IMO*: Unacceptable

(*in my opinion)

I've recently seen people sporting these around the city. WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT ARE YOU DOING? Is the concrete-terrain too rugged for you? Planning to take a dip in the East River or the Hudson and need some water proof shoes?

Speaking of rivers, I would be just as distressed if I saw these while tubing in San Marcos - at least in that case there would be a logical reason for these monstrosities.

No ... Just no.

N.S.F... EVER.

Apparently one of the rooms (roommates) and I had an extra good time last night, judging by the mysterious stain on the shower curtain. I feel like the action leading to the evidence is one you should generally be able to remember. But none of us do - or just aren't copping to it.

Either way, I find myself wondering if we should be more responsible at this stage in life. Sometimes I feel like my 20's have just been an extension of my college boozing days. Well, more or less compressed into weekends and the occasional Thursday night. I mean, I do have a job after all...

And in case you didn't know, my wonderful alma mater has earned the title "#1 Party School" on several occasions. Transfer that kind of training into a place where bars line every block and stay open until 4am (LP calls this Disneyland for grown-ups) and what can you expect?

Anyway, the rooms and I threw the offending shower curtain into the washing machine and forgot about it. No harm done.

Which was certainly unlike my last experience with unexplained "messes" in the bathroom - the one that traumatized me for life. I'll give you the short and to-the-point version that I shared with friends and Momma J the next day:

"Apparently, The Daughter and/or one of her family members believes that it is appropriate to use the toilet brush as a plunger, thereafter replacing it (and other ... large... things…) in the holder."

I blame The Mister. It's just the kind of disgusting thing he would do.

Cheap Apt : New York :: Skyscraper : Texas

Like I said before, this whole blog thing started because I wanted to – no HAD to – share my ridiculous stories of the New York fam that took me in (so to speak). The Crazies rented an astronomically-priced apartment for the Daughter in the East Village. They offered to charge me a fraction of the rent as long as I was willing to give up my room every “6 weeks or so” when they decided to fly up from Texas to visit.

6 weeks my ass. It was actually more like every 3 weeks or so that I found myself displaced onto the couch. At first I didn’t mind, as I hadn’t yet experienced the full extent of the crazy. After a while, I got tired of finding The Mister’s smelly shirts hanging in my closet, and politely going along with The Missus and her attempts to make me help her analyze The Daughter and her downward spiral.

But there were perks, so I stayed put. Expensive dinners, a few shopping trips, and LOW RENT were among the reasons I stuck it out. Along with the endless fodder produced by their visits, which I used to entertain my friends.

Forgive me for sounding shallow, but we’re not talking low rent in some crap apartment. That would be low rent in a duplex apartment with, a huge living room/kitchen/half-bath downstairs, and 2 huge bedrooms/full bath upstairs. For just the two of us. Well, and the Mister and Missus when they came to visit. If you live in New York, you understand what this means. Amazing.

(The courtyard in the middle of my old apt complex)

What can I say, real estate is a precious commodity in this city. It was worth disinfecting my room every 3 weeks or so. Well, most of the time.

And, let’s face it, I probably wouldn’t have cleaned it that often otherwise …

Ditching the crutches.

Crutch: A device used for assistance or support.

A few days ago, three weeks post-surgery, I got rid of the crutches. Three weeks of hobbling around the city was rough, although, I was impressed with how sympathetic people were. City life sometimes seems so desensitizing. There are so many of us crammed into such little space. So many stimulants that cause us to cultivate indifference.

But the crutches made people notice. They helped me hail cabs. They gave up their seats on the bus. They griped at others who didn't. They offered to carry my groceries. They offered to make coffee runs. Sometimes-indifferent friends became concerned-supportive ones.

So in a way, they did provide assistance, support. In another, they were almost debilitating. Part of me has hardened into the consummate role of jaded New Yorker - I can and will be independent and do it all myself. This is hard for a person on crutches. You can't do it all yourself.

