Food F(r)ight!

This past weekend, I went out and I—simply put—got drunk.  Not surprisingly.  I’m 5’2’’ (on a good day) and get wasted off a glass of wine.  Not joking.  An example of my lack of tolerance: On Friday night, I went out after work with some coworkers.  I had half a glass of a frozen mojito and got wasted.  While this is probably where you think the story ends, it doesn’t.  When I drink, I become ravenous.  I eat.  I binge. 

After (nearly) finishing the 1 drink, I left with one of my coworkers to go back to her apartment and wait until another began bartending later that night.  On our way back to her apartment, I insisted on stopping at McDonald’s for an Oreo McFlurry.  Did I mention that I already had consumed a bowl of guacamole and chips?  Or that at one point, I took a fork to the guacamole and just went to town?  After polishing off the McFlurry at her apartment and raiding her cabinets for something salty, it was evident that neither one of us was going to make it to the bar.  So I left and took the bus downtown to Pierre’s apartment.  What happened next?  Well… the bus let me off on 2^nd and 14^th streets, which is pretty much NEXT to one of the best New York Pizzeria’s—Artichoke.  I mean, I might as well go, right?  I was about 15 steps away.  And from where the bus let me out, I could see that there was no line.  So, on the phone with my mom, I walked over.  While waiting for a half hour for the entire order (the stuffed artichoke with bread crumbs—yes, I am salivating as I write this—takes about 25 minutes to prepare), I polished off 1 slice of artichoke pizza and then, well… I was waiting anyway, right?... I went for a second slice.  As I was standing there eating by myself, probably covered in sauce and oil, a guy came up to me (did he work there? I was oblivious in my caloric bliss) and complimented me on my ordering and then went further to say, “I’ve never seen a girl your size polish off 2 artichoke slices”… I smiled a big toothy grin (probably with basil locked into a couple of teeth) and then took my stuffed artichoke from the counter and went to eat in peace where people wouldn’t judge or keep track of how much I eat—Pierre’s apartment!

It’s one thing to eat a couple of slices of pizza by yourself at a stand while you are drunk and quite another to go to town on a stuffed artichoke with bread crumbs when you have every intention of both eating with your hands and dipping your head back to drink the oily buttery broth at the bottom.  Yes, I have no shame.  Walking back to Pierre’s apartment holding my artichoke with care (like a diamond), I made it back to his apartment—I knew he wouldn’t be there yet and ripped open the bag and went after this artichoke like my dog goes after garbage or fresh vomit.  There are some things a partner shouldn’t see the other one doing for fear of never wanting to have sex with them ever again.  For some couples, this means not seeing each other while sitting on the toilet.  For us, it is binge eating.  The purely glutinous act of drunkenly wolfing down food with animalistic vigor is just so completely unattractive as to possibly render it a “deal breaker.  The next morning when I woke up, belching up garlic and needing water so badly I thought I would die (for both the terrible dry mouth I was having and the awful hang over), I remembered two things: 1) why I do not drink—specifically, tequila—and 2) why I should never leave someplace drunk without a friend: there will be food and I will try to eat all of it and in some cases (my brother’s birthday comes to mind)—I may even request/need someone to feed me.  

What's A Girl To Do?

Today marks the fourth day of my battle with Influenza Type B.  Also known as the flu.  But just my luck, not the normal flu (that’s Influenza type A).  I have the weird strand.  The gypsy flu.  After lying under the covers, then breaking the fever and then lying on the covers, lying with the heating pad/without, taking a shower, taking advil, 1-2-3-4 hours, taking more advil, complaining to people only to hear how bad my voice actually sounds, watching TV, watching SO MUCH TV!  Finally on day three, I couldn’t take it anymore!  Now less Pierre to keep me company, I became completely enraged:  I started cleaning my apartment—top to bottom, took a bath, cleaned the bath, watched TV, read some of my book, organized my pantry, and was never so thrilled to go to Pierre’s apartment for the night, collecting my mail on the way out the door—hellllloooo New York Magazine and the New Yorker!  It was almost the same excitement I feel over Instyle! 

