Cable Guy

I hate Time Warner Cable.

I’m sitting on my couch typing this blog post on Day 4 of living without a home internet connection. I have to wait until the morning to upload this at work.

My laptop has become a glorified doorstop.

I went to bed on Friday night at 2am -- I suppose that’s actually Saturday morning, but whatevs. I know for a FACT that my internet connection was working then, because I was online doing extremely important business (managing my Netflix queue).

When I woke up, around 9:30am, I immediately noticed an orange light flashing on my modem, inexplicably. That’s never a good sign.  So I went through all the typical troubleshooting steps – I rebooted the modem, and the cable box, and my computer. Blah blah blah.

No dice.

So I called the number on the original installation paperwork (I keep it handy in the TV cabinet for situations such as this). Miracle of miracles, I got a guy who picked up immediately! And then he put me on hold...

FOR AN HOUR AND A HALF.

After about 30 minutes, it became a game – guessing which pre-recorded message was next. It was a battle of the wills. I had too much invested, I couldn’t possibly hang up now. Then delirium set in, and I actually started to BELIEVE my call was important to them (silly me). Then came the anger. I would never get these 93 minutes back. Realizing I could literally die on hold, I hung up the phone and drank in the silence. Ahhhhhh…

I let my ear cool off for a minute, then phoned the number on the back of my bill. I spoke to an automated voice who’s cheerfulness just fueled my pissy attitude. Eventually, a technician came on the line and she quickly put me on hold to check my signal. In doing so, THE MOTHER EFFER DISCONNECTED ME.

Oh sweet Jesus! At this point, I was livid.

I called – AGAIN – and shouted at the robot. When I finally got another technician on the horn, I explained how incompetent the last one was and said I hoped she could actually DO her job. I can see now that probably set us off on the wrong foot.

She needed to test the line, at which point I BEGGED her not to put me on hold. She obliged, but couldn’t find a signal.

No shit, Sherlock.

She couldn’t tell me why it wasn’t working, or if someone else on my floor got cable installed and accidentally knocked mine out. She stated very matter-of-factly that a technician would need to come to my apt to investigate the root cause. Her calmness was aggravating.

The earliest I could get an appointment was on Wednesday from 11am-2pm. FIVE days later!?! I clenched my jaw and explained that in order to pay my bill in a timely fashion, I have to be gainfully employed and therefore could not take time off in the MIDDLE OF A WORKDAY to wait for the cable guy.

Equally unhelpful was her suggestion that I have someone over the age of 18 wait on my behalf. I explained I live alone (and thanks for rubbing salt in THAT particular wound).

Can I please just take a moment to say how much I DESPISE that we are all at their mercy? The cable company, the phone company, the electric company, the plumber. Utilities have the power, and they know it.

I took a deep breath and asked for an evening appointment. She didn’t have one. I asked for a weekend appointment. She DID have one of those. In two weeks. Unacceptable. I begrudgingly settled on an appointment for this Friday -- in the 8am-11am window – which just happens to be my day off. Excellent.

At this point, I couldn’t WAIT to get off the phone and slam my head in the freezer. I don’t care that it’s not her fault. I now hate this woman AND the company she works for. But apparently, she was not as sick of me as I was of her.

She proceeds to try and sell me whole house DVR services. Huh. First off, I live in a 550 sqft studio. I already HAVE whole house DVR on my ONE television. Secondly, ARE YOU EFFING KIDDING ME?

Now I’m a lunatic. I let out a crazy squeal of a laugh I don’t think I’ve ever heard before and ask, “Are you seriously trying to SELL me something right now?! You know you want to get off this phone as much as I do. Let’s end this nonsense.” She informs me that telling customers about the variety of services available is part of her job, and then says that if I receive an automated call asking me to take a survey on our conversation today, I should rate her service a 5, with 5 being the best.

Maybe she was a robot too.

I could take no more.  I hung up on her mid-sentence, wishing I had a corded phone so I could slam the receiver down on the cradle. (Pushing the off button really hard on a cordless phone just doesn’t have the same dramatic effect.)

The whole thing makes me want to scream! Life without an internet connection is like life without a nose. Sure, you can breathe out of your mouth, but who wants to??

Thank God for my beloved iPhone so I have at least some connection with civilization. While I wait impatiently for the cable guy, you’ll be happy to know I’m making the most of my analog lifestyle:

• I’ve labeled all the spices in my magnetic spice rack
• I read 7 months of back issues of Food & Wine and Bon Appetit
• I alphabetized my cookbooks (since my DVDs were already in order, naturally)
• I made homemade pesto
• I shampooed my throw rugs
• I shredded my 2010 credit card statements
• I cleaned my hairbrushes and unclogged my shower drain

I suppose this time offline has been productive. But the NANOSECOND that I get my internet service back, the FIRST THING I’m googling is whether or not Verizon Fios is available in my area.

So… have YOU ever had a temper tantrum over your cable company, or am I the only infant here?


tags: city life

Red Means Go

So I kinda got hit by a car this morning.

I get it, I’m impatient. I cross in the middle of the street. I walk against the light.  But this one was not my fault.
 
I left my apt on my usual commute.  As I rounded the corner of 42nd and 2nd, I was greeted by a small festival going on in PIX Plaza.  I already been tipped off because I saw it on TV a few minutes earlier, while I was getting ready for work. 

Confession:
I have a longstanding love affair with Channel 11 morning "news."  There, I said it!

So my street was obviously making BIG headlines today, what with it being National Donut Day and all.  PIX was giving away Entenmann's donuts and collecting donations for the Salvation Army in the plaza.  I dropped a buck in the bucket and grabbed myself a chocolate frosted. 

You know the one?  With the yellow cake inside? 

Yum.

Anyway, with both my belly and my soul feeling good, I continued on 42nd Street towards 3rd Ave.  Aside from the sweet start, it was a normal morning as I walked passed the Helmsley Hotel, a Pax deli, and a Gap.  I stopped when I reached the corner, waiting for the light to change.

As it turned from green to yellow, I stepped off the curb.  Just then, a white BMW with Virginia plates started to speed up, clearly trying to beat the light.

You think you know what's going to happen next, don't you?  Not so fast...

The driver (a lady) must have had second thoughts when the light turned red because she jams on the brakes, which landed her right on top of the crosswalk.  Actually, she was about 3 feet past the crosswalk.  Since she was blocking the walkway, I went behind her car rather than face oncoming traffic.  That was my mistake.

Realizing she overshot the line, she flips the car into reverse and hits the gas.  Ok.  Except I'm sandwiched right between her car and a Moishe's moving truck.  Along with 4 other pedestrians. 

Who DOES that?

Assholes, that's who! 

So everybody scatters, but I'm too close to jump and she kinda backs into me.  Not OVER me, luckily.  But let's just say her back bumper and my thigh are now well acquainted.  So I bang repeatedly on her back window and say something profane (the likes of which the Salvation Army would not approve).

She sticks her hand through her sunroof and shouts, "Sorry," then runs the light anyway by making a right turn on red (a no-no in NYC), and disappears on 42nd.  Somebody caught her plate number, but I didn't bother to stick around.  I had a meeting starting in 10 minutes, and was already behind because I'd stopped for a donut.

So, that was my adventure for today.  Be careful out there, friends! 

