Hurricane Sandy Hits Hoboken: Floods, Fire Alarms, and Freak-Outs

(If you like pictures better than words, scroll down!)

Well, readers, the tribe has spoken: I would certainly be the first person voted off of Survivor.

Hurricane Sandy has taught me many things, but the most glaring is the fact that I am absolutely terrible in crisis situations. I either make bad decisions or hem and haw until the bad decision is the only option left, and either way, I whine until the whole ordeal is over. This is not something I'm proud of. I like to think of myself as a Scarlett O'Hara racing against Sherman's fire--lying, cheating, stealing, or killing to get to safety at Tara, but I am much more a Melanie, lying in the back of the wagon, unconscious and moaning while being rescued by a stronger, more decisive person.

Before I confuse you too much, let's back up to the beginning. I have a charming (meaning: old), comfortable (meaning: small) apartment in midtown Manhattan. Like many New Yorkers, I assumed talk of this hurricane was wildly inflated. We're New York City! Hurricanes can't touch us! They wouldn't dare! So I went about my business, turning a blind eye to every single meteorologist in town.

But when the tunnels and bridges and subways started closing, my blind eye suddenly saw the light. I grabbed brownies, stromboli, and an umbrella and raced for the nearest cab to Hoboken. You see, after surviving 9/11 and two blackouts in the city, I simply did NOT want to be trapped in Manhattan a fourth time. It always makes me remember this submarine movie I once saw (it apparently made such an impression, I can't even remember its name) about a vessel that had begun to flood. The captain had to make the tough decision to close off a section of the sub even though one of his men was trapped on the other side of the door, causing him to suffer a slow, painful death. Being in Manhattan during an emergency makes me feel like that poor schmuck who was in the wrong part of the sub at the wrong time.

So I went to stay with friends in Hoboken. I was still so sure that the storm would only end up as a blip on the radar that I didn't even bring a change of clothes. Or even a coat. Sure, Hoboken was in a low-lying area, but any flood or power outage would be over in 12 to 24 hours, right? Plus, if it ever got really bad, I wouldn't be on an island. I could easily drive--err...be driven--to safety.

All day Monday, I was poised for the predicted downpour and the downed power. I kept my phone plugged into the computer, which was plugged into the wall so I would be at full charge if the power went out. I wrote funny Facebook posts to friends, I cooked extra food in case restaurants wouldn't be able to deliver, and I watched the news, which claimed Sandy would hit town by 6pm.

Six o'clock came and went with nothing more than a mediocre mist. I smiled, knowing I was right all along, and starting planning my return to the city.

Until...

I noticed a stream of water running down the street, which seemed odd considering the light rainfall. When I looked again ten minutes later, the street was covered. In another ten minutes, the sidewalk was submerged by at least a foot of water. And it was still coming fast! The Hudson River seemed to be making a visit to Hoboken. Panic officially set in. Panic with a capital P and that rhymes with T and that stands for TROUBLE.

The beginning of it all...

Oh, we surely got trouble right here in (Hudson) River City. In fact, we got several feet of trouble in the form of sewage/rainwater that was surrounding the building. I kept staring at it as if it would stop or disappear. But it didn't. Then, the fire alarm went off followed by this prerecorded message: "THERE IS A FIRE ON YOUR FLOOR. PLEASE EXIT THE BUILDING IMMEDIATELY." Ummmm, exit the building to where exactly, Mr. Disembodied Voice? Into the Hudson? I don't think so. Panicpanicpanicpanicpanicpanicpanicpanicpanic.

Apparently, there was no fire on my floor or anywhere else in the building. The alarm was tripped when water poured into the basement of the building.

Basement stairs

And if that wasn't enough, a transformer just outside the window started smoking. Unfortunately, there was still power at that point, which allowed me to watch this horrifying video of a transformer exploding in Manhattan just moments before.

Blessedly, I somehow fell asleep that night and woke up to a building that didn't have power, but did have new waterfront views.

That day, people sort of stumbled around, taking pictures of the disaster in disbelief. I honestly can't tell you a single thing I did that morning other than stare at the water, talk to other building residents, and hang out in the lobby, which was powered by a generator (thank goodness!) that provided an excellent opportunity to recharge phones and laptops (#firstworldproblems.com). Neighbors offered power strips for everyone to use. One motherly neighbor even set up a waffle and coffee station. Another glass-half-full neighbor found that his alcohol cabinet was also half full and had a barbeque/frat party in the interior courtyard. This is not to say that everything was a jolly holiday. It was actually more like one of those all-inclusives you get a web deal for in Cancun where the water gives you the runs, someone steals your passport, and you get upcharged for everything. So you booze it up and befriend other guests to avoid allowing the trip to become a total bust.

I discovered that I could still use the gas stovetop, and made several meals by the light of a candle and an unexpectedly useful light-up Brookstone shaving mirror. In fact, I seemed to be obsessed with food and the preparation of it because it was the one productive thing I could do. Well, that and watch the fire hydrant outside, which was my gauge of how fast the water was receding. Monday night, it was totally covered. By Tuesday morning, the cap was visible. By nightfall, the arms were visible. As you can imagine, this was an extremely productive and time consuming job.

Can you spot the hydrant?

What were the unproductive things I did, you wonder?

Worry and whine. Whine and worry. And I didn't even have wine to go with my whine. Wine actually would have decreased my whine.  But there was no more wine. Just whine.