Influenza Survival Kit

Now at 8:27am on day four, I came home and I need something to do.  I cannot stand another day of lying in bed idle.  So, I did something I’ve never done before—I set up shop for the day at my dining room table.  I plugged in my computer (note to self- need to buy a new laptop as soon as I have the funds), slammed down a fresh box of Puff’s Vicks with lotion tissues (these are the best!), made some coffee ( might die if I have anymore tea), stacked my New Yorker under my book (I already finished my New York Mag), and turned my TV, positioned the remote (just so), and figured… it’s time to write!  If I can’t be around people (doctor has me quarantined until they know what this is—Pierre is a total goner at this point), I will bring the people to me!

Left at home for days on end, I’ve begun to realize how much I enjoy working—which, for those of you who know me,  know that this is a HUGE comment for me to make.  Yes, I can’t stand the office gossip and politics, but working does give me a sense of a fulfilled day.  My day has specific markers: beginning of day (usually marked by a cup of coffee), middle of day (lunch and have meetings set up for the afternoon), and end (I’m exhausted, hungry, and can’t wait to go home and see Pierre).  At work, I feel a sense of accomplishment—I’m hungry for a challenge and I’m constantly raising the bar for myself.  At home (whether that be when I am sick or on the weekends), I recognize that there is very little to do—walk around, go to the gym, then what?  Shop—did I NEED that dress?  Get coffee with friends?  Is this and could this type of life be enough for me? 

It’s a constant battle I have with myself and I’m sure I am not alone.  Growing up with an amazing stay-at-home mom into a relatively affluent family, the moms that I knew did not work.  None of my aunts worked on either side of the family and if any of the women did, it was volunteer work, or very part time.  Going to college, I think something sparked for me.  I became curious.  Watching some of my peers size up potential boyfriends (and other people’s boyfriends) by how much money their family has, where he grew up, what beach club their family belongs to on the South Shore (which doesn’t this tie back to how much money their family has?), where they went to camp, and which people they know through a vast network of various social connections. While these qualities may or may not have been important to one’s 19 year-old self, I didn’t grow up in a town or in a family where these qualities had any value.  For one, I never felt that I would need to rely on a man to financially support me (I figured my parents would help if I really needed it and I would manage on whatever salary I made).  Secondly, I grew up in New Jersey, so how can I judge anyone by where they live?  Third, beach club?  Why pay for a membership when you can travel to other beaches?  Fourth, I never went to summer camp.  I had terrible separation anxiety and flipped out at even the discussion of me going to sleep away camp.  And lastly, why would I care how many people know this person?  Do I need the entourage of his past failed relationships to validate his social ranking?  Aren’t I too old to care about who is head cheerleader and who is the starting quarterback? 

This thinking opened my eyes to perhaps a new position affecting young women with the same social and educational background: “I went to a good college, did well, got a good job, met a husband who was attracted to me for all the reasons previously listed, but now that I want to have kids, do I have to stop being the person I once was?”  I have girlfriends that are in fantastic positions in engineering, marketing, banking, and law and they worked very hard to get to these points in their careers.  Yet what is the end goal?  What’s their plan?  For the longest time, I always assumed, I would marry a man who would come from an equally comfortable family and he would “get” the lifestyle I have lived.  But the irony, is that I know I don’t want a man who survives off his financial umbilical chord.  I want someone to be as ambitious (if not more) than I am.  Having had time (and arguments with Pierre) to think about this… I know I want more than anything to be a mom and to provide my children with the type of parenting that I had—but if this down time while I’m sick is any indication of a life without work… I’m not sure I’m going to be the best candidate of full time mommying.  What would I do when the child goes to school?  What would I have to talk about?  Who would I talk to?  Would I still be as interested and as curious as I am now?

Ok mom… I hear you!  I know I won’t know how I feel about any of these things until I actually get married and have children, but aren’t these the questions you have to start asking yourself now? The milestones I have at work: selling an expensive project, getting credited for good consistent performance, helping other people, etc... remind me that all those hours working on my Shakespearean Lit paper was worth it because it got me to this point.  Not to mention the sweet satisfaction I feel when I don’t have to ask before buying an amazing pair of shoes or a new dress just-because.  There is truly nothing more bra-burningly wonderful than being financially independent!  But I wonder if I will still have the same satisfaction when my child learns to stand, starts speaking, scores a goal.  But if I’m restless, will I really be the best mother I can be?

