Good-bye to all that, part deux

OK, so I have not been body-snatched, kidnaped or fallen into a drug-laden coma. I have, rather, drowned in a sea of brown boxes, suitcases and bubble wrap. I'm in the homestretch of packing, saying good-byes and getting my house in order. The movers come Tuesday a.m. and I leave that night for Florida. The past week has been spent negotiating the murky waters of packing, stretching, physical therapy and car shopping, the latter of which is an extremely arduous task. Who knew? Apparently, "find me a nice car," is not a sufficient command. Make, model, year, mileage—the fuck if I know. I'm pulling numbers, makes and models out of my ass, handing lumps of coal over to my dad's car dealer and hoping for diamonds. So far, this is not working too well and I am still sans automobile. This is when taxis really do come in handy. Yesterday I had to run some errands on Fifth Ave. and as I passed Bergdorf's I caught myself tearing up; yes, I know this is abnormal, but I can't help it. I have some bizarre, unhealthy emotional attachment to this retail establishment, and God damnit, I'm going to miss the hell out of New York shopping. However, this is what I will most miss about Manhattan, aside from my friends, therefore I know that it's a healthy decision to leave. I mean, if the retail establishments are what's keeping you somewhere, chances are this is not the right place for you. Anywho, my ITB is still raging, my stress levels are at a maximum, my patience has deserted me, and Wally is going utterly insane. I packed Wally's dog bed an the majority of his toys, so he sits here and yells and claws and cries at the foot of the box they are in. If I were Frank Costanza, I would be chanting the mantra, "Serenity Now."

Tonight was the first in a series of farewell dinners. My going away fete will be this saturday at BED for those of you who I actually know. Feel free to email me and i'll add you to the list.

In response to the post about mediabistro: nice, very nice. I sent it to the HR people. Sadly, though, the pathetic fuckwit will continue to be employed there until they are hit with a sexual harassment lawsuit. Hopefully that's not too far off in the future.

Good-bye to all that, part one

When I am utterly overwhelmed and stressed to the max, I simply cannot fall asleep. In lieu of some Ambien, I've been compiling a mental list of things that I most assuredly will not miss about Manhattan. Of late, these things outweigh the elements I will miss, an occurrence I never could have previously predicted. So here goes; my laundry list of things I will not ever miss about living in this city.

That rancid smell that characterizes and permeates most bodegas and grocery stores—it smells like a horrid combination of burnt ham and fried bacon and it sticks to everything I purchase in the bodega; even to the plastic bags the wares come in. Where is all the pig-frying going on? Who knew that bodegas were such bastions of burning bacon? Or maybe it's actually the stench of rats being incinerated...

The Manhattan once-over. For those who do not know of this female phenomenon, I shall clarify. The Manhattan once-over is a time-honored tribal ritual practiced by Manhattan women of a certain class. The female's eyes travel from your shoes, dart to your handbag, run up the length of your body, stop on the face, taking in the ears and then run back down the length of your body. The duration of the once-over depends on the season. It's shorter in winter, obviously, because all the looker can really discern is your coat, shoes, handbag and maybe earrings. It's more extensive in the warmer climes, when she can fully take in your jewelry, pedicure, manicure, brand of jeans, etc. Think of it as the human, female equivalent of dogs sniffing one another's asses, except a lot less civilized.

The fucking subway. Tonight was my last subway ride ever. Mark my words; and tonight was probably my last time in Brooklyn, the fact that those two events coincided fills me with pride—I had not done either in months.

The "wildlife," which, in my estimation, includes rats, mice, roaches and that crazy crackhead woman who wanders around Fifth Avenue in a garbage bag.

Those signs posted everywhere with the drawing of a big rat and the blaring warning that says "poison" or "rodenticide" or whatever it says. Truth is I get so skeeved out by the rat illustration that I fail to digest what the sign actually says.

Spit and feces on the sidewalks.

Scooping Wally's poop with Gristede's bags and those bags from the bodega that reek of burnt ham. His shit smells better than the ham.

