Item of the Day: Ho, Get a New Phone

Scenario: Three friends and I are at Cafe Steinhof (home of the most affordable and delicious kielbasa in Brooklyn). Somewhere between the goulash and the second round of Austrian black beer, it becomes PHONETIME. During PHONETIME, everyone whips out their personal communication devices (in this case, all iPhones) for a five minute spree of Facebook, Wikipedia, Google maps, advanced texting, intermediate sexting, and Angry Birds.

I alone leave my phone in the depths of my bag, covered in pretzel crumbs, where it belongs. You see, in a world where everyone around me, including the majority of the teenagers at my school, owns a phone intelligent enough to run a small country, it shames me to say that I have...a dumb phone.

And it's not just stupid in the sense that it can't keep up with the technology of the newer models; it actually is certifiably moronic. The prime example I have of this is my phone's inability to effectively communicate anything through text message. I can't tell you how many times, thanks to my phone, I've wished someone a "Gassy birthday!" My phone still doesn't recognize the word cupcake, despite the fact that I've typed it into its memory like 50 billion times. But probably the worst thing is that instead of the words "go" and "in," my phone automatically chooses the word "ho," so messages that should be benign end up being emotionally charged:

"Come to the party! You have to ho!" (Translation: Meet me at the frat house to make the extra cash you so desperately need, you skank.)

"Go ho the restaurant. I'll be there in 10." (Translation: Scope out the high rollers for the both of us. I want a sugar daddy to pay for my eggplant parmigiana tonight.)

"I'm going to ho ho the school now." (Translation: I should probably not be teaching children.)

I don't know where I went wrong. Maybe it was because my family didn't buy a VCR until VHS tapes were practically obsolete, or because I wrote on a Brother electric typewriter well into high school, or because I still play my Super NES from 1990 (but who DOESN'T love old school Mario and Donkey Kong??).

So, three hours ago, I took a technological leap of faith and bought an iPhone. I am arriving to the party a few years late, but now I can finally escape the shame of my old LG dumbphone.

PHONETIME at the wine bar - here I come! Who should I sext first??

Item of the Day: Apoocalypse

The snow that has been dumped on the city is finally thawing, and it's seriously a magical event to witness. The immaculate drifts of fluffy white snow have now transformed into delicious brownish chunks of ice laced with black grit. Even more beautiful are the unique, fragile little treasures that have recently emerged from their icy cocoons and blossomed into the warm sun.

Obviously, I could only be talking about one thing: poop.

Wait - what?

Yes, you heard right, folks. The melting snow has revealed literal mountains of shit that line the sidewalks of New York City. Ah, nature. Just breeeeathe it in.

"But Gretchen," you ask with childlike wonder, "Where does said poop come from? Is there a magical turd creature that delivers cattle cookies to my doorstep?"

Alas the day, there is no such creature ("Mom! Look what the fecal fairy left under my pillow last night!"). There are, however, thousands of dog-owning ass monsters who think it's perfectly fine to bury Princess's chocolate chalupas in the snow instead of picking them up like a decent human being, because no one will notice a few doggie logs hidden under all that snow, right?

WRONG.

Let this post serve as a public service announcement. The next time you take your dog out to release some butt goblins, bring a plastic bag...

...or you just might find a special gift stuffed in your mailbox, care of a renegade fecal fairy.