Voting used to be fun. Or at least my memory of it was.
I would go into the giant seafoam green voting booth with Mom or Dad, they'd draw the privacy curtain, and they'd let me press buttons on the marvelous machine that would help choose the next president. A hush fell over that small space as the heavy curtain material quieted the hubbub of the waiting room, and the only noise was the satisfying click of the buttons as my little fingers pressed them. And best of all was the giant metal lever that I got to pull to reset the machine to keep my parents' votes a secret from everyone else.
I can't say that I quite expected that same magical experience when I voted today, but I did expect maybe ten percent of that magic.
I didn't even get one percent.
Since I had rehearsals starting at 9am, I was at my polling location by 6:30am. Of the two initial greeters, one was helping someone else, and the other did NOT look like she wanted to help me. She gave me the bored-slash-annoyed stare of a teenager who is on the last ten minutes of her shift at Blockbuster and desperately wants to shut down the joint and hop in the car with her new boyfriend who just got his night license. Um, didn't you volunteer to be here, lady? And it's only 6:30am. If you hate life now, you're gonna hate it a lot more by 9.
Of course, she couldn't find my address listed in her book and suggested I was at the wrong location. Luckily, I brought my postcard that said I was most certainly in the right place. She begrudgingly shepherded me to one of three district lines.
Based on her reaction, I had zero confidence I was in the right line, so I grew antsy when the volunteer running this new line seemed slooooooooowwwwwww. There were only four people ahead of me, but it must have taken over ten minutes for her to process them. When I got to the front of the line, I could see why.
Her fingernails.
They were a good two to three inches long--so long they started curving downward in that creepy way that you just know can't be sanitary. They were freshly painted. Lime green on the right, purple on the left. Oh yeah, and she was a lefty. It's not that I think left-handed people are slow, but she seemed to be moving in that way that lefties do when someone makes them use a pair of righty scissors in school. On second thought, her only instruments were paper and pen, which are equal opportunity items, so I'm back to blaming the nails for the holdup.
She handed me my giant paper ballot in a manilla folder, which I took to the "voting booths," which were more like small podiums with an empty diorama on top. Almost like a much cheaper version of the Jeopardy set. The dividers were cardboard, and I'll be shocked if they're sturdy enough to make it to the end of the day. And anyone could easily look over and see the items I bubbled in on my Scantron form. It felt way more like taking a test than voting for our nation's president. Where was the curtain? Where was the satisfying clicking noise? Where was the glamour, the romance??? Where????
I next had to walk to some video game-looking machine and feed my "ballot" into it, sort of the way you feed paper into a Xerox machine. (There were no signs telling me to do this, mind you. I could easily have left my ballot there and walked away.) I got a happy little flag on the screen with a "Thank You for Voting!" message, which was the only bright spot of the entire event.
And to top off my misery, THERE WERE NO STICKERS!!!!!
I mean, come on, people. I got a sticker in 2008. Where's the 2012 version? This is America. And as Americans, we deserve rewards for absolutely everything we do. I mean, credit card companies reward us for spending money, for crying out loud! I need my voting reward! STAT.
I didn't get it, sadly. And as I stumbled out into the cold air, I sighed for myself and for America, knowing that it will be another four years before my faith in our voting system can be restored.
So in 2016, BRING BACK THE STICKERS!!!!!!!!!!!!
***
Now, for a little more of the romance, check out my images of Democracy Plaza at Rockefeller Center!
This map magically appeared on the ice overnight! They'll color in states tonight...
Front view. Check out all the cameras.
News anchors report from inside these multicolored treehouse-looking things.
Here's all the equipment the networks try to camouflage. Unfortunately, it makes everything more difficult to see if you're actually there in person.
This angle is a tad deceptive, but there were hundreds of people on the altar!
Bless me, Father, for I have shin splints.
Okay, okay, I didn't think that one up. I borrowed it from an article that discusses St. Patrick's Cathedral's pre-Marathon Mass. I had a Radio City wig fitting at 5 o'clock, I decided to head over to the 5:30 Mass at St. Pat's afterward.
As it turns out, I arrived at the Mass that had been designated for the NYC Marathon runners. Even though the Marathon was canceled, the priest decided to say a blessing all the same.
