Crappy Stories I Can't Stop Reading

I don’t know how we pinned the term on it exactly, but around our house we call them “sad sack stories.” These are stories with headlines like “Man Falls Off Stone Mountain” or, more hopefully, “Dog Risks Life to Save Other Dog.”

I read these stories a lot. I actively search them out. On average, depending on workload, I probably check CNN’s Justice tab at least once a day. A cold case? I’m on it. Specific regional stories from local news affiliates? I am reading those, too.

Jon doesn’t get it. Maybe it’s because an integral part of reading sad sack stories is sharing them. When talking to Jon, I now have to preface them with “Um, can I tell you another sad sack story?” He usually says, “Yes,” because he is nice. But several times he has asked, politely of course, “Um, what’s the point of these stories?” Like I am supposed to come up with a moral or something.

The thing is I don’t have an answer for him. I could probably make one up—like, “I am just confirming that my life isn’t so bad,” or, “it’s a crazy mixed up world we live in,” or, “I work from home, so what?” The real reason is that I gravitate to these stories because I learned that’s what you should do.

Growing up in a small town, as I did, you know everyone’s business. And the business that people are sharing the most is the sad sack stuff—“He just dropped dead of a heart attack," or, ”they just had to shut the doors and walk away,” or, “she broke her wrist AND her sister has cancer.” The next step, of course, is to either join a prayer chain or take over some soup to the afflicted party.

While a celebratory high-school graduation banner might elicit a public smile and nod and a privately whispered, “A little showy, don’t you think?,” a sad sack story pulls people together every time.

So, maybe since writing that last paragraph I have come up with a reason I love these stories. Because sitting here in Brooklyn, listening to a woman talking loudly about healthcare outside my window, I am still a small town girl at heart. I want to be viscerally connected to the individuals that stream past me. And while I might not get on the prayer chain or FedEx some soup to that dog that risked its life, I can share the story, and keep us all a little more connected.

You’ll have to excuse me, now, the story outside my window is really getting good.

Pedicure Only

Karley, as soon as I read your post I walked out the door and down to the local nail emporium (not its real name). They just opened up recently and they are fancier than some nail places but not so fancy that you feel like a jerk getting your nails done there. Because this was a fancier place, I decided to only get a pedicure, for cost savings.

As soon as I sat down, it became clear where the extra money was going--THE FANCIEST PEDICURE CHAIRS I HAVE EVER SEEN IN MY LIFE! Not only did they have the ubiquitous massage feature, but they also had a footrest on the other side of the bowl that could be raised and lowered at the touch of a button. And you could move the chair forward and backward using the remote. Yes, the technology was on par with those rocket ships kids ride for a dollar outside Walmart, but it was still cool.

The Color

I chose the Essie color Jam ‘n’ Jelly. It was the first real day of spring and I wanted to shout it.

Spring Aside

In addition to it being in the 50s, how else did I know it was spring? I witnessed the following things all taking place simultaneously in Fort Greene Park:

People walking with dogs

People walking with kids

Picnics

Full tennis courts

A bike clinic

A tightrope clinic (seriously)

A guitar circle

A drum circle

A weed circle (yes, surprisingly, this was separate from the aforementioned circles)

SPRING!

Back to Color

Another reason I chose a bright color is that Jon doesn’t like neutrals on toes. There is no clear explanation for this, but when he sees neutrals he goes “Ummmm….” I think he thinks that there’s no point, because your nails are already a neutral.

The Tabloid

March 2010 Vogue, with Tina Fey on the cover—listen, if it’s in a nail salon, it’s a tabloid.

I read the Tina Fey article. And, get ready for it, I am kind of getting bored of Tina Fey articles. She’s a real woman! She can’t believe she makes as much money as she does! She works really hard! She's changed the face of comedy! She lost 30 pounds and kept it off! Why does this all continue to flabbergast the world so much that we have to keep writing articles about it?

The Price

$26, pedicure only. I think with a manicure it would have been $40.

Price Aside

The most expensive pedicure I have ever seen listed is for $55. Ooh, New York prices, you might say. Actually NYC is probably the cheapest place in the country to get a mani/pedi. You can get a mani/pedi for $20-$25 most places in NYC. The most expensive place is in none other than Honeoye Falls, NY. The small town in western NY where I went to high school!

Cute Fashions Made Simple

I am already prepping myself for Jenni to write another "I knew about this three years ago" comment. Especially because my hot style source for this post is the New York Times Business section. We'll see after this whether I should just stick to writing about crap I find on the street.

The new hot tip is: Celebstyle. From the folks at PopSugar, a must for anyone still playing Faffarazzi, Celebstyle takes photos of celebs out and about and tells you where to buy what they're wearing at a price point that you can (usually) afford.



Living in Brooklyn, where

1) I feel like everyone woman on the street has a cuter outfit than I do, and

2) I don't have lots of time to go to the store and the boutiques in my neighborhood scare me so I exclusively still shop at Marshalls

I think this might come in handy.

Crappy Stuff I Keep Picking Up Off of the Street

I read somewhere that elephants, when they come upon the bones of another elephant, may investigate the bones and even carry them with them, some times for miles.

I know how they feel, because I do the same thing with crap I find on the street.

Fancy interior design sites talk about apartments, houses, furniture, etc. having “good bones.” I guess this means they are sturdy or well made, or perhaps it’s just a way to justify that expensive interior design project or reupholstery job. As in: “This has ‘good bones’ so I am going to spend more than it would cost to get a new vintagehip chair to reupholster this old vintagehip chair in HOUNDSTOOTH!”

I am not a woman of much means, so instead of paying a professional to recover my bones, I prefer to go out and find new ones, preferably within a three-block radius of my apartment.

Whenever I see a piece of furniture or other houseware sitting on the street I am drawn to it. Like the elephants, I might even carry it with me for a while before deciding to jettison it in some new location, or (gasp) bring it inside. When circumstances prevent me from picking it up—I’ve got a business meeting, I am going to a play in a very small black box theater, I am already carrying something else I found—I mourn its loss. I worry that someone else won’t find it, that it will just become trash. That its life will end. I once carried a beat-up kitchen stool with me for nine blocks before realizing that I already had enough beat-up kitchen stools.

This is the clever conundrum of living in New York—the amount of usable stuff on the curb is inversely proportional to the amount of room you currently have in your apartment. But things do make their way in. In no particular order, here are some things I found on the street that are in my apartment right now:

Dish drainer
Wall mounted file holder
Vintage blue glass Ball jars
Folding table
50s compression pole lamp

Don’t worry, there’s been much more in the past but the fancy interior design websites have told me that I have to “edit.”

Last night, I came home and there was a bedside table lamp sitting in the middle of the living room. My husband, let’s call him Babar, had been looking for one like this for his side of the bed—bendable neck, focused light—and there it was. It wasn’t in a bag or anything, so I asked where he got it. Babar: “It was in the lobby of our building. I almost didn’t take it, but then I went back.” Me: “Why didn’t you take it immediately?” Babar: “I was worried you’d think I was just bringing more junk into the house.”

Clearly Babar needs to read this post.