When I woke up on Wednesday, the first thing I saw was the almost-bottom of the fire hydrant! The second thing I saw was a woman in a kayak rowing around the building to shout information up to residents who were starved for news of the outside world. I was so fascinated by the kayak that I missed the information. Anyway, it turned out that the mayor and National Guard were in the lobby to tell residents that help was on the way! The National Guard would return at two o'clock to transport people to City Hall. I wasn't exactly sure what I would do at City Hall, but it sounded better than hanging out for another day with no electricity and a dwindling food supply.

In fact, things were definitely looking up in general on Wednesday. A number of people decided they couldn't take being trapped anymore, so they put garbage bags over their shoes and pants, secured the bags with duct tape, and waded through the water to...I'm not sure where, but I hope it was to safely. Some nutjobs skipped any protective measures and left in flip flops and shorts. Just like Andy Dufresne in The Shawshank Redemption, they crawled to freedom through a river of foulness I can't even imagine. I sincerely hope they burned any clothes that touched the sewage and took scalding hot showers afterward.

Shorts. I mean, seriously gross, buddy.

Watch this couple on the video clip below!

Some people drove out of the parking garage through water that practically covered their wheels. This seemed like a fantastic idea...until one red sedan's wheels locked and sent it floating away.

So the options were: sit in the apartment twiddling my thumbs and and hoping the water goes down enough to drive away; or hop on board with the National Guard, walk 14 blocks, and pray the line for the ferry to Manhattan isn't eight hours long. The first convoy was filled almost instantly, so that wasn't an option. We had just about decided to wait it out when TWO convoys appeared. It was a sign. Actually, it was more of a coincidence, but still. In retrospect, it was a sign.

We were helped aboard the truck and the hurricane suddenly changed from being a drag to a delight! I was positively giddy with the thrill of it all. Little ol' me was being rescued by the National Guard! I am a refugee! A friend texted me about a possible escape plan, and I replied, "Ummm...I'll get back to you. I'm sort of being rescued by the National Guard at the moment." The whole thing was sort of preposterous in the best possible way. The headline for the operation could have been "YOUNG PROFESSIONALS SEMI-DRAMATICALLY RESCUED FROM A LUXURY HIGHRISE." A World News Tonight with Diane Sawyer crew captured the whole thing, and if you have a lot of time on your hands and look very closely, you can see my black North Face backpack being put on the truck. You can't see me because I'm woefully short.
http://abcnews.go.com/WNT/video/stranded-nj-residents-seek-safety-17612700?tab=9482930&section=1206853&playlist=17613273

 
After an oddly long ride through gallons of dirty water during which we were trailed by a CNN truck, we arrived at City Hall.

 
When I started the mile walk to the ferry, I wasn't sure what I would find there. Along the way, Washington Street was bone dry, and some businesses were open and operating without power. The shelter was packed, and there were several homes that happened to have power who graciously used extension cords and power strips outside to help charge phones. The atmosphere was communal even though the situation was dire. You could almost forget about the hurricane until you saw something like this mangled boat dock.

Amazingly, the ferry line was practically non-existent, and other than waiting for a teenager to make change for tickets by hand, there wasn't a single hitch taking the ferry to 39th Street in Manhattan. There was an angry mob waiting in Manhattan to take the boat across the river to Jersey, though.

NY on the left, NJ on the right

Almost home!!!

After that three-hour journey, I can't tell you how excited I was to get back to my own apartment that had (ironically) never lost power. I cheered out loud as I flipped each light switch--because the lights actually turned on! I took a long (hot!) shower, turned on the (working!) television, and got out some (properly-refrigerated!) brie to celebrate my return home.

I know that not everyone was as lucky as I have been. Thousands of people are still suffering from horrifying circumstances, so I don't mean to make light of the situation in any way. I am eternally grateful to the National Guard, all the building workers who battled the waters (and the residents' frustrations) for days while sleeping on air mattresses instead of in their own homes, and volunteers who assisted others in every way possible. You are the Scarletts who helped this poor little Melanie make it back to Tara. And if ever circumstances are reversed, I will happily cover up the murder of a pillaging Yankee on your behalf.

Project Radio City

Well, folks, it's almost that time again: time to sing carols, trim the tree, and elbow your way past tourists in Rockefeller Center.

I was absolutely thrilled to began rehearsals for my fifth year in the Radio City Christmas Spectacular™ last week. But I was over the moon when I walked by the costume shop and saw this stunning design created by Project Runway's  Christopher Palu:

Now, in case you missed it, Heidi and Tim challenged the designers to create a dress for the Rockettes to wear at a future performance. While watching the episode, I thought that Christopher's idea and design were absolutely brilliant and well-executed--and utterly New York. I knew he would win the second I saw it.

But upon seeing the dress in real life, I must say that there are some flaws:
*The skirt has no movement, no give. So it won't be flattering when the girls kick.
*The trim outlining the buildings is hot glued on and is already crumbling.
*The design of the dress doesn't really allow for undergarments to be concealed.
*The flesh-colored material isn't supportive, which means the garment will begin to lose its shape the second the wearer puts it on.
*There isn't enough color contrast between the buildings and the fleshy material, making the buildings harder to distinguish.
*Even if there was more color contrast, the buildings wouldn't be visible to anyone past the tenth row. And Radio City is a 6,000-seat house.

