In which I think I'm going to have to get a new overcoat

I worked today. I don't love working on Saturday, but it's ok for two reasons:

1) Overtime pay; and

2) Nobody bothers me and I can actually get things done.

But it is still work and after eight straight hours I was ready to go home. When I left the office it was drizzling a bit and I had left my umbrella at home but I thought I would be ok because I was wearing my green raincoat. Just when I'd almost forgotten the adventures I've had in that thing...

I was a few blocks out when I realized that I was supposed to pick up a prescription from the pharmacy by the office today, so I turned around and went back. It began to pour and I got drenched pretty quickly. I mean drenched. Soaked. Sopping wet. Rain dripping off my hair. I think it even rained into my purse. So I was happy to get my prescription and get to the subway.

I waited briefly for the 7 train and took it across to Times Square, where I waited for the uptown 1. Luckily the platform was pretty clear and I could sit down on one of the benches. I was still dripping wet from head to toe and desperate to get home. But no sooner had I sat down then I gentleman approached me. And when I say gentleman, I mean a weird looking guy wearing ...some sort of goggles. Sort of like a scuba mask, but maybe they were really racquetball or squash goggles. Remember how adorable Hugh Grant looked in Notting Hill when he wore his scuba mask to the movies?

Yeah, it was nothing like that.

He (the weird guy, not Hugh Grant) said "Do you want to come back to my place and party with me?"

"No, thank you," I replied

"Come on, come back to my place and we'll party."

"I don't think so."

"Just come to my place with me," he insisted.

"No, thank you," I said, firmly.

"My roommate's a faggot." I suppose that was intended to make me feel comfortable about going home with some random guy I met on a subway platform who was WEARING GOGGLES. It didn't work. I just got up and walked away from him and he went on to torment someone else, I suppose. By that time I had lost my seat on the bench, so I was waiting by a pillar.

Oh, but wait! He came back.

"I didn't mean to bother you, I just wanted to-" I walked over towards a group of men who were NOT wearing any sort of eyewear. He went away for good this time.

The train finally came and I got home fine. I just wonder what it is about me that attracts the wackos. I think it might have something to do with that damn green coat.

Dear ET*:

Thank you for your order for a new blog entry. We would like to inform you that your request is currently being processed, and we will notify you as soon as said blog entry is available.

We here at Rich and Fancy welcome the opportunity to serve you. We also would like to remind you that we strive to provide you with quality blog entries (see: toilet paper; hemhorroids), which sometimes take a little longer than normal to develop, and we therefore appreciate your patience.

We realize that you have a choice of blogs and we thank you for choosing Rich and Fancy.

Sincerely,

Fancy Pants

RichandFancy.blogspot.com

*ET is my sister. I have not lost my mind and begun writing blog entries to martians.

In which I throw you a rambling, senseless bone

I am in a pickle. I love that saying "in a pickle," because it makes absolutely no sense. How can you be in a pickle? You'd have to get all meta-physical and start talking about how our atoms really exist in multiple places at once and then we'd have to talk about parallel universes again, and before you know it, you're scraping your brains off the wall.

Anyways, in a pickle I am. Because I have run out of toilet paper. I don't really know how it happened, but I came home this evening and went to the bathroom and used the last of it. The very last of it. No tissues or paper towels. Not even any coffee filters. Suddenly I am living like a GUY. (Once my friend A and I went over to these guys' house. They had two bathrooms. And no toilet paper in either one. No tissues. No paper towels. NO APOLOGIES. Gross.)

This did not happen because I can't afford to buy toilet paper (although that might have been a possibility a few weeks ago). I actually forgot to get some on the way home from work is all. Oooh, I need toothpaste, too.

I realize that I am just being stubborn by not going out to get any tonight, but I won't, because of those five flights of stairs I have to walk up. FIVE. I already walked up them once today. I'm not doing it again. Listen, if you had to walk up all those effing stairs, you would weigh your options, too. When I run errands on the weekends, I try to do everything that needs to be done before going back home, usually laden with grocery and drugstore bags. By the time I get to my door, I'm sweating and panting, but at least I got it all up to the top.

My one big treat that I occasionally indulge in is having my laundry picked up and dropped off. Man, I love that! They come up and get it, then they bring it all back, up all those stairs, and it is CLEAN and FOLDED. Keep your speed boats and Cristal. That, my friends, is the definition of luxury.

Ok, I just located a paper napkin and am checking my purse for kleenex. I'll let you know how it goes.

Keeping my fingers crossed to make it till morning!

In which I get a whole compliment

My mother called me this morning while I was at work. It always freaks me out when my parents call me during the weekday. I usually assume someone is either in the hospital or dead, so I get really nervous when I see the phone number. I missed the call and it went to voicemail, so I called right back. My mom answered.

"Did you call me?" I asked

"Yes, I did," she replied. "I left a voicemail."

"Well, what did you say?"

"Just listen to the voicemail."

And we hung up.

Uh, ok. Weird. So I waited for the voicemail to pop up on my phone. And waited. And waited and waited and waited. Just when I was about to call her back and make her tell me what she said, the voicemail showed up on my iPhone (greatest invention EVER, with fire coming in a distant second).

My mom greets me and then identifies herself by saying: "this is your mother." Yeah, thanks Mom. Because I had no idea it was you, seeing as how I haven't heard that voice at least once a week for the last, well, let's just say over thirty years. I'll bet the entire internet two hundred and fifty thousand dollars that my mom just replied "yeah, WAAAYYY over." She's a charmer, that one.

Really, both my parents a pretty quirky. For instance, they always split things at meals. Like the world might end if one of them ate an ENTIRE piece of fruit or drank a whole soda at lunch.

"Honey, do you want to split this Dr. Pepper?" my dad will ask.

"Sure. Do you want to split an apple with me or an orange?" my mother will answer. Then later, before dinner she'll ask my dad: "Honey, do you want half of this beer?"

"Yeah, I'll take half that, sure," he'll respond.

Then, after dinner, they'll fight about who will clean up. And I don't mean they throw down and argue, accusing the other of never doing things around the house, I mean, they fight because they each WANT to clean up.

"No, Bob. You sit down and read your paper."

"No, I'm happy to clean up."

"I can do it. It's fine."

"Joyce, sit down and relax. I'll clean up."

"No no, honey. Don't you want to watch your news shows?"

It's seriously twisted.

But getting back to my mom's message. I guess she had just read my last blog entry, because she said,

"This is your mother. And I think you're incredible, too."

Thanks, Mama. I love you, too.

In which I pull yet another crackbrained move...incredibly

Cognitive therapy is all about changing the way you think and is especially helpful if you have a lot of negative thoughts. You know, like when you make a mistake and all you focus on is how stupid you were and what a boneheaded move it was and now, well, your life is over and you should just die. If you have a flair for the dramatic. Like me.

But please. Let me illustrate for you the result of two years of cognitive therapy.

So, we all knew it was going to happen: I did something wrong in my new job and I got yelled at. I deserved it really, because what I did was pretty stupid, and I knew it was the wrong thing when I did it. Hey, cognitive therapy helps change your thinking, it doesn't keep you from making idiotic snap decisions.

I'd love to tell you what I did, because it's pretty laughable, but work blah blah blahbitty blah you know I can't. So we have to leave it at I did something dumb and knew it was a mistake WHILE I WAS DOING IT. Anyway, I went to my boss to confess it, because I cannot stand knowing that I did something wrong and just waiting for the ax to fall.

"I think I just made a mistake," I said.

"What did you do? What happened?" he asked.

I told him. It was clear he wasn't happy, and he expressed it in his classic lack-of-a-finished-sentence style. I stood there, feeling like the bottom was dropping out.

"No. You can't do that. You can't just do that kind of...this is a very sensitive...you can't do that. Don't ever do...don't ever do that again. You can't...how can you? Why would...look, I know that...initiative. And you're incredible. But you can't do that kind of thing. Don't ever do that...don't do that again. You can't...can you undo it? Can you stop...?"

