You win some, you lose some

Let’s start with the good news, shall we? I had a huge breakthrough the other day with insect assassination.

I feel like I should back up a bit first. Rewind to about 3 years ago. I had just broken up with my boyfriend of 5 or so years and I was having a bit of, how should I put this? Let’s call it “trouble adjusting.” With my old boyfriend, when I needed to get something done, I just called him up and said, “hey sweetie, can you do [fill in the blank] for me?” and it would get done. Fill in the blank could be anything from putting together Ikea furniture to changing light bulbs to ordering a pizza. After five years of filling in the blank, it’s pretty easy to see how I would end up a bit helpless.

It’s worse than you think though. I seriously couldn’t even hang a picture. Hammering a nail into the wall was an ordeal.

Over my year of singlehood however, I embraced my inner Betty Friedan. I moved to a new apartment all by myself, mastered Ikea furniture and at one point, I put together a cabinet for our bathroom and used a power drill to hang the thing. Yee-haw! The only problem is that I could never kill bugs. Especially not those gigantic brown roaches that infest D.C. in the summertime. Luckily for me (not so lucky for the bugs), I didn’t stay single long and the Scooby Snacks has been around to defend me from roaches and other beasts, like bees, gnats and spiders.

When Scooby moved me up to New York, I was a little nervous about letting him leave. I told him that one of my biggest concerns was the possibility of bugs. He was very supportive though. He said, “you are an independent woman, capable of doing anything and certainly capable of killing bugs.”

I had to remember these inspirational words the other night when I got up at about 3 a.m. to go to the bathroom. When I flipped the light switch on in the bathroom, a little brown blob on the wall caught my eye. It was a roach. Thank goodness it wasn’t one of those giant ones, because I would have just run back to my bedroom and hidden under my covers. I looked at the roach, practiced the scooby’s mantra, “I am an independent woman!” and clumsily swatted at the insect with a tissue covered hand. On the 4th try, I made contact, picked up the sad little guy and threw him in the toilet.

I do feel a little badly, but he was an intruder and so I like to think of it as self-defense.

Of course, as you may have guessed from the first line, I have a touch of bad news. When I came home this afternoon to check my email and do a little research, I was greeted by a completely dark and silent apartment. The darkness was to be expected, but the silence was not. My fan should have been running and thus making a slight whirring sound in the next room.

I walked into my room and flipped the light switch. Nothing. My power was out. I walked down the hall of my apartment building and asked the super’s brother to do something about it and then walked back to school to check my email there. When my roommate and I returned home however, the apartment was still dark, hot and silent. I had just bought groceries too, so it was depressing putting my hummus and milk into a lukewarm refrigerator. We called the super and 30 minutes later he arrived and went down to the basement to fix the problem. The lights came on, the fridge started working and my roommate’s DVD player scrolled “HELLO” across it’s screen. But my room was still silent. Not even a hint of a whirr.

I don’t know if it was my fan that caused the power outage or not, but once the power was back on, the fan was not. I tried it in every outlet. It’s dead. And worse, I’m hot. Really, really hot. The kind of uncomfortable warmth that I know is going to impede the sleeping process.

I considered opening up the window and getting a little air flow in here, but I’m too scared I'll let bugs in.

Nothing is ever easy

I’ve been in New York City since Sunday night and already I think I’m starting to get the hang of things. Here are some reasons I feel like I’ve been somewhat initiated:
I saw TWO rats scurrying along the subway tracks at my local station
I saw a redheaded, Hispanic transvestite down the street
I mastered the express train in two directions
I am 99% sure I saw a prostitute on my block.

Yesterday after spending a couple days duking it out with my Ikea furniture, I decided to wander all over town and even made it down to the gym for a quick jog. The sad news is that I got lost….in the gym. I had no idea such a small space could be so confusing, but after I swiped my card, there were staircases going up two floors and down one floor and people everywhere. I asked around to find the locker room and after putting my things in a locker, I wandered around, doe-eyed as if I’d never seen exercise equipment before.

For the most part, I’ve settled in. My furniture is in place in my pint-sized room, my pictures are on the wall, I found a grocery store and know how to get to the subway. That being said, small problems arise.

Yesterday I had the simple task of picking up my loan check at the University so that I could in turn deposit said check into a new checking account. I had researched online and found that Commerce Bank has no fees for a basic checking account, it’s located 2 blocks from my apartment, and Regis and Kelly are the spokespeople. I was sold.

