60/40 August 22, 2006

I’m moving on Saturday. It doesn’t feel real, despite the fact that just a few hours ago I called the movers and pledged $350 dollars to them in cold, hard cash in return for them moving my stuff all of 4 blocks. Yes, yes, the 2.5 hour minimum, even thought it will take you approximately 1 hour to get it all done – you win, you bastards.

I’m excited, though.

Kind of.

50/50.

Ok, 60/40, in favor of really not that excited.

I’m stoked about the shiny parquet floors, the doorman, the elevators, the FIVE CLOSETS (!!!!), the dishwasher, the large bathroom, the new dishes I ordered from CB2 (Angelina, I love it too) the new location – just a few blocks away from a Whole Foods and the best pizza in town and a subway stop that will take me to work in ten minutes, be still my heart.

And yet, I’m still apprehensive. Sure, part of it is the money thing. I spent 45 minutes in a dressing room in Boston this weekend admiring a beautiful, off-white, cashmere-blend fall coat that made me look all put-together and chic and “why yes, I am from Manhattan, how did you know?” and then didn’t. buy. it.

“But it looks so good on you!” the saleswoman pleaded, holding it up against me after I told her I couldn’t take it. “Really, you should reconsider.” I could see it in her eyes. It wasn’t just the sale. It was genuine, female-to-female, “you should own this article of clothing, for articles of clothing that look like they were tailor-made just for you do not come along very often, dear” advice.

And yet, I still walked away, having mustered willpower I never even knew I had. The rent, it has apparently instilled the fear of god in me.

But it’s more the roommate. Heretofore known as the Roommate. She emailed me in a state this morning because omigod, she saw her ex-boyfriend this weekend and omigod even though he’s seriously dating another girl he’s like seriously into her and omigod, he even stroked her hair and told her he thought about her often and omigod, isn’t she just SO BAD because she LOVES the attention even though she’s SO not getting back with him, eww!

This is the girl that flirts with my boyfriend. Touches him, giggles at things he says that aren’t all that funny, tells me how she thinks he’s “soooo cute.” This is the girl whose morals – when it comes to men – are, oh, a bit suspect. This is the girl who needs constant validation that she is attractive, especially in the form of knowing she is wanted by men that are dating other women. Especially that.

I know the Boy, I know he loves me. Sometimes it’s hard to believe that he loves me as much as he does but that’s more just my issues rearing their ugly heads and really, Clink, jesus, where is your sense of self-worth? However, since I do have some work to do on that whole self-worth thing, living with her is going to make me extremely insecure. And paranoid.

Just today a co-worker was flipping through my digital camera and said, “Is that your roommate? Wow, she’s gorgeous,” and I’m not going to lie, I kinda sorta felt like puking. Yes, she’s gorgeous. Yes, everyone under the sun thinks she’s hot. Yes, I should probably just lead the Boy to her bedroom and say “here, have him, why even bother to put up a fight?”

It’s times like that I have to remind myself, hey, I’ve been called pretty before and, hey, my boyfriend loves me for me – all of me, inside, outside – and, hey, SHE IS CRAZY AND I AM ONLY CRAZY SOMETIMES AND THAT GIVES ME A LEG UP.

But the closets! And a dishwasher! Putting up with her is going to be worth it for those two Manhattan luxuries alone. I think.

My mornings, revisited August 10, 2006

You’re on your way to work, urban armor firmly in place: iPod (I can’t hear you, World), oversized sunglasses (I can’t see you, World), arms crossed, hurried gait (I am too important and in too much of a hurry for you, World).

Except the armor is not foolproof. You can still hear the hisses and the kissing sounds and the “daaamn”s as you head toward the subway station. You can still see the men lined up against the bus stop, against the bodega and you wonder, who are these men and why do they stand around on the street all day and what do they expect you to do when they ask “hey baby, do you need a man?” Turn around and lift up your skirt and say “Take me right here, Seemingly Unemployed, Gross Man. Take me, now!”