"Yes. I think I can. I'll try. I'm sorry. I won't do it again." I replied. I ran back to my desk to fix the situation as best I could. Then, as usual, I did an instant replay of what my boss had said to me, and the one thing I focussed on?

Incredible. He said I am incredible.

And I focussed on the positive.

I'm positively incredible! Hee hee!

New York-y

Only in New York will you see a Mini Cooper limo. A PINK Mini Cooper limo.

And we've all lost socks in the dryer, but who has ever seen a flyer for one?

Only in NYC.

(Ok, it is ultimately an ad for a new store, but pretty clever, no?)

********

Lately I've had my air conditioner (a window unit that was a housewarming gift from my friend S) on all the time and the windows closed to shut out the heat and humidity. It sort of makes me feel isolated, because I can't hear the city. No voices or music or laughter. But the weather has cooled down considerably, at least for now, and it is feeling very fall-like. So I turned off the AC and the fans and opened all the windows last night. And I remembered what I've been missing: the drunken yelling, the honking, the sirens.

Ah, New York.

In which (insert something witty about decorating here)

BEFORE:

Ugh. That was pretty sad. And uncomfortable. But, we do what we have to until we can do better, right?

DURING:

Definitely better, especially the bed. But it's not done yet. This photo is my inspiration:

And it also happens to be the view outside my window.

I was thinking maybe a couple of these on the walls. Would zebra print throw pillows be too much? What should I do about lamps?

Any other ideas on how to bring the outside in?

...and STAY out!

I've mentioned that I have a new position at my job. The first week was pretty dramatic - lots of rushing around, staying really late and running (literally running) to court to file stuff. You understand, as I have explained before, I won't really talk about work, as I would prefer to keep my job at this time. So you'll have to be content to know that I deal with things, stuff, items, papers, pleadings, and any other synonyms I can come up with.

Ok, so, I had to go pick up this order that was supposed to be signed when I got there, only it wasn't. I had to walk it to the courtroom and ask the judge to sign it. I freaked out a bit and called the attorney for whom I was working. I had to talk quietly, as I was in the echoing marble hallways of the courthouse.

"I have to take it to the judge," I hissed. "What do I do if he asks me questions?"

"Ok, here's the deal," she began, and proceeded to detail the case to me in case I got questioned about it.

I went over it in my mind, and by the time I got done, I was pounding a lectern like Jimmy Stewart in Mr. Smith Goes to Washington. Meanwhile, in real life, I dropped off the order with the clerk and was told to come back to pick it up. "The judge has a jury trial," she said, "so come back in about thirty minutes and we'll have it ready for you."

Hmpf. No grandstanding for me. No applause. Just waiting on a bench for a signature. Waiting. And waiting and waiting and waiting. And waiting. For hours, literally, for the lawyers to stop talking so I could get in there and get my signed order.

Finally, I went into the courtroom to wait, thinking that maybe my presence would speed things along. So I sat inside and waited. And waited and waited and waited oh my god with the waiting. The bailiff presented the judge, who looked like he was about 178 years old, with my order and he shrugged it off. He announced he didn't have time to read it as he had plans to go out of town. Out of town! Without signing my order? Nuh-uh.

The bailiff brought the order over to me. "He can't sign it tonight. Sorry. Come back Monday."

"Monday? I can't wait till Monday," I replied. "We requested this be expedited. It really needs to be signed today."

"Sorry."

"Listen, I understand the Judge has to go now, but, please, if there is any way he can sign this tonight, I'd really appreciate it. You see, our client-"

"Sorry. The Judge is leaving. You'll have to come back Monday."

"Please. Please. Can you please just ask him if he can just take a few minutes to look it over?" I begged.

"I'm sorry, ma'am." He wouldn't budge.

"But we need to get this signed right away. Our client is trying to -"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. The judge is a busy man, he doesn't have time to read your order. I told you to come back Monday. Now, I'm going to have to ask you to leave the courtroom. Now."

It's not like I got escorted out by my elbows, but there it is. I got thrown out of court.

I'd like to say I left there with a signed order, but I didn't. That stuff only happens on television. We didn't have to wait until Monday, though. I went the next day with some backup (0ne of my bosses) and we got the order signed by another judge. It took a couple of hours and there was some hoop-jumping, but we ultimately got what we needed.

And I got to flirt with the Ex Parte clerk. But that's another story for another day.

In which I write a post that would be great if you could fry it up and dip it in ranch dressing before stuffing it down your gullet

I had a plan to come home this evening and start writing the story of when I got thrown out of court, but note the time, please.  I just got home from work about an hour ago.  

I'm really liking my new position in the litigation department.  I feel like it is a little more intellectually stimulating than what I was doing before, so I'm enjoying it so far.  Of course, I haven't gotten yelled at yet, so we'll see. 

In the meantime, it's a lot of work and it's really cutting in to my sitting around time, so tonight's post will have to be in note form:

• I had a greek salad for dinner at work tonight.  My breath smells like onions.
• I traded out my regular deodorant for the aluminum-free kind, but I think I forgot to put it on today.  I kept smelling food all morning, and then around noon I realized that it was my armpits.  They smell like onions.

I have to go to bed now and dream of, you guessed it: onions.

In which I recount a story that is totally not funny AT ALL

So I have several stories to tell, but I'm not sure in which order.  I suppose chronological is best, so maybe Fancypants: Kat Killer should be first.  

I mentioned that I was house/cat/fish sitting a couple of weeks ago.  While the fish were plotting world domination, the cats, Lucky and Grey Kitty, mostly hid from me.  Lucky would show up and let me give her her thyroid medicine and pet her for a bit while I watched cable (cable!), but then would usually disappear for the rest of the evening.  Grey Kitty was generally nowhere to be found.  

Wednesday evening before I went home, I stopped in to talk to the head of the litigation department to let him know I was interested in a position that was rumored to be opening up.  We talked for a bit and I headed for the fancy apartment with all the free wine.  I found Lucky and gave her her medicine, after which she went away from me and hid.  I thought this was weird, because usually she hung around after the medicine for a little attention.  But whatever, I mean, cats are weird.  I'm a dog person myself.  They're all waggy and they follow you around and loooooooove you.  Cats eye you suspiciously and then get in your face and make you sneeze and then purr in that sweet kitty-cat way and then shun you.  So I don't really know how to read them.

Anyhoo, I went to bed early, as I had to run an errand to court as early as possible in the morning to file a thing.  Naturally, I woke up late, and therefore HYSTERICAL, as I was supposed to be AT COURT FILING A THING, for heaven's sake!  I freaked out, ran to the bathroom and got in the shower.  When I was done, I noticed that there was something on the bath mat.  One of the kitties had obviously peed on the mat, and there was blood in the urine.  Neither of them was anywhere around.  I got ready and ran out of the apartment and down to court (to file the thing).  When I got to the office, I called my boss for whom I was house/cat/terrorist fish sitting, and left a message on her voice mail asking for the vet's name and number.  Since I wasn't able to reach her, I started looking for an emergency vet.  In the meantime, a coworker came to me desperate for help with a time-sensitive project, so I had to enlist the help of the office receptionist to find a vet for the kitty.  

Now, never mind that I didn't know exactly which kitty was the bath mat pee culprit.  For all I knew, it could've been that big blue fish with the yellow tail trying to mess with my head. I did suspect it was Lucky, because she had been acting so strangely the night before.  We found a vet that was very close to the apartment, but they told me they couldn't treat Lucks without proof of ownership or permission from the owner.  

"What am I supposed to do if I can't get a hold of her?" I asked.

"I don't know ma'am.  I'm sorry.  We just can't do it.  It's the law," she replied.  