I think in the end I know I will figure out what will work best.  With out a doubt, I will have a supportive partner by my side that will help me make decisions that are good for me, our family, and each other.  But today, I am working from home and it’s not so bad… J

Where My Horns At?

After coming to the realization that the neighbor is here to stay—the building manager has been ignoring my various emails—I settled down for a night of TV shows with “Pierre”  having a follow up discussion about the various sounds emanating from all corners of my apartment.  While he starts in on his mantra to “RELAX,” “Just Calm Down,” and (my favorite) “Don’t you think you are being a little dramatic” (did I mention Pierre is hearing impaired?), I begin taking deep breaths and snuggling in on the couch next to him to watch the TV.  Just as his breath from his final, “Relax” is passing through his lips, the trumpet sounds and I don’t mean it figuratively.  I mean an actual trumpet starts playing from some apartment near mine.  Jumping up, I start to look for where this new aggravation is coming from.  In deaf bliss, Pierre looks at me awkwardly, “What are you doing?” he asks.  “Do you seriousssssly not hear this?”  He shakes his head.  “How do you not hear this?!? Are you serious?  There is now a f()ckning TRUMPET playing!”  Once I said these words, hysteria followed.  I couldn’t stop laughing. Who has to deal with this?  Sex, high heels, loud TV, loud talking, clumsy dropping, and now a trumpet.  It was beyond absurd… a new level of ridiculous.

Bang! Bang!

So I know it’s been awhile.  Here is my update:

After spending night-after-night lying awake, listening to fake orgasms, things falling, a loud TV, and (here is a new one) a trumpet practice, I finally lost it to my building manager.  I must admit, describing in detail the noises that I hear is initially embarrassing—perhaps more so for the first-timer, but inevitably (for me at least), I have my limits and I don’t care who the audience is—especially if it’s someone who can help.  The building manager giggled on the phone and said she would write another letter.  Gee thanks.

On one particularly bad night, I had fallen asleep around 10:30 and was having a particularly dreamy sleep, only to hear a hammer (appropriately—see other entries if the irony is lost on you) banging a pipe in my dream…only I couldn’t see a hammer anywhere in the dream.  And then the worst thing happened.  And it truly is THE WORST--those light sleepers out there know what I’m talking about.  I started falling down the rabbit hole into full consciousness.  I was now awake, listening to the “owww oooow ooow oooooowwww” of my neighbor faking an orgasm.  I looked at my clock: 12:27AM.  Oh no she didn’t!!!  Enraged—there was no point trying to relax myself back to sleep.  No one wakes me up on a work--- no one wakes me up PERIOD without suffering my wrath!  I called the doorman.  He apologized for the noise and called upstairs.  They didn’t answer.  I called 311.  I filed a noise complaint.  After spending the rest of their faux romp (I hope that bitch got a UTI) looking at forums about other NYC dwellers’ complaints, I felt a little better.  Apparently, a vocal exhibitionist is pretty common (as are loud kids, garage bands, and domestic violence).  Once the sex was over, the TV volume went up.  It was now 1:30.  I couldn’t relax.  I couldn’t hide my head with a pillow without breathing in my own breath.  I was thinking about going up there.  I was thinking of continuing to bang the hammer.  Feeling pissed and helpless, I got my jacket on high tailed it to my boyfriend’s apartment.  The entire walk, I schemed how I would call our family’s attorney and have them press charges.  How I would call the police again….

After a night of nearly scaring my boyfriend to death, I woke up and went home to get ready for work.  On four hours of sleep, I felt like a zombie.  My body wanted to rest, but I knew I had plans.  People were depending on me.  Dressed and in the elevator, I noticed a (skanky) girl holding a note from the doorman addressed to the apartment directly above me.  With other people in the elevator, I was biding my time.  Once we got to the lobby, she waited to speak to the doorman (who was outside hailing a cab for an elderly tenant) and I seized the opportunity.  Carpe Diem, be-otch!

The conversation went as follows:

Me: Are you apartment 7D?

