Facebook Follies: Status-Updating Senselessness

Ah, the Wonderful World of Facebook. I used to be a hater, but I’ve grown much more fond of this so-called Social Networking site in recent years. I suppose you could say I’ve softened towards technology in my old age.

However. There are a few things I can’t stand about Facebook. Namely, the status updates. Or – pardonne moi – the “What’s On Your Mind?” updates. Oh, I’m sorry Facebook, are you my therapist? I see. Alright then. Let’s talk this one through.

Fair, fair Facebook. It’s not your Update Institution I so despise, but rather the overuse of it. The constant, chronic updating – the diarrhea of the mouth (er, keyboard, shall I say) that certain people feel the need to do. Of course I shan’t name names, you know who you are. To you I say: THIS IS NOT TWITTER!!!!!

I loathe your clogging of my mini-feed with stupid, incessant whining and complaining. No, I do not want to know that you’re “at work” – aren’t we all, dummy? Or that you’re “sleepy” – again, aren’t we all? Or that you’re at the “gym” – because, well, that just makes me feel guilty. 

But fine, I’ll grin and bear these work/sleep/gym updates. If anything, I feel bad for the updaters. They’re so positively bored and boring that they can’t think of anything more clever to say. I’ll stand their dull, uninteresting updates because I’d rather read their ceaseless nonsense than the more preposterous baloney of that other breed of updaters.

Ugh. The people whose statuses border on TMI are positively, undoubtedly the most vomit-inducing of them all. Honestly, I don’t CARE to learn how many centimeters dilated you are. Nor do I want to KNOW that you need to get laid. Or that people need to “pray” for you.

That last one irritates me the most. Why announce to all your Facebook “friends” that something is dreadfully wrong – then be super evasive when people comment the crapola out of your post?

Seriously Facebookers, I’m sorry that you are so deprived of attention that you feel the need to tell your pseudo “friends” via status updates that there is something the matter with you.
Aww.

Facebook is not a pity party, people. If you’re going to be all – “Oh I don’t want to talk about it on a public domain” then WHY ARE YOU MENTIONING ON FACEBOOK THAT SOMETHING IS WRONG IN THE FIRST PLACE???? 

Quit your cyber-moping, yo. We’re so over it.

Real Estate Hell (Parte Un)

A thousand million apologies, my most beloved followers! Apparently I’ve become a diva since turning one.

No but for reals, I’ve been deep in the depths of real estate hell. And boy was it b-a-d. I’ve finally escaped - though not unscathed. (Be forewarned, this is only part one.)

I’d come to love my cozy little rabbit hutch. But that’s what it was - a rabbit hutch. Two years in 170 square feet was more than enough - it was time for something big...ger (I don’t think it’s possible to go “big” in Manhattan unless you’re making da BIG bucks). So let’s just say I was ready for a real apartment. After all, I’m a real girl!

I was chomping at the bit with excitement and anticipation - the countdown to May 1st had begun. This was to be my first NYC apartment that I actually spent time searching for. Boy oh boy oh boy!

I’ve had fairly good luck finding abodes in this city. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that I’ve been overeager and overanxious and said YES without truly searching. My Leroy Street place was the second one I looked at. I filled out the application in the hallway and celebrated getting it later that day. The Sullivan Street apt. was only the third one I saw - I signed that lease the following day.

New York real estate is ridonculous - even if you don’t live here, that, at least, you know. It’s do or die. Eat or be eaten. Sign on the spot or LOSE what you’ve got. Oh, and you have approximately four weeks (oftentimes far less) to find and sign.

I think apartamento hunting is the most cutthroat thing you’ll ever do as an NYCer. (Well perhaps that’s an overstatement...might be a tossup between that and sample sale hunting - that gets pretty damn ugly, too.)

But really, the former is quite outrageous. You’ve gotta be prepared for a throw-down showdown between youself and the 10 other peeps who are (inevitably) vying for the same spot. You’ve gotta have your credit scores handy, make 40x the rent (or have a guarantor who makes 80x), a letter of employment - and you have to be prepared to pay up - first, last, and security...all notarized and bank certified, obvi.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. That right there’s the fun part. The easy part (well, for me at least - not necessarily for Papa P...he looked like he was about to go into cardiac arrest).