The subway.

Duane Fucking Reade and all the people who work there. Every last uneducated, slow-witted one of them.

Yorkies and their ridiculous sweaters. For that matter, all doggie sweaters/coats/boots. One of the little dogs in my building not only has a Vuitton collar, but an actual shearling coat.

The subway.

Grocery aisles too narrow for two people to pass one another without turning sideways.

Constant construction on every corner block at all hours of the night.

Mediocre, $50+ meals.

The bloodsport that we refer to as "dating."

Having to put on 30 lbs of clothing and accessories just to leave the house in this season.

What the winter does to the poor, delicate skin on my hands.

The subway.

Idiotic doormen and even dumber supers.

Parades for holidays I never even knew existed.

Taking Wally out at 4 a.m. in the bitter cold.

The smell of Chinatown.

The crush of bodies in Times Square.

The list seems to go on and on, so much so that I'm beginning to relate to those country bumpkins who refer to NYC as a concrete jungle and profess their hatred for this city. I certainly don't hate the city, but I certainly don't love it anymore either. I think of it now as most people probably do—a lovely place to visit, not the best place to live.

I have discovered eBay. Darling, where have you been all of my life? I have no explanation for why I'm so late to the game, but I'm now addicted. However, seeing as I leave a mere TWO WEEKS from today, I am vowing to step away from the computer and back into the NYC social swirl. I have only a handful of days to bid New York bye-bye and I've barely made a dent in my packing to boot. Need to put in some serious face time with friends; endure more physical therapy; pack; clean; visit those outer boroughs I'm always hearing so much about (I think they start with "Bs"); spend some serious quality time with Wally, who I am heartlessly abandoning; and generally just stay busy so that I don't get too maudlin about leaving Manhattan. I will be back soon enough though—after all, a girl's gotta have her hair cut and Japanese-straightened. And hit the Bergdorf's shoe sale, natch. And eat Chinese food; I don't think I'll be finding too much of that down South.

One of the most infuriating aspects of Manhattan life is a little store called Duane Reade. It's the most ubiquitous drugstore in the city, and is like Starbucks in that you can find one on almost every corner block. Sure, there are the random Eckerd's, CVSs etc., but Duane Reade is just more convenient because they are literally everywhere. I try to avoid this place at all costs, but usually end up there once a week to stock up on the necessities. Not only are the cashiers slower-moving than any 90-year-old yenta, but they are usually thick as posts and seem to like to keep people waiting. Also, their favorite sentence is, "Do you have a club card?" Yes, I fucking have a goddamned club card, but is it worth me taking off my gloves, sifting through my purse and presenting it to you in the hopes that I MAY save $.10 on an item that is specially discounted? I don't think so. Anywho, each time I go into Duane Reade, not only do I spend more money than I need to be spending on toothpaste, deordorant, etc. but I always end up waiting on line for at least 10 minutes, and usually, I am laden with shopping bags from other stores that I have hit before DR. So I'm always standing there in line, under the unforgiving flourescent lights, feeling woozy and about to pass out from the combination of heat, the weight of my shopping bags and the general level of annoyance that a trip to Duane Reade engenders. By the time I get up to the register, I'm just ready to pay and be on my merry way. I do not, therefore, wish to chit chat with the cashier. So yesterday, weighed down with bags from Gourmet Garage, leg hurting, in a hurry to get home, I'm unprepared for the cashier's question. I step up to the register with various sundries, among them, a bag of hard cat food and a container of soft dog food. Yes, Wally is now enjoying the mix of high and low cultures.

"So how do your dog and your cat get along?" the cashier asks me innocently.

It takes a moment for her question to register, a long, protacted moment during which I am looking at her like she's ET's long , lost, stoned cousin. Oh, right, I think. The Duane Reade cashier is not privy to my fucked-up brand of rodent repelling. She actually thinks I'm sane and have two different species of pet, as opposed to one, very confused dog with cat breath.