Skank: Yeaaaaaaaaa

Me:  You are SO friggin loud!

Skank: Umm What?

Me: You and your boyfriend are really fucking loud.  I hear everything that goes on in your apartment.  I know for a fact that you don’t have 80% of your floors covered because I went up there to ask your shirtless boyfriend to turn his cartoons down.

Skank: Well, people complain about 7B.  Maybe you are hearing him.

Me: 7B is an asshole, but you, honey, are extremely loud.  You woke me up and then kept me up last night, so I had to sleep at my boyfriends and now I am going to be late for work.

Skank: Well what time do you go to sleep?  My boyfriend and I work late.

Me: 10:30-11, not exactly early.  And you guys are loud.  I literally hear everything.  [Skank rolls her eyes].  Really?  Let me guess, you had sex last night?  [Skank’s mouth now opens in shock] Yeah, I heard that.  All your moaning and your high heels on the floor, I hear that. Keep it down!

With that I walk out of the building.

Yes, ladies and gentlemen.  I grew a pair.  I drained of patience and REM; I found the balls I needed to create the change no one else could.

When I get to work and speak to the building manager, she apologizes again and tells me that their lease is up at the end of the month and she may not resign them.  May not?  She put them on “probation.”  Whatever that means… And with every heel click, with every chair pull, and every pan “clank”… I email the manager complaining.  While I hate listening to it, I will say… it has been quiet.  No fake moaning.  Though I’m sure I just jinxed myself with that comment.  I’ve been thinking about retiring the hammer.  Yet with that jinx… maybe not! ;)

And there is one dedication that I want to make to the void that I perceive as my…. ok… semi-dedicated readers. I want to thank my boyfriend (let’s call him Pierre) for always being by my side, listening to my incessant bitching, reminding me that all of this crap is only temporary, telling me that it “isn’t as bad as you think” (though you are literally deaf and sometimes your saying this makes me want to punch you), always making room for me in your bed (and in your life), giving me the self confidence I need to be the best version of myself, always having faith in me, and being the Jack Donaghy to my Liz Lemon.  You are really are awesome.

What the F.....?!?!

So I am proud to report that I finally did it! I couldn't take this bull crappola any longer.  For those of you who know me, I have a very specific threshold and once you cross that... god speed.  There is little to nothing you can do to get back in my good graces.


After spending my post-work hours trying to finish my New Yorker and New York Magazine... my neighbor came home.  And then there was noise.  SO MUCH NOISE.  Listening to the rise and fall of various octaves for at least two hours and listening to various commercials, I finally hit my tolerance limit.  My grace was gone.  Throwing up empty water bottles, getting out my iphone to record the noise, contemplating my hammer (I figured the hammer was used very specifically for "banging" only), I went to my neighbor's apartment (across the hall) and dragged her and her fiance into mine to listen to the noise-- please note: I have only met these people once in my entire life.  They agreed: this was grounds for going upstairs and saying, "enough."


I couldn't stand it anymore.  I hate confrontation, but I hate listening to someone else's TV and some girl faking an orgasm more.  And suddenly, I grew a pair.  I walked up the stairs with conviction.  Hearing noise blast from under the door, I knew I was justified.  I knocked the door.  No answer.  Finally, the door opened.  A young guy (probably a college kid), stood there topless.  Who answers a door topless?  I mean seriously?  Once I got over the exposed nipples (clearly, this is someone who has no sense of privacy OR shame), I realized that the blaring noise was--in fact..... wait for it.... SOUTH PARK!  Who the fudge still watches South Park other than a 15 year old high school kid who is taking a break from his video games for dinner?  


I introduced myself as his neighbor who lives downstairs and I explained that it was quite loud.  He then proceeded to rub his chest-- perhaps self-conscious that he was getting in trouble and he was not wearing a shirt.   He apologized (which was nice of him), and I then said, "Yea, you can hear everything. I mean EVERYTHING!"  This is clearly someone who is shameless and doesn't take to subtleties.  If he didn't get it from there, I didn't know what else to say. He apologized again and closed the door after I turned to walk down the stairway.


When I got downstairs and came back into my apartment, it was quieter-- not quiet... but quieter.  It was a small victory. But at least I raised some level of consciousness.  Hopefully, it will pay off.


