Axis of evil?

Amigos, I sense a conspiracy of grand proportions is afoot. I think the bugs, the rats and the Super are all in cahoots. I have proof!

On my way upstairs last night I ran into one of my neighbors. I asked him if he had seen any bugs. He lowered his voice in a conspiratorial manner and asked, "What kind of bugs?" Like he didn't know. Cha. I dropped my voice and whispered, "Bed bugs." And here is what he said:

No, we haven't seen any of them for two months since they treated the last time, after we had to petition for the exterminators to come in. We had them. Not a lot of them, like the apartments on the second and third floor. We were pretty ticked, too, that the exterminators drilled in our walls this time because we painted and we don't have any of that paint left.

AH HA! So when the Super said only three apartments on the second and third floor had the bugs, he was lying. I think all his gestures of installing screens and replacing toilet seats were to throw me off the scent. His ultimate goal: Leave me unprepared for the bugs' attack.

Oh, what a wicked web they weave.

To further cement his "good, anti-bug" image, the Super has contacted the exterminators and they are coming tomorrow morning to "evaluate" my apartment. Probably checking to see if I am crazy and imagining bugs or if they are really here. This involves me bravely carving a path through the rubbish in my apartment tonight, so they can get through the boxes and bags and such. Callooh! Callay!

Anyway, I miss the funny and I bet you do, too. So I'll do my best with a few snapshots from New York:

Witnessed on Sixth Avenue
I was walking next to a man on his cellphone and over heard the following conversation:
"Where are you?" he lisped. "Oh! I can see you! You're right ahead of me."
"No, no. Turn, turn, turn. A complete 360." I can actually see a woman up ahead at the corner spinning in circles like a Magic Kingdom teacup. After a dizzying number of spins they finally establish contact, evoking the ever popular "Daaaarling! How are you?" I can't believe people actually say this.

How To Take Over The City, or Apple Is Manufacturing Weapons of Mass Destruction
Everyone but me has an iPod here. They listen to them on the subway, while walking, in the store, even while they are pretending to hold conversations with their friends. It must be like walking around in a movie, where your whole life has a soundtrack. "And here is my 'Walk the dog and look away while he tinkles' song. It's so jazzy." Anyway, if anyone -- say Lex Luthor -- wanted to take over Metropolis, iPods would be the way. Just a few choice electric shocks, or maybe subliminal messages, and he would have a whole army of willing drones. Think about that the next time you pop in those earplugs, America. I bet they even have kryptonite chips embedded in them.


Shopping In Astoria
My grocery store, the local Associated, sells a variety of ethnic foods and some unusual edibles. For instance, you can get a 12-pack of frozen quail, which are so tiny they don't seem worth the effort. There are also Irish soda breads from the Gaelic bakery, stuffed grape leaves and a variety of guava and mango beverages. But my favorite ethnic food is Abuelita chocolate drink mix. The box makes me chuckle every time I see it. Is it just me, or is she giving you a "come hither" stare over her cup of cocoa?

Until Wednesday, drink your Ovaltine ...

Operation Apartment Storm, Mission Hand-Washing

Sorry to skip a Minute, loyal readers, but I was busy launching my next offensive in the Battle of the Bugs. It seems they did not disappear, but merely retreated to gather their forces.

Since we last convened, I have had another round of bites, possibly two rounds. I itch, but I wonder how much is actually from the bugs and how much is me psyching myself out. It’s getting hard to tell if the red marks on my skin are bites or just where I’ve itched or just normal fair skin irritation. But there were definitely bites on Thursday morning. Definitely, definitely.

So I have come to accept that the bugs will not go easily into that good night and that another round of exterminating may be in my future (but not for another two weeks). Thus, I am leaving things G and I had not unpacked in boxes for now. And any clothes I left in bags are being sealed up so I won’t have to wash everything all over again. (Though there will certainly still be a lot to wash.)