It's not the law.  Of course it's not the law.  I suppose it is their right to have their own rules, but it makes me question whether they really have the animals' best interests at heart.  I mean, what am I going to do, abduct someone's cat and take it to the vet for a rabies shot WITHOUT THEIR PERMISSION?  It just doesn't seem right.  Snobbish upper east side animal hospital.  Anyway, the desperate coworker I was helping called her vet (she was sympathetic, as she is a cat person), explained the situation and got me an appointment.  No proof of ownership needed, and they would bill my boss.  Nice.

I worked through lunch, drank a lot of coffee and finally got to three o'clock, when I left to get the cat for the appointment.  When I got home, she was laying on the living room rug wheezing and she had thrown up all over the entry way, poor thing.  No doubt Lucky was the sick one; I found an old towel, scooped her up and ran outside to get a taxi.  Luckily we got a really sweet cab driver who got us there without jostling us too much, though Lucky cried and wheezed all the way.  

When I got to the vet, the receptionist knew who I was and took us back to the exam room immediately.  The vet could tell right away that Lucks was pretty sick, so she took her away for a chest x-ray and some blood work.  I waited in the exam room, then in the waiting room.  When they finally called me back, the news wasn't good.  Lucky had a collapsed lung, fluid build up around her heart and lungs and blah blah blah de blah de bad stuff is wrong with her systems are failing recommend euthanasia.  

Euthanasia.  

Shit.  I have to put my boss's cat to sleep, I thought.

It all made sense, of course, the cat was in pain, that was obvious to me without a visit to the vet, but to put her down?  The whole idea was horrible to me.  

I called my boss and got voice mail.  "The vet said that Lucky's in pretty bad shape and she -"  my voice caught, "she thinks that," my voice cracked, "she's recommending," my voice broke, "euthanasia."  Then I finished brightly, "so, give me a call back!"  

She called me back pretty quickly: "Let me talk to the vet," she said.  I handed over the phone to the vet and continued to pet the wheezing Lucky, who was now on my lap.  The vet brought the phone back to me and my boss said, "I'm really sorry about all this.  Please give Lucky kisses and tell her goodbye for us."  

Then I started crying.  I did as I was told and then the vet gave Lucky a shot to tranquilize her as I kept petting her.  

I won't recount her death (the cat's, not the vet's), but suffice it to say that she went before she was ever euthanized.  I continued petting Lucky until after she was dead, and I cried like she was mine.  

Then I went back to work covered in cat hair.  Dead cat hair. 

Did I mention I'm allergic to cats?

On the upside, I think my boss felt so bad that she accepted my suggestion for a name for Grey Kitty.  She has now been deemed "Lucy".  And she has apparently become much more friendly than she ever was when Lucky was around. 

Hm.  Suspicious.

Maybe Lucy was the one plotting, not the fish.  

Spent

Yes, I know you're expecting something here, something witty and clever but it is 10:54 pm and I just got home from work.  I'm exhausted.  I can't even think of the next sentence.

I will tell you that in this past week, I have:

1) become a "Kat Killer"

2) done a film

3) gotten a new position at my job (I think, but without giving up my old position.  Caution: this can lead to a 13 hour day)

4) engaged in an altercation with an automobile and the yahoos in it.

I have been busy.

You might also be looking for a new post here; I will update that one soon, too, I promise.  

Go do some cat sitting while you are waiting.  You could get a really good and morose story out of it.

In which I might have had too much wine

I am house/cat/fish sitting this week for one of my bosses. She's actually one of my favorite people at work, because she's, well, awesome. She used to walk around the office saying "I LOVE ME!" and kissing herself on the arm. We should all have such good self-esteem. By her own account, she didn't have an easy young life, but she put herself through school and worked extremely hard and now is in a pretty high position at my workplace. She also has a husband and kids and cats and fish all in a nice apartment on the Upper East Side. She only left me the cats and fish for the week. And some wine.

Things are going well so far. One of the cats gets medicine and takes it very easily, so that's good. The other cat is supposedly one of the scared-y variety, but spent yesterday evening hanging around me and getting attention.

The only thing is - the fish. There are a number of them; saltwater, and they are beautiful. I am one of those people who is calmed by watching fish, and these are really lovely. They are all blue and purple and pink and yellow. Gorgeous. Except for I think they are plotting against me.

Look, I don't know what their plans are, but I know they are up to something. You know when you walk into a room and people stop talking in hushed tones and look at you? You know they are talking about you, right? Well, imagine walking into an apartment and looking at the saltwater fish tank when you come in and all the fish disperse. You can practically hear them say, "Cheese it! The Fuzz!" And then they swim around looking all innocent. Yeah, right. I know what's going on. I'm going to wake up one morning with a fish head on the pillow next to me, aren't I?

It's all the doing of that little stripey red fish. He always hides when I walk by the tank, swimming into the little caves, going under the coral, but I can tell he's the ring leader. It's always the innocent looking ones that are really out to get you. I SEE YOU, RED FISHY. I AM HERE FOR FOUR MORE DAYS. DON'T MAKE ME HAVE A FISH FRY.

In which I have an untapped ass-et

It's no secret that there's a lot of crazy around New York City.  Apparently it was out in full force today.   

I've taken to wearing my yoga pants to and from work, because I am either walking for exercise or I am all hot and sweaty from running to the subway because I'm late.  Usually it is the latter.  Anyway, I was coming home from work this evening and got off the bus at my usual stop.  I was struggling a little because I was carrying a small box of stuff and my pants were sliding down a little bit.  So I juggled a bit, pulled down my shirt and hiked up my pants, and about ten seconds later I heard a woman's voice say:

"If you want, I could represent your ass.  Very nice." 

Wait, what?

I looked back to see this tiny older woman behind me.  I thought for a second that she might be on the phone, but she wasn't.  And then, because I am sensitive about my size, I assumed she was being derogatory.  Don't acknowledge her, I thought.  Don't engage the crazy.  So about two nanoseconds later, I whipped around with, "WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY TO ME??!"  

"I'm an agent,"  she said.  "I could represent you."

Another woman walked by and said "No, she's not.  She's..." as she made the international sign for wack-a-doodle-ding-dong-doo. 

The older woman kept walking, saying "Lovely.  Just lovely."

Creepy.  

But now that I think about it, could my butt make some money somehow?  I mean, of course there is always the obvious, I know, but I'm not desperate enough for that.  Could there be some sort of fully covered ass modeling that I could do?  Could I teach it to do tricks?  Sing songs?  Play the French horn?  I'll have to see what I can come up with.

In which I get a haircut and a new name

You might ask me, "Fancy Pants", for that is what you call me, I know - "Fancy Pants," you might say, "why the hell haven't you updated in forever?"  

And I might say, "oh, shut up." 

Or, you might ask me "Fancy Pants, how is it you are able to maintain your fanciness when you are broke?  Broke-ity broke broke!"  

And I might say, "Well, dear reader, I am quite creative.  Par example, I saved $80 on a haircut this weekend."

Impressive, no?  I'm verah clevah.

I went to my usual New York walk-in salon at noon on Sunday and was told that they could take me at 3:00 pm.  It's not a walk-in salon, I think, when you have to make an appointment to, er, walk-in.   So I went to the barber shop by my apartment.  Yes, I said BARBER SHOP.  I stepped in, expecting to see Andy Griffith and his wacky gang of Mayberry friends, but the shop was empty.  I called out and a gentleman appeared from the back.  "Can you trim my hair?" I asked.  He nodded.  "You pick chair," he said.  So I sat.

"What you like?"  he asked.  "Um, trim it, " I replied.  My hair is short anyway - pixie-ish - like a boy's, so I figured he could do it.  

"Where you live?"  he asked.

"Right next door." 

"Oh! You neighbor! Good.  I am from Russia. You look Russian." 

"No.  Part of my family is Czech, though," I offered.

"Oh! Czech!  Close enough," he replied.

He was a sweetie.  By the end of my trim, he had taught me an Uzbekistani history lesson, assured me I would find love and given me a fairly decent haircut.  For 15 bucks.  

Who says rich and fancy has to be expensive?

