Thursday, February 02, 2006


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."


"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."