Last night I began to wash all of the hand-wash items I had bagged up. Thank God the hot water is very hot at my apartment. I was able to wash the shag rug in the tub (which it sorely needed anyway). Everything else went into boiling water. This is the recipe, should you ever find yourself in a dogfight with the bugs with delicates on the line:

Boil a large pot of water.
Pour into dishpan.
Add detergent (which dissolves unbelievably fast).
Add garment (the dyes bleed so I can only do one or two things at a time).
Stir with wooden spoon.
Top off with hot water from tap.
Allow to sit for 10 minutes, stirring occasionally. Have next pot of water heating on stove.
Rinse, ring, hang on metal drying rack (which the bugs allegedly won’t crawl up).
Repeat.

So I still have about a bag and a half of stuff to go, but it feels good to have a plan and be doing something. It’ll probably take all weekend to finish the hand-washing. I also have a side project for Saturday: spackling each and every crack, crevice and hole in my walls.

Mom keeps telling me what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. The bugs should be careful; they are creating a monster. You won’t like me when I’m angry.

Until Monday: Have putty knife, will spackle…

New York Mysteries Solved!

Tired of bed bugs? I know I am. (No sign of them last night, but there was also scant sign of shuteye.) So let's have some fun instead of bugs -- we'll call it a USO stop for Operation Apartment Storm.

Presenting ... New York Mysteries Solved!

Our first mystery is "threading." What is it? Why are there always men wearing sandwich boards on 23rd Street advertising it? Why have I never heard of this before?

The answer from hairfacts.com (yes, there are enough facts on hair to launch a website):
Threading is a way to remove unwanted hair. The threader holds one end of a cotton thread in his or her teeth and the other in the left hand. The middle is looped through the index and middle fingers of the right hand. The practitioner then uses the loop to trap a series of unwanted hairs and pull them from the skin.

This is allegedly less painful than plucking. And here I was expecting something involving braids. The reason I never heard of threading before is that it is apparently hard to find qualified threaders outside of large cities and Indian and Muslim communities. So if you want your eyebrows done, come to New York!

Our second mystery is why are there two past due dates on my milk carton?

The answer is red tape, my friends. But this time, the government really is trying to protect me.
According to the New York Times, New York City has its own dating rules and milk can only be legally sold for only 96 hours after pasteurization. So why can you poor schleps drink old milk? Elsewhere in the world the processor determines the past due dates, which can range from eight to 12 days. Suckers. Tee hee.

But I jest. You have nothing to worry about. The fine City of New York is being cautious with its precious workforce, since temperatures can vary so much for cartons of milk in the city (from the trucks to the stores, to the shelves, to your apartment). And nobody likes chunky milk. Nobody, no how.

Sacre bleu invaders!

Hi, y'all. I'm running out of juice here since I had a bit of a downer day, plus three hours of InDesign training after work. Whew.

Apparently I spoke too soon when I said NYM was bug-free. That'll come back to bite you in the arse every time. Or the neck, as the case is. I woke up this morning and found a bed bug sitting, quite plainly, on the wall in back of my bed. I appear to have several bite marks on my neck, too.

I know the exterminator said we could see them for up to two weeks after the treatment, but now they are in my apartment! They definitely were not here before. I haven't had any bites like this. [shakes fists at sky -- wails "Why? Why?]

So now I am secluding myself from society as much as possible, for fear of spreading the infestation. I am a leper. I've had to cancel a potential trip home, a visit from my mom and I am even forbidding G to come visit. I just couldn't live with myself if I was the cause of this insanity for someone else.

I spent all day feeling like things were crawling on me. I hope I can get to sleep tonight. I am so freaking out, but cruising the blogs today at work, I read some real horror stories about these infestations. I am mighty grateful my landlord is doing what it can to get rid of these punks.

Until Wednesday, get an extra hour of sleep for me ... I think I'm going to need it.

NYM now bug-free!

When we last left our heroine, she was preparing for a long siege at the hands of the bed bugs (or whatever appendages they have) …

Friday night was a lot of random packing and sorting things to be laundered and thinking, “Good God, I have way too much stuff.” I wasn’t sure what to do about my stuffed bear, so he is being cryogenically frozen in a plastic bag in my Frigidaire. Bed bugs are not supposed to last more than two weeks in sub-zero temps.

On Saturday, I received several visitors. First were the cable Internet guy and his apprentice (perhaps son?). It took them all of 10 minutes to hook me up to wicked fast Internet. I know you are all jealous.