In which I have a few things to say...confidentially

Confidential to Chuck Bass on Gossip Girl: 

You are a bad, bad boy.  With a heart of gold, though.  I am really pulling for you and Blair to get together in the long run, but in the meantime?  CALL ME.

Confidential to M:  

Please stop emailing me after work hours because I feel obligated to answer even though I am not on the clock and that really annoys me.

Confidential to Self: 

Stop checking your email after work hours.

Confidential to dooce.com: 

Congratulations on the new baby!  In the past, I have really enjoyed reading your blog.  I think you are a very clever, witty writer.  I even posted a link below in my blogroll (now removed).    I'm pretty peeved at you right now, though, considering you have been blogging about preparing for the baby, whom all of your readers have been anticipating meeting, and now you are holding off on photos and the baby's name.  

Now, listen: if you and your family want a little privacy,  I totally get that.  And I think even if you do blog about your life, you are entitled to keep an event like this private for a little while.  But don't tweet all through your labor, announce that the baby has arrived and that you are going to announce the name soon and then STILL don't post anything twenty four hours later.  Either post a photo and a name, or say "hey, we want to share this with you, but give us a little bit of privacy for a few days first."  You know we are waiting.  DON'T refuse to show the readers a photo of your baby and instead give us a pic of that shitty green jello and then post that everyone is "annoying".  Your behavior, Heather, is annoying.  You are being manipulative and incredibly disrespectful to your very loyal and supportive readers.  

Confidential to Jon:  CALL ME, YOU TALL DRINK OF TEQUILA.

Just watch this - it is Eddie Izzard set to Legos.  

I don't know - is just awesome:  http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sv5iEK-IEzw

In which I budget

It is hard to be rich and fancy on a budget.  I have been having some trouble making ends meet, what with all the money I spend on fancy stuff.  So this weekend I got tough with myself and got rid of cable and Netflix and downgraded my internet.  I still have to blog, you know.  Can't let my readers down.

One of my problems is cosmetics and hair products.  Now, I am out of foundation and am just doing without.  Luckily I have lots of eyeshadows in lots of colors.  What?  I bought them BEFORE the market went sour.  Thanks to me, the government will not have to spend millions to bail out MAC.  See?  I contribute to society.  You're welcome.

But the hair.  I am afraid that in LA I developed an addiction to spa quality hair products.  From Italy.  Yeah.  And now I am out of the shampoo and conditioner.  

I'm sure you just think I like to spend money (it's true, I do), but the reason I really like these products is that they don't aggravate my eczema and they don't make my scalp break out.   The drugstore brands irritate my poor little head.  Really.  Also, I think there might be a pea under my mattress.  Could someone be a love and come remove it for me?  Thanks ever so.

Luckily, one of my friends works at a major fashion magazine and is very generous with the freebies she gets.  If she can't use them, she passes them along to her friends.  She gave me a few products recently, so I used them to make tonight a spa night for myself.

Firstly, conditioner:

Nice.  My hair is very soft, and no hint of a breakout.

Next I addressed my need of a mani/pedi.  I miss getting one in the salon, but I can do it just as well at home.  My friend gave me OPI Miami Beet, which is supposed to be really hot for this season.

So I did my toes up with it.

How do they look?

Maybe not salon quality, but FREE!

Now, what to do about shampoo?  Shall I try to make my own?

In which I should have had some tasty, tasty water

I love New York.  This weekend was gorgeous, weather-wise.  Not too warm or humid, perfectly blue skies, lovely breeze.  Just like Los Angeles, only I got to have human contact TWO DAYS IN A ROW with people who actually have SOULS.  Nice.

On Saturday I shopped and coffee'd with friends and on Sunday I my friend S offered to take me out.  She is awesome and I adore her, but we hadn't seen each other in months (literally), so I was very excited about our late lunch.  

We started out with drinks and then...we drank some more.  See my tweet in the sidebar?  Um, I don't remember doing that.  Now, I really don't understand what happened.  We only drank champagne.  With a shot of grapefruit vodka in it.  So, four of those isn't really that much, right?  Or is that really like eight drinks?  I don't really know how to gauge it, except to show you this:

I believe this was supposed to be a visual aid to show S that I was tipsy enough to have crossed the line (see the line there?) between funny and obnoxious.  I'm pretty sure writing on your palm (when you are older than, you know, ten) is a pretty good indication of drunkenness.  Or lack of a notepad.  In my case it was both.

After the drinking, and some eating, to er, soak up the drink, I went home, sat on my fire escape pondering the beauty of New York and then fell asleep for three hours.  In my bed, that is, not on the fire escape.  I was then treated to a number of incredibly wild dreams, including one where I was presenting an award at a reformed Jewish temple where they sang Catholic hymns.   Next I dreamed that I had an extremely large office with windows, balconies and wrought iron railings, but couldn't decide where to put the desk.  Then I dreamed that I was holding a toddler who darted away from me, then saw a baby floating nearby who turned into a little glowing mohawked, punk rock kid who was shaking his head at me, telling me no.  Little brat.  Then I woke up myself up screaming.

After that delightful dream, I woke up every hour rather than actually sleeping through the night, which is what made me so miserably tired last night.  

Maybe I'm off the mark here, but I think it might have been the champagne.  And the vodka. 

I think next time I'll just stick with tequila.

In which I should have spoken up

I was watching an Oprah episode yesterday that had Suze Orman's guide to surviving the economy.  She talked about having an 8 month savings and contributing to your 401K and all that.  And she said that you should understand the difference between your needs and your wants and don't buy anything you don't need.

Turns out you don't need a lot of stuff.  Dangit.

I ran into one of my big bosses in the kitchen this afternoon.  He was looking for money.  Aren't we all, bub?  

"Do you have eighty-five cents?" he asked.

I patted myself down and said, "Not on me, sorry." 

"Well, usually I can only get what I want if I have exact change," he explained.  "I only have bills today.  Let's see what happens."  He put his dollar into the machine and successfully got his eighty-five cent Wheat Thins.  "You know," he said, as he began to make a cup of coffee, "you should just be able to forfeit your change."

"What?"

"You know, forfeit your change so that you can get what you want if you only have a dollar."

"Suze would not like that," I pointed out.

"Who?" he asked.

"Suze Orman.  She says you should save your change and put it in your savings account,"  I explained.  

He looked nonplussed.  "But I should be able to get what I want. "

  

"Ah ha!  Suze says that you have to figure out what it is you need and what you just want."

"Well, I could come to your house and take away a lot of things you have that you don't need.  I mean, you probably only need a couple of outfits-"

I wear the same pair of pants every day, so close enough, right?  I'm on board with that.

"-and probably only one pair of shoes-"

Check.  I wear tennis shoes every day, because otherwise I walk like Frankenstein.

 "-your makeup-"

Ok.  That'll save me some time in the morning.

"-jewelry..."

Whoa.  Wait a second, there.  "Jewelry?"  I asked.  "You want to take my jewelry?"  I hid my hand behind my back.  "You can't have my flower ring.  No."

"See?" He smiled.  "We all want something."

"Fine.  I said,  "You can have your Wheat Thins.  I'm keeping my ring."

"That's what I'm saying.  You should be able to have what you want."

That's when I left.  But now I realize I should've asked for a raise.  Or at least some nachos.

In which I play Nancy Drew

I have always been nosy.  In fact, I like to list it as one of my best character traits.  I can eavesdrop anyone under the table (even with the ringing in my ears), as well as read upside down.  That, coupled with the fact that I am good at reading people and my very active imagination make me a damn good detective.  My sister used to call me a busybody, like it was a flaw or something.  Of course, she was a teenager then and I was annoying.  Who can blame her?  She didn't know that I was training to be AWESOME in my future life. 

I'm so good, in fact, that I used to be able to tell my boss who would be getting fired next.  "How do you know?" he'd ask.  "I can smell it," I'd say, and I'd be right.  Really, all you have to do is pay attention to what's going on around you and what people are saying here and there and you can piece information together fairly easily.

