A return, finally

I got my sister a giant royal blue Pez dispenser as a gift. A battery operated one. It played songs and made noise and generally entertained. But then it started beeping. I turned it off, but it kept going. I took off the back of it and pulled a battery out. It kept beeping. I took the other battery out, but still, it kept beeping.

"I can't make it stop," I said aloud, and woke myself doing so.

It was my alarm, which apparently had been going off for forty-seven minutes this morning.

Forty-seven minutes.

It's been a tough week. Work has been incredibly busy. I've worked forty hours already this week and it is only Thursday. I'm so busy we've had to send someone else to court.

So it was a challenge to wake up this morning. And when I finally did, I was forty-seven minutes behind schedule. In order to get to work on time, I decided to get a cab. I didn't want to - well, I did want to - I want to take a cab every day, but I don't let myself. I didn't really have a choice this morning, because I simply can't be late to work.

The weather here has been relatively warm and spring-like, and you know what that means - it's time to bring back the green overcoat. I've been wearing it all week with little to no weird attention, which is a good thing, as I don't really have the energy for it right now.

Several cabs passed me this morning as I was trying to hail one, and I was starting to get really frustrated. But one finally stopped. When I got in, he was laughing. "I stopped for you," he said.

"Yes," I said. "Several other cabs didn't."

"They must be blind not to see you. But I see ok. I see your green coat. Can't miss that green coat!"

At last, that damn green coat got me the kind of attention I wanted.

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.

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 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 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 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 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 - 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.