Which is when I realized, that sometimes I don't want to do it all myself. Sometimes I start looking for that other person to provide stability, support.

And then the New Yorker tells me to move back to Texas if that's what I really want. Because people don't move to New York to settle down.

The Master Cleanse.

No, not that master cleanse. I’m talking about the Facebook Master Cleanse. About a week or so ago, I conducted an FB purge, cutting ties with any one-time hookups or fair weather friends whom I have no interest in keeping tabs on in touch with.

Feeling proud of myself, I eventually took it one step further and began to “hide” any people whose updates solicited instantaneous eye-rolls or feelings of irritation.

Most of my New York “boyfriends” (along with our mutual friends) made this list, save one. Reasoning escapes me at this point, because I’m pretty sure that 6 or 7 failed attempts to hang out qualify him for the TOP of the “I don’t want any reminders of you” list.

But apparently, some part of me was still curious, maybeeven holding out hope that we’d eventually hang out, despite the LP’s numerous reminders that he seems like (and acted like) a complete douchebag.

The offending update that finally relegated him to hidden status?

Seemingly inoffensive, yes. But further confirmation of the fact that he and I are pretty much the same person (minus the alleged douchebaggery) – same interests, same taste in movies/music/tv shows, blah, blah, etc.

[ And I have to add, that I absolutely loved that song before they put it in an effing car commercial ... ]

Anyway, suffice it to say, our level of banter was pretty awesome – I’m sure we both fancied ourselves super witty and amusing.

Then, nothing. Per usual.

Dating in the City is hard – I have a friend who writes a blog solely on this topic (Guide to Menhattan – check it out!). So you would think having things in common with someone from the onset would help, right?

Apparently wrong.

One more status update from him proclaiming one of my faves his faves just might put me over the edge:

 I need no further reminders of my failed dating attempts in NYC.

'I want to wake up in a city that never sleeps'

The Fall before I moved to New York, the City and I had our first official date. As with most first dates, I was indescribably nervous. What if the City and I didn’t get along? What if we didn’t mesh well after all?

I mean, I'd done my research online – the equivalent of Facebook stalking any new prospect (I do it, you do it, we all do it. Even if you won’t admit to it). From my experience, sometimes this is helpful. Other times, my preconceived and sometimes entirely contrived notions end up being dead wrong.

Obviously the next step in these situations is to ask your mutual friends to weigh-in, to get their insight on whether or not they think this might work out, or if it’s best not to even try. In this case, the only way to know for sure, they said, is to meet and find out.

So I booked a ticket to go stay with my Heterosexual Life Partner (LP) at her parent’s house in Long Island for a long weekend.

Before I go any further, I have to officially introduce the LP. We met in the Spring of 2006 in another fabulous city, Barcelona. After 8 hours crossing the pond (plus a 4 hour layover in the London airport) I walked nervously into my new home of the next 3 months to find the LP. Phew.

Obviously, it was love at first sight. We spent the next 3 months pretending to speak fluent Spanish and breaking hearts all over Barca. Then she went back to GW and I went home to Texas with promises of reunion in the near future.

After spending my entire life in Texas – growing up there and going to college in that same city – my time in Barca helped me realize that I needed a change. The fact that the LP moved home to Long Island after we both graduated had a lot to do with my decision to stop wishing I could move to New York and actually do it instead.

Before scheduling my first date, I went through the typical wardrobe crisis. Obviously, I wanted to make a good first impression. I spent $100 on a new interview outfit and another $200 on a new coat (we don’t really own those in Texas) which I never really even wore.

Of course, Momma J air-mailed LP’s family about 15 lbs. of Salt Lick BBQ – naturally – as a “thank you” for letting me stay with them for the weekend. Texans do everything big, in case you hadn’t heard. It arrived on the LP’s doorstep shortly after I did. Apparently, that was more than enough to win me an honorary spot in the family as far as LP’s dad was concerned. Good start.

