Movin' On Up

So I have finally arrived back at my parents' place after 10 days in Miami. It actually took that long to get things settled down there, but it was a fruitful journey--in that amount of time down there, I managed to find an apartment that I adore and a new, promising job. Two things that I've never been able to accomplish over my six years in New York. Things, as they say, are falling into place seamlessly in South Florida. My new pad--fingers crossed I get "board approval" by that elusive entity known as the condo board--rocks. Huge balcony with sweeping bay views, fabulous condo building on a private island, granite kitchen, washer and dryer in the unit, on the same floor as the gym and the pool, 1 and 1/2 marble bathrooms (with, God knows why, a bidet), dining room, walk in closets, and hurricane shutters, which I am told is quite a boon. The best part is that the building is literally right nextdoor to my best friend's building. The worst part? No Wally. That's right, Wally is not welcome. By the time the "board" alerted me to this fact--that renters are not allowed dogs, only owners--I was too in love with the apartment to give it up. So Wally will be residing with the 'rents and their two dogs until I decide I miss him too much.

This is precisely why I know I shouldn't procreate; I'm willing to give up my 10-year-old baby in lieu of a fat pad. I barely gave it a second thought, actually, as I was prepared for this scenario, and frankly, could use a break from the incessant barking and squeaky-toy noises.

So now all that's left, essentially, is to hire the movers, get a car and say good-bye to my NYC peeps. I'm not going to do the whole big going away party thing, as I think it would be too emotional. I move in April 4th and will be out of Manhattan by March 29th. And I have to admit that while I was in Florida for the past two weeks, I have not missed Manhattan at all. Not in the least bit, actually, because while you guys were donning 30 pounds of clothing just to walk the dog or go to the bodega, I was chilling in my bikini at the pool, looking at the water and reading a book. I was walking around in flip-flops, tank tops, jeans, sandals and the like, even at night, even at Neiman's. It's quite liberating.

Oh, and did I mention that my new place, with the most awesome balcony and view EVER is more than $500 less a month than my rodent-infested, shoebox studio on the Upper East Side? And that the rent includes cable TV? And that I never spent more than $40 out at night when I was there, including food?

I am a little worried about the men down there, though. My single friends keep telling me how much the guys there suck, but, what the hell? It's not like I've met any good ones in New York. I am back tomorrow in Manhattan, pretty much just tying up loose ends until it's time for the move. Cannot. Fucking. Wait.

Killing me Softly

After two flights, the second of which I made with seconds to spare after they held the plane in Charlotte due to the previous day's blizzard, a 6-hour drive down to Miami, approximately 50,000 muscle spasms, 200 yoga poses, 20 packs of ice, 30 Naproxens, and, as of today--thanks to an interstate call from my Park Ave. general practitioner to the CVS pharmacy nextdoor to the family biz in South Florida--four painkillers, the Dish has officially landed in Dade County.

It's been a crazy, combustible, stressful, hazy week of family, pain, doctors, dogs and work, yes, that's right, work, but things are finally falling into place. Spent the past two days observing the family biz and plan to start work down here in April sometime. Going to scout pads tomorrow in Miami, with the intention of signing a lease by April 1. All the buildings in the area I am looking in are condos, which means even to rent one needs board approval. So we'll see; on the plus side, you don't have to pay broker's commissions down here.

The leg/soft-tissue damage/sciatica/fuck-if-I-know condition is fucking killing me, and the driving doesn't help. And I'm now safely ensconced at my BFF's pad in Miami, but she is preggers with indigestion, heartburn, nauseau and the like, and I'm limping around like a gimp, so the two of us make quite a pair. 13 years ago we were raising hell, turning our parents' hair prematurely gray. Now, we are turning in at 11:30 p.m. and quite content with that. Oh, how the mighty have fallen.

Popped two painkillers when I got the scrip today, promptly got double vision and woozy so had to hitch a ride to meet BFF in Aventura, leave the car at the aunt and uncle's and limp into BFF's condo. Hoping a good night's rest + two more painkillers will do my leg and nerves some good. Otherwise, this here 30-cum-80-year old will literally be wheeled back to NYC.

On the positive side, did I mention that the hours of the family biz are roughly 9 a.m. to 4 p.m.? And that it's like 75 and gorgeous here right now? And that there is no state or city income tax in Florida? And that my new apartment will most likely be at least 1,000 square feet with a balcony, water view, tennis court, gym and valet parking? And that I have not seen even on rodent? Even in as much pain as I am in, life is so much sunnier down here. Girls, what are you waiting for? The men aren't so bad either. And don't even get me started on closet space...