And while you're on the equally dangerous sidewalks of New York, you might as well keep your eyes peeled for these jerks too:

• People who don’t look in same the direction they’re walking
• People who randomly stop in the middle of the sidewalk
• People who walk and wave their cigarettes around
• People who walk and pause to drink hot coffee
• People who walk and type

After all, getting rear-ended by a tourist holding a lit cigarette and a steamy cup of joe could end far worse than my little bumper mishap!


tags: city life

12 Angry Men

People aren't generally excited to get a jury duty summons in the mail. Yes, I know, it’s our responsibility to serve, but let’s face it: It’s totally inconvenient.

Which is why I postponed mine 3 times.

My summons was for criminal court, but this is NYC.  They must have suspected that I couldn't handle all THAT action because I was quickly transferred to civil court for a medical trial. More my speed.

Now, if you’ve ever watched Law & Order, you know the building. And I have to say, it's just as gorgeous inside – marble everywhere, gold leaf details, mahogany paneling, giant murals on the walls and paintings on the ceilings depicting NY’s history.

Pretty swanky.

I think they saw about 150 people total for this trial, over 3 days of jury selection.  They made me sweat it out until we were down to the final 18. At that point, half of us were sworn in and the other half were dismissed. It would have been interesting, but luckily, they did NOT choose me -- the case was expected to be a month long, 4 days a week.

Who can DO that, other than the unemployed, retired, or deranged?

Now I KNOW we aren’t supposed to talk about the case. And I won’t. But they didn’t say anything against talking about the other people I encountered at jury duty. I can't keep it to myself.  This place was like the DMV x 10.  Clearly, everyone who entered the main jury room was laser-focused on ways to get out. 

Case in point: I counted no less than 7 people with neck braces. 

Anyway, looking around over the course of 3 days, I saw quite a cross-section of the population.  If these were my peers, I may have to move.  Seriously. 

Here are the 12 people who stood out:

1. CHUCKLES: The first guy I noticed not with my eyes, but with my ears.  Because he was laughing like a maniac.  In 10 minute intervals.  For 6 hours.  And I'm not talking about when you get a case of the giggles.  Oh no.  This guy was a skin suit and a tube of lotion away from Silence of the Lambs.  Welcome to jury duty!
2. CHATTY CATHY: This lady was sitting in the row in front of me, running her mouth for hours. She. Would. Not. Shut. Up. God bless the patience of the man sitting next to her.  I know her whole life.  She was a florist, but also a photographer, but also a caretaker for her 89 year old mother, but also a foot model, but also -- by my observation -- a woman with a ridiculous amount of leg hair for someone wearing a mini skirt. (And PS: only one of these things is false -- she wasn't really a professional photographer.)
3. THE PHLEGM KING OF NY COUNTY: I think that one is pretty self-explanatory.
4. THE CITY EMPLOYEE: This woman worked for the MTA and was just thrilled to be missing out on work.  She was the happiest person in the whole room. Except for Chuckles.
5. THE NAYSAYER: I didn't notice this character until we were in the courtroom and he opened his mouth. This guy disagreed with everything. He had problems with lawyers, and with people who file law suits, and with sick people, and with doctors.  You know what I had a problem with?  His chronic nose picking.
6. THE THUG: When you wake up in the morning, and you're headed to court, is it ever a good idea to wear a t-shirt that proudly proclaims, "Snitches Get Stitches"?  I'm thinking no.  But clearly this angry guy didn't get the memo. Even his crazy long chest hair was aggressive – jabbing right through his shirt!
7. CAPTAIN PIT STAINS: It rained on my first day of jury duty.  It was in no way hot.  So it was a mystery why this guy was sweating his balls off all morning.  Raise your hand if you’re sure?  Um, no, not YOU.  It's called anti-perspirant.  Try it.
8. JOKERFACE: This is what happens when you get ready in the dark.  It looked like a box of crayons exploded on her face.  And yet, she was unashamed to liberally apply additional foundation, eye shadow, mascara, liquid AND pencil eye liner, powder, lip liner, lipstick, bronzer, and blush while we waited to be called.  I think I could have scratched my initials in her cheek.
9. TEAM EDWARD: After lunch on Day 2, we were waiting outside for someone to unlock the courtroom.  I was approached by a very, very, VERY pale guy.  His awkward chit-chat led to talk of vampires.  (Of course, why wouldn't it?).  He then declared, "I know my Snookie from my Sookie." So I said, "That’s it. You're cut off.  No more True Blood for you."  He seemed offended.
10. THE GENTLEMAN: This was an older guy.  He had a pocket square.  And presumably, a British accent.  I'd describe him as distinguished-looking, which really is just ugly with money.  He was harmless, so if I ever go on a crime spree, I'd like him to be my jury foreman.
11. THE KNITTER: Somehow, over the course of 3 days, this lady turned a ball of blue yarn into a full-on sweater.  A sweater!!  She did seem overly irritable, though, regarding the use of cell phones in the jury room.  Since she clearly knew how to work a knitting needle, I kept my distance.
12. THE CELEBRITY: What NYC jury duty experience would be complete without a celebrity sighting?  I felt like I was living in a page of US magazine.  Celebrities are people too!  Too bad mine was Sonja from the Real Housewives of NY.  I don't know what's worse, that she qualifies as a celebrity, or that I immediately recognized her.  Anyway, she was very late.  And very petite. And very pale.  Perhaps she likes vampires too.

So, that's my big jury duty adventure.  I laughed, I cried, it was better than Cats.

Have YOU ever sat on a jury?  Was it a freak-fest too??


tags: city life

Top Ramen

As you know, I’m back to online dating.

It’s not that I love the idea of meeting someone online, because I definitely don’t. But in my everyday life (at my advanced age), I just don’t have enough opportunities to meet new people.

I guess it’s not really “people” I’m looking to meet. It’s guys. Ok, ok, single guys. Alright, STRAIGHT single guys.

Anyway, I’ve recently been toying with the idea of taking golf or sailing lessons at Chelsea Piers or cooking classes at the Institute for Culinary Education. It would be so nice to meet someone in real life instead of on a computer, where you have no idea if the guy you think is normal is actually a 300lb hoarder who’s 6’ tall ONLY when he stands on a giant pile of empty Steak-Umm boxes.

You just can’t tell.

Anyway, about a month and a half ago, I was in the grocery store across the street from my apt. I was in the mood to learn to make soup, and was buying the fixings for French Onion. I wasn’t really following a recipe, exactly, but I’ve eaten it a 100x over the years. So I was just going from aisle to aisle picking up ingredients that seemed to make sense.

Immediately after the produce aisle (where I grabbed Spanish onions, red onions, a head of garlic, and a shallot), and the cookie aisle (where I picked up some Nutter Butters, which have nothing at all to do with the soup, but are simply the most awesomely delicious cookie ever), I found myself in the soup aisle.

You’d think I would have skipped this aisle, since I was making soup from scratch. It might have made sense to avoid the temptation to scrap my whole plan, buy a can of Campbell’s, kick back on the couch and chow down on sweet, sweet Nutter Butters.

But I didn’t.

I got to the middle of the aisle when I realized I needed a broth of some kind. So I was standing there, debating whether I should go with beef stock or vegetable stock. Veggie was in a green box. Would the broth be greenish too? I couldn’t take the chance. I knew beef was brown. 