I looked online to figure out where the financial aid building was. 116th and Amsterdam, a mere 7 blocks from my apartment. It took my literally 45 minutes to find the place. 7 minutes to walk to the general vicinity and another 38 to wander around, get lost, get more lost, ask 2 people and finally walk in the front door. To my credit, there was construction, so there were a lot of detour signs, but still. I was frustrated to say the least.

I had received an email telling me to go to Kent Hall, room 208. I walked up and down the one corridor in Kent Hall and found rooms 206, 210 and 205 (in that order), but no 208. I asked 4 people and one of them knew what I was talking about, directed me to the room and when I went in, they directed me back to room 210, which contained the cashier who would authorize my check. After I received my check, the woman told me to go to room 205 to sign my Master Promissory Note. I went to 205, waited in line for 10 minutes and when I told them what I needed, they replied, “oh no. You can’t do that here. You have to go to your school’s financial aid office.”

So far, Columbia seems like a really organized place.

After the check debacle, I decided to take my money directly over to the bank so that I didn’t lose the biggest check I’ve ever seen in my life. I went into Commerce Bank, told the woman at the front door that I needed to open a checking account. She asked me if I had an I.D. Yes. She then asked me if I had proof of NYC address. Er. Um. Well, no. So I just decided to walk home with a big check and a heavy heart.

I told my roommate about the incident and she excitedly yelped, “Oh hey! Yes, look!” She handed me our lease that had just arrived in the mail. With a renewed sense of confidence, I walked down the street to Commerce Bank and sat for 15 minutes waiting to talk to a customer service representative. When I sat down, I handed over my I.D. and my lease.

“Oh….hmmm.” He looked at the lease and shook his head. “Are you a Columbia student?” I admitted that I was and he said, “well then, let me see your Columbia Student I.D.”I informed him that I would not be receiving my identification card until Friday and he relayed some bad news: leases aren’t proof of address. Strange, I know. However, they cut Columbia students some slack with the lease if they can produce their I.D. cards. So I once again left Commerce Bank with my check in hand.

After that, I decided to take the express train down to 14th Street and wander around Union Square. There were people everywhere. I saw two people sitting on a park bench chatting, right next to a man playing the saxophone who was next to a man with a tower of dreadlocks selling hemp necklaces. None of them even noticed that there were other people beside them; they were all in their own worlds. It was strangely consoling and reminded me a lot of yoga class. When I first started out, I was so self-conscious that everyone was watching me while I strained to get into the pretzel-like positions. After a few classes though, I realized that everyone was so caught up in their own practice that they didn’t have the time or the interest to watch other people.

In new York I could get lost all day long and feel like an idiot, but most likely no one would notice. I’m just some anonymous redhead trying to make my way through the streets like everyone else. And just like that, I felt like I might one day get used to this.


The room is cute.....









...Just don't open the closet:

Yogabug

When I was preparing to leave D.C. all I could think about were the things I’d experienced for the past few years that I would now be missing: drinks at Biddy Mulligan’s, going out on the weekends with my friends, my favorite yoga class. The Wednesday before leaving for New York, I decided I had to go to the class one last time. In 2004, it was my New Year’s resolution to start taking yoga, so I got sucked into the most difficult 90-minute, tri-weekly yoga class I’ve ever encountered. By the end of the packed class, the windows and mirrors were fogged up and every participant dripped with sweat. Beyond the actual challenge of the class, I loved the instructor Susan, a 60-year-old spitfire of a woman with spiky gray hair and attitude to spare. Some choice remarks from her classes:
Now peel your feet apart like you’re opening up a bun for your soy hot dog.
Don’t get smug just because you can get into this pose.
If you’re not going to try it, you’re not allowed to look at other people.
Sit on your heel so it’s just between number 1 and number 2.
Well you’re not even trying, are you?

She is the epitome of what Peapod would call a sassy sheila. The class was all I’d hoped for between the challenge, the sweat and the hilarious comments, and afterward I approached Susan to say goodbye and tell her how much I’d appreciated her.

It turns out she’s moving to Minneapolis as soon as she can sell her condo, which was shocking news to me. I had imagined that when I left, everything would stay just as it had been and should I ever want to return, I could slip back into my old habits of Biddy’s and weekend carousing and crazy yoga nights. It was a naïve assumption of course. Most of my friends in D.C. are getting married over the next year, some will move farther out into the suburbs and some will move to other cities. D.C. is an especially transient city and people don’t tend to stay for long. If and when I go back, I’ll have to adjust, just as if I’d moved to any new city.