Then the Super showed up. He put in my screens and even installed my new toilet seat. Everything was sunshine and lollipops until he dropped this on me: The exterminators aren’t bombing. As a matter of fact, what they’re doing is relatively non-invasive. Basically, I have double-bagged and boxed all my possessions for no reason whatsoever. But it’s good practice. Some day I could be a championship packer. Not that I know what that championship would involve. Probably timed packing, integrity of packing, newspaper rolling and tape ripping. I think the final challenge would be dropping your boxes off the roof across from Letterman and whoever has the most non-broken items wins. Of course everyone would have to pack the same items for the sake of fairness.

But I digress (forgive me, my brain is mush). So the boxes were packed in the center of the living room with care in hopes that the exterminators soon would be there. Eventually, George and his crew made it to the fourth floor and here is what I learned that fateful Saturday, brothers and sisters: Bleach kills bed bugs. Also, ammonia. You can even use a 50-50 solution of ammonia and water. Not that I am suggesting you try to eradicate the little punks yourself; definitely seek professional help. But if you have the unfortunate luck to meet a bed bug on the street, whip out your spritzer of bleach and send the sucker to his maker.

Other things I learned this weekend:
1. You can get bed bugs at hotels, even fancy ones are starting to have problems. They’ll travel in your suitcase and in your clothes. Also, you can get them by visiting someone who has them. Bed bugs are making a comeback in the U.S. after a hiatus. If only we could say the same for NKOTB.
2. The epicenter of my building’s infestation is an apartment on the second floor, where a pack rat lives. She has had her apartment thoroughly treated before. George and his guys were in there for five hours. It cost $800.
3. Two other apartments have had bed bugs, one directly above that apartment on the third floor and the other also on the second floor. Apparently the young woman who lives there made the unwise decision to befriend the pack rat. The moral: Never make friends.
4. In those apartments, the “hot zone” if you will, George & Co. drilled holes every 16 inches along the baseboards and tops of the walls so they could spray inside the walls. This is how bed bugs get around, through walls, along baseboards, hiding in dark corners and nooks and crannies. They do not fancy light. Clearly they are mercenaries for the Dark Lord.
5. Only three people, out of a possible 16 (I think) actually followed the instructions for the extermination.
6. The extermination cost a cool $8,000.
7. George & Co. will be back in three weeks to make sure the bugs are gone. It takes two weeks for the spray to fully take effect.
8. I could wipe out my dressers and use them after 24 hours. So I do not have to live out of boxes for another two weeks. [much rejoicing]
9. I have approximately $60 worth of washable fabric items. This does not include two rugs and two bags of items I must handwash (in boiling water) and two bags of dry cleaning, which will probably wipe out my savings. Thank you, bed bugs.
10. My legs hurt from walking up and down the stairs with all that laundry. If nothing, this incident has inspired charity. I am donating at least one bag of stuff (it’s all clean and bug-free after all). If I ever have to do this again, that’ll be one less trip up and down the stairs.

Until Tuesday, keep your bleach close by …

Bed bugs attack!

I have suffered a devastating blow to my psyche. It appears that while I was out preparing to fight the rats, they sent their minions the bed bugs to throw my life into chaos.

I know there are people truly suffering in this world and that I am one of the luckier ones, but it really, really feels like God is out to get me. Here’s what’s going on:

I came home at about 7:30 last night, which is becoming my norm after working late and then composing these emails. Under my door was a four-page memo from the apartment owners saying that exterminators are coming Saturday from 8 am to 5 pm and they will be treating the entire building for bed bugs. What does this entail? I have to do all of the following things before the exterminators come:

1. Bag up all of my clothes and bedding to be washed in HOT water after the extermination.
2. Remove “clutter. “
3. Clear off all shelves and other places with “dark corners.”
4. Move all furniture away from the walls.
5. Remove all drapes and bag for laundering.

So essentially, after reaching the point where I am very nearly unpacked, I must pack it all up again, since everything I own is “on bookshelves” and “in dressers and closets.”