The other day one of my colleagues looked at me and said "you keep your ears open and your mouth closed, don't you?"  She was right for the most part.  I do have a history of being verbose, as my mother will be happy to prove by telling stories about my behavior in church, but I know how to keep other people's secrets.  I think my ability to dig up a good story is equally valuable, though.

It is precisely this skill that got me a compliment at work the other day.  Part of my job is to do research on possible jobs to see if there is something scandalous lurking in the background.  My love of the internet and nose for news told me something was up with this one particular person.  So I snooped and snooped until I found it - a good old fashioned scurrilous scandal.  The information was so scandalous, though, that my bosses decided not to follow through with the deal.  This has not happened in all the time I have been involved in doing this research, so I was shocked when I got the email.  The phone rang a few minutes later.  "Who did that background research?" my old boss from LA asked.  "Was that you?"  

"Yes, " I admitted, figuring I might be in some kind of trouble.

"Good job.  Thanks," he said.

Wait, what?

"That was a really good catch and we wanted to thank you.  Good work." 

And for once I was kind of speechless.  But not for too long.

Oh, what's that?  You want to know what the scandal was?  Sorry.  See above.  I am a big talker, but an excellent secret-keeper.  Get on the interweb and dredge up your own scandal.

In which I issue a cry for help

Hey, 'member when I used to be funny?  Those were the days.

*********

I have been trying for well, years, literally, to get up early in the morning.  Like at 7.  Which is not really that early, compared to you know, when babies get up and stuff.  So you'd think I could do 7.  But I can't.  

Unless, of course, it happens to be the weekend.  For some reason, it is easier for me to get up early on the weekends.  Sure, if I can sit around and drink coffee and watch some bad movie or The Universe or something, THEN I can get up at 7.  But not if I actually have to be somewhere in a timely fashion.  No, then I can only wake up in a slobbering panic 30 minutes before I have to leave.  

Am I the only one who has this problem?  Any suggestions on how to fix it?

In which I am making big plans

When I moved from LA I shipped all my belongings to my office here, and they have been in storage ever since.  I have brought some things home bit by bit, but one thing has been sitting on my shelf for a while now.

My scale. 

Duhn duhn DUHN!

I weighed myself when I got home tonight and I wasn't surprised.  I weigh the most I have ever weighed in my life.

That's why I've made a decision.  I am going to lose weight and get healthy.  Finally.  And to help out, I'm going to blog about it.  I am starting a new blog here to tell all my wacky weight loss stories and make a lot of jokes about doughnuts.  (oooh, doughnuts!)  Yes, that's right, now I'll have two, count 'em, TWO blogs to ignore!  Where will I find the time to not update BOTH of them??

In which I tell you things you may not know

You may not know:

If you wash your Metrocard, it still works.  I don't know what happens if you dry it, too.

Smoked gouda with jalepenos on rosemary flatbread is not as good as it sounds.

When you forget to change your address on Netflix, they send your DVD three thousand miles away from where you live.

If you leave your home on a slightly cloudy New York morning and leave the window over your bed open, then you will be sleeping on a wet pillow that night.  Whoops.

No one cares about your Nip stories.

Or any of your other stories, for that matter.

If you wear anything other than that pair of pants you wear to work every day, people will notice and tell you you look good.  Even if it is only a belted nightgown.

When you listen to the same song over and over again because you are obsessed with it, and then you watch the video from DWTS over and over again, you can't get upset because that song is running through your head.  

If you don't update your blog more often, people will stop reading.  Sorry.  I'll try to do better.

In which there is fire, ice and probably too many "quotation" marks

(I started writing this post last Monday.  Let's pretend I finished it then and posted it, too, 'k?)

*************

"Is it possible to hate everyone all at the same time?" SK asked me at work this morning.

"Of course," I answered.  "It's called 'Monday'."

**********

It was exceptionally hot this weekend, so I broke down and bought a fan from the local hardware store.  I got the "Blizzard", which has three speeds, oscillates, has a timer and features two breeze modes.  I'm not really sure what that means, but if it makes it feel like a blizzard in my apartment it's worth it.   I spent the evening yesterday trying to stay as close to the fan as possible.  I took it to bed with me, setting it on the floor so that it would blow onto my face or on my back, depending on which side I was sleeping on.  I woke up this morning to an odd noise, and once I was mostly conscious, I attributed it to my blanket getting caught in my fan.  

"That's not good," I observed to the Blizzard, and easily pulled the blanket away from the fan. I heard the noise again snapped to the fact that it was coming from outside my window.  I peeked out to see what was going on.  I saw firemen (mmmm...firemen) tromping around on the roof of the building across the street, shining their flashlights everywhere, and when I looked down into the street, I saw three fire engines, paramedics and a couple of other support vehicles all with their lights flashing.  The sound that woke me was actually the firemen cutting the lock off the door of the mexican restaurant across the street. 

There were no flames, but there was the requisite smoke, firemen with hoses and evacuees from the building above the restaurant.  Two more fire engines showed up.  I deemed the situation 'under control' and went back to sleep.  

When I left for work this morning, I saw two Con Ed trucks outside the restaurant and therefore surmised that the fire must have been electrical.  Or, perhaps someone was just making some really hot nachos.  

Mmmmm...nachos.  And firemen.  A pretty good way to start the day.

Insomniac Haiku #3

Still awake. Again.

When was the last time I blinked?

Guess I'll nap at work.

In which I crave coffee with a side of horseradish

The office in New York is filled with artistic types.  We have actors, artists, writers and dancers.  And the really great thing is that we all support each other by attending each others' shows and reading each others' plays and looking at each others' websites.  The other night, several of us went to see one of our former colleagues in her dance concert.  We weren't able to sit together, though, so I ended up sitting next to several older women with some serious New York accents who apparently had some rather unfortunate friends.  During intermission they were talking to each other, and I was eavesdropping, as usual.  Eavesdropping is actually one of my best skills.  That and reading upside down.  I still think I'd make one hell of a spy. But as I was listening to their conversation, I couldn't figure out what the odd clicking sound was that I kept hearing in between sentences. 

"What about Pete?"

*click* [What is that noise?]

"Pete?"

*click*  

"You remember Pete?" 

*click*  [What IS that?]

"The one who makes his own horseradish?"  [Who makes horseradish?  How do you even make horseradish?]

"Yes!  I think we still have some in our fridge."

*click*  [Could it be ill-fitting dentures?]

"What happened to him?" 

*click*

"I think he died." 

"Oh."  [Wait, from the horseradish?]

*click* *cough* *choke*

"Are you ok?"

"Oh, yes...oh.  *cough*  What a way to go!  On a Nip.  Oh."

*click*  [Oh, good heavens.  Is that it?  She's sucking on coffee flavored candy?]

"Do you want one?"

*click*

"What?"

*click*

"A nip?"  [Because her clicking and choking are such a ringing endorsement for Nips.]

*click*

"No, thanks.  Oh, Sue.  Do you remember her?"

*click* 

"She used to come all the time."

*click*

"I wonder what happened to her."

*click*

"I think she died."  [No doubt by choking on a Nip.]

*click*

In which I may have lost my mind

Flink flink flink flink.

I know, I know.  I've been staring at you for an hour and a half.

Flink.

Yeah, I know.  But I just can't think of anything.

Flink.  Flinky flink flink.

Right, Cursor, that's true, but isn't it better not to write anything than just to write a bunch of nonsensical dreck?

Flink, flink flink flink flink flink.

Wait, what do you mean that would be a change?  I try to write posts that are somewhat entertaining, yes, but I also like them to be uplifting and informative.

Flink flink flink flink!

Oh really?  Have you ever tried to write a blog?  It's not as easy as it looks.

Flink flink flink flink!

That's not funny.

Fl-fl-fli-fli-fli!

Stop laughing at me!

FL-FL-FLI-FLI-FLI-FLI-FLI!!!!!!