I'm sure that by now you've heard all the controversy about the Marathon. Should we have the Marathon to celebrate New York City's resilient spirit? Or should we cancel it to reserve resources for those still suffering from the impact of Hurricane Sandy? I must say that I was on the fence about this one. There really wasn't a good solution any way you sliced it. If I were in Staten Island without power for the sixth day, I would be FURIOUS that there was an extra generator sitting in Central Park as a backup for the media tent. But if I were from Kenya and had been saving money and training my whole life to run this year, I would be absolutely crushed.
So when more than two hundred runners made their way to the altar for the blessing, I lost it. I completely teared up. It just seemed so sad and beautiful and heartbreaking and lovely all at once. The priest said something to the effect that though the runners would not be in the official race, God would be with them as they ran through their daily lives. I'm so glad I was there to be a part of it.
Of course, I spoiled the whole thing by evaluating the "runners" on the altar. Some brought their families up there, which was fine. But I couldn't help but wonder...were there any fakers up there? Any people who just wanted to see the view from the best seat in the house? And of course there were those who delayed the conclusion of the service because they couldn't stop taking pictures up there. I was only sitting ten rows back, so I could basically hear what they were saying: "Okay, take a picture of me with the priest. Okay, now I'll take one of you with the priest. Now me again. Not too close, I look terrible in this light! Okay, now one of all of us." And on, and on.
Luckily, the closing hymn brought it all back home.
(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§ion=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.
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.)
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.
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.
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.
Here’s another little gem from my Apartment.doc file:
8/8/07I'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.
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.
8/18/07Got
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.
3/2/08FREEZING 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.
4/4/08Roof 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.
5/1/11water is often lukewarm for the last
week. only had one hot shower.
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!
As I was flying home for Easter (Thank you, JetBlue and your magnificent Fare Sales that save me from the annoyances and inflated prices of Megabus!), it occurred to me just how much space there is upstate. I mean, it's not just space, it's S.....P.....A.....C.....E..... It's magnificent. Check it out:
You can see a patchwork quilt of fields and the meandering Erie Canal with houses few and far between. It's beautiful. It's stunning. It's God's country.
On the way back to the city, I took a look at the view of Queens:
It's dirty-looking. It's grey. It's claustrophobic. When you look down from above, you think, "How can all these people live on top of their neighbors like that? How can they breathe?" And believe it or not, this is what I'd call the more spacious area of Queens--at least you can still see treetops and such. The city would look even more congested.
It's almost shocking to compare these pictures side-by-side. Of course, when you do, you notice that the sun is gloriously shining on one location but not the other. Coincidence? I think not. :)
(Incidentally, I'm not sure I was supposed to be using my iPhone to take pictures while in flight. Please don't report me to the authorities.)
Like Liz Lemon on 30 Rock, I follow the rules of being a human being, and I expect every New York City dweller to do the same. But, alas, that is often not the case. And nowhere is it more evident that people are not human than on the subway.
Just as there is a set list of unspoken rules of etiquette for the sidewalk, there is a list of unspoken rules of etiquette for the subway. Tourists should be informed, and residents can always use a refresher. Since I often boil with rage when people don’t follow the rules, I’ve decided to list them here. I’m also considering printing them on flyers and hiring girls in black jackets, red tights, and character shoes to distribute them in Times Square while doing awkward dance moves and saying things like, “Whoopeeee!” and, “Hotcha!” Oh, wait—there are already people doing that for Chicago. I’m gonna need a different marketing plan.
Do not block subway entrances. I understand that you may be unsure of where you’re going, but your uncertainty shouldn’t become my problem. Nor the problem of the ten people bottlenecked behind me. Move to the side.
Purchasing a subway card can be confusing. I would much rather expedite the process by pressing the buttons for you than wait an extra eight minutes while you hem and haw. I promise not to steal your money and/or credit card in the process.
If you do not have your Metrocard out and ready, you are not prepared to enter the turnstile. Thus, do not stand in front of it while rifling through your purse/backpack/pocket/wallet. You’re gumming up the works.