From the Blizzard to the Beach

And people wonder why I am leaving? How appropriate I am heading for the hills the day after the first big blizzard of the year; here's hoping the airports reopen by tomorrow. The view from my apartment and evidence that even Wally has had enough of this fair city. Imagine trying to take a dump in the snow...

MIA/DOA/COD

Someone is going to have to wheel my old, decrepit, sore ass home to Fla. on Monday. I know it's been a while since writing, for myriad reasons: A.) I am in severe pain, due to what my ghetto Park Ave. GP calls "soft-tissue" muscle damage that stemmed from, surprise fucking surprise, the wrong running shoes. Don't get me started on the $100 running shoes versus the $20 ones, the former of which caused my entire left side to pulsate with pain, and the latter of which never gave me ONE problem, ever. His prescription? Anti-inflammatories (BFD), physical therapy, massage, yoga, rest, stretching. Oh, yeah. Let the fun begin. B.) I am busy trying to get my shit together for Florida. C.) I had the Japanese straightening on Tuesday, which required me not to put my hair up, behind my ears or get it wet. It's quite difficult to type/read/sit at the computer with your hair in your face. And, D.) I really don't see the point of writing this anymore, because, while I am happy to entertain my loyal readers/e-stalkers/friends/random passersby, this is just an exercise in futility and it actually hurts to type right now.

Until my "soft-tissue" damage heels, I must refrain from: exercising aerobically, wearing high heels, staying on my feet for long periods of time; e.g. living, going out, dressing up, having fun. Fucking kill me now. Not to mention the fact that I am set to leave for Florida on Monday, and next week have a whirlwind of activities scheduled, from flying into Jax., driving down to Miami, visiting the family business, finding an apartment with the assitance of local realtors and seeing friends and family. Not to mention the blind dates, which, if my health is any indication, I will have to cancel. What, I'm going to show up in sneakers or orthodics, all hunched over and shit???????? Very appealing, I am sure. I suppose I will now fit right in in South Florida with all the old, complaining yentas. Maybe I will start a canasta league. I must spend this weekend icing and heating the leg, packing, cleaning, etc. in preparation for being gone for a week and a half.

The one upside of all this: I have a legitimate, medical excuse to get massages. That is the only possible silver lining I can identify, because, doctor didn't even prescribe good drugs. The inside of my apartment now resembles a Duane Reade pharmacy or orthopedic care center. It's not a pretty picture and neither am I. The big event tonight will be doing a yoga DVD. Life is grand.

Oh, and the doctor, when he suggested massage, actually said something along the lines of, "I don't know if you have a husband or significant other, but now would be a good time to put him to use massaging your buttocks. Hardy, har, har."

Um, yeah. I think I actually laughed at him, but sadly, this is the first time in ages I wish I did have a boyfriend, if only so I could put him "to use." Better yet, I have a professional masseur booked for Valentine's Day, no strings attached.

The Melodramatic Manhattan Merry-Go-Round

Yes, I am still moving. No, I have not yet told everyone properly. No, I don't know whether I will still write, though I suspect so because I think I am now addicted to blogging. It's a convenient way to keep a diary without having to write things out longhand.

I'm still utterly shocked and a little bit spooked when people approach me and ask me, "Are you Dish?!" Er, yes, I suppose so. How the hell have I gotten myself into this? I got called out on the blog a few times last night, and I find it hilarious that the women who read and introduce themselves or comment to my friends, talk almost exclusively about the handbag entry. We're all the same; I feel sorry for you guys. Even the most self-described low-maint girls have clandestine handbag and shoe fetishes, I'm convinced. I heard a really funny quote on TV the other night, must have been Law & Order since that's my new TV obsession. One of the detectives said, "Shoes are like crack to women." Soooo fucking true; esp. New York women, I think.

Anyway, spent some of the weekend with old Florida peeps, yeaaaaaaa Gordons, I'm giving you the much-requested shout out. Natch, the more time I spend with Miami peeps, the more attractive the destination becomes. OK, I have a point here, but it may take a while to get to. Was out last night at one of Mr. Devil's friend's parties at Nikki Beach, and of course, given the small circles that we all travel in, there were several intersecting social groups. We all recognized each other from either JDate, Friendster or one of the blogs. It's truly disturbing. And, as there were several JDaters or Friendsters there whom I'd blown off by never calling or writing back, it's a little awkward. We recognize them, so it would follow that they recognize us as well. Several people wished me well on my move, even though I'd never met them. Bizarre, though I def. appreciate the sentiments.