After the extermination, I have all this to look forward to:

1. Washing everything I own in hot, hot water.
2. Washing all of my dishes and the cabinets. AGAIN.
3. Wait to clean for 14 days. (14 days! Living with God only knows what chemicals and dead things!) Then clean like a mad person. Seal everything in plastic bags.
4. Pray the bed bugs have been eradicated.

Now, I have been living among clutter for the past three months. I’ve been living out of boxes for about two. I am just getting to the point where I am organized and now I have to rip it all up again. If you know me, and I believe most of you do, you know that there is only a low level of clutter and disarray I can deal with. After that it becomes mentally taxing. I’m sure I’ve got 80 versions of OCD, but I like cleanliness and orderliness. And to be without it drives me batty.

So upon learning I was going to have to repack, I broke down last night. I don’t know if I can deal with this again, but I guess I have no choice. I can’t go stay with mom and dad like I could have if I was still in CT. And that’s the price I have to pay in my war with the rats, and the bed bugs.

It is important to note that I haven’t seen any signs of bed bugs in my apartment, but apparently others in the building have them or have had them. And they are difficult to get rid of. Apparently they’ll just move from apartment to apartment unless you bomb the whole building. So on one hand, I guess it is a good thing the landlord is being thorough. On the other hand, I am now itchy everywhere and imagining I do indeed have bed bugs. Who knows. What I do know it this: I’ll be very busy all weekend.

So I was hoping to catch up on emails this weekend, but that won’t be happening now. It’ll probably be another week, maybe two. I’m sorry! I’ll let you all know how the extermination goes on Monday though.

Until then, keep your Raid close at hand.

Rats of NYM

I hate rats. I loathe them on a level that defies logic. I’m pretty sure it’s the hairless, thick tail that sends shivers down my spine, but it could be any of their other fine features, such as pestilence.

Anyway, as a hater of rats, New York is an unusual choice for a residence, since rats are only barely outnumbered by people. Some day the rodents will rise up and take over the city in a virtually bloodless coup (because we are cowards and they are vicious – have you seen their sharp teeth?).

Now some people freak out when they are very close to certain animals – snakes, bugs, etc. I freak out at the very thought of rats. So you can imagine my joy at seeing them scurry back and forth across the subway tracks. Yes, I know I am fairly removed from them. And yes, I know they aren’t very interested in people (until the coup, when we will all become their slaves). But rats just give me the willies.

The only thing that lifts my spirits about the subway rats is the periodic sign, courtesy the City of New York, that “Rodenticide has been used in this area.” Then it is comfortingly dated. Usually for six years ago.

I think this may be a false sense of comfort, though. I suspect the rats are actually planting these signs themselves. I think it is their way of lulling us into torpidity leading up to the coup. The giveaway is that the rat depicted on the signs has these long, freakishly skinny arms. This is not a fuzzy little creature that scampers across the floor, dashing from one hole to the next. This is a creature that has evolved opposable thumbs while living, breeding and sacrificing baby orphans in the city sewers. And this creature is preparing to use those thumbs. For evil.

Now you are probably thinking, “Hey, Splinter lived in the sewers and he was a freakishly large, opposable-thumbed rat and he worked for the forces of good!” This is a lie being sold to you by the rats. They already have taken over the entertainment industry. Don’t believe me? Then explain “Fear Factor.”

That’s what I thought. Now you are on my side.

Until Friday, train for combat …

Ommmmhhhh

Today has been a frustrating day. The server doesn’t work so well at work and that makes everyone’s computer slllloooooooooow. It has been a sort of zen exercise in patience, but at this point, I am ready to burst. It is 6:17 and I am just waiting for emails to actually get to clients. It has been an hour. I’m even trying my personal email now. It is ridiculous. One of these emails I sent yesterday! The client never got it.

Anyway, this is a lame minute, but I am so burned out from the computer situation that I can’t stand to stay here any longer. I promise a better, funnier minute tomorrow. It will also feature 90% less kvetching!

Until a possibly faster Thursday, my pretties …

Attack of the Clones

Chris is complaining about the length of my minutes, so I’ll try to keep this one short. Blame him.

This morning two things happened: My neighbor whisked my garbage out of my hands as I was leaving my apartment (I was having trouble balancing everything) and he raced down to the trashcans out back. I didn’t even know his name and had to hustle to catch up with him. None of my West Hartford neighbors ever ran away with my trash. As far as I know.