There is a science to swiping your Metrocard. Not too fast, not too slow. I’ll give you five tries to make it happen. If it doesn’t work by the fifth time, let the disgruntled people waiting behind you (meaning, me) swipe through before trying again. No one likes a repeat swiper.
When heading down the stairs or escalator, stay to the RIGHT. That’s your RIGHT. I don’t care what side of the road they drive on in England. You’re in America now, baby! And I’m talking to you, confused-yet-adorable Mexican family that I didn’t have the heart to push my way through because you looked thrilled to be in NYC and made me late to my doctor’s appointment. You should stay to the right so that faster traffic (e.g.: people on their way to doctor’s appointments) can pass you on the left.
When your train arrives, do not stand right smack in front of the train entrance. You make a better door than a window. Or, more accurately, you make a better door than a direct path to the exit.
As Liz Lemon noted, let people OUT of the subway before getting ON. Come on, people. It’s Subway 101. Doesn’t it stand to reason that there won’t be room for you to get on the train until the current passengers exit? Or maybe that’s just me. And Logic.
Want to eat smelly food? Don’t get on the train. I’m sure there are better places to eat your homemade tuna fish sandwiches and old plastic soup containers full of milk at 8am than the subway. Those of us who haven’t had breakfast (other than a few post-midnight rum and Cokes) would rather not inhale a combination of fish and dairy in the morning.
There are reasons the manufacturers of mp3 players/cell phones/Kindles/iPads, etc. have created earphones. And I think about those reasons every time you are playing with or talking into something that is assaulting my eardrums with screaming/music/beeping/etc.
Billy, don’t be a hero. I like giving to the needy. But not on the subway. Sure, I feel sad for the poor woman who lost her job three months ago and has been relying on the kindness of strangers, and the man who has been living on the streets because the shelters are full, and the down-on-his-luck fella with the hacking cough that just needs a few more dollars for cold medicine (or something with alcohol in it, more likely). Call me a jaded New Yorker, but the third time I’ve heard the same speech by the same guy who is bellyaching about his bellyache but is wearing brand-new kicks, I get a tad skeptical.
There are several exceptions to my Don’t-Give-Money-in-the-Subway Rule. They all fall under the category of Things That Amuse Me, and they are as follows: mariachi bands in full costume, a capella doo wop groups, the old man who plays “The Chattanooga Choo-Choo” on his trumpet accompanied by a portable speaker he wears around his neck, and the dude who somehow wheels an upright piano to the uptown A/C/E track of the West 4th stop.
Be aware of your body at all times.
Do not take up two seats with your person or your bags.
Do not let your hand rest on mine while holding the same pole.
Do not sneeze into your hand and then hold the pole with the same hand.
Do not use a crowded car as an excuse to grope/goose/breathe on me.
Do not hold on to the overhead pole if you are pitting. No one wants to see that.
You are not Gumby. You have stomach muscles. Use them to keep yourself upright even if the ride is bumpy.
Do not read over my shoulder. Scratch that. I read over other people's shoulders all the time. Read over people's shoulders in a non-obtrusive manner.
Should you decide to nap on the ride, nap in your own seat. Do not lean, nod, or slump on me or in my area. Sleepy Asians, I hope you’re awake to read this! From sleepyasian.com: “I'm not saying that no one else falls asleep on the subway...but if there is a person of Asian descent on the train, there is a 75% chance that they will be sleeping (this includes me). There is an unexplained phenomenon going on, keep an eye out and you will witness it.”
If you would like to check the subway map that happens to be on the wall above my seat, a polite, “Excuse me,” would be nice before you lean over my head and your camera smacks me in the face.
There are more oddities on the subway than there at the Coney Island Circus Sideshow. If you see one, such as this Old Man Brushing Beard with Fork, don't stare. Calmly watch out of the corner of your eye while you mentally compose an amusing Facebook status about the event to share with your 813 closest friends as soon as you are above ground.
This may seem overwhelming to subway novices, but the basic rule of thumb is as follows: DON'T BE AN INCONSIDERATE RIDER! Please, I beg of you, follow the rules of being a human being. Though I suppose that being human means occasionally making mistakes and not following rules. So actually, I beg of you to forget the rules of being human and strive for an inhuman degree of perfection. I'm sure your fellow subway riders will appreciate it. And so will I.
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