Just then, a tall, glasses-wearing guy in a very nice gray pinstripe suit reached over my head to grab 2 packages of Nissin Top Ramen. Chicken flavor. “I lived on this stuff in college,” he said to me as he dropped the packages into his basket. I nodded. He nodded. And he went on his way up the aisle.

I grabbed the beef stock and continued down the aisle. I turned the corner to the frozen food section, which also happens to have pre-packaged deli items, and smells vaguely of vomit. I was deliberating over buying Gruyere (at $24 a wedge!) or Swiss (at a mere $8).

Ramen Noodle walked by again. “Try the fontina,” he said. I smiled. He smiled. And he went on his way up the aisle.

I grabbed the fontina, since it was also white and melty, and a fraction of the cost of the Gruyere.  I also picked up a bag of Nathan’s Famous frozen potato pancakes (because they are tasty), and continued down the aisle. I skipped the next few aisles because I didn’t need any beverages, cleaning products, pet food, or cereal.

I was in the last aisle to grab some butter to saute the onions in.  This is FRENCH onion soup after all.  The tub of I Can't Believe It's Not Butter that I already had in my fridge probably wouldn't cut it.

Well, guess who walked by?

Clearly we were on the same grocery path. “Got the fontina, huh?” he asked. I laughed. He laughed. And we both went up the aisle toward the checkout. We picked different lanes, which meant we were done roughly at the same time. I know this because I walked out of the store right behind him.

“Are you following me?” he flirted. “It won’t be a long walk, I live just across the street.” He proceeded to point right at my building.

“You don’t say?” I replied. “Me too.”

He introduced himself, and I did the same. We chatted while waiting for the light to change. And while walking across the street. And in the lobby of our building. And by the mailboxes. And by the elevators. We got in, and I hit my floor, 28. He hit his floor, 17. Then he asked me out for a drink.

(Not that night, of course. I would be too busy eating cookies while figuring out how to make soup.)

We met in the lobby the following night around 8pm. That is precisely when this cute story of 2 people meeting in the soup aisle at Gristedes turned rotten.

The drinks lasted all of 20 minutes. In this time:

• I noticed he was much heavier than I remembered. Maybe it was all the sodium from the ramen, but the buttons on his shirt (and probably his pants) were undoubtedly the most hard-working buttons in the room.
• He barely said 10 words, all he did was gesture.  It was like being on a date with a mime.
• The few words he did use were directed towards our server, and involved ordering, re-ordering, and re-re-ordering himself a glass of port. He showed no visible signs of remorse for his openly assholey behavior or for his bad taste in drinks.

Interrupting my silent prayers for someone to pull the fire alarm, he stepped away. I assumed it was to pay the bill at the bar. I was at least grateful that he realized this was going nowhere.  Plus, I made a mental note that 99 cent noodles are a HORRIBLE foundation for a first date. The only guys who still eat that crap are wasted and/or broke.

He returned a few minutes later reeking of cigarettes. Revolting.

“Can you tell I just had a smoke?” he asked as he waved his arms in the air and shook out his suit jacket. Ah!  Words!  How nice.  Too bad he stunk.  So I replied, “Um, could you tell if a bum just took a dump his pants?” 

He looked at me strangely. Needless to say, the date ended there. We walked back, awkwardly, to our apt building.

And I learned a valuable lesson – don’t date anyone who lives in your apt building! Because I ran into him like 6 more times after that horrible date. In typical New York fashion, though, we pretended like we didn’t know one another. Which was fine by me.

Now, you might be wondering why I decided to write about him today if this date happened a while back. Well, my typical policy with writing about my bad dates is that I don’t do it until I'm positive I’m never going to see the guy again. And I will NEVER see Ooodles of Noodles again, as the doorman told me he moved out today. Hooray!

I just might celebrate. With some port. Oh, wait!  That’s a pretentious drink that tastes like oven cleaner.

Maybe I’ll just have a Nutter Butter.

So, would you ever date someone from your same apartment or office building?  Share below...

tags: city life, dating, food

“C” Is for Cookie (and for Cheapo)

Last week, I woke to find a white envelope slipped under my front door.

Was it a love note? A Chinese takeout menu?  No!

It was a card from my apt building. Wishing me happy holidays from all 17 people who work here on staff. That’s right -- SEVENTEEN total doormen, front desk guys, maintenance men, porters, and a partridge in a pear tree.

The first year I lived in this building, I received a similar note -- a tipping guide, if you will. And tip I did! I must’ve been rich that year because I gave everybody at least a little something.

Last year, though, was a cold winter. Downright frigid.  I’d just gotten engaged and had a whole new family to buy Christmas gifts for (on the same old salary), so I cut the building's staff off my list.

Scrooge! Grinch! Cold AND Heat Miser!

I know.  I felt kinda bad about it, really I did, but I’m not made of money! Besides, I wound up moving in March, so I wouldn’t even have been able to reap the year-long benefits of my yuletide generosity. I really had no choice, it was the only sensible thing to do.

Well… who’s the holiday jackass now? This guy!

I’m back, and though I’m still a broke-ass after my 3 moves and various other ridiculous associated expenses, I really couldn’t ignore how helpful the guys in my building have been. They brought a bunch of deliveries up to my apt for me before I even moved back in. They help me every time I come home with a rental carload of paper towels, cases of water, Nutella, and other necessities after my trips to Jersey or CT. They handle my drycleaning for me.  And they only asked me ONCE why they don’t see my “husband” around anymore.

I wanted to make them all gifts this year. Hmmm… but what to make? Scarves? Ornaments? Macaroni necklaces? Nah. I decided on cookies. Who doesn’t love cookies? But it’s insane to make over 200 cookies from scratch (my roommate and I did it once in college, but we drank a lot back then), so I had to cut some corners.

Here’s my 7-step recipe for when you’re long on time, but short on cash:

1. Visit your neighborhood grocery store and clean them out of slice'n'bakes. Mix in some variety -- I went for sugar, chocolate chip, chocolate chocolate chunk, and gingerbread. And get some pretty wrappings while you're at it.  Because handing someone a fist-full of cookies in a tissue says you just passed out on the F train due to low blood sugar -- NOT happy holidays.

2. Buy disposable cookie sheets. Even if you have a dishwasher, you'll be glad you did (if you feel guilty, recycle them when you're done, you crazy treehugger).  Grab a spoon, then scoop and roll little dough balls until your fingers hurt.  13 per tray -- but who's counting?

3. Bake as many as you can at a time, and keep an eye on those suckers. Flip the trays around, top to bottom, front to back, because nobody says "yum" when eating burnt treats, execpt your mom when you were 5 years old.  The bar is set considerably higher now, particularly when the recipients would prefer a gift you cannot eat.  Like cash.

4. You’ll never have enough cooling racks for this quantity of cookies, so line the few counters you have with paper towels for a quick cool down.  Extra points for neatness.

5. Organized cookies taste better, so count out all your supplies before you start. And save some for yourself.  One for Israel, one for me.  One for Vinko, one for me.  One for Sydney, one for me.  One for Kelvis, one for me... You get the idea.

6. Make an assembly line with all your pretty wrappings -- and start stuffing. Every package must look the same -- like little toy soldiers.  Showing favoritism in ANY way could result in an unwanted admirer or worse -- an angry doorman who “accidentally” lets the elevator close in your face.