"Oh, good," I reply. "They get along well." I flush crimson and bolt the hell out of there. Relating the story later to my neighbor Heather, we're cracking up, as the very same thing happened to her in Gristede's. Except that she was busted buying a huge bag of cat food by an old friend who knew that she had only a dog. "Oh," the friend had remarked, "did you get a cat?"

"Oh, yes, I got a cat. Siamese, she's very sweet. Nice seeing you..."

Less than three weeks left in the big apple. The days will be filled with physical therapy, eating, drinking, packing, talking on the phone, saying tearful good-byes and generally sucking as much marrow out of the city as I can whilst hobbling around like a cripple, wearing, thank you very much, Mizuno sneakers. Apparently, I not only have "soft tissue" damage, but tendonitis and iliotibial band syndrome (ITB) or "runner's knee." Looooovely. The prescription? Twice weekly physical therapy plus two hours of prescribed stretching per day. Oh, yeah, sexy.

Update

Well, I've gotten the approval of the mysterious, all-powerful board, so I'm good to go. The movers are booked, the plane ticket is set and the going away party is planned.

(For those of you I actually know, you are invited to BED on March 25th to bid me farewell and buy me mass quantities of alcohol.)

Yes, I am sad to leave NYC and my fab friends, but I'm also ready to redecorate, rest, relax, enjoy the sun and start an actual career. Regarding Wally, whom I will dearly miss and feel much guilt for having forsaken, I've decided that I will visit him monthly. It's only an hour flight home to where he will be and my office is very close to the FLL airport. The "To Do" list keeps expanding daily, and now I must add "buy car" to it, which is no easy proposition. In fact, I am completely clueless as to how to do this. When I first discovered that I would need to buy a car, I actually Googled "Cars." I've been here for six years and prior to that had been the recipient of cars from my folks, so what the hell do I know about buying cars? This is a man's job as far as I am concerned, so a big part of me just wants someone to do it for me and then I will just hop in and drive away. Though the chances of this actually happening are slim to none, it's a nice, escapist fantasy. Then again, it's been done this way twice before, so the third times a charm, right? Dad? He's chortling in outrage as he reads this.

But I've said this before and I will say it again: Cars are to Miami women (and L.A. for that matter) what shoes and handbags are to New York women. Meaning that, you have a much better chance of meeting a hot guy if you are driving a hot car. Period. Sad, superficial, shallow, stereotypical, yes, but sooooooooo true. And any guy or girl who argues with this fact is just in denial. I have hard evidence: I get scoped out MUCH more often cruising in dad's Lexus than in brother's Toyota.

Anyway, a list of things I must do before I leave this fair isle, in no particular order. For my own clarification and I'm taking reservations for partners (from friends, not random readers, obv).

Eat at Shun Lee Palace, on the East Side. If you've never been, run there. Now.

Drink at the Mandarin Oriental and the Four Seasons hotel bars.

Take Wally to Central Park.

Do one last marathon lap around Bergdorf's and Barneys.

Visit the Met.

Go to Columbus Ave. flea market.

Visit brother's apartment and friends in Brooklyn. (Brother this is scheduled for Friday the 17th I've decided today.)

Go to the Bronx Zoo. Maybe. Probably won't happen unless accompanied by male. I'm still scared of the Bronx and Harlem, what can I say?

That's about all I can think of at the moment, but I'm sure I will come up with some other things, hopefully less superficial ones.