It’s what comes before all that initialing and signing and paying your life away that’s the true pain in the ass.

I had a picture in my mind of what I wanted in a new apartment: a huge living space, separate bedroom, laundry in the building, lots of light, a dishwasher, tons of closet space, an on-site super, no higher than the second floor, NOT facing the street, exposed brick, very reasonably priced (as if anything in Manhattan is reasonable), more turtles in a fountain and a courtyard - and, of course, in Greenwich Village. (No, no marijuana was not consumed during the penning of that statement.)

I’m sure realtors had quiiiite the chuckle when they read my wish list. Many didn’t respond; those who did pretty much pooh-poohed me; and everyone told me I had to either look further east OR raise my budget.

I was willing to do neither. And holy shit was it a shitshow.

It’s hard out there for a primp! I mean, I consider myself pretty cool and easygoing. I can handle shabby, dark hallways and dust bunnies on parade. But of the 10ish places I saw, a mere 1/5 were not cringe-inducing.

I retracted my apartment-hunting-in-NYC-is-easy-for-ME mentality immediately. It was not relaxing, leisurely, or enjoyable. In fact, there was nothing positive about it.

No, no. I didn’t see any mice. Or waterbugs, for that matter. What I did see were apartments smaller than my rabbit hutch. Darker, dirtier, smellier, graffitier hallways. Narrower stairwells. 2' x 2' stand-up shower stalls. Places sans ovens. SIXTH FLOOR WALK-UPS.

It was outrageous. OUTRAGEOUS, I say!

Was I crazy? Did I need a lobotomy à la McMurphy? I didn’t want it too be too small. Or too expensive. Or too high up. I wanted it to be juuuuust right. Apparently that was just too much to ask for!

I strongly considered moving to the East Village. Or even - gasp - to Chelsea. OMG! But late one afternoon I saw a posting on Craigslist. There were no pictures (sketchy), but it was a one bedroom...one block away from Sullivan...and less expensive. I gave it a whirl.

Ding ding ding, ladies and gentlemen, we had a WINNER! It had me at hellooooooo.

Buh-bye Sullivan Street! Holla atcha Thompson Street!

(To Be Continued)

Everybody's Free (So Hold the Door!)

As cheese de la cheese as the spoken lyrics to that circa 1999 song Everybody’s Free (To Wear Sunscreen) may be, I do agree with a few lines in particular. Amongst the “Floss” and “Do NOT read beauty magazines, they will only make you feel ugly”, there is one that really stands out: “Live in New York City once, but leave before it makes you hard.”

Alas, I fear that time for this farm girl has already come. And it has never gone. I’ve become a tad rough and rugged around the edges. Now when I go to visit Connecticut it’s like traveling to a foreign country where I don’t know their customs.

(To clarify once more, I did not grow up in that snob-ridden Fairfield County, but rather that gloriously pastoral bubble of the Northwest Corner, fondly known to locals as the NWC.)
Oh, I’m sorry, did that cashier just smile at me?

Did I just see a grin instead of a glare from that perfect stranger?

Was that an “Oh, I’m so sorry, excuse me!” apology someone muttered after bumping into me with their shopping cart?Wait wait. Am I hallucinating? Sans creepy music, did I just enter - gasp - the Twilight Zone? Oh, no no. I’m just not in in New York City anymore.

After nearly three fabulously draining, utterly unforgettable years in Manhattan – in which I’ve paid my life away, sold my soul to Mayor Bloomberg – I've become that person in Baz Luhrmann’s song, the one he told to leave New York City before it makes me too hard. But I will give credit where credit is due and for all my bumping into people and ignoring of panhandlers, there is one thing that I always, always, always do.

That is, simply, to hold the door open for the next person. Really I don’t understand why people cannot wait two seconds, literally two seconds…maybe even one-and-a-half seconds, to hold the door while someone walks through. It’s mind blowing. Baffling. And so very, very rude. And yet it happens everywhere. The lack of door holding is omnipresent amongst my fellow city-dwellers. And to them plead on bended knee: hold the door. It's simple! Are you really in that much of a hurry? Really?