Speaking of my sleep... guess what's coming tomorrow?  The rest of my bedding!!!  Just in time for when my sister, her husband, and son come to visit on Friday! :)  Sweet dreams.

Let it Snow, Let it Snow, Let it Snow!

Every time it snows, I feel invigorated.  That same childhood excitement that builds—Will we have a snow day? Or a delayed opening from school?—comes right back to me.  I feel an overarching need to build a snowman.  Make a snow ball and throw it at a target (and miss- obviously).  So I sit at my kitchen table staring at the snow falling and then that aforementioned energy fades and I want to go to sleep.  Too many snow flakes to analyze at once.  My eyes get heavy and then I realize… my childhood is over and it’s time to get dressed and get to work.  When you live in the city… you don’t typically get “snow days.”  Reality, life, the show must go on!

View from outside my apartment

Once I get outside, dressed warmly in Ugg boots and my very fashionable Mackage wool coat, I feel like saying, “Ok- I’m ready for the camera now.”  Snow falling in New York is very dramatic and there is definitely an element of the theatric.  Like the midtown theatre district dragged a production set down town.  The whole city seems quiet….and CLEAN!  There isn’t any honking and the constant city hum seems to be clicked on mute.  At times, you can almost hear the snow falling.  I love it.

So now I’m outside walking to work… trying to look cute, walking slowly to take it all in and somehow juxtapose myself within this environment.  Then it happens… what always happens.  The snow is heavy and wet.  I just blow dried my hair and now it’s going to look all messed up once I get to work.  And oh my friggin’ god!  I can’t see.  I’m legitimately blind.  The snow is sitting so heavily on my eye lashes that I can’t see a damn thing.  Will this mean my mascara is going to run?  Ok… ok… I’m blotting to make sure my mascara isn’t running.  Oh sh*t, I just botched up my eye liner.  Oh well this is just… WHAT?  The scaffolding is dripping water and a nice plump spill went right onto my head.  Right on the center part.  Now my head feels wet. And it was scaffolding water.  Yuck.  Oh lovely… that block of ice was not ice, but in fact slush… now my Uggs are soaked and my feet are cold.  Why is the subway so far?  Why does everything seem so far?  Ugh now the subway is going to smell like wet dog.  Is the smell me?  Is it my wet wool coat?  Why is this guy staring at me?  Is my mascara running?  Did I really smudge my eye liner before?  I can’t stand the snow! 

Now I am getting off the subway and for some reason, I feel like all the people getting off the subway are in this race up the steps.  And as always, I am directly behind a bag lady (preventing me from passing either side of her) with orthopedic shoes (so she’s going to be moving slowly) and a HUGE ass (so her slow walking will be a waddle).    Now I am up the stairs, aggressively trying to pass this woman and now waiting to climb the stairs behind a now very slim woman who decided to wear stilettos (as part of her commute) that she can barely walk in.  WTF!  So now I have passed her, but I HAVE to watch her walk through the snow and ice in these….  Wow… she’s pretty mobile in these.  I’m impressed.  But I still hate her because I look like a wet rat and still haven’t had my coffee yet.  

I’m on a one track mind now… GET COFFEE… don’t talk to people… don’t make any decisions about anything… just GET COFFEE.   I walk into café Europa and I have the same three women working there.  Of course (today of all days!), I get the one who pretends like she doesn’t know me or my order EVERYTIME even though I go in there 5 days a week.  “What do you want, sweetie?” she asks.  What do I want?  I want the same thing I order every day! The other woman (who remembers me by my daily visits—so nice), says hello and feeds the other woman (who has taken my order) exactly what I want.  I say thank you to the one who remembers me and then the woman who is assisting me asks if I want a bag.  No, I don’t want a bag!  Have I ever wanted a bag??!?!  NO! think I need to drink this coffee and calm down…  Why am I raging?  My g-d!  I never act like this.  What’s wrong with me!?