The good news is that Susan makes it to NYC a lot and gave me her card to keep in touch. It has a picture of her and her husband from the 70s with her Minneapolis address and email. She also gave me a button with a little ladybug-looking thing on it and told me, “wear this button. It’s a yogabug just like you.” Then she gave me a hug and we both moved one step closer to leaving home.

Don’t Call it a Vacation

T minus two days until I leave for New York and it’s hard to remember what I’ve been doing for the past couple of weeks since returning from Seattle. I think the only explanation is that I’ve done basically nothing. The first day was beyond amazing. I couched in front of an America’s Next Top Model marathon, played with our 4-month-old golden retriever puppy and hung out with Raquel, my Filipino surrogate mother who doubles as my parents’ housekeeper. It was reminiscent of vacations in elementary school before I started playing softball all summer long and well before I started making lattes for 6 bucks an hour at the Marvelous Market Bakery. When I was 9, I just sat on the couch and watched Price is Right followed by Loving, followed by Days of Our Lives, followed by General Hospital and, well, you get the picture: I didn’t move, except to grab some Thin Mints from the kitchen.

So sitting in front of the television all day felt a tad retrogressive, but overall a welcome change.

Until the second day of my vacation. It turns out that the first day was sort of an anomaly and quality shows like ANTM don't generally air during the day. Sure, there are two hours of Law and Order broadcast from 2 until 4, but I’ve seen all of those. What’s worse is that sitting on the couch made me a slave to it. When I was working fulltime, I used to leave work, go straight to the gym, drop by H&M afterwards and then take the Circulator bus to meet friends in Georgetown. I was always on the go and the more I had on my calendar, the more I wanted to do. Being lazy has a similar effect. Because I sat on the couch for a whole day, the idea of going to the grocery store to buy bananas seemed like a momentous undertaking. Luckily, I found a reason to leave the house: Raquel’s granddaughter, Kate.

She’s 9 and while she is cute and extremely precocious, the girl never. stops. talking. For reasons beyond me, she is also convinced that we are the same age. She knows that I’m 24 (that was one of her first in a long line of rapid-fired queries), but she still asks me questions like: Do you like Chuck E. Cheese? What cartoons do you watch? What do you want to be when you grow up?

By the time she got to more profound questions (e.g. “if you could tame a wild puma, would you consider keeping it as a pet?”), I decided playtime was over and hightailed it to the gym. When I came back, I was soaked with sweat and wandered into the kitchen to grab some water. Raquel took one look at me and shrieked. She was disturbed by how sweaty I was and told me to go change immediately. I couldn’t understand why she was so shocked since I had told her that I was going running, and then she said:

“When you wear wet shirt, you get colds in your back.” Actually, she may have said “you get coals in your back.” Either way, there was no point in arguing. I went upstairs and took a shower. When I got out of the shower, she was not appeased. Apparently taking a shower right after working out can also cause the dreaded back-coals, as can leaving the house with wet hair, even though it’s 110 degrees outside. Of course leaving the house wasn’t a problem since I was enigmatically drawn back to the couch to watch more television. It’s a sickness. An addiction. After this week, I’m thinking about getting one of those bumper stickers that reads: kill your television.

Luckily I have other distractions. Well one big distraction, being the puppy Tyler, who happens to be insane. She is one of the cutest little puppy nuggets in the whole world, but God is she a handful. We brought her home when she was only two months old and she had a bladder the size of a fava bean, which led her to pee with the frequency of exhalation. We actually took her outside every 10 minutes or so. Johanna and I also played with the idea of calling her accidents “intentionals.”

Good news though: since I’ve come home from Seattle I’ve been ruling with an iron fist and her behavior has greatly improved. She hasn’t had any intentionals (except when someone she doesn’t know pets her. She literally explodes with excitement), she comes when I call her, she doesn’t bite and she doesn’t jump. Hallelujah. On a sidenote, she has the ridiculous habit of flipping over onto her back as soon as anyone approaches her so that they might scratch her tummy. Raquel thinks this very indelicate and actually joked, "she's a whore. She needs panty!"

But yesterday the puppy nugget did the most disgusting thing any puppy has ever done (with the exception of the dog next door, Rambo, who once lifted his leg and peed on his brother Eiffel). I noticed that she had disappeared for a couple of minutes and gone downstairs to harass Raquel. When she returned, she was playing with something that resembled a laptop battery. It was black and rectangular. I shooed her away so I could see what it was and when I picked it up, I noticed it was sort of gluey. I flipped it over to get a better look and staring back at me was a dead, decomposing mouse. She had found one of Dad’s sticky traps in the basement. And I was holding it in my hand. Worse, it was sort of STUCK to my hand. So I shook it off, threw Tyler in her cage and promptly started screaming. Raquel came running upstairs, took one look at the situation and joined me in my yelping. In the end, my gag reflex proved more than I could take and Raquel had to do the dirty deed of disposing of the thing. I was still trying to get over the horror when Raquel walked over to me, shook her head and said, “Steph! Why your hair is wet?!?”