The second thing is this: I am 99 percent sure there is some kind of cloning experiment being performed in Astoria and Long Island City at this very moment. I was on my way to the turnstile this morning and I passed a group of three men, all in black trench coats and navy suits. Each one was holding his Starbuck’s coffee (all the same size!) exactly the same way. It was mildly creepy in that 1984 sort of way.

Initially I thought this was some sort of Latte Mafia. Then, at 23rd-Ely, three more guys got on the train – these ones were dressed in jeans (all had the same fit), black polarfleeces (Northface, of course) and sneakers. And THEY were all holding coffees (also the same size) in the exact same way.

Now I guess there are only so many ways to hold coffee, but for every single one of these guys to be holding his coffee cup at a precise right angle … something is rotten in the state of Denmark, I tell you. Next thing you know, Jango Fetts are going to be running all over the place.

Believe me you should. And guard your DNA.

Until Wednesday, my genetically unique friends …

I dream of screens

I'm back in the city, and the pavement feels good under my feet...

CT was nice. It was good to spend time with my family and visit with B and A (G's brother and sister-in-law). We had an excellent Triviathon at their house with my teammates. I'll fill you in on that more later, when the casting call date comes up, but in short, I've entered a World Series of Trivia with people I hardly know. Why? I couldn't think of a reason not to. Anyway, casting is April 1. I expect hilarity on many deep and meaningful levels.

Despite missing CT, New York is already feeling like home. I really like my apartment, even though I *still* have boxes to unpack. (This is becoming a task of epic proportions, like Sisyphus with the boulder. Every time I unpack a box, I have to move other things to make room for it, therefore creating new piles of misplaced objects -- but minus the boxes!) The building is a pre-World War II building, which makes for character, somewhat low lighting and possibly lead paint. So when you come to visit, don't lick the walls a lot.

Unlike my last apartment, there is actually heat in this one. There's so much heat that I have to open the windows to make it less ... tropical. G has taken to bringing shorts whenever he comes over and I usually wear a tank top at home. It's that warm. Makes me worry about July.

But I ramble. Here's the thing: I would leave a bunch of windows cracked open to make the apartment more breathable, but the superintendent never put my screens in.

You'd think, hey, a relatively smart girl like me should be able to put in screens. Not so. Apparently these are super high-tech screens created by the government in the '80s so the Soviets couldn't scale the brick walls of my apartment building with their superhuman suction hands, rip off the screens and break through my windows to get all of that uranium that they were storing ... in my future apartment? (Another reason not to lick the walls. Much.) Between G and I, we have three college majors, two minors, a partially finished fourth major and quite a lot of educational debt. None of these things helped. Neither one of us could figure out how to get these screens in. G forced one in, upside-down and backward, I think. Surely, it is not secure enough to keep the suction-handed freaks out.

Until Tuesday, my chums ...

Freestyling

Overheard:
One morning this week at 42nd Street, I was on the V and lucky enough to have a seat. There was a great rush of people just as the doors were closing. Apparently the train across the platform was stalled, but our conductor wasn't going to keep the doors open for those riders to move over into our train. This inspired one gasping commuter to declare: "I swear, some of these conductors aren't even worth the bullet, man. Aren't even worth the bullet."

Possible Sign of Insanity:
There are a lot of young women in the city with Louis Vuitton bags, distinguished by their distinctive LV designs. Every time I see one of these I start singing Kanye West's "Gold Digger" in my head and it stays there for the rest of the day. "... With a baby Louis Vuitton under her underarm ..." It's one ear worm that won't ever, ever go away!

Subway Factoid:
I've thoroughly researched this in merely a month (cha, right), but there is a narrow zone of perfect passenger-to-seat ratio on the subway. Too many people (rush hour) and you can barely breathe and definitely won't get a seat. Too few (later at night) and you start to get twitchy that maybe you'll be left alone in the car with the guy in the corner who, sure, looks innocent enough in his Armani suit, but could very well be the next Charles Manson. You never know! Maybe I'm paranoid (JP is shaking his head vigorously right now), but better paranoid than someone's tasty dinner, I say.

