Things I Love to Hate

Many moons ago I vowed to try my best not to hate anyone or anything. I tried, but ultimately failed. So here is my list of many things that I love to hate.

1. The cast of "NYC Prep." They're hip, they're chic, they're fabulous. They have done everything that I've wanted to do my whole entire life like attend Fashion Week, go on fabulous spring breaks, and run up mommy and daddy's Black cards while shopping - all at the tender ages of 16-18.

But the horrible thing is that some of them are so fucking obnoxious *PC.* When your whole world revolves around the UES* and the "private school scene," you hardly get a chance to associate with the little people who live around you. I mean, who on earth admits on camera that the only Mexicans they've interacted with are the delivery man and gardener - before going to CANCUN for a spring break vacation? PC? Chances are that the people who wiped your ass when you were a baby, cooked your food and delivered it to your door, AND maintained your family's indoor garden weren't Mexican. Not everyone who speaks Spanish is Mexican. Get it straight, rich boy.

Despite my intense hatred for some of the little brats, I still watch "NYC Prep" religiously every Tuesday at 9:00 p.m. Only on Bravo!



2. Horrible cupcakes. Alright, bakeries. You know who you are. Making cupcakes should not be difficult; yet you keep making horrible, horrible, horrible cupcakes. Please stop. Take it easy on the frosting. I don't want to go into a diabetic coma each time I take a bite of your bite-sized baked concoctions. I don't want to spend my entire afternoon purging a cupcake that it took me two minutes to snarf down. Please consult Martha Stewart before making your next batch of cupcakes. Thank you!



3. The local borrachos in my neighborhood. Okay, so I live on the last stop of a subway line, and it's quite convenient. The only thing that isn't convenient is that the exit to the subway ends up being the local hot spot for all of the AA members who fell off the wagon. I usually exit the subway only to find my favorite drunk of all time sitting on a piece of newspaper (I think it's more of a modified Wee pad - you know, the ones that you give to puppies to help house train them? They urinate on the pad instead of your floors. It's a magic invention, I tell you.) mumbling to himself. Sometimes he likes to mumble to strangers. Occasionally he mumbles to me and says hello. I used to return his greeting until I just grew really resentful of the fact that he and his friends were using the exit as their own party central stop.

Besides, this borracho never sent me an Evite to his stoop parties, so I'm more than angry with him. Needles to say, we're no longer on speaking terms, so when he sees me, he totally takes the time to throw some four-letter obscenities my way. Thanks, Borracho.

Image via Wikipedia

4. Skinny jeans. Skinny jeans weren't made for curvy girls - or anyone with an ass, for that matter. I secretly long to wear the skinny jeans, but alas. The mass of my ass would cause a serious rift in the time-space continuum, thereby bringing chaos and anarchy to the whole entire world.

Don't believe me? Ask my psychic. She told me if I bought a pair of skinny jeans, things could get *so* disastrous.



5. Running. Running and I have this super love/hate relationship. Basically, I hate to do it, but love how I feel afterward. How can this be? I am so conflicted, it hurts (as do my calves...from running).


6. My super and his family. They're loud. They're noisy. They have no concept of time zones. See, here, in the world of reality, having a party at midnight when your neighbor has to get up at 5:00 a.m. to begin her workday just isn't polite. Neither is watching television at 550 decibels at 8:00 a.m. on a Saturday morning when the rest of us are probably sleeping off all that alcohol we consumed the night before.

Sure, there were a few calls to 311**, but that was only after I spoke to the super and his family on numerous occasions. The partying? Did.not.stop. It was a completely "no sleep 'til Brooklyn" situation all day, every day (and early mornings on the weekends).


But did my calls stop anything? No, so I had to get real ghetto and talk to the super and his wife. The wife, who was obviously used to the policing antics in her former Yugoslavia, shrieked, "You're trying to take away my freedom!"

Uh, excuse me? Seriously? SERIOUSLY? My ancestors picked cotton for those white men wearing funny wigs who fought for their respective freedom from England, so don't you dare tell me that I'm taking away your precious freedom. My ancestors didn't get a pure taste of freedom until a little over one hundred years ago, so freedom is tasting pretty sweet right now. I know better than to impede on someone else's freedom. Save the drama for the Immigration Department or Homeland Security or whatever, because all I'm asking you to do is lower the volume on your fucking t.v. from 550 decibels to something that's a little more reasonable, like quiet.



7. The screaming squeals of children during my summer vacation. I want to put muzzles on all children ages 17 and under. If I can get one of those Hannibal Lecter muzzles (and possibly those cute little restraints that he had), it's on like Donkey Kong. My subway rides and my summer will be improved times 10 if someone could just make my ability to muzzle and restrain children who aren't mine against their will legal.




8. Catty women. I could write a whole entire entry about catty women and the dangers of being around too many women at once. Next time, friends. Next time.



*Upper East Side
**Non-emergency hotline that is used in larger cities.