to school with angry, red commas below my eyes, as I painfully learned that cover-up wouldn't stick to open sores.

If that weren't enough, I began to develop a horrible nervous tic. I'd pull out my eyebrows with my fingers while bored or anxious. On a long car trip back from a high school cross country meet, I was worrying away at my brows when my friend awoke from a nap and shrieked, "Stephanie! Stop!" I had created a sizable bald patch above my right eye. The first thing I did when I got home was purchase an eyebrow pencil. I colored in that patch for weeks.

In college, the trauma continued. On a trip to the local mall with my roommates, a woman at a nail salon (I should have known better) did a complete hack job on my face. I still shake with anger when I think of how she handed me the mirror afterward, as if nothing were wrong. But things had gone terribly awry. On the right, my brow looked normal. On the left, only three hairs remained above my arch. I was a lopsided monstrosity. I should have demanded my money back! Instead, I think I even gave her a tip.

Truth in Advertising

I've walked by this sign on the way to the R/W train several times, and it never fails to crack me up. It's like they're saying, "Look, we have good prices. Are they the lowest in the city? Well, we're not sure. There's a lot of stores in New York. We can't say with total certainty that we're the best, but we're pretty good. So come shop here, you're probably getting a good deal, and you'll most likely be happy with your purchase."

Vanities, or, The Longest Essay Ever Written About Eyebrows, Part 1

I think it's safe to say that most of us spend an embarrassing amount of time obsessing over vain, trivial pursuits. For guys, video games and fantasy sports immediately come to mind. For ladies, it has to be appearance. I've known several females who have been locked in lifelong battles against frizz, belly bulge, and wrinkles. If there were a physical feature I’ve spent an inordinate mount of time obsessing over (Okay, if I had to choose just one) it would be eyebrows.

The obsession began in adolescence. It wasn't bad enough that I had glasses and braces, and was generally awkward and gangly. Oh no, genetics also had to bless me with dark hair. Lots of it. And while I'm forever grateful for the thick mop atop my head, I realized around age ten or so that having hair anyplace else was socially unacceptable and gross. I was mortified when Travis Z-- grabbed my arm on the bus and declared that it was hairier than his own. I felt afraid and somewhat ashamed when my mom deemed me old enough to begin shaving my legs. And when Sara J--, who was supposed to be my friend, squinted hard at my face and declared, "You have hair above your lip," I could only sputter that it was peach fuzz. She quickly responded with, "It looks dark to me." Sara, of course, was blonde, and could not begin to comprehend the unfair, hairy-knuckled hand I'd been dealt in life.

And while all of that stuff was eventually handled with razors, smelly depilatories, and the like—my eyebrows, which hovered on my forehead like black furry caterpillars, were not so simple. The only person I knew with worse eyebrows was Miss Good—a misnomer if there ever was one—our inept sixth-grade substitute teacher. And it wasn't the mere fact they were thick, but that their dark color was in stark contrast to her bottle blonde hair. I knew at age 10 that like it or not, I'd be a brunette for life. (Though there was that one unfortunate attempt at fooling genetics and lightening my brows with Jolen crème bleach, which resulted in an interesting if not attractive tiger-stripe effect.)

When my brows began to grow into a Frida Kahlo-style uni, I knew something had to be done. I begged and pleaded with my mother for help. She, bestower of half my genes, could sympathize with my plight. She herself had beat her brows into submission via electrolysis, years before I was born. My mother’s brows—for better or worse—were now two faint semicircles above her eyes.

Afraid that I may growing up too early, my mom reluctantly handed over tweezers with instructions to pluck between the brows only. But with those tweezers in my hand, I couldn't help myself. Though she said to pull out only one hair at a time, I attacked them in clumps. I was a maniac; I looked a mess.

My mom decided we should let a professional handle my brows from then on—and while that seemed like a solution to my problem, my troubles were only beginning.