7. Don’t forget to put your apt number on the treat bags -- they may not know your name, but they DO know where you live!









In total, I spent about 6 hours on a rainy Sunday and $88.47 to make 17 dozen cookies. That’s $5.20 per guy. Even with insane NYC grocery store prices -- I can live with those economics.

And I think they ate them. Well, I hope they ate them. But if they didn’t, I hope at least they don’t smush them into my mailbox or my front door while I’m away for the holidays. After all, it's the thought that counts, right?

poll by twiigs.com

Hey, do you know what else “C” is for?  Christmas.

Hope yours is merry!


tags: city life, food, holidays, polls

5 Reasons I’m Confused by Eataly

When I want authentic Italian food, I just go to the Olive Garden.

I kid!

It’s no secret that I love to cook -- and eat -- Italian food. It takes me back to my roots. Well, at least half of my roots. So obviously, when I heard about Eataly, Mario Batali & Lidia Bastianich’s artisanal marketplace/upscale eatery, modeled after a shop that started in Torino, Italy, I needed to check it out for myself.

Eataly opened at the end of August in the Flatiron district, right across from Madison Square Park. One of my absolute fave restaurants in the city is Otto, another Batali hot-spot, so I waited for the buzz to die down a bit and I booked a trip.

Passport not required.

Sadly, I haven’t been to Italy yet, though my friends and I have recently made a pact to go for our 40th bdays (which, for the record, won’t be until 2013). We’ll be on a quest to eat and drink our way down the boot. Yum. But when we go, I really hope it’s nothing like this. Eataly is total sensory overload.

After spending almost an hour and a half to buy 13 items, I was left with the distinct feeling that this Epcot international pavilion-on-steroids wasn’t really for locals. It felt more like a money-pit for tourists. I guess they are trying to be authentic, but alongside an ATM from a bank that I assume only exists in Italy, are kitschy things like day-glo orange Crocs.

Just like grandma used to wear.

Anyway, I really enjoyed the honey, prosciutto, sopressata, taleggio, and sun-dried tomato pesto sandwich I made for lunch. So much so, that I made a second sandwich with the left-overs the next day. But the handmade thin spaghetti and jarred marinara sauce, topped with basil and freshly-grated parmigano reggiano that I made for dinner was just... ok.

Eh. No great shakes.

I hadn’t planned to get jar tomato sauce. I was expecting something homemade. Fresh. But it was really the only thing they sold. Kind of a head-scratcher, no?

Here are 5 more things about Eataly that just confused me:

1) Traffic Flow: This place would be great if there were no people inside. Everyone here looks lost and annoyed. Including the staff. Eataly could actually learn something from Ikea with their one-way aisles that force you through all the departments in the store with clearly marked paths. Or maybe they need an Italian cowboy to wrangle the herd. Because it’s total chaos in there. BUT on the upside, if an assassin is on your tail, and you need to lose him/her quickly, just get swept into this maze and sail away to sweet freedom.

2) Atmosphere: Would it kill them to get me in the mood with some music or something? If there was any, I couldn’t hear it over the hustle-bustle. I can’t imagine coming here to have a romantic dinner, or any dinner, for that matter, in their 7 mini-restaurants & cafes. I mean, who thought it was a good idea to scatter random tables inside a grocery store? But if you did eat here, I think it would elicit the same warm comfort you’d expect from a prison cafeteria. You’d be jostled and smacked in the head with a tray, while hungry people stuck in undisciplined lines secretly whittle a shiv in the hopes it will land them in solitary confinement, and out of this over-crowded hellhole.

3) Product Names: There’s a dizzying array of interesting products on the shelves, but someone should remind them that Eataly is located in America. We don’t read Italian. So it might make sense to slap some labels on the shelves to help dummies like me translate the food I bought. Because apparently, a log-shaped white cheese with a goat on the wrapper isn’t goat cheese. Go figure.

4) Prepared Foods: Here’s an idea… have some! Not everybody feels like waiting on 7 lines to buy 7 ingredients, only to go home and cook them all. Some people like to just heat and eat. Is the “vegetable butcher” who can take the time to cut your veggies to order, then too busy to box them up into a mixed green salad? Or what harm could it do to make a lasagna bolognese, slice it up into chunks, and charge $14 a serving? Somehow, I think they could swing it.

5) Sweets to Go: This was the most disappointing area of all. I was hoping to take home something sweet -- a pint of gelato, a cannoli, tiramisu. Or maybe all three! But I went home empty-handed in the dessert department because the only treats they had looked like they were meant to be consumed in the congested store. No thanks. So I wound up ending my meal with a jar of Nutella (that I already had in my pantry) and a spoon, which honestly was the most heavenly thing I ate all day.


As I was leaving, I heard somebody on the sidewalk call this place "Shitaly."

I wouldn’t go that far, but the whole experience was pretty disappointing. I found myself racing through the store, elbowing into people, like I was playing Supermarket Sweep. Except I couldn’t move very fast and I had to pay the bill at the end, which, incidentally, came to a whopping $102.31. For 2 sandwiches and 3 bowls of pasta. That I made myself.

It reminded me of online dating. What seemed great in pictures was a letdown in real life.

Maybe I’m missing the mystique. I’ve been off the market for a while. If you’ve been to Eataly and you two hit it off, tell me about it below!


tags: city life, food, shopping

Tinkle Town

I planned to come home tonight and blog. Sorry it’s been a while.

I flew down to FL last week to take my mom to some dr appointments. While watching TV on the plane I saw this ridiculous commercial for something called Pajama Jeans, and I found it hilarious. I didn’t sleep a ton while I was away, so I saw a lot of late night infomercials selling equally ridiculous and unnecessary products. I started thinking about writing another As Seen on TV post.

And I will.

But tonight, I just have to share what I saw on my way home…

When I left work a little after 6, it was cold and dark. I was outside my office building and feeling pretty good for avoiding stepping on a squishy roach in the middle of 45th street. I was flipping through songs on my iPod when I happened to look up and see a middle-aged woman ahead.

She was well-lit because she was standing in the doorway of a pretty posh deli, which was closing up for the night. I noticed the woman was wearing a brown tweed skirt, nude nylons, and white granny panties.

I know the color of her underwear, because they were around her ankles.

Just incase my retinas weren't completely burnt yet, I could also see her skirt was hiked up over her bare ass, which then gave me a clear view of the glass mug she was peeing in. While standing on the sidewalk. In the doorway of a deli. PEEING! 

Something tells me the mug didn’t say “World’s Greatest Mom” on the flipside.

In one swift motion, I saw her dump the mug out, midstream, and start to fill it again. She must not have peed for a week. At this point, I was passing by her, completely HORRIFIED. I couldn’t even hide it. I shouted, “Holy shit!” when my brain finally connected these disgusting dots, but she was unphased by me or by the owner of the deli who was now banging on the window. He was wildly waving a head of lettuce at her – I’m pretty sure that’s the universal symbol for "please stop pissing on my store."

Um, really lady?

I’ve seen many, many, MANY guys pee outside. Sometimes you witness the act itself, and sometimes it’s just the wet spot. Sadly, I don't think twice about it. I practically expect it. But it’s not every day you see a woman take a leak on a sidewalk.

We have shattered the porcelain ceiling.  Women have officially become disgusting. 