Farewell to Fifth

Farewell to Fifth
Today was a tragic, momentous, historical day for the Green girls. Today was the penultimate episode of a six-year-long running series. Today will forever be mourned in the hearts of women from New York to Palm Beach to Miami to Jacksonville. For today was the last day moms and I shopped on Madison and Fifth while your's truly resides here. I have long been saying that what I will most miss about Manhattan is Bergdorf's, but I was exaggerating a little. I will also terribly miss Barneys, Madison Ave., Fifth Ave., The Four Seasons bar, The Metropolitan Museum, Park Avenue, the park, the Plaza, looking at life go by through the window of a taxicab, and I may just even miss Saks too. Not that they don't have great shopping in Miami, in fact, save for Bergdorf's, they have all the same stores. But there's something about shopping in New York that is just so intoxicating, on an almost narcotic level. I wonder, does shopping produce the same amount of endorphins as exercising? Or is it just those heroin injections? Kidding.
Anyway, we went out in true comical fashion. Dad was here too, which means we didn't get to do as much damage as sans papa. And there wasn't much time, so we actually only hit the big three, Bergdorf's, Barneys and Saks. And we did the Columbus Ave. flea market this a.m., and the stores didn't open till 11 a.m. today. Sooo, after we had lunch with the rest of the fam, mom and I had A HALF HOUR before her plane left. Now, most normal people would spend this half-hour packing, chilling, getting coffee, whatevs. Mom and I, however, jump in a cab, head to Saks, and spend 30 minutes sucking in the shoe and handbag departments like junkies in a methadone clinic. She takes down the name and style number of a Prada bag; I try on some Louboutins in record speed. I'm practically yelling "STAT" to the poor shoe salesman. Alas, the time constraints were such that both of us left empty-handed. We're so sick; we should really be studied by the fashion doctors.

OK, regarding the previous post's comments: A.) There simply are NO guys here I even have the desire to makeout with; that's the problem. B.) Do they even have hockey in Miami? I'm not much of a sports person unless there is a sky box involved. C.) Mom, for the love of God, step away from the fucking computer. It takes you five hours to figure out how to upload photos but you can comment on a blog no problem? I've created a monster. Pics of the balcony of the new pad, which technically isn't even mine until I get board approval, but I am so in love with the view and the balcony, I simply must share. $500+ less a month, people!

The first two are the balcony, which stretches from the living room to the bedroom. (I don't think BFF is touching herself; I think I caught her mid-gesture.) The second pic is of the pool, with the sister building (and BFF's building) visible behind it. (There are 3 buildings in this group.) And the final picture is of the lobby. If it's possible to be in love or lust with a piece of real estate, then I'm definitely crushing big-time.

And other random notes:

Wally's breath, after having actually been fed dog food for more than two weeks, is on the mend.

Heather, my fab friend and neighbor, was on rodent-patrol while I was away, so, dear friend that she is, went into my apartment every two days and stomped around with her dog to scare the little motherfuckers away.

Due to some miscommunication with moms (I still maintain that I heard you say, "I've got your coat.") I arrived at the JAX airport yesterday, wearing a tee shirt, jeans and sneaks, only to realize that neither my mom nor I had taken my coat or my gloves. Since I was heading back to NYC, which was apparently enduring a cold snap, this was slightly problematic. Therefore, I had to go into the restroom and trade clothes with my mom. Now, mom is quite chic, and ordinarily I'm happy to borrow her clothing. But it just so happened that yesterday she was in a rather conservative suit. So I emerged from the bathroom clad in a baggy pink turtleneck, an oversized pin-striped blazer, blaring white sneakers and glasses, paired with trendy jeans and a trendy handbag. I looked like a "What Not to Wear Victim." It was not pretty. Mom found it so amusing that she snapped some digi pics; you will not be seeing them here. I looked like a 40 year old. I looked like a secretary straight out of "Working Girl." I looked, in short, like I actually belonged in Jacksonville. God help me.

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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Untitled

I've recronstructed the scene of the latest jewelry crime thanks to my digital photos, and it appears as the brooch was plotting its escape from my sweater shrug around 11 p.m. Saturday night in Atlanta at the wedding party. Oh, well—with 500+ people, a cavalcade of wait staff and caterers, I'm sure it's a major longshot that it will end up in my possession again.

It's now official: I have a plane ticket to Florida and will be exploring the options down there in less than two weeks. Crazy. I haven't even sent out a mass e-mail, planned a farewell fete up here or anything. But I'm rather excited to get the hell out of here. It's dark and cold and dreary, while my friends in South Florida are cruising around with their tops down and driving past the beach on their lunch hours. What this means though, is that in the next few weeks, I will have to hunt for an apartment, a car, a job, insurance, movers, etc. Each minor Manhattan frustration spurs me on in my decision to leave. Trying to book a 'trendy' restaurant for Friday night up here, was, as usual, an exercise in futility. I simply do not have the patience anymore.