By the time I get to my office… I feel like I have been through war—I have experienced a day’s worth of emotions and I am back to feeling groggy.  My day has barely started and I am already ready for it to end.    Drinking my coffee and changing out of my wet boots to the mini closet I have under my desk… I feel better.  However slightly.  It’s still snowing outside, but this crack coffee is helping.  While some of my coworkers start piling in, I am getting some funny looks.  I suspect it’s because they too feel the commuter’s exhaustive schlep…. Then someone tells me I have make up half way down my face and my hair is akimbo…

…Oh yes…….let it snow, let it snow… let it snow!

Baby, It's Cold Outside...

Having gone to school in Michigan and living in New York for 3 years now (I still can't believe I've been out of college for this long!), this weekend may have been the coldest weekend on (my personal) record.  When first walking out of my apartment, I always think, "oh this is manageable," but then the freeze.  Leaving my apartment, I take a look in the mirror and give myself a personal assessment: gloves- check; ear warmers- cute! and check, scarf- check, jacket-check, warm boots- check!  Overall, looks considering the imminent tundra-- the higher side of fare.  Not great, but not so bad either.

Then, about a block from the warmth of my apartment building, my nose is running, I can't feel my fingers, and the wind blowing on my face- creating wind burn, and the warm boots are scraping against the back of my heel, which will probably result in a blister. Then there is a red pedestrian light and I can't walk.  Ugh, it's only 5 blocks and not even a full avenue to my boyfriend's apartment.  I can do this... (enter blowing wind) but now my freshly blown out hair is twisting itself into securely fastened knots... only a little bit... Oh f*ck this! TAXI!!!!!!!!

Yesterday, after an unsuccessful visit to an art gallery in Brooklyn (the gallery is closed on weekends), we kept within a strict 5-block-2-avenue radius of both of our apartments.  We never discussed it, but neither one of us could handle walking around without the safety of emergency heat.  After a quick lunch of sushi at Haru, (where we sat in our jackets and hats, eating frozen sushi and --appropriately--the heat didn't kick in until our check came) we power walked home.  From here, my eat-a-thon began.  

Three orders of sushi and an order of edamame later (No, this is only what I ate), we stopped at the grocery store and I picked up vanilla wafers and an apple (because the apple was REALLY going to be my saving grace) for dessert.  Wrapped in a fleece blanket on the couch, I devoured 1/4 of the pack of wafers, while watching all the shows I'd missed earlier in the week.   Three hours later, I was still freezing... and after waking up my boyfriend by shoving him with my foot (he was asleep) too cold to actually get up, but preferring to bitch to him instead.  Perhaps knowing the only way he was going to get back to sleep was shut me up, he grudgingly got me a down comforter and wrapped me up- with the fleece blanket and the cashmere wrap I was also bundled in-- and like that we stayed for the rest of the afternoon into the evening.  We made plans to get up and meet for drinks, but I'm not convinced that either couple wanted to go.  Too freaking cold!  

A pasta dish and salad later, I was still hungry.  While my boyfriend retired back to the couch, I retired to the kitchen to finish the bag of wafers and the apple and finished his dessert of chocolate covered pretzels-- conveniently packaged in 100-calorie packs of which I had 3 bags.  Belch...  

My sister loves to hear me talk about how much food I've eaten.  I'm not sure why, but she laughs hysterically... almost to the point of tears... 

It all started when I was a freshman in college.  In high school, I played field hockey, ran, and was a cheerleader (and for the record, you MUST be in good shape to be a cheerleader-- all the moves have to be ready sharp) and came home from practice to home cooked meals.  Yet in college, there was never a shortage of vodka and cranberry juice drinks (served until 1 AM 5 nights a week), pizza and loaves of bread infused with baked ziti (delivered until 4AM), Raman noodles (prepared in 3 short minutes at any hour), Colliders --ice cream and cereal topping combo (cab-rideable until midnight), and of course double stuffed Oreos (available at any hour).  We had snack vending machines and a mini fast food market in the lobby of our dorm.  In college, I learned the joys of ranch dressing and personal pies.  (Yum!) and I never realized I gained weight until until one person made it abundantly clear: my mother.  