Neat Tricks:
K has sent me a package, which I cannot pick up until next weekend, since the post office hours are the same as my work hours and I'll be away on Saturday. That's OK, it prolongs the wait and adds to the excitement. (I am bouncing up and down in anticipation of gifts.) But G and SV have the solution to the post office's useless hours: send stuff to yourself at work. Ingenious! Now I can continue my online shopping addiction.

Until Monday, then ...

Hot oil & Leroy

Several tidbits to address today, as I am really enjoying the feedback I am getting from everyone:

1. Yes, I am saving these emails. I don't know about a book deal, as a few of you have suggested, but maybe my kids will enjoy reading them some day.

2. JP says I am old because I criticize frivolous fashions. I want to clarify: Not all frivolous fashion is up for criticism. I like some of it. Just not the unflattering, blood-tainted kind. Perhaps that's just me. And JP, I believe one of us is 29, and it isn't me ... (kisses!)

3. Welcome newcomers! That would be Andrew, who apparently hasn't dropped off the face of the Earth after all, and my cousin Bob. Congratulations! You've pushed me over my 50 person per email limit, so I'll be sending these out in two batches from now on. You each get a cookie. (And, yes, Andrew, I am really, truly living in New York. More on your other questions later.)

Now onto the very New Yorkiness of it all ...

There is this man. I imagine his name is Leroy, because he could possibly be the baddest man in the whole damn town.

Leroy sings on the subways around the 23rd Street area. I've heard him on the F, the 6 and the R, W, N lines. I'm not 100 percent sure what he looks like, since I am always trying to avoid eye contact -- and the plea for my spare change. To the best of my knowledge he is a black man, likely in his late 50s, early 60s. He's kind of short, wears a tan parka and sings like someone, but I can't quite put my finger on it. Maybe its Eartha Kitt? Maybe Macy Gray? Katherine can probably help me out here: It's raspy and sort of deep. It's not pleasant, but it's not unpleasant either. Sort of an acquired taste. Like corn dogs.

Anyway, the first day I heard Leroy was Valentine's Day. I was on my way back from work and Leroy was on the 6 train, belting out love songs. I assumed this romantic mood was inspired by the holiday.

I was so wrong.

Since Feb. 14 I have heard Leroy sing "Turn Off The Lights" by Teddy Pendergrassat least a half dozen times. You know, it's not the singing that gets to me. It's the lyrics, being sung to every man, woman, man/woman and child from here to 42nd Street.

A sampling:

Let's take a shower, shower together, yeah
I'll wash your body and you'll wash mine, yeah
Rub me down in some hot oils, baby, yeah
And I'll do the same thing to you

Leroy seems to be particularly fond of the hot oils part, since he repeats it at the end of every verse.

Now, I know I can be prudish. But it's just very, very uncomfortable to be in a small, cramped enclosed space with total strangers hearing about hot oils and "sexy moods." Yet another reason not to make eye contact.

So yesterday I was on the platform waiting for a V train and an F train pulls up. The doors open and I hear Leroy's dulcet tones, crooning about -- you guessed it -- hot oils.

It was a good day to ride the V train.

Until Friday, my friends ...

We are the Goon Squad ...

Today, we talk fashion. It is everywhere in New York, lurking in dark doorways, waiting for the right moment to nab some poor unsuspecting soul and turn her into one of its minions.

This winter the following things are tres chic for New York belles: full-length puffy coats, fur-trimmed coats (both puffed and non-puffed) and giant, puffy, furry boots.

Aside from a widespread secret yearning to be the Stay-Puff Marshmallow Man, insanity is the only explanation for this. I can attest to it appearing unattractive. I could even yield if I thought these things were offering warmth that simply could not be found in something non-puffy and non-furred. But we've all met polarfleece. We know the truth. So unless you're looking for a creative, resourceful use for that seal you clubbed for dinner, there's no excuse for sporting pelts.

But I digress ...

Puffy coats: Unless you've got something to hide (50 lbs. of shrimp, say), why would you choose to look like a grown-up kindergartener? You know what I mean. Your mother made you wear that snowsuit or that ridiculous UGLY quilted tan winter coat (yes, I am talking to you, Mother). Sure, when you're cute and young, you can get away with wearing just about anything. Not so much when you're in your 30s.