"Do you have anything for around 9?"

"No, we have 5:30 or 11."

Right, cause I am so sure that earlybirds eat at Stanton Social right after their afternoon canasta games. Grrrrrrrr.

Moving also means that the South Florida setups will begin. Yentas, start your engines. By my count I've got two or three on my plate already and I haven't even visited yet. I think dating is easier down there though. In fact I think everything must be easier.

And on another random note, regarding the utter stupidity of the staff in my loathsome NYC apartment building. I get in the elevator today with this nice, master-of-the-universe type guy who lives here with his wife and child. Before stepping into the elevator, I hear him talking to the doorman who I played the "who's on first game" with the day the exterminator came. I note the frustration in the master-of-the universe's voice, and wonder what Diego has done this time.

MOU gets in elevator with me, carrying a box.

"Sometimes I just don't understand what the hell is wrong with that guy," he says.

I laugh.

"I mean, he kept asking me if I had a package from Staples. I said, 'my name is on the label, isn't it?' He was holding the package and my name is on it. Jeez."

"Ha. I know. I always wonder if he's just playing dumb or if he's on serious drugs."

The elevator stops on 10. I live on 15. I proceed to exit the elevator.

The MOU starts laughing at me.

"Who's the one on serious drugs?" he kids.

Sadly, though, I think Diego is completely sober all the time.

Oh-kay. I'm the paranoid one? I received this forward today. I know it's well-intentioned, but, um, yeah. I love the "better paranoid than dead" line. I guess I've completely forgotten what life is like outside Manhattan, what with rampant carjackings, kidnappings, muggings etc. Suddenly NYC is seeming slightly more sane than the burbs.

Then again, there is always the New York Social Diary to remind us that Manhattan really isn't so normal. Not even close. (http://www.nysocialdiary.com/) And these people are much more frightening in person, trust me. I'm done writing about personal stuff here, as now there are definitely random people reading and that totally freaks me out.

I want to murder the genius who invented squeaky toys for dogs. Bad, horrible, evil idea. My next dog will not be given these monstrosities. She will not be fed cat food either, God willing. It's like 60 degrees here and the dead of winter, which means that it will be snowing in April, when I am lying on the beach in Florida. Ha.

Subject: Safety for Women - not humor

We can now add to the list of victims the retired 77 yr. old TCU professor

from Ft Worth whose body was found last week in Oklahoma--and the 11 yr. old

in Sarasota, FL. Because of these recent abductions in daylight hours,

refresh yourself of these things to do in an emergency situation...This is

for you, and for you to share with your wife, your children, everyone you

know.



After reading these 9 crucial tips, forward them to someone you care about.

It never hurts to be careful in this crazy world we live in.



1. Tip from Tae Kwon Do: The elbow is the strongest point on your body. If

you are close enough to use it, do!



2. Learned this from a tourist guide in New Orleans. If a robber asks for

your wallet and/or purse, DO NOT HAND IT TO HIM. Toss it away from

you....chances are that he is more interested in your wallet and/or purse

than you, and he will go for the wallet/purse. RUN LIKE MAD IN THE OTHER

DIRECTION!



3. If you are ever thrown into the trunk of a car, kick out the back tail

lights and stick your arm out the hole and start waving like crazy. The

driver won't see you, but everybody else will. This has saved lives.



4. Women have a tendency to get into their cars after shopping, eating,

working, etc., and just sit (doing their checkbook, or making a list, etc.

DON'T DO THIS!) The predator will be watching you, and this is the perfect

opportunity for him to get in on the passenger side, put a gun to your head,

and tell you where to go. AS SOON AS YOU GET INTO YOUR CAR, LOCK THE DOORS

AND LEAVE.



a. If someone is in the car with a gun to your head DO NOT DRIVE OFF,

repeat: DO NOT DRIVE OFF! Instead gun the engine and speed into anything,

wrecking the car. Your Air Bag will save you. If the person is in the back

seat they will get the worst of it. As soon as the car crashes bail out and

run. I! t is better than having them find your body in a remote location.



