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.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
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!
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| 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
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!
Sunday, January 23, 2011
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.
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| I cut my own hair after this photo |
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| 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... :)
Friday, January 21, 2011
Let's Go!
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| Half New Bedding and Hammer |
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. ;)
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| 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...
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