My Nina-like critique is not to say that any of these flaws are Christopher's fault. I'm sure there are many, many challenges dance designers face when creating new costumes, and the Rockettes are an iconic brand performing in an incredibly unique space. There are few that would have succeeded in this challenge, given the time, resources, and requirements. Interestingly, after seeing the dress firsthand, I can't help but wonder if Dmitry's dress should have won.

Here's the big question: WHY WEREN'T THE ROCKETTES IN THE WORKROOM? They would have easily been able to communicate their needs to the designers, who would, in turn, have more information with which to create usable costumes. They also would have looked stunning on the runway. Perhaps the producers thought that might be setting the designers up to fail? Though they did give the designers a little lesson in dance.

I suspect that Christopher may not be able to claim his prize. Costume costs range from hundreds of dollars to thousands of dollars. Each. And there are 36 girls to costume. I'm not sure anyone would invest that much in a dress that will only be worn once to an unidentified event. So, I'm sorry, Christopher. I don't want you or your adorable Long Island family to be disappointed. But don't worry--I'm sure you have a well-dressed future ahead of you on the runway.

(Curious about how the other contestants fared? Check out this recap on EW.com.)

Movin’ on Up: The Quest for the Perfect NYC Apartment (Part 5)

See that?

That's what my room looked like when I moved out. I had to shove all of my stuff in the closet and center of the room. Why, you ask? Because I had to move out of my room on September 1st, but I couldn't move into the new apartment until September 4th. Long story.

Anyway, I was homeless for three days, during which I vacationed on the Jersey Shore (I know, rough life, right?), and I returned on September 4th to meet the movers.

Now, this was my first experience hiring a moving company, which intimidated me. Even though I got a recommendation from a friend for a group of hardworking Russians at a decent price (and they were also positively reviewed in New York Magazine), it freaked me out that they only took my name and phone number and told me they'd be there "sometime around 8/9 o'clock." Because they didn't require a deposit (which, in hindsight, was extremely nice), I convinced myself that they wouldn't show. So, being the worrywart I am, I invented about three different reasons to call between the time I first spoke to them and moving day, just to reassure myself they'd show up.

And show up, they did. Even though they had the wrong address and it took them three calls to find the apartment. (Apparently "nine" and "five" sound similar to Russians who speak English as a second language.) They were incredibly fast, polite, and thorough, which I really appreciated. They didn't break anything, they carried everything down 97 steps, and they gave me the job of sitting in the truck to make sure it didn't get ticketed. I felt incredibly awkward "supervising" as the "client," since I am completely able-bodied. But I guess that's what you do when you hire movers. You watch them move.

With only about 17 mentions of our new apartment being small, they efficiently brought everything up the elevator to our new digs, only went 30 minutes over the estimated time, and presented us with the bill.

I knew this moment would be awkward, so to make it as painless as possible, I asked the moving company fellow at the other end of my four phone calls about the tip amount. He told me to give 20% of the total in cash. Which is exactly what I did.

The moving company money counter counted the money. And paused.

And counted it again. And paused.

Finally, he said, "We do good job. Fast work. More money for each man?"

Even though I wanted to roll my eyes--actually, I probably did roll my eyes--I handed over more cash.

He went through his count-pause-count-pause routine a couple more times and said, "We work hard. I no charge you for full last hour. Forty dollar each man?"

"Forty dollars each? I called and was told to give you 20% from your supervisor. I've given you WAY more than that. I don't understand what this is all about." I was red-faced and angry at that point but was trying to rein it in since my roommates' parents were watching.

"Just give it to him," they said. "Here it is--give him this." And with that, they handed me the ridiculously inflated tip money, which was indescribably lovely of them.

But I was still mad at the movers. How dare they soak us for cash when I took all of the appropriate steps to treat them more than fairly??? I've been a waitress at Crapplebee's, and many of my friends work in the restaurant industry, so I pride myself on my 20%+ tips. Even if something goes terribly wrong with my meal, I never leave less than 15%. Ever. Ooooo, those movers really made me angry. Actually, even typing the story now makes me furious. They can expect a mixed-to-negative Yelp review from me. And a strongly worded letter.

P.S. I just did a little tip research that I wish I had done earlier. The Yelp consensus is that $15-$25 per man is the usual. Not $40. I'm fuming again. Though I suppose it's all water under the bridge. I would have to think really hard to tell you how much I spent total, so it didn't exactly break the bank. Live and learn. The more you know. Etc, etc, etc.

Movin’ on Up: The Quest for the Perfect NYC Apartment (Part 4)

Moving is hard. Like, really hard. So hard that I almost don't want to blog about it and relive the madness.

I had never really done a big move before. I moved to college, but that was only 50 minutes from home and I had my family's help. And their minivan. I moved to Boston for grad school. That was a bit more dramatic. My mother drove me out there and proceeded to scrub the blinds and the refrigerator and unpack all of my things and basically be Cinderella while I collapsed across the bed and sobbed, woe-is-me/Ugly Stepsister style. And then she had the gall to leave me there in a comfortable apartment (mostly furnished by my two roommates), which is exactly what I asked her to do except that when the time came, I didn't want her to leave. That was in the pre-cell phone era, so I felt way too far away. (Thanks, Mom! You're the best!)