5. A few notes about getting into your car in a parking lot, or parking

garage:



A.) Be aware: look around you, look into your car, at the passenger side

floor, and in the back seat.



B.) If you are parked next to a big van, enter your car from the passenger

door. Most serial killers attack their victims by pulling them into their

vans while the women are attempting to get into their cars.



C.) Look at the car parked on the driver's side of your vehicle, and the

passenger side. If a male is sitting alone in the seat nearest your car, you

may want to walk back into the mall, or work, and get a guard/policeman to

walk you back out.



IT IS ALWAYS BETTER TO BE SAFE THAN SORRY. (And better paranoid than dead.)



6. ALWAYS take the elevator instead of the stairs. (Stairwells are horrible

places to be alone and the perfect crime spot. This is especially true at

NIGHT!)



7. If the predator has a gun and you are not under his control, ALWAYS RUN!

The predator will only hit you (a running target) 4 in 100 times; And even

then, it most likely WILL NOT be a vital organ. RUN, Prefer! ably ! in a

zig -zag pattern!



8. As women, we are always trying to be sympathetic: STOP. It may get you

raped, or killed. Ted Bundy, the serial killer, was a good-looking, well

educated man, who ALWAYS played on the sympathies of unsuspecting women. He

walked with a cane, or a limp, and often asked "for help" into his vehicle

or with his vehicle, which is when he abducted his next victim.



************* Here it is *******



9. Another Safety Point: Someone just told me that her friend heard a crying

baby on her porch the night before last, and she called the police because

it was late and she thought it was weird. The police told her "Whatever you

do, DO NOT open the door."



The lady then said that it sounded like the baby had crawled near a window,

and she was worried that it would crawl to the street and get run over. The

policeman said, "We already have a unit on the way, whatever you do, DO NOT

open the door." He told her that they think a serial killer has a baby's cry

recorded and uses it to coax women out of their homes thinking that someone

dropped off a baby. He said they have not verified it, but have had several

calls by women saying that they hear baby's cries outside their doors when

they're home alone at night.



Please pass this on and DO NOT open the door for a crying baby ----This

e-mail should probably be taken seriously because the Crying Baby theory was

mentioned on America's Most Wanted this past Saturday when they profiled the

serial killer in Louisiana.



I'd like you to forward this to all the women you know. It may save a life.

A candle is not dimmed by lighting another candle. I was going to send this

to the ladies only, but guys, if you love your mothers, wives, sisters,

daughters, etc., you may want to pass it onto them, as well.



Send this to any woman you know that may need to be reminded that the world

we live in has a lot of crazies in it and it's better to be safe than sorry.

Minor, I Repeat, Minor Musings

Have had another exhausting weekend and long day of travel. What is it about airports and planes that is so draining? I will try to post more extensively tomorrow, but in the meantime:

Roberta Flack was on my flight from ATL today. There was no first class section; it was a Song flight. She asked one of the crew members if she would get a refund/credit on her ticket, because she was booked in first originally. Delta switched aircraft at the last possible minute, in Atlanta, in the middle of the afternoon, causing a huge glut in boarding. She wore sunglasses the entire time. Really dark ones. Only knew it was her because her road manager was sitting next to me and I caught snippets of his convo with someone across the aisle from me. I care VERY little about celebrities anymore after having washed their dirty laundry at a certain, unmentionable magazine I may have worked at, but I do think Killing Me Softly is a classic. The sunglasses thing—it's a celebrity form of nonverbal communication that screams, "Look at me! I am SOMEBODY!" Or maybe she was just hungover. Whatever.