Fur trim: You know, if you really, really, really want to ensconce yourself in dead animal (and who doesn't?), just go whole hog and get the whole coat. Fur trim is just a waste of life. It's not keeping you any warmer and, frankly, it looks like 70 percent of the women in New York are being mauled by some furred beast. Just in the head region, though. *gestures wildly around head*

The boots: You know, boots are my friends. I hate to taunt them. By unless a vast tribe of Inuit have moved here, I don't understand the presence of giant mukluks everywhere. I doubt they are water-resistant. Most of them sport all sorts of ties and strings. And in a perfect complement to the head maulings, it often looks as if some poor hapless female has stepped on two Tasmanian devils that just ... won't ... let ... go. I hate when that happens.

Anyway, I'm looking forward to spring so there will be an end to the carnage. I hope. But who knows what Fashion will foist upon us then ...

Until Thursday, my pets ...

HEY YOU!

** WARNING, some language may not be suitable for our sensitive readers. **

Yesterday I was starting to worry that I would run out of things to tell you all about. But when in need, New York provides ...

I was waiting to cross Broadway last night, still a little frazzled from work and a little sleepy from the train ride home. Behind me, I heard a deep voice bark, "Hey you! YOU! Hey you! Yeh, you!"

Initially I ignored whomever it was. There are all sorts of unfortunate souls wandering New York who just blurt things out. It's best not to make eye contact.

"HEY YOU! Help me cross the sidewalk. Yeh, YOU!"

Now I couldn't ignore this, this person was asking for help -- asking in a very throaty New York accent. So imagine my surprise when I turned around to see a petite woman who most certainly would be someone's grandmother, except for that fact that she was so incredibly rude, I doubt anyone would stay with her long enough to conceive offspring. Though I could be wrong ...

"HEY YOU!"

Yes, I say.

"Help me cross the mother-f**king road. So many mother-f**king cars. I can't believe all these mother-f**king cars."

I was too shocked to say anything. I just crossed the road with her, her with her lovely black-and-purple grandma scarf wrapped around her head, me likely looking as if I had just seen Winnie the Pooh go all carnivore on Christopher Robin.

"You live in Queens?"

Yes, I do. Do you?

"You staying in Queens?"

Yes.

"What do you do for work?"

I'm a graphic designer.

"Where do you work?"

Manhattan.

"Where?"

On Sixth Avenue. (I am now starting to worry that this little woman is going to start stalking me.)

"You live in Queens?"

Yes. Do you?

"Why don't you live in Manhattan?"

Oh, well, it is very expensive. But it seems to be where everyone wants to live.

"Are you staying in Queens?"

Yes, I can't afford Manhattan. Do you like Queens?

And just like that, she stopped, glared into a shoe store on Steinway, and suddenly vanished into the store. I can't say I was sad to see her go. I stopped in the grocery store on the way home, just to shake her off my trail if she was tailing me.

Just another day in New York.

P.S. Keyboard Update: After a night to dry, she seems to be back and only a few keys are sticky. Hallelujah and praise be! (Peters sends a link for spill-proof keyboards, if anyone is looking for them.)

Until Wednesday ... HEY YOU!

Death of a Keyboard

Oh, it is Monday. And it is unpleasant. The weather was pretty nice -- sunny, clear skies. But about halfway through the morning I dumped a large tea all over myself, and my keyboard. The keyboard appears to not have survived the deluge. My coworker did his very best to save it while I raced to dry the monitor base, but I'm afraid we lost the patient. It's an unfortunate casualty, especially since the keyboard another coworker nabbed me from the vacant station has sticky keys. Every time I try to type "p" I get "op." They seem to have molded together.

Add onto this that the office temperature was in negative degrees. I had to put on my coat and was debating whether it would be acceptable to put on my hat.