I need to look no further than the restroom in my own office building to see just how disgusting the fairer sex can be. It’s astonishing to me how many women don’t flush. Is this environmental?  It certainly isn't hygienic.  And you’re lucky, if it’s pee! At least once a week, I walk into a stall clogged with poo – or worse, blood. Ewww. It’s like toilet roulette.

If this happens in an office, no wonder it’s chaos in the streets!

Watch out for puddles...


tags: city life, gross

Feast-ival

September isn’t just about back-to-school. Or the beginning of fall. Or awesome TV. It’s also for stuffing your face.

Where?

At the Feast of San Gennaro, of course! You’ve probably been at least once in the last 84 years, right?

It began as a 1-day charitable event in 1926, created by 4 families from the Old Country who owned coffee shops. They hung lights and took to the streets in honor of the patron saint of Naples to raise money for the needy in the neighborhood. Nowadays, that neighborhood has shrunk to a single street of Italian bakeries and restaurants, but the festival has grown into an 11-day celebration of Italian culture, cuisine, and tchotchkes.

The staunchest supporters (aka people who get rich from it) insist it’s not a street fair, it’s a religious event. And while there IS a church-led procession or two, this is a religious event the same way Mardi Gras is.

Not so much.

But it is the street fair to end all street fairs, and the longest-running outdoor festival in the US. In the late 90’s Giuliani cleaned things up by shutting down the gambling and locking up a pack of Genovese crime family members who were on the take. Local residents who hate the Feast's noise, crowds, and hucksters reminisce on the good old days when it was under the mob’s thumb.

Apparently, it was better organized back then. Go figure.

Anyway, a good friend and I headed down to Little Italy today to eat our way up Mulberry Street, from Canal to Houston. But we had to go in with a gameplan, or else we’d get trampled.

Here’s mine:

DO GIVE: Respect to Saint Gennaro
You gotta pin a buck or two to the statue. If you believe what Father Grifone says, which I do, The Figli di San Gennaro (Children of Saint Gennaro) has been able to donate nearly $2MM to charities supporting children and education since 1996. I can see how that’s possible -- with over a million visitors and 300 vendors each year, that’s a lot of green. And the city doesn’t fare too poorly either -- they see about 20% of the $180K worth of entry fees collected from vendors, PLUS an estimated $1.6MM in tax revenue annually. I guess these days, Manhattan is a charity too…

DON'T GIVE: $100 for a stuffed pig
Playing rip-off carnie games like Bada-bingo at $5 per card to win the grand prize of a 4ft tall Rastafarian bannana is not for me. No thanks. Call me a stick in the mud, but I skip the games at San Gennaro for the same reason I skip the gambling at casinos: I’d rather eat before I flush my money down the toilet.

DO EAT: Zeppole, rice balls, and potato croquettes
It’s a zeppola (singular), or zeppole/zeppoli (plural), but don’t bother learning the singular form, these are the Lay’s Potato Chips of Italian desserts. Nobody can eat -- or buy -- just one. These deep-fried fritters are crazy good right out of the fryer, when they’re fluffy. But let them sit too long and they become doughy bricks. Find a spot with high turnover, and then gobble them up quick. The same goes for rice balls and potato croquettes, which are made from leftover risotto or mashed potatoes, then breaded and fried. Yum. Plus they remind me of my Italian grandma, so I always make a point to eat one and think about what a great lady she was.

DON'T EAT: Fried Oreos, fried candy bars, or funnel cake
You know I love a good funnel cake, but I say arrivederci to this stuff. Save it for the county fair. At an Italian feast, I mangia Italian food. It’s as simple as that. Capisce? (and yes, other than curse words, that’s the extent of my Italian vocab.)

DO SUPPORT: The arts
I’m told that back in the day, all you heard at the Feast was opera. That seems nice. These days, there are occasional performances, but if you miss one of those, sometimes you can catch a spontaneous serenade. The one pictured here happened at a restaurant, while a family was celebrating a 50th wedding anniversary. When they passed around that puffy hat, you can bet I threw a buck in.

DON'T SUPPORT: Clown shows
There’s not enough money pinned to San Gennaro’s apron to get me to go inside that rickety wooden snake pit. And apparently, I’m not the only one. Safari Joe looks downright bored. I think he’s prank calling the bearded lady.

DO BREAK: The rules and eat street meat
I know, I know, I knooooow. I’ve said that I don’t eat street meat. But I bend that rule for a good sweet sausage with peppers and onions or a braciole (grilled pork or beef bundles stuffed with herbed ricotta cheese). They say about 20% of all the vendors at the feast serve up SPO at their stand, making it the most popular eats at the festival. You can’t argue with that. Just find the one that uses a charcoal grill -- they’re better.

DON'T BREAK: Your teeth on a hunk of Torrone
Any food that requires a meat cleaver and a hammer to cut is bad news. The road to your dentist is most definitely paved with honey, sugar, egg whites and almonds.

DO BUY: A local souvenir
I’m a sucker for anything with my name on it. These little license plates remind me of a Snoopy one I had on my bike when I was a kid. You’d think these would be half-price, though, since NY plates don’t look like this anymore. But of all the things you can pick up, anything plastic is a winner -- it’s unlikely to become a vehicle for the free bedbugs that come with some purchases.

DON'T BUY: An homage to stupidity
Aside from parking signs that warn “You take-a my space, I break-a you face” and boxer shorts that declare who the real Italian Stallion is, I can’t get over all the Jersey Shore gear that's out there. I don’t expect that those momos would have the sense to trademark anything, but MTV’s got to be kicking themselves that they didn’t throw a little TM on phrases like, The Situation, Snookie and GTL. Even food stands are getting in on the action -- one had a sign that asked, “Did you GTC today?” Gym. Tan. Cannoli.

DO BRING HOME: Cannolis
Cannolis are one of the few things at the Feast that travel well. And since it’s impossible to eat all the things you want (I'm usually stuffed by the time I hit Broome), you’ve gotta grab something for the road. Or the walk, as the case may be (I walked the 2.8 miles home to try and shake a few newfound lbs off my tail). I picked up a pair from Caffe Roma. They look crispy on the outside, and creamy on the inside -- just like I like ‘em. But why did I stop there and not famous Ferrara's? See below…

DON'T BRING HOME: The winner of the cannoli eating contest
Forget the circus that surrounds other eating contests, this one is for the love of the cannoli, nothing more. No cash prize. No ESPN broadcast. Just free food and a bellyache. This year, Dave “US Male” Goldstein of NJ brought home the title by eating 13 cannolis from Caffe Roma in just 6 minutes -- beating last year’s winner, and local resident, “Crazy Legs” Conti by just ONE bite. Old Crazy Legs totally phoned it in, having eaten 20 last year for the win. In the end, he blamed the crispy shells for holding him back.



Ok. All this food talk is making me hungry. I think it’s about time to dive into one of those cannolis. I’ll save the other one. For breakfast.

Ciao, amici!


tags: city life, food, holidays

Five Alarm

I woke up at 2:20 this morning to the smell of smoke.

As you know, I threw my back out again. So I've been rocking the heating pad quite a bit. My first instinct was that I forgot to shut it off and my couch was on fire. But I got up and it was fine.

False alarm.

So I stumbled into my kitchen. Maybe a dishtowel magically ignited on the gas stove (that I haven't used for weeks).

Nope.