Oh, come on!  Like YOU do anything important?  You just sit around flinking your flinker all the livelong day.  "Flink flink flink."  Very creative.

Flink flink flinker flink.  Flink flinking flink flink FLINK.

There is NO. NEED. to get personal.

Flink.  Flink flinky.

Hmpf.

Flinky flink.  Flink?

Ok.  Truce.  

Flink flink.  Flink flink flink flink!

I'll try to think of something for tomorrow night, ok?

Flink flink.

Good night.

Flink.

In which I have to drink tepid water out of a GLASS, for God's sake...

 I am so happy I moved back to NYC. I do love being here.  I'm close to my friends, my social life is much more active and I am able make fantastic use of my green raincoat.  But I am exhausted.  My ankles and knees are sore and swollen.  I'm tired all the time.  I don't have any money and I'm struggling to find a second job, as well as figure out ways to cut costs in this expensive city.

Officially?  New York is kicking my ass.  

KICKING. MY. ASS.  

HARD.

I mean, I felt compelled to order tea instead of some lovely wine at my book club meeting today to save money.  How many more concessions am I going to have to make, I ask you????

At least I have my friends to commiserate with.  I was having dinner with C and M the other night, and we collectively decided that the recession stinks.  We all liked it better when we felt like our jobs were secure and we could drink champagne out of our Christian Louboutins.    Not that I actually ever had Louboutins.  It's more like Nine Wests or Banana Republics for me.   Maybe flip-flops, although it seems like it might be hard to keep the champagne "in" them.  Probably you'd have to lap the champagne off the inside of the... oh, never mind.  This is getting gross. 

Well, at least I still have a job, I still have friends and I still have the skills to get that second job.  I still love New York.  It may be kicking me, but I'm still kicking back.

IN WHICH IN WHICH IN WHICH SOMETHING

MY SISTER IS HARASSING ME ABOUT POSTING SOMETHING PROBLEM IS I CAN'T THINK OF ANYTHING TO POST ALTHOUGH YOU'D THINK I COULD COME UP WITH SOMETHING BECAUSE I WENT TO THE PERSIAN PARADE AND THEN TO JERSEY FOR A MOVIE AND DINNER WHERE I HAD THREE GLASSES OF COKE/DIET COKE/CHERRY COKE/COKE ZERO AND SO NOW I AM ALL JACKED UP ON CAFFEINE AND SUGAR AND I CAN'T EVEN CONSIDER THE IDEA OF SLEEPING AND MY BRAIN CAN'T THINK OF ANYTHING CLEVER TO WRITE ABOUT SO I GUESS PERSIAN PARADE IT IS SO I WENT TO THE PERSIAN PARADE WITH A COLLEAGUE WHO IS HALF PERSIAN AND WHEN I ASKED HER QUESTIONS SHE WOULD SAY "I DON'T KNOW I AM ONLY HALF PERSIAN" AND I SAID "DOES THAT MEAN YOUR ANSWERS ARE ONLY HALF RIGHT?" BUT SHE DID NOT THINK I WAS FUNNY AND I SAY TOO BAD FOR HER.  

THE PERSIAN PARADE HAD FLOATS AND HORSES AND FLAG BEARERS AND BELLY DANCERS AND TRADITIONAL DRESS AND DIFFERENT KINDS OF FLAGS AND FUN MUSIC AND ARMENIAN DANCERS AND PICK UP TRUCKS AND ONE GUY IN BLACK FACE WHICH WHAT WAS HE THINKING I STILL HAVEN'T FIGURED THAT OUT.

TOWARDS THE END OF THE PARADE WAS A FLOAT THAT SAID "THE CHILDREN OF ADAM ARE LIMBS TO EACH OTHER..."  WHICH WHAT A COOL THING TO SAY AND I THINK IS AN IMPORTANT STATEMENT ESPECIALLY CONSIDERING OUR CURRENT POLITICAL CLIMATE OH AND THE MOVIE WAS GOOD TOO I LAUGHED A LOT AND HAD BUTTER ON MY POPCORN AND THEN WE HAD FATBURGER FOR DINNER AND THAT WAS GREAT AND I HAD LOTS OF-

*CLUNK*

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

In which I get more than I bargained for

Before I left LA, I spent a lot of time getting the right clothes for New York.  I bought coats and sweaters and boots in preparation for the rest of the New York winter.  I also purchased some slammin' rain boots and a green trench for the spring.  Meanwhile, I have worn the same pants to work for the last five days.  But that is neither here nor there, as this is a story about coats.  COATS!

The coat I have worn the most since I have been here is my ivory wool coat.  Now, I knew ivory wouldn't last long in New York before needing to be cleaned and I was right.  The thing is filthy.  Also, I've had to re-attach the buttons about ninety times.  I decided it was time to switch to another coat.  

It's been warm enough, for the most part, to wear my green trench, so that has been my overcoat for the past couple of weeks.  The other night I went to a gay bar with a friend.  I got so much attention because of my coat - those gay boys loved me - proving once again that I am a gay man trapped in a straight woman's body.  

Really drunk guy:  That coat really makes your eyes look green.

Me:  Thanks!  My eyes ARE green.  

Really drunk guy: Oh.

On Sunday, I joined some friends for brunch.  While walking to the subway, I was offered a tour of the city by one of those guys that stand around Times Square looking for tourists.  My friend, SK, said they offered me a tour of my own neighborhood because I was wearing a green coat.  

Me: What does that have to do with anything? 

SK: New Yorkers don't wear green.  They wear black.  

Me: I'm a New Yorker and I'm wearing green.

SK: Look over there - see that family?

I did.  They were carrying maps of the city and wearing various shades of green.  Obviously tourists.  Fine.

At Macy's the other day, I was darting through the throng of cologne sprayers when a couple of the sprayers sashayed towards me.  I panicked, remembering the time I went to Bloomingdale's in LA to find a perfume and the saleswomen practically molested me with atomizers and coffee beans. 

Molesting Saleswoman:  Excuse me-

Me: Uh oh.

Molesting Saleswoman: She (pointing to the other saleswoman) loves your coat.  Where did you get it?

Me: Oh!  Target!

Saleswoman 2: I'm going there right after work!

Molesting Saleswoman: It looks great on you!

Me: Thanks!   

Tonight I was coming back from an American Idol party with my friend M. and her boyfriend S.  We got on the train to come downtown, and at 96th, a gentleman with a guitar got on the train.  He was trying to sing for his supper, and he dedicated his first song to the girl in the green jacket.  

Me: No.

Guitar Guy: I'm singing this song for the white girl in the green jacket.

Me: No.

Guitar Guy: I've got sunshine on the number two train....

Me: No.

Guitar Guy: When it's cold outside, I've got the white girl in the green jacket.

I can feel my face flushing as I laugh.

Guitar Guy: I guess you'll say what can make me feel this way?  The white girl in the green jacket who looks like Ellen DeGeneres.

Me: (SHREIK!)

My face is in flames as I wipe away my tears of laughter.

Guitar Guy: White girl in the green jacket who looks like Ellen.

Train Conducter: 72nd Street

Me: Thank God!

S:  Bye, Ellen!

It's supposed to be 60 degrees tomorrow.  Maybe I can get away with a nice black cardigan.

In which I realize I may have left whatever writing skills I did I have back in Los Angeles

Aaaaaaaaaand we're back to crack den:

Excuse me, that's "crack HOME".  I don't want to be politically incorrect or anything.  

So, if you haven't guessed, I found a New York apartment - love it, love the neighborhood.  It just might be a while before I get some furniture.  Do you see that pile of books in the corner, though?  Doesn't that make me look like an intellectual crack head?

But seriously, what crack head has this view:

Hello, New York. 

 

I am paying for this view, though.  I have to walk up five flights of stairs to get here.  It's fine, except my ankles are terribly swollen, my arches throbbing and my knees are quite angry with me.  I've been hobbling around the city like Frankenstein.