It happens at Starbucks, at the office, at the gym, at the grocery store...OK well not the grocery store, what with their automatic doors. But everywhere else in this brusque, brute-ridden, churlish city. It happens in the pouring rain, in the blustering snow, in the hot, hot sunshine when you're crossing the Sahara that is SoHo, looking for air-conditioned salvation...BAM, someone slams the door in your face. It happens on your birthday, on the weekend, in the a.m. rush. It happens on Christmas!

All I ask dearest peers, most esteemed comrades, is that you hold the door. It's simple. But more importantly it's right. So dear ones, do the right thing. Hold the door! You'll feel so much better about yourself.

Maybe Baz should update his lyrics to include "hold the door for people even when you live in New York City". I'll have to have my people get in touch with his people.

Can you BELIEVE it's been eleven years since that song came out? Shit yo!

And if someone holds the door for you DON'T forget to say thank you. It will make them want to hold more doors.

Rudeness on Rails

Candy excepted, Easter has kind of fallen by the wayside as far as holidays go. That’s why I was over the moon when Penguin sent out an email notifying us of a 3pm closing on Good Friday. I was heading over the hills and far away for the weekend, home to the rolling countryside of rural Connecticut.

I was thrilled I could make the 3:45 train to Wassaic. It was off-peak AND through – the stars were shining upon me, ‘twas my lucky day! I snuck out around 2:56 and booked it to the 1 train. I had forty-nine minutes but still great cause for anxiety – holiday weekends are harsh on Metro North, and Grand Central is always a nightmare

I should have known when I saw the gleaming teal and blue seats of the new(er) train. Should have known that the next two hours of my life would be nada but doom and gloom. But the early dismissal had imparted a strange streak of foreign optimism into my normally cynical façade. It was scheduled to be a through train, after all, so perhaps Metro North was, for the first time ever, going to drive the new(er) train as far north as Wassaic!

I settled into my less-than-comfortable seat (the older trains with their grimy maroon and navy benches are far more cozy). I had three bright beacons of bliss to look forward to, three little diamonds in the rough: my soft, salted New York Pretzel (with honey mustard dip, of course), a fresh, unopened bag of Starburst jellybeans, and a book, City of Thieves (you should read it, it’s pretty excellent), that I was nearly finished with.

I really should have known, I’m such a dummy. Why oh why was I so optimistic? I ripped, dunked, and chewed my first bite of salty, mustardy pretzel – it was delicious. Nice and soft and fresh. I had twenty minutes before we left so I started reading and the train started filling. Then I heard the announcement. It was not going to be a through train, we had to transfer at Southeast. How dare you, Metro North! How dare you change a through train into a transfer train!

The Starburst jellyb’s coaxed me, though. I did have them to look forward to. And with only my Longchamp bag and my purse to carry, transferring wouldn’t be so very bad. My section of train filled up quickly and I put my bags on the seat next to me, passively aggressively hoping that no one would try to sit there. But I was, once more, sorely let down.

I had settled in a small section of train and with three minutes left till take off, there were two seats available in the section (hate you, holiday weekends!) One was the outside of a facing-each-other bench…and the other was next to me. An older, suit-clad gentlemen sized up his would-be train traveling companions: a slightly overweight, middle aged woman who obviously lived amongst cats, and moi. He chose the companion on this side of fifty and hovered over me until I looked up. Until I removed my ginormous purple purse from the seat next to me.

Stare-glaring at me, the man pouted as I stood up and let him in. Of COURSE I was not going to give up my aisle seat. And of course I looked like the crazy one. How could I not bow to him, how could I, a child in his eyes, not crumble in his presence, pick up my bags, and move to the inside? He was used to getting his way and seemed very peeved at my imperviousness.

Actually, he seemed pissed.

Or at least I felt like he was. I shrank into myself, making my body as narrow as it could possibly be – which wasn’t so very narrow, what with all the stupid Easter candy I've been consuming. I tried to put a buffer zone in between us. But apparently his thick thigh wanted nothing more than to brush against mine. Really, buddy? You're really going to keep encroaching on MY space?