I lost yet another piece of jewelry. This is becoming a disturbing pattern over the past couple of months. I try not to sweat the small stuff, but this was another very lovely, sentimental piece that belonged to my grandmother. I'm going to try to track it down, but given that the party was 500+ people in another state, I think that someone probably has an antique diamond and gold brooch they found on the ground somewhere last night. Alcohol.

Expensive shoes are, contrary to popular opinion, not better for your feet, more comfortable or more ergonomic than less expensive ones. I feel that I have scientific proof of this on a couple of different fronts. First, for about a year, I was running and working out in these totally ghetto, old-school looking sneaks I picked up at Woodbury Commons for like $20. My BFF made fun of me in these sneaks, as she said they were "cheerleading" shoes. I don't know if this is true, but I know that I never had one single foot problem or blister from these cheapo sneaks. Last month I went to the running store my parents frequent in their hometown, and one of the dudes there "fitted" me for new sneaks. Nice, expensive ones. Since buying them, I not only have nasty blisters galore, but my ankle is freaking killing me. I suppose I should just go pick up another $20 pair and call it a day.

Second, while at this great shoe repair place last week that Bergdorf's suggested, the saleswoman began talking my ear off when I requested slingback stickies. (Men: see picture. Repeat after me: Slingbacks Drop it in your next convo with your wife/girlfriend/mistress/paid entertainment. She'll be duly impressed.)





Slingbacks look hot, and they are nice in theory; aesthetically pleasing. The problem is, the slingbacks NEVER, EVER, EVER, EVER stay in place, so they sell these sticky pads to put on the back of them. There is seriously a whole retail niche that has been filled by the makers of these ridiculous sticky pads. And we women, freaks that we are, buy them and stick them in the back of our stupid, overpriced shoes. Slaves to fashion. I've stopped buying slingbacks for this precise reason, but the ones I have I like, so I keep repairing them. This one pair of Manolos, has broken TWICE. First the slingback snapped in half, then recently another piece of the top snapped. I've worn the fuckers like three times total. $400+ shoes, should not break so easily, in my opinion. So I was at the shoe repair place, buying the damn sticky pads yet again, when the saleswoman revealed a trade secret. The sticky pads, are, as any woman who has used them knows, but probably won't admit, a complete gimmick that we continue to buy into—apparently, due to the physical positioning of the slingback (low on ankle), it is actually impossible for it to stay in place.

"Manolo, Choo, they both do slingbacks too low. We must fix. So what happens? We take off slingback and actually reposition them for women. That is only solution," the shoe repair woman said conspiratorially.

My eyes widened. WTF? How the hell did I not know this, with all my experience? I should have my shopping license revoked. Seriously though, we pay sick, sick amounts for these freaking shoes and then we are supposed to pay more money, probably another $30, $40 to fix them, before they even break? I am SO done with slingbacks.

I am sharing this story for a couple of reasons. First, because I know that some of my friends/readers may not know this and will actually find the information useful. Second, it fits in with my running theme here of "the grass is not always greener." We Manolo and Choo-wearers are just as uncomfortable as you are in your less pricey pairs. So the next time you put on your Nine Wests or Steve Maddens or whatever, and wish you could afford a pair of those shoes you saw in Vogue or heard about on Sex and the City just remember, Manolo sucks. And Choo can kiss my ass. They are both clearly sadists.

And guys, next time you are on a date or in a bar or wherever, look at the women's feet. If she dares to wear a slingback, see if you can spot the telltale adhesive strip poking out of the back. You'll get a good chuckle out of it. And if there is no adhesive sticker thingy, thus it follows that: They are not Manolos or Choos, or, disturbingly, the gal has shelled out upwards of $400 for the shoes, AND, another $40 or so to have the backs repositioned. We are such suckers. I'm going to stop writing now, before I know it the Manolo Mafia is going to put a hit out on me. Must go to bed. My fucking feet are really killing me.

Prada Idiot Number One

I've never been accused of being a genius, but this time I think I've taken the moron cake. In my defense, however, several friends and readers weighed in on yesterday's mystery-package dilemma with the, "dead rodent in a box," answer, so I don't think I was being completely insane. It's all relative. This most recent incident is yet another reason I need to vacate the isle of Manhattan; it's apparently driving me clear over the edge. The ending to this story is so classically Stephanie, and so utterly true, that it's actually pitch perfect. I couldn't have fantasized a better conclusion.