I remember when I lived here before I used to walk around peering into other people's apartments, thinking "oooh, look!  What a great apartment.  If I just had my own apartment, I'd be so happy."  

I am very pleased with my apartment.  Now when I hobble around the city and look in people's windows, I think "oooh, look! I bet they have an elevator!"

In which I am a cover girl

Previously on Rich and Fancy, I pined over the loss of my Los Angeles hair salon and stylist.  Before I left LA, I asked Thy how I should find a new salon.  Since she is Sassoon trained, she recommended I try the Sassoon salon here in NY.  

"Stop by there," she said, "and ask if you can have a consultation with someone.  If you like them, make an appointment."

After brunch last Monday, my friend and I were going to look at furniture when I noticed we were right by the downtown salon.  I convinced her to stop in for a second.  We went in, and before I had even asked about a consultation, Vidal Sassoon himself* walked up, gasped and said "You are the most beautiful blonde I have ever seen!  You must let me do your hair!**  And then!  Then you must model for me.  You will be my cover girl - my supermodel.  Work it, girl!" 

 "Oh, Vidal,"***  I said, "of course I will!  I would be honored to represent your work on the runways and in magazines!  I'm a bit shy, though, but I will get over that for the joy of working with you."****

Then Vidal*** asked me to come back on Wednesday night for a runway show***** to show off his new gorgeous model.******  I went back and walked the runway through a flurry of flashes, the audience applauding me and cheering my name.*******

I waved at the crowd and took in their love.********  Then I slipped out the back door into my limo and drank champagne all the way home.*********

* A stylist named Ericka

** "Can I bleach your hair for my training? I would do it for free."

***  Ericka

**** "Uh, ok."

***** A training class

****** My platinum blonde hair to the new trainees from the uptown salon.

******* Sat in a chair while Ericka talked about how she made my hair the color it was.  The trainees stared at me like I was a bug.

******** I tried to be funny, but no one paid any attention to me.  (Their loss.)  

********* Couldn't get out the front door because it was locked and had to wait for one of the trainees to let me out.  Walked home in the rain.

In which I give you my top five

Without further ado, here are the things I will miss about Los Angeles:

#5.  Do I really have to explain this:

Or this?

Yeah, it's pretty.  

#4.    My apartment and the building in which it resides.  

The courtyard is really beautiful and my apartment was truly my refuge - it was the only place I felt completely safe and protected.  

#3.    My neighbor - she is from New York and is wonderfully able to exist successfully in LA while being genuinely kind and friendly.  A great friend to have so close by.  You know my New York neighbors probably won't even talk to me.

(A parenthetical pause to note how gigantic my head is.  Wish I could have left that in LA.  It's like a Frankenstein head.  Yikes.)

#2.   My hair salon.  I know, I know, that sounds really shallow, but don't forget I lived in LA for nearly three years.  Shallow waits around the corner from the Coffee Bean so it can take over your soul while you are busy drinking your organic beverage.  But seriously, ChopChop, is the very best salon I have EVER been to.  Every single person in the salon makes you feel like a rock star from the minute you walk in the door.  All of their stylists are exceptional, although my favorite is Thy (pronounced like tea) because I can tell her I want a concept, and she understands exactly what I'm looking for.  I told her I'd never find that in NY, and she was all, "don't be Negativa - you'll find someone!"  I don't believe her.  

#1.    My therapist.
I really don't even know what to say about her.  I would not have made it without her help.  She was the perfect balance of compassionate friend and challenging teacher.  She helped me begin to change a part of myself that I didn't like, and most importantly, she laughed at all my jokes.  Although I am not completely sane, it was well worth the co-pays.  

In which - sigh - whatever

I'd forgotten how busy New York is.  You leave home in the morning, go to work or run errands or what have you, and you don't get home until everything is done.  In every other city, home can be a pit stop between work and the grocery store and your laundry and your dinner date, but not here.  Either you live too far away from all the things you have to do, or you have to walk too many stairs to get to your front door and want to keep those trips to a minimum.  By the time you get home, you are too exhausted to come up with anything to blog about.

You see where I am going with this.

I do have stuff I want to talk about, such as:

A) The things I miss about LA.  They are few, but they do exist.

B) The fact that I have been in town a week and I am now a Vidal Sassoon model.

C) Really swollen feet.

I am too tired to write about these things right now.

I will tell you that I got quite the welcome at work.  I got Welcome Home signs and cookies and cupcakes and cakes in animal shapes.  I got hugs and welcome backs and a crapload of work.  I've been out for dinner or drinks virtually every night this week, mostly with work friends.  I had brunch (brunch!) today with a friend I haven't seen in months.  My life has completely changed.  I love it.

In which I wonder whose idea this was

Oh, hi.  I am in New York now, in case you were wondering.   I've been meaning to post something, but my feet hurt.  I know that has nothing to do with typing a blog post, but it is hard to focus on anything when your feet hurt.

My first day here I walked myself nearly to death.  I wanted to check out a particular neighborhood and go to Crate and Barrel to see if they have the glassware I want (never mind that I don't have an APARTMENT yet) and then to H&M to see if they have the earrings I like, because while I don't have my own place, I do have my own ears and I like to decorate them.  So I ended up walking about 100 blocks.  Ish. 

When I got back to my friend's apartment, I told her that I was too old to live in New York and what was I doing here, this was a huge mistake.  She reminded me that most people who live here don't walk 100 blocks at a time, was I crazy?  I conceded that she had a point.  

It feels weird to be here.  It is both familiar and strange.  A lot of things have changed, but some are exactly the same.  My bank is in the same place, and right across from H&M, thank you. Some of the train lines are different, but I can still find my way around.  The place where I love to go for lunch is still in business, but right across the street there's a new Starbuck's and a bank.  My old friends are here, but I have met some new people already.  We went for a drink after work today to a nicer place than we used to go and spent a lot more than we used to spend.  

It's not the New York I used to live in, but it is still New York.  

In which I thank her

Dear Sandy,

Thank you so much for flying to LA to drive across the southwest with me.  I really appreciate you helping pack my suitcases, running to Target with me at 9:30 pm to buy another suitcase, for talking me out of the suitcase, talking me into space saving bags, packing my clothes and then talking me down so I could sleep.

Thanks for waking up at 6 am, cleaning out my fridge, packing my car so brilliantly  and then helping me carry my mattress across the street.  Thanks for folding yourself into my tiny, fully packed car and keeping me company with good humor and so much patience.  

Thanks for the hospitality of you and your lovely family when we finally reached Albuquerque.  Thanks for taking me to Target to buy that suitcase we so easily dismissed on the first night.  Thanks for helping me pack my suitcases and the car again.  Thanks for telling me to keep everything I'd use in one suitcase so that I wouldn't have to take all the stuff out of the car over and over again.  

I couldn't have done this trip without you.  

Love, 

Liz

P.S. Do you happen to know where my red flats are? 

P.P.S.  And also, can you come here and help me re-pack my suitcases and my car?

In which I move Part Deux

Yesterday's drive with my friend took us first to the Grand Canyon, where we walked around a bit (and when I say walked, I mean drove the Rim Road to the places where we could walk five yards to an overlook) and took a lot of pictures - more to come on this later, as I left the camera in the car and I just don't have the energy to go back out and get it.  

After the GC, we went on to Flagstaff, seeing this view along the way:

A good introduction for me to the cold weather of New York.

In which I move

We barely made it from LA to the Grand Canyon, mostly because of this car, which had the nerve to go the speed limit:

We were racing to get there before the sunset and made it with just minutes to spare.

Tomorrow: more Grand Canyoning, then off to Albuquerque.

In which I give you too much information

I want you to know that I thought about this before I posted it.  It is incredibly embarrassing and a little gross, but ultimately I feel like it is too funny to pass up.  So I offer up myself and my flaws to you so that you may laugh.  

You're very welcome.  