Fine, I could handle the leg brushes. I took deep breaths, counted to ten. But he just had to burrow on down and get his magazine. Bored with that after about twenty-seven seconds, he just had to burrow down again, this time bringing out some stupid book (I forget the title but it really was a stupid, stupid book). Then his arm started nudging mine.

Perhaps it was because I'm overly deprived of personal space in this city. Possibly I was pissed that we had to transfer. Or maybe I was just overtired and anxious to get home. But every time this businessman's gross, burly, hairy arm touched mine, I shivered. Why was he invading my personal space? Then he took out his phone.

I'm sorry but some people just don't GET it. Their sense of entitlement is outrageously absurd. Really, mister? You're really going to scream into your phone when I'm thisclose to you? You're really going to brush up against my leg and elbow my arm every chance you get? That doesn't make you uncomfortable? I'm sorry that I didn't give up my seat for you but come on.

Still passively, but a teense more aggressively, I reached down and took out my iPod. Making obnoxious, sweeping motions, I put on my headphones and sighed. He probably didn't hear me because he was shouting into the phone but finally I tuned him out.

Of course he got off at Chappaqua (of COURSE he did!) so at least my torture was somewhat short-lived. Seriously, though, why are people so damn obnoxious?? You'd think I would be more accepting and not easily unnerved. But this guy really pissed me the f off. What with all his brushing and nudging and shouting - he was like an annoying, pesky little kid. A brat. A spoiled brat.

Ugh! No dankes Metro North on holiday weekends. Or really, no dankes Metro North when your purse doesn't count as a passenger and, unfortunately, cannot be the sole occupant of the seat next to you.

Easter Candy is Eggscellent - But I STILL Hate It!

When I was growing up, Easter was always like a mini-Christmas. I would lie awake at night, listening for the hoppity-hop-hop of the big ole bunny until sleep fell over me. When I awoke, I’d run downstairs - über early of course, much to my parents chagrin - falling, tripping in anticipation – what presents did the bunny leave for me under the Easter egg tree this year?

Yes I will be twenty-six next month and yes I still get presents on Easter. I’m not ashamed to admit it.
But there is one thing surrounding this holiday that really kind of makes it my favorite. What, you may ask? Come on, it should be obvious by now. What with all my talk of all things sweet. DUH peeps, it’s the candy!! There’s no holiday candy better than Easter candy.

Easter candy and I have a love/hate relationship. Each year I eagerly await the advent of Cadbury Mini Eggs (they tried to bring em out in red and green and white for Christmas but really, they just weren’t the same…I wanted to like them, really I did. But the colors messed everything up for me - that and the fact that eggs and Santa don't really go together).

I worship you, Easter colored Cadbury Mini Eggs, you delicious melt-in-your-mouth chocolates surrounded by that pretty, pastel, thin, crunchy, candy shell. You are without a doubt the most delicious candy in all the land!

This year, though, I’ve been acutely aware and very sensitive of my relationship with Mini Eggs. I’ve grown to - gasp - resent them. They've made me behave like a madwoman. I can’t believe a harmless little purple bag of Heaven has transformed me into a nut job who's one step away from the chick with the chicken in Girl, Interrupted.

Last week I swindled my coworker into going to CVS with me to get, you guessed it, Easter candy. Immediately I noticed a bag of Miniature Reese's Peanut Butter Cups that had been torn open. There they were, those sparkling pink and green and gold and blue foiled treats, glinting like a mermaid's scales amongst a sea of Skittles and Snickers and Starbursts. I had barely scanned the area for informants before my hand struck, a snake attacking it's prey. I snatched two, three, four of the waylaid Cups and plunged them into my pocket. My co could hardly believe her eyes. What oh what have I become!

My animalistic demise began when those g-d Mini Eggs had the nerve to come out before Valentine’s Day was even over. Then they went on sale before Easter even arrived. And of COURSE Easter has to be super duper late this year. The universe is against me. I’ve become one of those psychotic Y2K hoarders. Anxiety has forced me to stash away as many bags of Mini Eggs as possible because I know that inevitably, like every year, they will soon be no more. Poof! And they’re gone.