Moving home from Boston was fun because I discovered that when the rich seniors left Boston College (I was a campus RA at the time), they also left month-old grills and patio furniture behind. They did this in the same way that they left their old beer cans scattered across their tiny lawns for enterprising Asian ladies to collect and return to the store. I could not believe that so many wonderful things were left for the taking! So I took a few. Furniture items, that is. Not beer cans. Again, my family was there with the minivan and we had a stuffed-to-the-gills drive home.

Next, I moved to New York City with exactly two suitcases. I ended up collecting more things while here, all of which my parents had to haul home when I left to go on tour with Fosse. When I moved back to the city after tour ended, I again had two suitcases and a new travel philosophy that I planned to implement in my non-tour life: "If it doesn't fit in my two suitcases, I don't want it."

That philosophy ended up buried in my closet, along with my mountain of sale rack clothes and living supplies that I hoard like a suburbanite even though I really have no room for them.

So this was my first move with a fully-stocked bedroom, my roommate's fully stocked bedroom, multiple pieces of furniture, and no minivan.

How did it all go? Stay tuned...

HGTV, Pinterest, & Me

I watch HGTV. A lot. It's the perfect channel to have on in the background while I do my freelance writing. It adds the ideal amount of noise without drawing my full attention away from my work.

Pinterest is new for me. I can't say that I totally understand it, but when I have searched, I have found excellent recipes and decorating tips.

So when I found myself moving into a new place with some old furniture of my roommate, I decided the time was right to test out my HGTV skillz. Well, I guess it's just my HTV skillz since I don't have a G.

Anyway, blending a few techniques from Pinterest (and utilizing my "craft room," which was really Hugo's room when he conveniently spent two weeks in Europe), I created the masterpieces below for less than $50 total--and I still have a lot of paint leftover for future projects!

This was my first project. I found this nightstand on the street:

 With primer, paint, sandpaper, and super fancy knobs from Anthropologie, I turned it into this:

Next, I took a splintered table:

 And used spray paint to turn it into this:

As fate would have it, I stumbled upon a super emptying a fancy upper west side apartment and scored these endtables that didn't even need any work:

I wanted to add a headboard to my bed, and again, I didn't feel like spending $300 on it. So I attached my parents' old kitchen shutters to the wall. I thought I was going to have to paint them, but they were in such good condition that I used them as is!

My biggest project was born out of necessity. We were moving into an apartment with a small kitchen, so we desperately needed storage, and I desperately didn't want to pay for it. So I took my roommate's old dresser:

And I painted the bottom several shades of white and green to give it an aged look. I kept the top brown to give the appearance of pseudo-butcher block. Finally, I used hardware from my grandparents' bedroom set from the 70s. I'm kind of in love with it.

With my grandparents' drawer knobs, my parents' shutters, and my other grandparents' lamp, I absolutely love having things in my room that were used and loved by the people I absolutely love. The moral of this story for me is that you can always make something out of things you already have--and a little elbow grease goes a loooong way.

Movin’ on Up: The Quest for the Perfect NYC Apartment (Part 3)

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Here’s another little gem from my Apartment.doc file:

8/8/07       I've had quite the interesting day. I woke up to Courtney knocking on my door at 5:30 am (I had just gone to bed at 2) because water was literally pouring in from our hall ceiling. I looked down, and it had traveled into my room, soaking my duvet, which I had thrown on the floor because it was too hot to sleep with. I can't even describe what a mess it was. Water was pouring in from the light fixture, in huge cracks, in a line down the length of the exposed brink wall, and somehow even from random doorways. I can't really explain that one. We had about seven bins out to catch the water, and that wasn't nearly enough. We tried to mop, but there was just too much water.  Finally, I started using the mop to throw the water into the communal hallway. There was a door stopper that was high enough to prevent it from coming back into the apartment.  We started hearing voices all over the building, and as it turns out, the water was dripping into apartments all the way to the second floor.  On the upside, we met several different neighbors.

So today the Rastafarian roofers are scraping up all the paint bubbles in preparation for fixing everything.  Of course, today is the day we have prospective roommates coming to see the place.  I guess if they want to take it after seeing it in this condition, they REALLY want the place!

Confused? I’ll start from the beginning.

My apartment was on the top floor of the building. The roof was old and patched to begin with, and tenants using the roof for parties did not help, so it began leaking with more and more frequency. Miraculously, our super cheap landlord (who had to sell a couple of his buildings quickly to avoid jail time several years back) decided to put a new roof on the joint.

Sadly, he decided to commence the project just before the strongest tornado to ever hit the city touched down in Brooklyn. And sadder still, the winds and the rain that accompanied the tornado swept through Hell’s Kitchen on a night that the workers left our roof covered with nothing but a tarp. A tarp! Don’t you think they would check the weather.com before leaving a naked building unattended?!?

As you can imagine, the entire building was flooded with black, disgusting water. We swept water out of the apartment and down the stairs for what seemed like hours. Amazingly, none of our things were destroyed, but our apartment was never the same.

Movin’ on Up: The Quest for the Perfect NYC Apartment (Part 2)

1/2/07  6 Men in black hoodies on the stairwell

And so begins a Word document I created—cleverly titled Apartment.doc—to keep a record of any and all problems I encountered with the fifth floor walkup apartment I lived in for seven years.