I sold my couch finally on Sunday to a woman named Nancy.  When Nancy saw the couch in person for the first time, she proclaimed her undying love for its scarlet beauty.  She told me that she was buying it for her office and that the girls* she worked with loved the photo and that they would be excited to have a couch to sit on.  I have to say, it is oddly comforting to know that someone who is buying something that belonged to you loves it as much as you did.   Anyhoo, buy it she did and she and the guy she brought to help her carried the couch out my front door and down to their truck.   About 10 minutes after they left she called me to ask if she could come back up and use my bathroom.  Of course I said she could - far be it for me to withhold the ability to use a bathroom from someone else.  That's just mean.

I showed her where the bathroom was, she used it, politely said thanks and then left.   A little bit later I had to go, too, so I went into the bathroom.  That is when I discovered what I had done:

Yeah.  Pretty damn embarrassing.  Feel free to laugh, though.  Ok, that's enough.  I SAID, THAT'S ENOUGH.  Ok, fine.  I'll wait.

Finished?  Good.

Do you suppose Nancy and her girls* are laughing about this?  I have to admit, I would be if I were them.  I'd be calling me the "hemorrhoid girl" or the couch the "hemorrhoid couch".  Maybe the "H.C." for short.  I'd sit on it and then pretend my behind itched and then run away screaming "HEMORRHOID COUCH!! HEMORRHOID COUCH!!" or something equally ridiculous.  Of course, I do have a weird sense of humor.  And a bit of a wicked streak, too.  

I guess I can bear the embarrassment, though.  My hemorrhoids and I just deposited a nice chunk of cash money, courtesy of Nancy and her girls.*

* Do you suppose that Nancy runs an, er, escort service or something?  Just who are these girls?

In which I introduce my new bedfellows

I'm so excited about moving back to New York that I dug out my old subway map.  I have unfolded it and looked at all the different neighborhoods at least seventy jillion times.  And now I want it nearby all the time, like some kid who drags around an old magazine because it has one pretty picture in it.  I just keep opening it and going, maybe I could live there, or maybe I could live there!  It is all very thrilling until I remember that I am not rich and will most likely end up living in a box on the banks of the East River.

The blue things are wrist guards that are supposed to help with my carpal tunnel syndrome (that I also have in my feet, but whatever).  I thought they would be really uncomfortable to sleep in, but they're not that bad.  They have a bean bag under the palm to keep your hand stable, so it ends up feeling pretty comfy.  

There are really only a couple of problems with the wrist guards.  First of all, when I am in bed, I can't read a book because I can't hold it, much less turn the pages.  And I can't change the channels on the TV because I can't manage the remote.  I have to click the remote with my thumb, so I inevitably press the wrong button and accidentally land on some shopping channel and then can't get back to The Daily Show.  Or I end up turning the volume up really loud, which I'm sure my neighbor appreciates.

The other thing is that the wrist guards have velcro closures.  When I am sleeping, they tend to come apart and, because I sleep in a fetal position, they end up getting attached to each other.   And then I wake up at 4 am with my arms stuck together, which is an...odd feeling.  You know how it is when you wake up in the middle of the night and don't really know where you are or what's going on?  Add your limbs stuck together and see how freaked out you get.  

The wrist guards usually get peeled off about 6 am when I have to get up to pee.  Then I inevitably go back to sleep without putting them back on, and I wake up with numb hands.  And late for work.

Oh well.

In which all my hard decorating work is undone

I'm selling all my furniture in preparation for moving to New York, so my apartment is looking a little bare.  I've sold my bed, my kitchen table and chairs and my coffee table.  My apartment, which just last week was very warm and inviting -

now looks like a crack den. 
Although, maybe they don't fold their blankets in crack dens.  Or have sheets on their mattresses.  Fortunately, I wouldn't know.

Luckily, it is only ten more days.  

In which we all get a new accessory

What an unbelievable day.  What a momentous occasion.  The very first day...

that I got to wear my brand new ring!!!   Gorgeous, no?  (Banana Republic, not on sale, but the sales associate gave me a discount anyway.  Why?  Because I am adorable.)

Oh, and this, too:

Sigh.  

He's so dreamy.  

All nonsense aside, what a great thing to see today.  And every time they showed some middle aged African-American man crying, I cried, too.  I couldn't help thinking how those who grew up being told they were less because of the color of their skin must have felt today.  How proud they must have been!  How satisfied!  Finally, finally all the years of suffering, all the years of fighting have paid off.  All the misery is rising out of the ashes to become hope.  Hope for us all.

 

In which I am outwitted by a German shiny thing

Yesterday was day one of a three to five day migraine headache.  This is bad enough to deal with, but at the same time, I needed to find and change the brake light bulbs in my car.  My neighbor offered her husband's help, but he sort of shrugged and told me that if I went to Auto Zone they would help me find the bulbs and then he would install them.  Off to Auto Zone I went, and one of the whopping two salespeople in a busy store gave me the wrong bulbs.  And how was I supposed to know?  I am a girl and I don't know anything about light bulbs, let alone cars.   

Now, I am a modern woman.  I take care of myself and I don't depend on anyone else.  Yes, I make mistakes and I do stuff wrong and I am a poor money manager, but I do pay my rent and buy my own meals and make my own bad financial decisions.  And a lot of the time I don't really mind being without a man that much.  But there are some things that make me hate being alone.  I don't like being sick and having to go to the pharmacy for medicine or the grocery store for soup myself.  I also absolutely cannot stand having to deal with car stuff. EVER.

Also, the spiders.  

I guess this week I am lucky, because Leopold is apparently long gone, so I just have to deal with feeling bad and stupid car nonsense all by myself.  So I bought the proffered bulbs, not knowing they weren't the right ones, and waited for my neighbor's husband to stop by and offer to install them.  Only he didn't stop by.  And here's where I get all confused, being a modern woman and all.  Do I go over and ask him to do it?  It can't be that hard, certainly I could do it myself if I wanted to, which, make no mistake, I DO NOT.  But he didn't really seem like he wanted to do it.  After all, his wife just volunteered him without asking him or anything.  He looked like a deer caught in headlights.  And I should be able to take care of myself.  What am I supposed to do?

Do you see my dilemma?  No wonder I have a damn headache.

So I waited, thinking he might come by.  He did not.  I was putting all my furniture for sale on craigslist so it was late when I gave up on him.  When I finally got around to changing the stupid bulbs, it was midnight and that's when I realized they were the wrong bulbs.  FABULOUS.  So last night I went back to Auto Zone, got what I thought were the right bulbs, because clearly I can't trust the guy at the store, got them home and then figured out that they were STILL THE WRONG BULBS.  Back to Auto Zone, where I finally got the right bulbs.  I came home, put them in, but still can't be certain that they work.  Who knows?  Turns out there are two different kinds of light bulbs in four different sockets on each side, and I don't know what goes where. The manual isn't very clear, because it is for several different models of the same car and this is the brake bulb for the M class, but I don't have the M class and which one is my brake bulb because all those panels are red and I am confuuuuuuuuuused!  Now it looks like maybe one brake light is working but not the other one.  I can't tell, AND I DON'T HAVE A BOYFRIEND TO STAND BEHIND THE CAR WHILE I PRESS ON THE BRAKE PEDAL AND TELL ME "THEY WORK" OR "NO DICE" AND MY HEAD HURTS!

In the meantime, whatever I did do in there changed the turn signals, because they used to go "click, click, click, click" all nice and steady, but now when I want to change lanes they are all "clikclikclikclikclikclikclikclikclikclikclikclikclikclikclikclik" like they are jacked up on methamphetamines.  I don't know what I did in there, but it sure got them riled up.

Whatever. I guess it is a trip back to Auto Zone this weekend to get more lights. 

 And then maybe I should put a post on craigslist for someone to come install them for me.  "Wanted: male to come deal with changing my brake lights and also that door handle that kind of sticks.  No shirt necessary."  

What can I say?  I am a modern woman.