Then, I opened the front door -- the smell of smoke was even stronger in the hallway.

Now totally convinced my apartment building was on fire, I did a few things, while still half asleep:

1) I switched from pajama pants to lounge pants. A subtle difference, unless you consider that my pajama pants were covered in green butterflies and my lounge pants were plain navy blue. That felt more presentable. At 2am. I also put on a bra. No butterflies there.
2) I gathered up my purse, wallet, keys, and cell phone. And just for good measure, my cell phone charger.
3) I brushed my hair and my teeth. And then put my toothbrush in my pants pocket.
4) I grabbed a granola bar, a bottle of water, and a bottle of Advil liquigels (because the extra-strength Excedrin tablets I've been popping for my back are slowly giving me a stomach ulcer).

Oddly, I didn’t put on shoes – but maybe I didn't notice because I had socks on my feet (that’s how I always sleep).

Then I sat on the edge of my bed, with my purse on my lap, waiting for the fire alarm to go off. It was kind of like waiting for a bus. But nothing happened. So I called the lobby downstairs. Maybe they didn't know about the fire that surely must have been raging directly above or below my apartment, based on the strength of the smell.

It was my duty to call! Nobody answered.

So I struggled to open my window, not because they're hard to open, but because everything's a struggle when your back hurts. I finally got it open only to find that all of 40th Street was full of smoke. My heart started racing. And I immediately shuffled over to my kitchen table to grab a piece of mail and stuffed it in my purse. My renter’s insurance policy arrived the other day. I thought it might come in handy incase all my new stuff burst into flames.

Then I went back to the window. This time, I pressed my face up against the screen, straining to see the street. I'm on the 28th floor, so you can't see much. I could hear sirens, but it didn't seem like anything was happening directly below on 40th or 2nd. So I looked to the right, and saw TONS of red and white fire truck lights.

Aha!

At this point, it was about 2:45. In the morning. And I realized it wasn't a fire in my building after all, just a ton of smoke. Seeing the blaze was a block away, I went back to bed. In my navy pants. With the toothbrush in my pocket.

This morning when my alarm went off, part of me thought the smoke was all a crazy dream.  I grabbed a tissue off the nightstand and blew my nose.  What came out looked a bit like soot, so I flipped on my beloved Channel 11 morning "news."  Surely, if anything happened, it would be a top story (right after a hula hoop contest -- or something equally ridiculous).

Turns out there WAS a fire. On 39th and 3rd. A 5 alarm fire, no less, with nearly 200 firefighters on the scene. It started shortly after midnight in the kitchen of a restaurant, and quickly spread to the neighboring restaurant. When they zoomed out, I realized I knew one of them -- The Frontier Coffee Shop! I once had a great piece of apple pie there, shortly after I moved into the neighborhood.

The first time.

It always struck me as an odd building amidst all the skyscrapers, kind of like the city grew up around it. While sitting in a corner booth reading a magazine and eating my pie, I remember overhearing a woman at the table next to me and the waitress whispering that disgraced NY Governor Eliot Spitzer used to come in for breakfast after he’d worked up an appetite with his… female constituents.

If the Wild West had a Denny’s, it could have been inspiration for the Frontier. I guess it was the American dream for a couple of brothers back in 1974 to build a Greek diner with a cowboy theme. Looking at the charred exterior of the building, your heart can’t help but break for the family, their 40 employees, and the 15 people who were hurt battling the blaze when the roof collapsed.

I truly hope they rebuild. And when they do, I’ll come by -- in my leisure pants -- for a piece of pie.


tags: city life, food

Empire State of Mind

Well, it’s official. I’m a New Yorker.

Huh?

I can understand why you might be confused. This isn’t news. I moved back to the city nearly 3 weeks ago! I’m already registered for jury duty in NY, courtesy of my previous life in the Big Apple. I’m even a registered voter, having voted for both the 2008 presidential election and the 2009 mayoral election at PS 116 on 33rd & 3rd.

What suddenly makes it so official now? I have a New York State driver’s license.

Well, technically, I spent 2.5 hours at the Herald Square DMV to get a flimsy piece of paper with the words "New York State Interim Driver's License" printed at the top. And yes, I said "interim," as in temporary. And yes, I said "Herald Square," as in the same landmark where that giant Macy's is located. 

At first I thought it was a little strange that the DMV was on the 8th floor of the Manhattan Mall (turn right past Mrs. Fields).  But I’m from Jersey, and no stranger to malls, so I thought that was NYC helping me feel at home. And I must say, blaring Michael Jackson’s greatest hits over the loudspeaker was a fine way to make the time fly as I waited on FOUR separate lines.

I passed my eye exam.  I took a questionable picture.  I gave them all kinds of proof that I am who I say I am.  And they took my $65 check, so I’m guessing that’s sufficient. Of course, I never left the DMV in Wayne, NJ without a shiny new license in-hand, but they claim this paper is legit. Plus a woman with meaty hands, named Rita, confiscated my NJ one on the spot, so I HOPE it’s legit.

I guess the true test will be if I get my actual license in the mail sometime in the next 2-8 weeks (my mail situation btw has proven to be its own nightmare -- the US Postal Service has NO idea where to deliver my stuff anymore -- I sent myself a test letter last week from my own apartment building and it got re-routed to Fairfield, CT).

Anyway, all this time, my license has been the one big holdout -- no matter where I lived, it always declared Pine Brook, NJ was home. But I had no choice now. My license expired yesterday.

And Pine Brook isn't home anymore.

I suppose there was no real rush in getting a new one, seeing as though I don’t actually own a car these days (whatevs), or have any domestic air travel planned (eh), and I’m hardly ever carded at bars anymore (poo).  But still, I wanted it. If for no other reason than my occasional need to rent cars. Or just incase my wallet ever gets stolen, this will help the handsome, (tall), single police officer who finds it track me down.

Or, you know... just for the car rental thing.

The truth is, I was born a New Yorker. Honestly! My homage to JLo with the “Jenny from the ‘Brook” blogger nickname is no accident -- I came into this world at Albert Einstein Hospital in the Bronx in August 1973. We lived there until June 1979 when the neighborhood started getting a little rough (read: another GIRL kindergartener was regularly doling out beatings over the rights to a blue tricycle -- in Catholic school no less!). So shortly before my 6th birthday, we moved to the good old Garden State.

And I’ve been a Jersey Girl ever since.

It’s only fitting, I guess, that I’m back to being a New Yorker, since the rest of my life has come full circle too.

There’s nothing I can’t do, now I’m in New York…


tags: city life, jersey

Don't Let the Bedbugs Bite

I was in a meeting this morning and a colleague of mine whipped up her skirt and pointed to a raised red mark on her thigh.

“Does this look like a bedbug bite to YOU?” she asked, with a twitch in her eye and tremble in her voice. “I just got it on the subway.”

I shook my head and said, “Nooo!” (But honestly, I don’t know what a bedbug bite looks like.) Every few minutes, I inched my chair a little further away from hers just in case she had a stowaway in the hem of her skirt.

I read that somebody actually found an alligator in a sewer over the weekend. An ALLIGATOR! But bedbugs are all anyone can talk about. I’m guessing they’re Public Enemy #1 because, um… they live in your BED! At least cockroaches have the decency to form their dens in your walls. And rats rest their sleepy heads in underground nests, far, far away from your pristine memory foam.