The cryptic note refers to the time I returned from a Christmas visit upstate with two jumbo suitcases. As was my habit, I dragged both suitcases into the foyer so I would have one door locked behind me. I left one suitcase on the entry level and hauled the other suitcase up the 97 steps to my apartment. Then, I would make a second trip with the other suitcase. This time, I was greeted at the top of the stairs by six men in black hoodies, who had seemingly entered through the unlocked roof door. They were just sitting and waiting for something, and they made no move when I appeared with my suitcase. Still delirious from the eight-hour train trip, I barely acknowledged them. But when I locked my first suitcase inside the apartment and stepped out into the hallway on the return trip for my second, I thought I should probably say something.

“Do you live in the building?” I foolishly asked six giant men who obviously didn’t live in the building.

“We live next door,” the spokesperson of the group said.

“Oh.” I paused. “Well, I really don’t think you should be here if you don’t live here,” I said. (Who on earth did I think I was?)

“We’re waiting for someone,” the spokeshoodie said. “We’ll be leaving when he gets here.”

“Oh,” I cleverly said again. “Okay.” And with that, I headed downstairs for my second suitcase.

By the time I got there, it finally sunk in that while these men may have been on the up-and-up, they might also be there for some sort of sinister purpose. And I knew without a doubt that I simply could not walk past them one more time. It was way too terrifying.

There I was, in my building foyer, sitting on a suitcase without a coat or a cell phone or a friend. So I did what any girl would do: I went into the Thai restaurant downstairs and used their phone to call 911.

I sat on my suitcase to wait for an officer to stop by, but instead of one officer, three police cars pulled up to the curb. I thought they couldn’t possibly be for me, but they were. You’d think there must be someone getting robbed or maimed somewhere else in the city, but I guess it was a slow crime day. They asked for brief details and headed upstairs. I must say that it was kind of exciting to see six officers run up the stairs on my behalf, but alas, they came up empty. The hoodies hopped onto a neighboring roof and raced downstairs through a different building.

And that, my friends, was the end of my adventure and the start of my documentation about apartment issues. In the five years that I kept that document, I had some pretty interesting entries. Here are a few completely undoctored entries that you might enjoy:

7/30/07            Asked Charles once again about the rent.  He called DeMilt who called and screamed at me.  Didn’t let me get a word in edgewise.  Said he sent the notice 6 times, and we chose to ignore it.  He said: “Who do you think you are, some hotshot Philadelphia lawyer?”

7/31/07            Went to sign lease in scary basement unlabeled office. 

8/18/07            Got an eviction notice postcard.

11/13/07          Absolutely NO water at all at 2am.  Too tired to call 311.  Called in the morning, but they wouldn’t take the complaint since the water was restored.  Called Frank, but he said that the plumber was fixing something and forgot to put up signs since it was so late at night.

3/2/08              FREEZING WATER yet AGAIN.  Also, two leaks in the apartment.  One in Jackie’s closet, one in the hall closet.  Both are pretty bad.  Left messages for Ron and Charles by 8:30 am.

4/4/08              Roof leaking yet again.  Called Charles.  He promised new roof would be put in next week.  Seemed surprised that water was still cold.  Said that the boiler was “on its way” even though Frank told me the boiler was sitting in the basement.  Very confused. 

5/1/11              water is often lukewarm for the last week. only had one hot shower.

5/2/12              NO WATER AT ALL. hasn’t been heat for days

In summary…I’M SO GLAD I MOVED!!!!

Movin’ on Up: The Quest for the Perfect NYC Apartment (Part 1)

It’s finally happening. I can hardly contain my excitement. I WANT TO WRITE IN ALL CAPS.

Because…

I’M MOVING TO AN ELEVATOR BUILDING!!!!!!!!!

WITH LAUNDRY!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

AND A PART-TIME DOORMAN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

This may mean nothing to the large portion of suburbanites who read my blog, but let me tell you: This is BIG TIME.

How big is it? Well, to completely understand the monumental nature of this occurrence, let’s take a stroll through my apartment history, shall we?

Apartment 1

Location: Hell’s Kitchen

Floor: 3

Details: 2 br, 1 ba

Length of Stay: 4 years

Roommate(s): An aspiring actress named Erica Kane (No, not that Erica Kane, though she was once contacted to be in the audience of The Rosie O’Donnell Show when Susan Lucci was a guest.)

Features: Slanted wood floors and a bathroom so small that you practically had to sit sideways on the toilet.

Reason for Leaving: Went on tour with a Broadway show.

Apartment 2

Location: 3 blocks from Apartment 1

Floor: 4

Details: 2 br, 1 ba; railroad apartment (meaning I had to walk through my roommate's bedroom to reach mine)

Length of Stay: 5 months

Roommate(s): A middle-aged former casting director/poet

Features:  A washer and dryer! But the washer was kept in a closet and had to be rolled out and attached to the kitchen sink and the dryer would only dry ten socks at a time.

Reason for Leaving: She moved to the west coast and the landlord refused to rent to an actress.

Apartment 3

Location: Across the street from Apartment 2

Floor: 5

Details: 4 br, 2 ba

Length of Stay: 7 years

Roommate(s): Too many to count. Actually, I just counted. 14. Wait...16.

Features: Unofficial roof access (meaning we’re not legally allowed to be up there and could possibly fall to our deaths), stunning exposed brick that crumbles because it's never been sealed properly, and a landlord who never, ever responds to repair requests (see pic).

Additional features include: Lack of hot water, 97 steps, windows that never fully close and therefore let tons of dirt in, and street noise so loud that people think I’m outside when I’m talking on the phone in my bedroom.

Reason for Leaving: If you don’t know why I’m leaving, reread Apartment 3.