So in an effort to shake the morning doldrums, I went out to lunch by myself. Everyone in the city seems to go out for lunch. I was among many lone lunchers when I sat down to eat. Last week I brown-bagged and it probably saved me a lot of money. Today I went to Toasties on Seventh between 22nd and 23rd, where a mozzarella sandwich and soup cost me $8.65. The food wasn't really worth it, but it was worth it to get out of the office, eat something warm and just move on to the next part of my day. I also stopped into Duane Reade, a pharmacy like CVS is that is literally on every corner in the city, nearly as prevalent as Starbucks, which is taking over the world as we speak -- but they are doing it with free-trade coffee so it's OK. I replenished my tissue supply, which was wiped out in the Great Tea Spill of 2006. I also bought Twizzlers.

This sugar-fueled frenzy has carried me through the afternoon and now I am just waiting to doublecheck one more assignment before I head home to unpack some more. I'm very close to finishing the kitchen, thanks to G's help this weekend. I am beginning to see light at the end of the tunnel. Then again, that may just be the 6:35 Lack Of Storage Express heading straight for me.

So here are today's lesson: Beware of tea. It is delicious, but it is also a silent killer of keyboards. Consider yourself warned.

Until Tuesday, my friends...

Jaded and loving it

Greetings friends! Dirt tells me I have already become a jaded New Yorker. Perhaps I have. Though it seems as if it would take more than three weeks to really convert. There are probably classes I have to take.

I'll be off-line for the weekend (still waiting to get cable Internet), so I'll leave you with these few tidbits:

Things I couldn't live without this week:
My polar fleece hat, pulled down over my ears. It makes the walks nearly bearable.
Motrin. All this walking and three flights of stairs to my fourth-floor walkup have caused a few aches.

Noticed:
Tuesday the Empire State Building was lit up green and blue. We conjectured that it was for Mardi Gras. Then on Wednesday it was green, red and white. I can't think of why that would be. Nevertheless, viva Italia!

This week's spiritual moment:
The walk signal hand at 37th street and Broadway in Astoria has stigmata. I kid you not. This is an interesting contrast to the walk signal hand across from CBGB, which has the thumb, middle and ring fingers blocked out to form the "rock on" sign. Or the sign for the devil, depending on who you talk to. At any rate, Jesus is in Astoria. Literally, in a glass box out on a front lawn. I walk by him every morning. He is flanked by vases of fake flowers. Very tasteful. Jesus is the only one hearty enough to last the winter, though. All the other lawn saints are in warmer climes awaiting spring. When the crocuses make their way out, I expect to see the Virgin Mary and a good many St. Francis feeding the birds. Until then, Jesus remains our lone lawn jockey.

Until Monday, stay warm, stay happy and have a great weekend!

In the beginning

So because I am lazy, because I don't yet have email at home and because I really do want to stay in touch with you all, I am launching "New York Minute," a daily update on things NY and my new life here, as inspired by my friend Keith. So here is your inaugural installment.

Last night I went with some friends to the Cedar Bar, which wasn't bad food-wise or price-wise, so I can recommend this East Village establishment. Over dinner we started talking about the things people do in NY that bug us. My personal pet peeve are The Sudden Stoppers. These are the people who, usually inexplicably, stop in THE MIDDLE OF THE SIDEWALK. Now, in NY there is a lot of pedestrian traffic. A lot. If you find yourself in a situation where you have to stop (you're lost, you're on the phone, you want to look at the Empire State Building), pull over to the side, for Pete's sake! This problem would be solved if humans were all equipped with break lights. Sadly, evolution has not reached that point.

SV laughed when I ranted about the Sudden Stoppers. Apparently she yelled at one the day before Thanksgiving when she was in a real hurry to catch the train back to CT. She says there should be an etiquette book that is required reading for anyone who comes to the city. It's not a bad idea. There's a lot to learn.

T and G shared their pet peeve: When people try to board the subway while they are getting off. The rule here is that you step to the side to let the people off the subway, then you all cram yourselves into the car. The conductor is actually looking out of the car to see that everyone has gotten on before he closes the doors. So the doors are not timed, as you might think they are. G and T said sometimes if someone tries to board while they are exiting, they throw an elbow. Now, these are really nice guys, so you can only imagine how the Early Boarders rile the locals.

Well, that's it for tonight I think. I will tell you more about my coworkers and my life and finding food and all things NYC in the days to come. Hope you are doing well!