Friday morning, I dressed for my job interview and LP dropped me off at the train station, subway directions in hand. Luckily, the office was right next to a stop on the 4 5 6, so my chances of getting irretrievably lost were minimal.

Reflecting back, I don’t remember much about that interview. I was pretty overwhelmed by the fancy office in SoHo and the movie-worthy view they had of downtown Manhattan. I can say, however, that it must not have gone so well as they never got back to me. I don’t blame them – I didn’t want to be a media buyer, I just wanted a reason to move to the sparkly city.

With that out of the way, I headed back to the subway to meet LP for some tourist action.

We hit the Museum of Natural History, had a leisurely stroll through Central Park, and a stop at Dylan’s to see the rainbow walls of candy before having a pre-dinner frozen hot chocolate at Serendipity. We had dinner in Time Square (I told you – tourist action …) at Carmine’s with the pre-theatre crowd before heading back to Long Island.

We spent the rest of our time terrorizing the island, making ridiculous boyfriends – me and the HLP’s favorite past time. It was Barca in the States and I was in love; first date success!

As much as I loved my steady relationship with Texas, I decided that it was time for us to go on a break.

Dear New York Mag ...

I love you, but ... really?!?

I'll comply with "the sweater is striped," as long as it's not this particularly heinous one.

Psychic? Or just plain psycho ...

My move to New York City was predicted by a psychic. I had never spoken with a psychic before. Technically, I still haven't consulted one, although this particular psychic maintained a recurring guest role in my day-to-day life for quite a while.

While I'm not sure that I believe in psychic abilities, I can say without a doubt, that I believe most things happen for a reason, and that others are just meant to be. I always envisioned moving to the East coast post-graduation, and knew that I would eventually make it happen. The "how" escaped me for a while, but I persisted.

Interviewing for jobs across the country wasn't easy. I wasn't being taken seriously and I'm sure that the nervous, frenetic energy I harbored crept into my voice during the interviews that I did manage to secure. I stuck with it, and eventually found a job, immediately quiting the internships I had taken in an attempt to keep busy and productive during my job-quest.

Even though I had been out of school for 9 months, I finally felt like the next phase of my life was about to begin.

And once the realization sunk in that "moving to the East coast" actually meant moving, I started to panic about the housing situation. Sure, interviewing for jobs was hard, but finding an apartment would be impossible …

Cue mysterious phone call from a family friend, informing us that another mutual friend was roommate-hunting for her daughter. Not only was it perfect timing, but (as I may have mentioned) seemingly preordained as well. After contacting the mutual friend to inquire about the room, Momma J – was told the story of the psychic prediction.

After having problems filling their empty room, the family consulted a psychic. “Not to worry. A girl with long brown hair, that your daughter already knows, will move into the apartment within three months."

Because, naturally, who wouldn't consult their psychic when having problems finding a suitable roommate for their daughter?

And as predicted, here I am living in the City. New York and I shared the first year of our relationship intertwined with one of the most amazingly eccentric, astoundingly bizarre, "old money" New York families. While I lived with the Daughter, Momma J was back in Texas with the matriarch of the family, fondly (as far as I can tell) referred to by her husband as "the Missus."

The original purpose of this blog was to serve as a chronicle of my life with the crazy Daughter. Of course the Mister and Missus played a big part in that story as well. While I’ve since moved on from my relationship with the family, the crazy has pretty much remained a constant in my relationship with New York – how could it not?

Even though I’ve moved out of that first apartment – and on from the idea of keeping a blog about it – I still find myself bolting out of bed in the middle of the night to scribble notes about stories I want to write down and develop further. After months of this, I’ve decided to push aside my laziness and actually act on my impulse to write it all down. After all, I’ve always enjoyed writing as a form of catharsis, having kept journals on and off for as long as I can remember.

So welcome to my first foray into blogging (unless you count that emo-teen-angst Xanga blog I had in high school …) Hopefully the ramblings of one Southern girl turned City (one among many others, I know) will entertain – at least a little.