Apartment 4 (THE NEW APARTMENT!!!)

Location: 2 blocks and 1.5 avenues from Apartment 1

Floor: 6 (Get it? Get it? I’m literally movin’ on up!)

Details: 2 br, 1 ba

Length of Stay: At least 1 year

Roommate(s): My BFF

Features: Bright, sunny rooms, giant closets, a shockingly clean basement laundry room, a tiny elevator that may or may not be reliable, and a part-time doorman who may or may not be a hobo who happened to wander in and park himself behind the lobby desk. (I have a lobby!)

Reason for Leaving: None, I hope!

Want to hear more about my adventures in NYC real estate? Tune in next time to read about rent control, rooftop baby pools, naked roommates, fifth floor floods, and street thugs in the stairway… 

Hobo/Neighbor Relations

 

I’m going to apologize to my mother straight off for using the word “hobo.” I feel as though it is probably offensive in some way, even though synonyms like “bum,” “beggar,” and “tramp” seem even worse, while “homeless person,” “vagabond,” and “panhandler” are just a mouthful. So even though I know we’re all God’s creatures and there but for the grace of God go I, I’m going to stick with “hobo.” Mostly because it makes me giggle.

There’s a fella—let’s call him Hobo Joe—who sits on my block every day. He’s tall, not poorly dressed, not smelly, and not overly thin. He is just like you and I in every way. Except that instead of going to work, he seems content to sit on random stoops with a coffee cup of change in his hand. I had always been curious about Hobo Joe, and then one day I saw a neighbor chatting with him. So I decided to make him my not-too-close friend.

From that day on, I started to say hello to Hobo Joe whenever I passed. At first, he seemed wary of me, assuming I was one of the many who were giving him a smile instead of change (which I was), but now he nods and gives me a lovely grin (with all teeth intact) whenever I say hello on my way back from morning yoga. I like to think of him as my urban doorman. In my incredibly expensive-slash-annoyingly rundown walkup building, the only thing standing between my apartment and the street is a broken lock, a second semi-broken lock, and 97 steps. So I like to think that if there were any problems, good ol’ Hobo Joe would be there to rescue me, much like you’d expect your toy poodle to stop a burglar single-handedly. 

I have all these fantasies that Hobo Joe isn’t actually a hobo at all. Instead he’s one of those Long Island millionaires who brings home thousands of dollars a day in his tattered coffee cup. And he may be just that. But sadly, Hobo Joe let me down. One night, I saw him sitting on a random stoop, as usual, and I stared at him, waiting to catch his eye. Then I realized something was wrong. Joe seemed distracted. When he turned to face me, I realized that he wasn’t looking at me, but through me, with bloodshot eyes. He was definitely on something. What, I don’t know, since the world of drugs is as confusing to me as the world of politics. But something. From then on, I realized that Morning Hobo Joe and I were friends, but Evening Hobo Joe would never be my urban doorman. Or my not-too-close friend.

The realization is really deflating, sort of like when you learn the real story behind the tooth fairy. You know the truth, but you’d rather believe the fairy tale.

Hot DOG! Sahlen's Invades Manhattan

Imagine my surprise when my Niagara Falls-born cousin and I walked up to a seemingly random vendor at the Ninth Avenue Food Festival...who was selling SAHLEN'S HOT DOGS!!!!

Well, ladies and gentlemen, I was shocked, I tell you. SHOCKED.

In case you are unfamiliar, I should tell you that Sahlen's hot dogs are:

1. The most delicious hot dogs in the history of the universe (and this is coming from a true hot dog connoisseur).

2. The official hot dog of the Buffalo Bills.

3. An upstate NY summer staple.

What makes Sahlen's hot dogs so delicious, you may ask? I'll tell you: they have a casing that tastes unbelievably spectacular when charred ever so gently on the grill.

And why did a random food stand sell them? The owner (let's call him "Red") lived in Buffalo! There he is at the grill in a sporty gingham shirt. Red said, "There's nothing like this around Manhattan, so I wanted to bring a little taste of Buffalo to town." Well, thank you for that, Red!

Here are some fascinating facts I learned from the Sahlen's website:

* The hot dogs are made from “Old Fashioned” smokehouse ham and turkey breast.

* They are available in 15 northeastern states.

* The company sponsors a professional race car team and a sports park that is home to the Western NY Flash women's soccer team.

* Sahlen’s has been producing premium quality meat products since 1869. (Apparently post-Civil War Americans liked to BBQ while rebuilding the country.)

* Every year, the average American consumes 60 hot dogs! (Not sure I buy this one, Mr. Joseph Sahlen!)

Not only was my perfectly grilled Sahlen's hot dog itself a delight, but Red came up with all sorts of fascinating hot dog combos. Forget the mustard and ketchup--get a BLT dog or a Journey Dog (any way you want it, that's the way you need it). I ended up eating a Baked Potato Dog, which was a hot dog in a giant chewy bun (I choose to believe it was a Wegmans bun) topped with sour cream, cheddar cheese, bacon, potato sticks, and chives. It was a masterpiece.

Sahlen's, and Red, I salute you both.

Living the Dream? Or Smash-ing It?

Smash, that lovable/terrible/fascinating/aggravating show has brought a touch of NYC theater to the small screen in small towns across America. As a result, many people have asked me about the show’s content—What’s true? Is it realistic? Is there a Terrible Ellis in every production?