As you enter the subway station, you chide yourself for wearing a skirt in the first place and then you chide yourself for chiding yourself for wearing a skirt because fuck it, why should you base your choice of outfit on whether or not Seeming Unemployed, Gross Men will gawk at you or not. You are fierce and independent and also, you have mace in your bag and you know not to spray it into the wind.

By the time you’re on the subway platform, waiting waiting waiting for the 7 Local as you watch one, two, three 7 Expresses pass you on the other track, you are angry at the world. Angry that you have to go to your job, which you don’t even know if you want anymore. Angry that there are terrorists and they are planning to blow up planes and sure, they didn’t succeed this time but what about next time? Angry that you had to leave the Boy in bed, hair ruffled, in nothing but his boxers and that you won’t be able to see him for another 12 hours at least, and damn, he looks so sexy in bed in the morning.

The 7 Local finally arrives and you don’t care who you push out of the way to get a seat so you can settle into your book and thus not count the zillion stops from Queens to Manhattan. But there’s a little old lady and she looks kind of like your grandmother – if your grandmother were Asian, that is – and you give her your seat because you’d want someone to give their seat to your grandmother even though your grandmother does not ever take public transportation. However, the little old lady politely declines your offer, she is getting out at the next stop, and before you have a chance to snag back your seat, some punk with his iPod blasting and his legs spread wide is sitting in it and FUCK you hate trying to turn the pages AND maintain balance by holding onto the poll.

You count every fucking stop from Queens to Manhattan.

You have to transfer at 42nd Street from the 7 to the A,C,E and that means you have to endure the Tunnel of Ass at least once a day. Slow walkers, people hawking DVD’s of movies that just came out a week ago, musicians every five feet – they all endure your wrath as you clop clop clop in your high wedges and bemoan the fact that you didn’t wear flip flips, because you feel frumpy in flip flops, but a frumpy mindset – you remind yourself – is a small price to pay for comfort and speed.

You look at the walls, plastered with Jews for Jesus/Jesus for Jews posters and shake your head.

You pass the Scientology-masquerading-as-a-free-stress-test set-up and roll your eyes.

You barrel down the stairs and slide onto the A or the C or the E or whatever and exhale. One more stop. Sure, you’re that much closer to work but at least you’ll be out of commuting hell because OMIGOD THE SLOW WALKERS, THEY ARE IN ABUNDANCE.

Then you hear the first few chords of the song. Your iPod’s song shuffle feature has finally served you well. It’s Aqualung, it’s the song that you assume will be your wedding song. Suddenly you are transported from a dimly-lit train to your delicious wedding reception held in a chic Manhattan loft. You’re dancing with the Boy and you’re officially married and your dress is perfect and not ball gown-y because you’re tall and you can pull off fitted and fitted allows you to move and dance and the Boy even twirls you around and you return to face him, beaming.

You’re jolted from your early morning fantasy by the sound of the pissed off conductor and his apparent disdain for all the transfers you can make at 34th Street as you roll into the station. You dash for the doors of the train, terrified that one of these days you’re going to get caught in them and be that asshole who everyone rolls their eyes at.

You head up to 35th Street and stick your nose in your shirt because OMIGOD THE SMELL and walk towards your building. Angry still, yes, but also encouraged. Because if a wedding and a husband and a dress like that are in your future, how bad can life really be?

Habitat. August 7, 2006

Approximately 534 bad apartments and over four thousand dollars (each) in security, first month’s rent and broker’s fee later, we have a place.

Not just a place. The place.

It’s everything we fantasized about but assumed we’d never get. Shiny lobby, doorman, elevator, laundry, lots of light, a beautiful kitchen, dishwasher, tons of closet space, a decent living space, large bedrooms, a great location… I mean, New Yorkers tend to head into an apartment search knowing they will sacrifice at least one thing in order to have a few others. They create a priority list and whatever is at the bottom (location, space, newly renovated) is what they’re just going to have to do without.