We were in the dressing room of Bergdorf Goodman on one of my trips home from college.  Growing up, I had never been larger than a size 0.  I was and still am petite.  Things were always big on me.  We would have to take things in or bring hemlines up.  Surrounded by european designer wears, diamond rings, anorexia, and cosmetic surgery, my mom came into the dressing room with me to try on some clothes.  As I put on the size 0 shorts, they got as far as my knees when I realized there was no way on earth these would fit me comfortably.  While I considered laying down on the ground and forcing them on, I asked the woman helping us for a larger size.  As each consecutive size came into the room (size 2- size 4 and then a size 6)... my mom turned to me: "OMG, ALLIE, YOUR THIGHS!" And that was it.  I remember it came out like one one word.  All in one breath.  Harsh... but a wakeup call.  That was the moment, I realized... perhaps it wasn't my laundry service that had been shrinking my clothes, but maybe my new lifestyle.  When I talked about this with my sister nearly (7 years later)... she laughs, stomach achingly laughs.  

I cut my own hair after this photo

My sister's final fitting

As I sit here writing this, watching (at least 8x repeats) of Sex and the City on demand, I think about my sister and how much I miss her.  When she was in town last, we went to Le Parker Meridien and had breakfast.  It was the day after an huge snowstorm, but she, like me, didn't care about the snow or the cold.  We wanted to go out and we did.  That simple.  We sat at breakfast and I spilled my heart out to her.  I told her everything and anything.  I knew she wouldn't judge me.  I could just talk.  She'd know if and when I was lying and keep me honest.  We kept the coffee coming.  We just talked.  Now today I am sitting in bed, watching TV, and thinking about how much better and more fulfilling the time would be if she was here.  She knows everything about me.  Our lives had been a mirror of the other.  Then we grew up.  She fell in love with an amazing man and she moved away.  She's so happy with her life (husband and puppy, included) and it's everything I've ever wanted for her.  Just on Sundays when friends are busy... I always think it would be nice to have her apartment to run over to or someone to meet for coffee/diet cokes.  Oh well...  " 'Tis life," I guess.  I guess its time to give my sister a call... :)

Let's Go!

Ok- So I can admit it.  I'm 24, live in Manhattan, and yes- I am staying in on a Friday night.  Yea, I am totally cool with this.  Not an inch of regret about this.  Nope.  Nada.  Well... maybe.  Let's recap my night so far:

Half New Bedding and Hammer

I left work a little after 4:30.  After battling the elements to get back to my apartment-- feeling exhausted-- I suddenly had a jolt of energy in discovering that my bedding from Ruelala.com had arrived- Vera Wang really makes some sweet bedding.  Wait... I am definitely missing some details... Let me back up here for a moment...

Once my parents realized that I, their youngest child (and daughter) was going to be moving to Manhattan after college, my mom was on a mission to get me an apartment... not shockingly... one with a doorman in Murray Hill.  And for any of you who live in doorman buildings in Murray Hill or in Manhattan for that matter, will attest not all of these doorman are exactly the best line of defense.  I've had nearly obese doorman and some which probably had no idea who actually lived in their building-- but more focused on the cute girls living there and seeing who is drunk, who is coming back with who, who is doing the walk of shame the next morning, etc... After years of doing this, I'd imagine they'd think all Jewish girls from the NY Metro area all begin to look alike-- however, I would tend to worry less about the 5 foot- nothing girl with the Louboutins and the Chanel purse than the homeless man who is passed out and peeing himself.  Yes, mom and dad-- you made me move to Murray Hill after graduating, but you moved me into a building only a couple of blocks away from a homeless shelter.  I'm sure the unattended elevator building in SOHO would have been just as safe!  But here I go, digressing again.

My point of bringing up doormen was to call attention to one of my current doormen.  This man is perhaps one of the worst doormen in the entire city.  After seeing him every single day for 4 months, he continued to ask me where I was going every time I'd come home from work-- "To my apartment... you know... that I've lived in since JUNE!"-- this of course, was if he'd even look up from his sudoku puzzle to see who was coming in at all.  While some doormen open the door for you... this man does not.  While some doormen say thank you after giving them (sadly) a tenth of your biweekly salary for holiday tips... this man does not.  And probably most aggravating to me.... when you call down to your doorman because you are faced with an intruder in your apartment... he says, "I can't leave my post."  This coming from the same man who leaves his "post" to pee every 20 minutes and locks the front door of the building!