For these burning questions, and many more, I suggest checking EW.com, Vulture.com, and Sharon Wheatley's SMASH Fact or Fiction? on a regular basis. But for a day in the auditioning life of a small town girl (like Karen) who has been in the biz for a while (like Ivy) and who has made some questionable fashion choices (like Julia), read on…

I hate to break it to you, but the chances of a complete unknown getting an appointment to audition for the lead of the workshop of a new Broadway show are slim to none, even if you’re stunningly gorgeous and your voice is second to only grey-haired blues singer (and Teen Angel) Taylor Hicks.

Rather, you’d probably have a day like I just had: you do your hair and makeup, you pick out an outfit, and you schlep a three-ring binder full of songs you sing well and two pairs of dance shoes, and you arrive at a chorus call, where you sit on the floor like a kindergartener in a room full of 100-200 girls. When they call your name, you dutifully file into the room with a group of 20-30 girls, learn a dance on the spot in 30 minutes or less, and perform it in a smaller group of 3-5 while the casting director, choreographer, director, and various assistants whisper about your height, your hair color, your experience, your looks, your shoes…oh yeah, and your talent.

When everyone in the group of 20-30 has danced, the casting director calls names of the women that the creative team would like to stay to sing. Sometimes you can sense a pattern (all the girls are 5’ 6” and above), and sometimes it can seem completely random. And on very bad days, someone who looks exactly like you can get kept and you don’t. The girls who are asked to sing have to stick around until all 200-300 girls have danced, and then they file back into the dance room one by one and sing 16 bars (about 1-2 pages of sheet music) of a song of their choosing. After that, they are dismissed in a, “Don’t call us, we’ll call you,” sort of way. Meaning, the casting director might call you to come back again to dance or sing or even to read a scene—but if you don’t get a call, you don’t get a call. They don't call you to tell you the job went to someone else. You only know that you didn’t get a call when you read someone’s Facebook status that says: “Soooooo excited to get my dream role in Show X at Theater Z!!!!” Then, you immediately text your friends to meet you at the corner bar.

A singing chorus call works in much the same way—you gather in a room of 200-300 ladies, except this time, you’re sitting on the floor in a party dress and heels. You line up in a group of 20, and you file into the audition room one by one to sing 16 bars of your choosing. The creative team (which is sometimes represented by a casting director’s assistant’s intern and the theater producer’s coffee boy) writes cryptic notes about you on your resume as you sing. Sometimes they’re on their phones. Or the computer. Or eating lunch. Your job is to ignore all that and sing pretty. When you’re done singing, you often just get a, “Thank you,” and you walk out of the room. Sometimes they’ll ask you to sing a second song, sometimes they’ll call you back to dance, and sometimes they won’t call you at all. I dragged my sister to a singing chorus call when she came to visit, and her analysis is as follows: “People wore unusual outfits and tons of bright lipstick. You had to wait around forever and were only in there for two minutes. Some people seemed genuinely excited, some pretended, and some were too old to be there.”

And this is what we go through on a daily basis. Sometimes multiple times a day. To top it all off, booking a theater job isn’t like booking a regular job—chances are that the job you did all the above work to get will last for less than three months. Then you’re back to the drawing board.

I seem to have painted a very bleak picture today (probably because I have the post-audition blues, a very common side effect of this lifestyle), but I must say that the upside of this business is huge. HUGE. You never know when you may get a phone call that will change your life. For example, on my very worst financial day ever (the one and only time I had to ask my parents to help me pay my health insurance), I got a call that I had booked my very biggest show ever—The Radio City Christmas Spectacular—a show that would solve my financial problems for what turned into four years! And you’re always just one audition away from that all-important phone call—just inches away from the carrot dangling in front of you. You get addicted to the feeling of success being just around the corner.

But…

That darn carrot is tricky to grab. In a (very) recent fit of exasperation, I asked a friend, “Why do we torture ourselves?!?!” She hit the nail on the head, pure and simple: “For the clapping.”

Any questions about show business or Smash? Ask away!

Blame It On the Rain

Ugh. I get SO annoyed when it rains in Manhattan. It's just miserable. Miserable. MI. SER. A. BLE. So miserable, in fact, that I apparently feel the need to break down the word in syllables.

It's miserable anytime it rains anywhere in the world, but usually you just run from your house to your car and from your car to your office. Sure it's annoying to cart around an umbrella, but you're generally unscathed save for some splashes on the toes of your shoes and a little rain hair. In Manhattan, however, you are fully exposed to the elements for a much longer length of time. Chances are you'll have a ten-minute walk to the subway or a wait for the bus, and then you'll have to walk from your drop-off point, too. Unless you're Blair Waldorf and can hop in a private car 24/7 to visit your bf's hipster loft in Brooklyn. But I digress.

Here are just a few of the multitude of reasons NYC rain really dampens my spirits:

* Umbrellas. No one knows how to use them. If you think Manhattan sidewalk etiquette is bad, it gets ten times worse once pedestrians start wielding weapons in their untrained hands. Expect to have your eye poked out at least once a day.

* Umbrellas 2.0. You never have one when you need it. You may have bought eight different $5 umbrellas from the umbrella vendors who seem to pop out of the sewer grates every time it starts to sprinkle, and three of those umbrellas may have even survived their two-use average, but you will not have any of those umbrellas when it starts raining. Even if you brought an umbrella with you every single other day that week. You know the day God rested and you decided to rest your paranoia about being caught in the rain without an umbrella so you decided to leave your umbrella at home? It'll rain that day.