Miraculously, not us. Granted, as I mentioned below, the hefty (but not unreasonable…for New York) price tag means what I’ll be sacrificing is my no-budget, eat out five times a week lifestyle. But it’s a sacrifice I’m willing to make. I’m making great strides already – I waltzed right past Starbucks on my way into work this morning and instead bought myself a $5 box of cereal that will last me a few weeks.

I’m ecstatic to move in on the 25th. However (and you just knew there was going to be a ‘however’) I also hope that whatever roommate curse that has followed me from freshman year of college through two years in New York will officially be lifted. Though, to be honest, I have some doubts.

I love my almost-roommate, don’t get me wrong. She’s fun and girly and enjoys bad reality television. She’s a friend and it seems as though she’ll actually pay rent on time. However, there’s something about her interactions with the Boy that leave me a tad bit concerned.

For example, when the Boy and I said goodbye to her at her recent birthday party, she grabbed his hand and held onto it a bit longer than was appropriate as she scanned the room looking for another friend. It’s hard to explain but trust me, I left that bar feeling mighty uncomfortable.

Even more recently, a bunch of us were eating dinner together. My best friend was telling a funny story and Almost-Roommate laughed along with the rest of us. But then she kind of grabbed the Boy’s arm and leaned in toward him. She immediately followed it up with a “sorry.” I mean, the story wasn’t that funny. Why is she always touching him?

I don’t know. I’m aware that she’s a bit insecure and flirtatious – despite being quite pretty - and that she tends to subconsciously seek male attention for validation no matter what the situation. But it’s just like, okay – hands off.

Now I’m always a tad suspicious when she asks me about him (which she does, a lot). And we’re not even living together yet. What happens when I leave them alone in the apartment for the first time? The bile rises in my throat just thinking about it.

But other than that I’m very excited! Thrilled! Relieved! I just can’t let my very colorful imagination get the best of me or I’m most certainly going to lose my mind.

Doomed. August 4, 2006

The realization of this whole (ongoing, soul-sucking) apartment search hit me today: come September (God willing), exactly half of my monthly pay gobbled up by rent.

Half. Monthly pay. Rent.

This is the part where I go out on my boyfriend’s balcony and scream at the top of my lungs and then raise my middle finger in the general direction of Manhattan, looking all shiny and innocent and who me? in the distance.

My first and only apartment in Manhattan cost me a mere (hey Manhattanites, you may want to avert your eyes) $600/month. $1200 total for a real two bedroom on the corner of 88th & 2nd. You see, there’s this glorious thing called rent stabilization and I somehow managed to not only stumble into it but also hit the jackpot.

However, when you choose to “upgrade” to a nicer building, to a more convenient neighborhood, to an elevator so that you no longer have to carry your shit up five flights of stairs, no matter how great climbing those stairs makes your ass look…well, apparently you have to expect to hand over 50% of your paychecks directly to the Evil Manahattan Real Estate Overlords, and maybe your first born son as well. For good measure.

I’m most nervous about the fact that handing over that much of my money will force me to budget. As in, Excel - spreadsheet - bring - my - own - lunch - limit - how - often - I - eat - dinner - out - no - more - impulsive - spending - sprees budget. I’ve never been too concerned with that before. The money is there and I can choose to spend it if I wish (note: I always wish). Sure, little of it ever manages to find its way into my savings account but I just remind myself that I’m 24 and at 24 you can still get away with having a sad little savings account and not feel too bad about it.

Come September I’m going to be that girl. The one who has to decide between going to a movie and buying a tube of lip gloss. The one who constructs a homemade scrapbook for her boyfriend’s birthday in lieu of the Gucci wallet she would’ve given him had she not felt the urge to upgrade. The one who can no longer indulge in Aqua Grill two nights in one week (what? I had a craving) and must settle for the McDonald’s dollar menu if she wants to eat out.

The girl who…budgets. (And also? Gets really fat because, hey, no more stairs.)