So there they sit, those most holy stockpiled bags, tied up in a Duane Reade bag (like that will offer any protection from my rabid paws). I know they’re bad but they call out to me, enticing me, like the stupid ring in Lord of the Rings, and I just can’t say no. They always, always win. Defeated, I run to my cabinet, untie the "protective" Duane Reade bag, and select my purple pouch of poison. I don’t stop until all the eggs are gone.

I hate you Mini Eggs, why do you have to be so good??
And then there’s the jellybeans. Starburst jellybeans, to be precise. I used to be a big Teenie Beanie fan. Jelly Belly’s were also a fave. But Starburst, I’ve learned, are really where it’s at. Seriously, they must sprinkle crack in the gelatin because once I rip open bag I can’t stop until there’s nothing but nothing.

What scares me most about those delicious Starburst jellybeans, though, is that they’re available all year round. Why oh why oh why do I act maniacal, like they’re only here for a limited time? It’s crack I tell you, crack! Shit yo. I'm so screwed.
Some people think the Cadbury Creme Eggs with faux yellow yolk are repulsive. I, perhaps somewhat unfortunately, think they're scrumptious. Especially when the white and yellow sugar is nice and oozy – I don't particularly love when I get an egg and the sugar has solidified a little. Makes me think I’m eating foam or something. But I still gobble it, obvi. Again, they're only around for a short while.

But the King's of all stupid King’s, the crowing Easter candy glories, are by far and away contained within the walls of Jacques Torres. It’s so very, very unfortunate that I work across the street from this mouthwatering chocolate-confection-concoctery. It is the Willy Wonka Factory of New York City. Sick, sick, sick. Regular-sized Oompa Loompas in white coats and hats create cute and cuddly calves, ginormous lambs, colossal eggs, bright red roosters…pretty much any animate and inanimate object you associate with Easter, they make.

I sit at my desk, trying my hardest to focus on the Excel spreadsheet at hand, but oversized bunnies of delicious dark chocolate, milk chocolate, and white chocolate hop and dance before my eyes. I can’t take it Thumper, I want to bite your head off! Why do you have to tempt me so!

So really, Easter candy is a dankes-but-no-dankes. Perhaps it's a dankes-too-much that it, by default, becomes a no dankes.

Either way, I'm looking forward to May and the disappearance of Easter candy fo sho.

Now I just have to figure out how to get those stupid Starburst jellyb's out of my head...

Rain, rain go away...and DON'T come again some other day.

Gotta love NY1’s Weather on the 1’s. But when I tuned in at 8:21 last night, I was greeted with “Leave those sunglasses at home tomorrow, it’s going to be another gray, rainy day.”

Rain: I am so over you.


I know, I know. April showers bring May flowers and Mayflowers bring peasants and all that crap. But come on. It’s only the 7th of the month – and out of seven days, it’s been peeing rain for five. Now I’m no mathematician but that’s, like, 71.42857% of the time. 

Woof.

I know I always say how fabulous New York is (because, well, it is) - but there are a few issues I’ve got some beef with. Tippity top on the list is that I absolutely, positively abhor New York when it rains. Not to be a braggart or anything but I walk to work. After only eight and a half short minutos, I am at the office – and that is practically the best thing ever…

…EXCEPT WHEN IT’S RAINING. There’s nothing worse than NYC in a monsoon. It’s a pedestrian city and it absolutely sucks when you have to walk to work (or anywhere else). 99% of the time, my other-borough-dweller co’s hate me and my commute. But this month, the roles have been reversed. I’ve hated them and their cushy, sheltered LIRR trains for 71.42857% of the time. Sure, they have to walk two or three blocks from the subway. But I have to walk eight and a half minutes worth of blocks! Gah! I look like a bedraggled, sopping, muddy dog when I walk into the office. Actually I take that back. NYC pooches have raincoats – which is more than I can say for myself.