There is something incredibly disconcerting to me about "recognizing" people from online. Friendster and the blogs are one thing, but it totally creeps me out to see JDate people out and about, I don't know why. I've been off the site for several months now, for the mere reason that I found the whole experience dreadful and all we've all dated one another. How the hell is this possible in a city so large?

Maybe it's just that I expect to know everyone in the South, where the Jewish community is much more contained and tight-knit, but up here it freaks me out because I didn't grow up here and never did the summer-share thing, yet I still seem to recognize everyone, everywhere we go. It will be like that in Miami, where, instead of Binghamton it will be UF, and instead of Camp Starlight or wherever the hell you NY people went, it will be Blue Star.

We hung out with (I am giving you a pseudonym, since you gave me shit for not mentioning your name) Rich last night, who made an appearance in an earlier entry (Monday, January 16, 2006, "Continued, AKA Reasons to Head South for the Season") because his brother's GF lives in my building and I wanted to talk to her about The Rodent Issue. He told me the most disgusting mouse story I have every been privy to. Thanks A LOT, Rich; I cleaned for four freaking hours today. I could probably qualify to be an exterminator by this point, and I may as well have bought stock in the company that manufactures Fancy Feast. Have spent the past two hours alternately icing my leg and thumbing through the phone-book thick Ocean Drive tearing out apartment ads, whilst trying to avoid some big football game that all the boys seem to be talking about. The amount of new construction down there is staggering; and yes, I am fully equipped to deal with the cockroaches, palmetto bugs and hurricanes. Bring it on. Well, hold the cockroaches. And the palmetto bugs.

Eeeuuuuuuuwwwwwwwww

Oh. My. God. An argument for plastic surgery if I have ever seen one. Tomorrow I'm calling the derm and scheduling Botox, Restylane and whatever else I can squeeze in while in Florida. Preventative maintenance, because heaven forbid this:



Since I no longer feel comfortable writing about the personal stuff, of which there is just too much drama even to cover in convos with friends, let alone in writing, the apartment/doorman chronicles continue. Diego the doorman wins the dunce award, hands-down. (My fellow residents will agree, I am sure.)

In the gym again today with the MOU from my previous post. The electronic, fingerprint thing has been broken for well over a week now. God fucking forbid they should fix something in this ludicrously overpriced pile of rubble. What this means is that we have to go ask the doormen for a key each time we want to gain access to the gym. There are TWO keys for the entire building and like 25 floors; I don't know how many residents.

"Can I have the key for the gym please, Diego?"

"Uh, Miss Stephanie, 11A, he is in there already, can you knock so he let you in?"

Fine. Whatever. I don't really want to interrupt whoever 11A is while he is working out, but I don't feel like getting into a 20-minute, circuitous discussion with Diego.

I go down to the gym and, magically, the key thing works. I walk in and tell the MOU that Diego wouldn't give me the key because he was in there already. The key is some kind of precious commodity in my building, apparently. The MOU, he of the Staples package fame, rolls his eyes.

"I have a great Diego story for you," he says, turning down the TV. I think the residents could write a book on Diego's blunders.

"So I'm waiting for my new cell phone to be delivered for, like, weeks. I keep asking him, 'Has anything come from AT&T?' He keeps saying 'no, no.' For weeks, he keeps saying, 'No, nothing for AT&T.' Finally, he hands me a package one day, weeks later. I look at him and say, 'This is like a week old? What happened? I asked you if anything had come from AT&T?' He looked at me blankly and said, 'No, no, I told you nothing for 18D."

"Hahahaha."

"The whole time he thought I was saying 18D not AT&T."

"Hilarious. But you've lived here for like 3 years and he's been here the whole time! I can't believe he didn't know your apartment number."

"That's why I can't believe he just told you 11A. I'm surprised he didn't still think I lived in 'AT&T.'"

Diego has got to be related to the super or the owner of the building or something. There is simply no other explanation. I've walked in on him literally sleeping at the front desk. Unfuckingbelievable. He probably earns a higher salary than a teacher.

I think one of the things I will most miss about Manhattan, aside from my friends and the shopping, natch, is the sheer diversity of what you witness merely by walking down the street. Tonight, walking down First Ave. on my way to dinner I see this couple staring into the window of a Lexus. I follow their gaze, and there is a uniformed driver blowing on a clarinet. I then pass a homeless guy who is about to bump into me, and he says, "Excuse me."

Happy Birthday to Mom

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