One sick puppy.

Another Day, Another Embarrassment

The way some people talk about New York, you’d think it was the New World with streets paved in gold. Apparently NYC boasts a number of conveniences that are hard to find in other cities, namely dirt cheap laundry, taxis, massages and manicures along with gyms open 24 hours a day. These somehow make up for the fact that a value meal at McDonalds costs $10 and rent prices are through the roof.

I conveyed my concern to Johanna about not having laundry facilities in my building and she responded with a child-like excitement: “Oh no, in New York you don’t DO your laundry, you send it out!” Meanwhile every time our coworker Mario Grande (yes that’s his real name and no he isn’t a porn star) heads up to NYC for business, he returns refreshed and rejuvenated from his $40, hour-long deep-tissue massage in which “a little Asian woman kicks the shit out of” him. He claims it feels amazing.

After a recent episode in a local salon, I’m looking forward to saying goodbye to Washington, DC’s idea of a bikini wax.

Don’t get priggish on me here. A bikini wax is a completely normal thing for a person who is (a) going to the beach and (b) has sensitive skin susceptible to razor burn. My understanding is that you can get a decent waxing at a clean salon for $15-$20 in New York. In D.C. I’ve wound up paying $40-$50 before tip; it’s absurd.

I found one place that I patronized a couple of times for the bargain price of $25, but the Eastern European waxing lady was more talkative than I would have preferred. Being on the modest side, I thought talking about the weather would be fine, but some of her topic choices were less than kosher.

So I decided to start calling around to places before heading out the door. I spoke to no less than 5 salons, where the receptionists conveyed a rate of $45. I even spoke to one person who went into great detail about the difference between a Brazilian, Caribbean and regular (American?) wax. This far exceeded any lines crossed by the Eastern European Waxing Lady, so even if their rate was $10, I wouldn’t have made an appointment.

On the brink of despair, I called “Janet’s Nail Palace.” There was a bit of a language barrier, but the rate was very clear: $20. Jackpot.

When I showed up at Janet’s, I recognized the place, and I can assure you, it was no palace. In fact, it was the salon that I referred to as “that place where they don’t wash out the foot tubs.” Nevertheless, I was won over by their cheap fee, so I talked to the receptionist who handed me off to the Vietnamese Waxing Lady. I followed her to the back of the store and she motioned me to follow her into a room. I took one step into the room and recoiled noticing that there was already a customer in there. She appeared to be getting a facial and her eyes were closed.

“Oh, ummm, should I just wait?” I asked VWL.

“Curtain!” VWL said as she pointed to a shower curtain that appeared to divide the already tiny room into 2 shoeboxes. I thought for a moment about just leaving, because I’ve experienced a lot of bizarre occurrences at waxing establishments, but never have I shared a room during the excruciating procedure. It was too late though. I warily leaned back onto the crinkly, paper-covered table and, lifted up my skirt. For a moment I remembered a story my mother likes to occasionally recount. When I was 3 years old, I was at the airport and went up to a strange man, lifted up my skirt and said something along the lines of “look at my pretty panties.” It was kind of a weird thing to do, but I was only 3. This time around I was old enough to know that I would probably regret this.

The process was endurable, despite a few yelps I let slip. That is, until the woman giving the facial needed something on my side of the curtain. She pushed the curtain back about halfway. I looked up at her shocked, as if caught red-handed. “Can’t she wait 30 more seconds?” I wondered to myself. And then I turned my head more to the left to get a look at the customer receiving the facial. It appeared that her facial was over and she had moved onto something like an eyebrow wax or a nose-hair clipping. She no longer had her eyes closed; rather, she was staring right back at me as my waxing lady asked, “Do you want me to take a little more off the top?” I could only see her disembodied head, so I pray that she had a similar view of me, but either way my face was the color of dismay: pomegranate red. A moment later the process was done and I was running for the door contemplating the virtues of Nair.

There are a lot of things D.C. does well: scandal, cocktail parties, sanitary public transportation. However cheap and non-humiliating seem to be mutually exclusive in the bikini waxing realm. Maybe this incident was just something I needed to toughen me up before enduring the many embarrassments awaiting me in NYC. If so, mission accomplished.