dorothy parker

Ice-cold coffee and scratch-off ethics.

I stare my coffee down.Extra-large, with skim milk and two Splendas. On the mornings when Paige Worthy runs on Dunkin’, the folks behind the counter have never given me reason to be suspicious of the contents of my Styrofoam cup. AND YET.

That first sip scares me. Will it be bitter? Too sweet? Will I burn my tongue?

So I carry it down the street, up the stairs to the train, and commute with it for an hour — just looking at it, considering opening the spout and taking a drink, but waiting. Today, in my Valley Forge caffeine standoff, my coffee turned ice cold: all 24 ounces of it. I'm still drinking it. A metaphor for life? Hell if I know.

Also: I cheated on the scratch-off game on my cup. Every correct answer is a winner! When I got to work, I used a spoon to rub off the part with the prize first, saw that it was worth getting right…and Googled the answer. (How would I know which Miami Dolphin was acquired in a trade with San Diego on March 18, 2004? How would anyone besides David Boston himself?) The prize was a muffin. Muffins are always worth fudging on the rules for.

And it will never be a crime to end a sentence with a preposition.


A man with a real name sent me a direct message on Twitter this morning and called my tweets “Dorothy Parkerisms.” I will take that from the best angle — that he finds me witty and observant — and not the one where I’m doomed to several unhappy marriages, alcoholism and subsequent multiple failed suicide attempts. Regardless, men like him are the reason the trolls always lose, Coach. Sticks and stones, sure, and words hurt me even more…but those wounds are a lot easier to heal.

My birthday is Thursday. Twenty-nine. I’m spending the week plotting ways to make my 30th year suck less than my 29th. Today: a suburban celebration at Noodles & Company. She scoffed: "No such thing as a free lunch?"