Total amateurs like roaches, rats and alligators do NOT signal the apocalypse. Biblical plagues of locusts signal the apocalypse. Well, locusts and now… bedbugs.

Bedbugs are pure evil.

Paranoia is running rampant, with the bloodsuckers being found across the city in hipster retail stores, posh magazine offices, and iconic building basements. Even the movies aren’t safe!

What’s most disturbing is that the bugs can’t possibly originate in these places because nobody sleeps a la Costanza under the desk at work. So it stands to reason that they are hitching a ride from people’s HOMES into stores, offices, tourist traps, and theaters. Which means that NO amount of commercial fumigating will actually get RID of this residential problem, because they’re not attacking the SOURCE of the infestation.

These businesses are just a rest stop on the vermin highway. I’m itchy just THINKING about it!

I’ve known perfectly clean people who got hit with a case of the bedbugs. They are awful to get rid of. At first people live in private shame, scratching and stomping the bloody carcasses out with the heel of a shoe. When they realize the problem is bigger than their Birkenstocks, they call in exterminators with bedbug sniffing dogs. They throw out mattresses, bedding, and dressers full of clothes that may have been “compromised.” They rip up rugs and tear down curtains. They wrap their new beds and pillows in anti-bedbug plastic shields and sleep with the lights on. Even still, their eyes play tricks on them and their skin crawls, driven batty by bedbugs.

It’s like being a modern day Lady Macbeth. “Out, damned bedbug!  Out I say!”

I guess I should take comfort in the fact that I live in Manhattan. The most populated US city is only the 7th most bedbuggiest. Now, if I lived in Ohio, with THREE cities in the top 10, (or the Midwest in general), I’d really be in trouble.

Maybe the pests prefer the Midwest’s friendly hospitality. So stay mean, New York. Grrrrr!

And sleep tight…


tags: city life, gross, health

Home Sweet Pineapple

I moved back into my old apartment this weekend. It feels good to be back in NYC. I don’t belong in CT anymore. Maybe I never did.

As you know, this was my 3rd move in 5 months. Losing everything at once -- my home, the man I loved, and the family we were creating -- was almost unbearable. So there isn't a big enough word to describe the relief I'm feeling right now.

I am home. Finally.

I have my stuff back. Finally!

And I can move on -- FINALLY -- from what has been the worst summer of my life.

It's almost surreal.  I feel like I want to swallow my key so no one can take it away from me. And I just might (if I smother it in cheese first).

I lived with my brother, sister-in-law, and niece for 10 weeks.  Ironically, that's EXACTLY as long as I lived with my ex-fiance. Hardly seems like any time at all, in the scheme of things, you know?

I know the only way I was able to get through any of this was with their support. Welcoming me into their home without any idea of how long I would need to stay was an incredible gesture that I will never forget. They were there for me in ways I didn't know were even possible. It definitely brought us closer together.

I will miss so many things. Our Sunday family dinners. And watching Sesame Street every morning with my niece. Actually, I won’t miss any of those things because I’ll be back often -- but as a visitor!

Now, I know there’s been some concern over whether coming back to my apt would stir up too many memories, but I’m glad to say it’s no more than usual. And I haven’t cried in 2 days. That’s got to be worth something, right? Plus, the building made some changes -- they removed the doors from my kitchen, changed the kitchen sink faucet, gave me a new peephole, and new blinds. The roof deck is now open. They even paved 2nd ave for me. And I’ve replaced all of my bright red accessories with things that are soothing blue.  It’s like a totally different place. So I can totally forget.

Sort of.

Anyway, when I decide to try this relationship thing again -- IF I decide to try this again -- God help the poor guy. Seriously. Aside from my brand-new RAGING trust issues, there are about 50 people he's going to have to assure that he won't break my heart or else they just might break his legs.

Eh. Maybe I'll save everyone the trouble and just become a nun.

But only if I get to keep my apartment.

PS: If you’re wondering what’s up with this picture, it’s Spongebob Squarepants’ home because I’m also thinking of a very special Spongebob fan who turned 8 today. Even though I can’t be a part of her life anymore, I hope she knows I loved her very much and would have absolutely adored being her step-mom. I hope she doesn't miss me at all, but I miss her tons.

PPS: Now that my life is back in order, I can officially look forward and stop looking back. This means no more posts about my breakup or my relationship. You can be the judge of how successful I am at that...


tags: breakup, city life, family

An Open Letter to Commuters

Today was my last day making the commute between CT and NYC. Today, my commute took about 2hrs.

Each way.

Starting on Monday, however, I will go back to an easy breezy 15 minutes. Or 11 blocks. Or 4 songs on the iPod. Any way you slice it, it's a beautiful thing.

And commuting hasn't been cheap! Between rental cars and train tickets, parking lots and gas, getting back and forth to work since I was dumped has cost me $2,545.95. But I needed to get to work, to earn more money, so I could afford to commute, right?

Barf.

Anyway, I haven't used public transportation regularly to get to work in about 5 years. When I lived in the city, I walked, obviously. When I lived in Jersey, I drove (which, mind you, is its own personal brand of Hell -- trying to squeeze all that traffic through the Lincoln Tunnel is like trying to suck a bowling ball through a straw).

So I forgot just how HORRIBLE it is to be packed like sardines on a speeding train with hundreds of strangers.  It's like a smorgasbord of awfulness.

Riding the rails shouldn't be an assault on your senses. But it is. Don't know what I mean? Read on...

SIGHT: Just yesterday, I watched a grown man gnaw his fingernail off and pick his teeth with it. I know. I just threw up in my mouth a little, too. So, commuters, here's a tip: Handle your hygiene at HOME. That means no public nail clipping, nose picking, flossing, or scratching in inappropriate places. I don’t want to see it. Nobody does.

SOUND: Do I need to know that you forgot to thaw out the chicken? Must I hear you discuss the results of your pap smear? Is it really necessary to subject me to the lecture you are giving your teenage son for getting a ANOTHER speeding ticket? I know we're all busy at work and don't always have time during the day to tend to personal matters, but consider the train to be a moving office. If you are not working, chances are, the person next to you probably is, and does not welcome you yammering on your cell phone. So quit it. And please don't talk to me either. You sound like a freak and I'm not as friendly as I look.

TASTE: I totally get grabbing a snack for the ride home. Who doesn't get the munchies? But you shouldn't need to hunker down to a 3-course meal on the train. Somehow, I'm always sitting in the car with the broken air conditioning next to the guy -- or girl -- who is stuffing their face. The food you are eating on the train shouldn't be so pungent that I can taste it. This means no popcorn, no greasy fast food, no drippy bacon egg and cheese sandwiches, no strong-smelling foods of any kind. Try a pretzel. Or if you absolutely MUST consume a meal on the train because your kitchen at home burned down, how about a nice salad? Just don't get a fast food salad. Paying McDonalds (or Wendy's or Burger King) for a salad is like paying a hooker for a hug.

TOUCH: Keep your knees to yourself. Don't let them brush up against mine, and then casually leave them there, waiting for me to notice. Don't put them in between my legs and let them bobble back and forth as the train bounces over the tracks. And don't fall asleep and block me in with them. Don't touch me and I won't passive-aggressively try to trip you on the platform. Deal? Deal.