* Puddles. Lots of them. Big ones. HUGE. I'm not talking about your typical little puddles that make you look really cute as you daintily hop over them. I'm talking giant, deep, river-like puddles that extend ten feet on each side of the corner and five feet into the street--puddles that are too big for you to jump over even if you get a running start. It's almost as if plate tectonics caused a sinkhole to develop just to ruin your new Tahari leather flats. Who cares if you got them on sale at TJ Maxx for $39.99? They're still awesome name-brand shoes that you were planning to keep for years since their style is so classic and timeless. You were not planning on having them (and your feet, for that matter) completely covered with water that may have collected from the rain or from run-off or from the backed-up sewer. This is why you can never buy nice things. Don't believe me? Check out this article about a puddle on 33rd Street: "The oily green-tinged water stretches at least thirty feet long and is several inches deep, overflowing onto the sidewalk where it mixes with garbage and cigarette butts and accosts locals with its putrid smell."

* Rain boots. Rain boots seem like the obvious solution to the puddle problem, right? Wrong. It is extremely difficult to find a pair of rain boots that will not spring a leak within the first ten wearings. And even if your rain boots are not holey, you're still wearing rain boots. This means that each time you lift your foot, it weighs an extra two pounds. And you don't exactly look chic. You either have to carry a second pair of shoes to change into once you get to work or keep them on all day and look like a moron when the rain has cleared up and you're walking home from work in the bright sunshine still wearing your clunky rain boots. 

* Cabs. Don't even try to hail one. They're all full. Save yourself some heartache and pretend that cabs are dead to you.

* Rain hair. It's bad. Really bad. Every rainy morning, like this morning, I curl or straighten or scrunch my hair, thinking, "Thank goodness I got that new hairspray that combats humidity." Or, "I'll just put some scrunch spray in my hair and let it dry naturally. It'll save me oodles of time and I'll end up looking like Kate Hudson." Or, "Good thing I washed my hair yesterday. The oil buildup will combat flyaways." It doesn't work. None of it works. I hate to break it to you, but there is NO HOPE for your hair on rainy days. None. You end up looking like Richard Simmons no matter how many ways you try to prevent it. The second you step outside--and I mean the very second--your hair is down for the count. Save yourself some time and effort. Throw your hair in a ponytail and use the 30 minutes you would have needed to fix your hair and use it to watch last night's episode of "Khloe & Lamar." It's a much better use of your time.

* Crowded buses. Since no one wants to walk, the normally manageable buses, which are usually inhabited by the old and infirm, are packed to the gills. This causes all of the windows to steam up, which, if you're standing (as you inevitably are) has the unfortunate side effect of blurring your field of vision and increasing the possibility that you'll miss your stop because you can't see it coming. Steamy buses also do nothing for your hair.

* Subway entrances and exits. What would you do if you walked up a staircase and into a rainstorm? You'd want to open your umbrella as soon as possible, right? Well, so would I. And so would the twenty people around us. The problem is that not everyone can open their umbrellas the second they hit the open air. It's physics. Which I am extremely knowledgeable about. As hordes of people exit the subway staircase, all trying to open their umbrellas in sync (as if they were *NSYNC performing their awesome rendition of "Bye Bye Bye" from the groundbreaking album No Strings Attached), hordes of people are entering the subway staircase, none of whom want to put down their umbrellas a second before they have to. And when they close their umbrellas, you and the subway exiters often get splashed from the rain sitting on top of the umbrellas as they snap shut. It's a lose-lose. You get soaked both ways.

* Wet seats. I know you probably want to get your wet umbrella as far away from you as possible when you finally sit down on the subway or bus. But guess what? When you put your wet umbrella on the seat, it leaves a nice little puddle of water behind, meaning that seat cannot be sat in for hours. Or at least until a Good Samaritan wipes it off. Or a Moron like me doesn't notice and sits down anyway, unknowingly sopping up the puddle with her pants.

* Being splashed by speeding cars. You know those scenes in the movies when the heroine is in a bad mood, or a good mood, or a super rush, and then a car zooms through a puddle, drenching her from head to toe? That happens in real life, too. According to my very scientific meteorological study, it happens in Manhattan 98% of the time. Usually when you're on your way to work or an audition. It never happens when you're bumming around in your old clothes and look like a mess anyway.

* Hidden buildings. It's really creepy to see fog or clouds obscuring the tops of buildings. I mean, I know they're still there. I'm not two. But seeing cut-off buildings makes me feel claustrophobic. Like the sky is falling Chicken Little-style and may eventually squash me. Here's a pic of the Empire State Building that I took this morning on Fifth Avenue. If I were a computer genius (or even as computer savvy as a seventh-grader), I would include an arrow to point to the spot in the middle of this image where the building should be. But since I'm only as computer savvy as a third-grader, you'll just have to do the legwork to figure it out.

* That lovely rain sound. Manhattan even robs us of the soothing sound of rain drumming on the roof, which is often the only perk of a rainy day. Even on the top floor of a building, you generally can't hear the rain. Unless you happen to hear it splashing on your air conditioner. Which just reminds me that I can't hear it pelting the roof. Which makes me sad.

Wow. I've been complaining about the rain for so long that the sun has come out again. But don't worry--it's supposed to rain again later this week.