The package sat in my hallway all-day yesterday. I went down, box in hand, to get Heather's perspective. She is just as paranoid/overly cautious as me, and knows what buffoons our doormen are. I showed her the package, the label, etc. She took it, while on the treadmill, shook it and then suggested I have the doorman open it for me.

"Oh, and ask Sam which messenger service it came from. They have to write that stuff down for safety reasons."

"But what if it's a bomb? As much as I dislike our doormen, I don't want to be responsible for killing them. I think I should just throw it away. I'm scared," I said.

"Don't throw it away," she said, then reconsidered. "On the other hand, what if it is one of your crazy readers and it's like a dead rodent or something? Maybe you should throw it away."

"Exactly what I was thinking. I'm going to go to the lobby, and if they don't have a record of who it's from, It's going in the garbage."

I went up to the lobby. I asked the doorman which messenger service it was from. He shrugged, bewildered, as if I were asking him for the formula for rocket fuel. Why didn't they write down who it was from, I asked? God fobid they should do their jobs once in a while. I swear, someone could deliver Hannibal Lecter on that restraining-board thingy and my doormen would sign for him/buzz him in. The UN my building is not. (On a related note, another of my dimwitted doormen, did, in fact, sign for the papers to my lawsuit while I was out of town. No biggie, right?)

"I'm a little nervous about opening this—there is no return address, you don't know who it was delivered by and I am not expecting a package," I said to Sam. The other doorman, much cooler and with some wits about him, was watching all this bemusedly.

"Oh, please," Sam said, rolling his eyes. "Want me to open it?" He asked, grabbing for the package.

"No! What if it's a bomb? I don't want to kill you."

"Oh, come on, a bomb," he snorted, in his thick, Brooklyn (?) accent. He grabbed the box out of my hand. I stepped back about ten feet. The other doorman was now raising his eyebrows and edging toward the front door. Sam tore into the package. I held my breath.

He pulled out a signature, silver box from Bergdorf Goodman. I started cracking up.

"Oh. My. God!" I screamed, losing it.

"Yeah," Steve said dryly, "This is the kind of bomb I'd like to get." He rolled his eyes and handed me back the Bergdorf's bomb. It was a gift card, from one of my parents' best friends. A belated birthday present. I was thisclose to throwing the box away.

I ran back downstairs to the gym, where Heather was awaiting the conclusion to the story, probably expecting me to walk in sans a limb or something. I held up the gift card, hysterical with laughter.

"SHUT UP!" She said. "Shut up! Only you, Steph, only you would this happen to."

"I know! Is this not the perfect ending to this story or what? You should have seen Sam's face. If he didn't think I was crazy already, now he's ready to call Bellevue."

"This is so perfect. And to think, you almost threw it away! You would have never known either."

"I know. Oh, God, people are really going to think I'm making this up. I cannot wait to tell my mom. She is going to absolutely die!"

I went upstairs, called mom and told her the story. She was dying. Again, in my defense, her friend did not tell her to tell me to expect a package, and mom had actually told me to throw the box away! Dad told me to open it, but that "maybe this would teach me a lesson not to write about such personal stuff." Fat chance. It's all material, and I don't even have to exaggerate. I spoke to the gift-giver today and relayed the whole saga to her.

"It's a good thing you are getting out of New York," she said. Indeed.

Thanks for the material, C & D, and thanks for the lovely gift!

I am headed out of town tomorrow, so no posts until Sunday or Monday. I have started packing, and my little codependent dog knows what this means all to well. So as I was on the computer this morning, I turned around and looked in my suitcase and found him curled up in there on top of my clothes. Love the way dogs think, "Maybe if I just curl up in here, mommy will not notice and take me with her!" Not so much; brother will be dog-and-rodent-sitting this weekend.