SMELL: In the morning, professional people should smell like soap, not stink like last night.  I can pick out who chopped onions for dinner, or who was out on a bender and slept in his suit.  Am I psychic?  No, I leave that to Paul.  I know these private things because my nose tells me.  And I don't even know your name.


Yes, navigating amidst the huddled masses is a sensory minefield. The next time you're on the subway, or Metro North, or NJ Transit, or the LIRR, look around. If at least 1 of your 5 senses ISN'T being offended, I will give you $1. But if it IS, you owe me.

I figure at that rate, I'll make back my $2500 in roughly 3 weeks.

So, am I being totally neurotic, or has ANYBODY had a similar experience?  Share them below!

 
tags: city life, gross, travel, work

Grab Your Things, I’ve Come To Take You Home

My apartment search hit a major snag this week.

After combing the city for a new place to call home, I’d finally settled on a brand new neighborhood. The Upper West Side. It would be a fresh start with no memories of tables for two at the local Italian restaurant, or walking down the street hand in hand on the way home, or stopping for a quick smooch at a red light.

A clean slate.

And in that new neighborhood, I found the holy grail of New York City real estate (aside from a rent controlled apartment, which I actually DID find, but it was a 6th floor walkup with no sink in the bathroom -- someone would have to pay ME $1100/mo to live there, not the other way around). I found a brand new building. Ahhhhhh.

New floors that nobody put their stinky feet on. New toilet that nobody put their sweaty ass on. New refrigerator that nobody put their sloppy leftovers in. All. Mine.

Sure, there were some concessions I would have to make. For starters, it was smaller than my last apartment, so I would continue to pay for a storage unit because all my stuff wouldn’t fit. Oh, and I’d need to downsize my bed from a queen to a full because the sleeping alcove was smaller than my last apartment. Plus, I’d need to factor in a commute because it wasn’t within walking distance to work, like my last apartment was. And it was $200/mo more expensive than my last apartment after I’d negotiated that sweet $500/mo decrease. Ok. But it was NEW. I’m a sucker for anything new.

New neighborhood. New apartment. New life.

Did it feel like home? No. But no place I visited did. So I applied for apt 6D. And one day ticked by. Then two. Then four. Then, I got concerned. So my broker contacted the office and found out that they needed to investigate my application.

Hmmm. Well, I did have FOUR different addresses on the application and the support materials: I had a NJ driver’s license with my Pine Brook (#1) address -- that expires in August, and I’d held off on updating it, not for my love of Jersey, but because I thought I’d be getting married next month and would have a new name in addition to my change of address (turns out, um, not so much). On the application, I’d listed my current address as Fairfield, CT (#2), which is true, but because I’ve only been here for 2 months, I had to list my previous address too.  Since that was Stamford, and I was only THERE for 2 months, I skipped back in time and listed my New York City (#3) address instead. But my bank statement had my Stamford, CT (#4) address, the most recent statement available was for June and the bank hadn’t updated their records yet -- we only officially broke up on June 2nd. Turns out my credit report listed Stamford too.

So… it looked shady.

So shady, in fact, that they thought I’d been evicted from my NYC apartment. EVICTED! How f’ed up is THAT???

This breakup just keeps getting better and better, doesn’t it? So, they had to validate my banking information. Fine, my bank confirmed I have an account with enough money to cover the security deposit and 1st month’s rent (and not a penny more). And, then my job confirmed that I am employed and my salary is exactly what I said it is. But when they went to confirm my rental history with my old apartment building, nobody would call them back.

That didn’t exactly help my case.

Finally, a full week after submitting the application, I’d had enough. I asked my broker to push it -- to just find out what it would it take to move this forward TODAY. So she did. The girl in the office went to her manager, who went to the building’s owner, in the hopes that he would override the need to verify my rental history. After all, I’m 36 years old, I have a good job and I pay my bills on time. That should be enough, right?

Wrong.

He looked at the application, and decided he felt uncomfortable with it. It looked out of the ordinary with all the addresses in such a short time. Who moves that often? Plus he didn't like my debt (nevermind that a good chunk of it is as a result of all these RIDICULOUS moves).  If I didn’t get evicted, then maybe I skipped out on the rent. What if I did the same to him?

Now, it didn’t matter if my old building returned their calls to confirm I was a good tenant. Now, I needed a co-signer because I was deemed unreliable.

Say WHAT?

I was devastated after hearing this. Ok, fine, so maybe I wouldn’t get THIS apartment. I could live with that. But under these circumstances, what if I couldn’t get ANY apartment, because who’s to say that I wouldn’t encounter the same questions no matter where I applied? I felt sick to my stomach. A person can only take so much, and I’d reached my absolute limit. I came home from work on Thursday night, went straight to bed, and sobbed myself to sleep.

On Friday morning, I went to work in a fog. I texted with a dear friend of mine, who generously offered to co-sign for me. I called my mom, who told me to tell the new building to stick it, and then go back and clear up any trace of that Stamford address -- on my bank statement, credit report, whatever -- then get a Fairfield license so everything would match, and start again. And I had lunch with my aunt, who offered to go to the building with me and explain the moving expenses and why I’d had so many addresses, surely they would understand.

All these options felt awful.

It got me to thinking. Why do I need to restart my life? He didn’t. There’s one less person in the bed next to him. He orders 1 medium pizza for dinner instead of 2. But really, his life has gone on largely uninterrupted. Mine, on the other hand, was shredded... And that's not me being dramatic. It's just a fact.

But what was WRONG with my old life? I got along perfectly fine on my own. Maybe instead of a restart, what I really needed was to pick up where I left off -- before we ever met.

So around 3pm, I googled my old apartment building. At least THEY knew I wasn’t shady and I paid my rent on time. I originally wanted to live ANYWHERE but there, so it was the first time I’d looked it up. But lo and behold, out of the 279 apartments in my old building, there were just 2 alcove studios showing as available -- and 1 of them was my ACTUAL APARTMENT. Like it was sitting there, waiting for me.

I immediately went over to the building. It turns out someone moved into my old apartment shortly after I left. They lived there almost 3 months and moved out only a few days ago. The new rent on my old place was now $325 more per month than I was paying, PLUS I’d already paid a $2500 lease-break penalty to move out back in March, but I didn’t care. So I filled out a new application. And got APPROVED on the spot. 

Co-signer my ass…

I won't be moving in for a few weeks, while they paint and clean the apartment.  So he gave me the option to come back later to sign the lease. “No thanks,” I said, “I’ll sign it now.” He said I could come back next week to drop off the 1st month’s rent. “No thanks,” I said, “I’ll write you a check now.” I even booked the elevator time. I don’t trust ANYTHING anymore. I was leaving nothing to chance.

I’m the kind of girl who looks for signs. If it wasn’t enough that my actual apartment was available, or that I'd originally moved into this place 2 years ago almost to the day, or that the check I wrote was #2873 (28 is my apt number and I was born in 73), or that the doorman greeted me with a giant, “welcome home!” when I entered the lobby, then all I need to do is look at the name of the building’s leasing agent to know this is the right move. He is the same guy I renegotiated my rent with last August. The same guy I gave my notice to last February. And the same guy I signed my new lease with on Friday.

His name? Paul.

You know, I lost a lot in this breakup. Too much to mention here. But the biggest loss was my home. Intentional or not, he took that from me.

I’m taking it back.


tags: breakup, city life