Come on Zeus, the recession is punishing this city enough. No need to continue bombarding us with the rain! Get your geography straight, yo. This isn’t Forks, Washington. There is no family by the name of Cullen (though I would love, love, love if Edward was a Manhattanite).

In the movie Sabrina, Audrey Hepburn – Sabrina – tells Humphrey Bogart – Linus – that when he travels to Paris he should order himself some rain. That there’s nothing better than Paris in the rain. Ha! I'll admit Paris does seem pretty glamorous in a downpour. But I must beg to differ when it comes to New York. I think there’s nothing better than NYC in the sunshine. So come onnnnn. Rain, rain, go AWAY! Nobody likes you. Everybody hates you! Now go eat worms (the ones on the sidewalk that come out in the stupid rain, gross).

Brats of the Brunch Table

Yesterday was a beautiful day in NYC. The first lovely Sunday of spring. So I guess, in retrospect, I should have known better.

Of course the Brunch Brats would be out in full force. Of course they would! I suppose they come with the territory of living in this spectacular city. It's just part of the weekend grind – like waiting in line for twenty minutes at Whole Foods or having to avoid a tourist-ridden SoHo. Gah. It just really, really, really puzzles me as to why these girls get all decked out to go to brunch. It’s not dinner on a Friday night. It’s not cocktails on a Saturday. It’s mimosas with a side of homefries, coffee, and pancakes.

Please, pray tell girls, what is the point of getting all decked out, of spending more than two-and-a-half minutes picking out clothes? Of putting together an outfit? Of brushing your hair? And really – you’re really going to put that much makeup on? For reals? Do you think you're going to pick up guys? At brunch? Come on.

The only rationalization I can come up with is that the Brunch Brats live and die for egg white omelets and skim lattes on sunny Sunday afternoons. They don’t happy-hour-it-up Friday night, and they CERTAINLY do not party their pretty little pants off on Saturdays till 4am. Because let me tell you, if they were drinking anything remotely in the familia de alcohol, they would not – I repeat, NOT give two tatas about what they looked like for Sunday Brunch. They wouldn't have the wherewithal to look “cute” and “put together”. They would be hungover like the rest of us.

Don’t get me wrong, I love brunch. Huevos Rancheros is possibly my second favorite food ever (especially from Cornelia St. Café). The difference is that I don’t give a schmee what I look like. Yesterday I donned yoga pants, a sweatshirt, and sneaks to brunch. Did not brush my hair. And most certainly did NOT put a single swipe of makeup on my face. Methinks going forward, in a boycott of all Brunch Brats, that shall be my uniform of choice. Yes, even to Stanton Social (the horror!)

And come on girls, just order cream for your coffee. Skim is stupid.

Suri, You Suck

Yes. Yes I'll admit that I follow the lives of celebrities more than I pay attention to politics. I can rattle off the names of Brangelina's brood - first and middle - without blinking. But ask me to name the last six presidents and, well...I'll plead the Fifth.

Celebrity chillens are adorbs. As they should be - those genes! There is one celebuspawn, though, that I absolutely cannot stand. Suri Cruise: no dankes! You are not cute! Stop trying to be! You are a little diva who covers hear ears and her eyes the second your gross parents take you outside the walls of their fortress du jour. You are not a princess Suri, you are a Devil.

My deep rooted dislike of Suri arose before she was even born. Everyone has seen Tom Cruise's infamous jaunt on Oprah's couch, gloating over his little wifey-to-be, Katie Holmes. Makes me throw up a little in my mouth every time I see it.
UGH.

I can't wait till Suri and Shiloh are in high school. Shi, who makes even nose-picking super adorable, is undoubtedly going to be the most popular kid around. She's going to set a record for most Senior Superlatives won - i.e. Most Likely to Succeed, Best Smile, Most Unique, Best Dressed, Most Creative. She'll go to Stanford or Yale, all the while following in the philanthropic footsteps of her gorgeous 'rents.

Suri, on the other hand, will receive but one Superlative: Biggest Spaz. She'll get wait-listed at FSU and end up being nothing but a stupid socialite like Paris.

No dankes Tom Tom. No dankes Katie "Can't Act to Save My Life" Holmes. And NO DANKES SURI!