This intruder scared the crap out of me.  After saying "shape up or ship out" to my boyfriend of 2 years, I moved out of his apartment and into one of my own.  My apartment is my sanctuary, my haven.  Things are perfect-- perfectly MY way: clean, neat, girly... think of the design child of Pottery Barn and West Elm-- that's my apartment.  So I nearly had a heart attack to come home from a weekend at my parent's house to see a black roach on my WHITE FABRIC Pottery Barn head board (For those of you who know, it's the Louis headboard)!!!!!  What is a girl to do?  Well... I watched this thing.  I couldn't kill it-- it was on my fabric head board!  The guts would have smeared everywhere!  I didn't want to touch it!  I needed to know it didn't disappear somewhere else.  I'm a pretty self-sufficient person and I really like to do things on my own-- I don't ask for help so easily.  So after realizing that I wasn't going to kill this guy, I called my doorman.  And what did he say?  Well, I already told you.  So... I did what any Jewish girl would do: I called Daddy.  Following my father's advice, I took my upright vacuum put it on top of the roach-- it bounced off my headboard, onto my unmade bed, and hit the floor running.  With my cat-like reflexes, I got the vacuum positioned and sucked it up... letting the vacuum continue to run... until my boyfriend came and cleaned the vacuum bag out. ;)

My nephew Charlie

So for the above reasons, I dislike one of my doormen.  So coming home to find him was no real treat.  Ready for the worst, he repeatedly told me I didn't have any packages.  I made him check 2x and sure enough(!!) two packages: my bedding and a Jonathan Adler gift from my amazing sister (Miss you, bear!).

Are you still with me?  I digress a lot.  But I believe details are important.  They add the color to the black and white monotony of my life.

So I made my bed-- realized I had to buy another sham and Euro pillow case-- now I have mixed-matched pillow cases until the others arrive... which I hate(!), watched the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills (Loveeeee Bravo!), made dinner, and then watched Valentine's Day on demand.  Worst movie ever.  Video chatted with my sister, her husband, and dog get ready for a party.  Then watched an episode of Jersey Shore.  Listened (though I swear I tried not to) as my upstairs neighbor had sex with her boyfriend.

Seriously.  The first time this happened, I giggled.  The second time, I laughed a little and thought "oh you guys!  I can hear you!"... and... well...today, I have a hammer I keep on my end table and whenever they start in, I start banging.  It's one thing if it were just a banging headboard or a bed moving back and forth on the floor, but they are vocal.  The things I hear make ME blush.  I don't want to know about how much he "releases" or what tastes like what.  I'm not joking.  I hear this.  I hear she is a quiet Indian girl from the neighbors on my floor who have shared an elevator with her.  I set the record straight.  She is NOT quiet and from the panting I can hear, she doesn't seem to be aerobically in shape.  There is A LOT of panting.  One day, I worry I am going to hear: Bang! Bang!-- enter dialogue-- Bang. Clunk...."  Am I responsible to call and make sure he/she is Ok?  I can just imagine how this conversation would go.  "Yes officer, I was listening to them f***ing and I am concerned because he/she exhibited some unusual breathing patterns from their usual panting and then I heard a 'clunk'..."  I've had these awkward conversations with the doormen in my building who are supposed to call up and ask them to keep it down.  The doormen (including the aforementioned) are not young.  At first the conversation I'd have to have kept me from calling them to complain, but now... I don't hold back.  "Yes, she is screwing her boyfriend and she's loud as hell."  One time, I even when up there at 2:00AM when I was woken up and had a big meeting at work the next day.  I heard her say to her boyfriend, "don't answer the door."  To which I screamed, "I know you are f***ing in there!  I can HEAR you!!!!"  I don't do too well when people wake me up....

Well now it's almost 11 and here I am.  I debated going to the gym and then thought I'd take myself for a walk.  Alone.  Because my boyfriend is having a Guy's Night, which he deserves.  This thought process happened about 2 hours ago.  Now here I am.  Blogging.

I never thought about Blogging until one of my coworkers asked if I ever chronicled any of the daily crazy I encounter-- I hadn't.

Now about that walk...