Tuesday, August 31, 2010

The hotel around the corner

It's a really nice hotel.  Beautiful rooms with really cool photographs on the wall.  Comfortable bed with a big, luxurious comforter.  Gorgeous bathroom with a ledge cut into the shower wall for kinky sexual adventures.  It's unfortunate that I know all this, really.  How do I know all this?  Funny story...

It was a family wedding, way out on Long fucking Island.  As you might know, I hate weddings.  I really do.  I've got my reasons, I could probably write a book.  I really hate spending a shit-ton of money buying plane tickets and new dresses to attend a wedding and watching the marriage end in divorce, sometimes less than three years later.  But as much as anything, I don't think such a personal, spiritual moment in a couple's life needs to be on display.  If I ever make the biggest mistake of my life (oops, I mean, if I ever get married) I certainly wouldn't want a hundred some-odd people, friends, family or otherwise, around watching me share such an intimate, life-changing moment with my partner.  I would find it distracting.  I'd be more willing to show you the video we make on our wedding night.

Yes, weddings.  They're awful in every way, except the free booze.  I find myself forced to endure at least two or three weddings a year.  This one was especially fun, because it involved spending all day with people who swim in my immediate gene pool.  As you might know, I don't get the family thing so well either.  I understand that there are people out there who share my last name and DNA, but I'm not really sure how the concept applies to me.  I find it's best if I restrict these gatherings to every ten years or so.

Right on cue, it's been eleven years since I've seen most of these people.  Sweetheart kept poking me in the ribs and saying, "Who's that?" and I kept saying, "I don't know.  I think we might be related.  I know I'm related to those other guys over there, and that their names are Tony, Rick and Jim, but I don't know who's who.  Go find out."

I've found that Maker's Mark works well in such situations, and the whiskey was flowing and we had a great time.  The party continued at the groom's house, and we got back to Manhattan a little later than expected, drunk, tired and happy.

Skanky sluts that we are, Sweetheart and I had a little fun on the deserted train ride home and we were looking forward to clean towels and a toothbrush.  Also, we both had to pee.  After what seemed like forever, we got to my building.

And the key wouldn't work.

What?  Are you fucking kidding me?

No.  The fucking lock was broken.

Complicating matters, I had left my phone in my father's car when he dropped us off at the train station.  Not that I had the super's cell phone number anyway.  And Sweetheart's battery was almost dead.  Not that we really had anyone to call, or even anyone's number, anyway.

So we weren't getting in that fucking building.

Now we were wandering the streets of New York at fuck knows what hour on a Saturday night looking for a hotel room, drunk, tired, and not so happy anymore.

Four hotels and two hundred dollars later we finally found a room.  A beautiful room.  We started cracking up because obviously, this was the funniest thing that had happened to either one of us in a long time.  Sweetheart filled the bathtub with hot water and threw me in it and went out in search of food and Aleve for my aching back and knee.

After he left, I realized, HEY!  I'm finally getting to take that bath I've been wanting to take!  My last post regarding the subject was grievously incorrect, my bathtub faucet at home is still fucked.

I enjoyed my bath thoroughly, and when Sweetheart got back I forced myself to get out of the tub and we ate and laughed and talked shit and were drunk, tired and happy again.  In a hotel room.  Three and a half blocks from my apartment.  Fucking ridiculous.  But fucking hilarious.


The hotel is called On the Avenue.  Their website is here.  I highly recommend them for the next time you're locked out of your own motherfucking building in the middle of the night in New York City.

Thursday, August 26, 2010

Break time

New York, NY
Central Park



Baseball fans

Baseball fans are funny.  I'm not a baseball fan, regardless of how long I worked down at the ballpark in San Francisco.  I'm not a Giants fan, a Yankees fan, or even a Zephyrs fan.  But I like baseball fans nonetheless.  They amuse me.

I saw this the other day, and it amused me as well.  I'm putting it up here strictly to annoy all the baseball fans I know and love in San Francisco.  Miss you guys, go Gigantes, huh?


Tuesday, August 24, 2010

Frank's house

Palm Beach, Florida
March 2010




Sunday, August 22, 2010

Shadow Shot Sunday

New Orleans, Louisiana
Behind Jackson Square, again





Saturday, August 21, 2010

Sticker shock

My mother had so much crap it was unbelievable.  I kept what was usable or worth selling, but the rest of it... Man, that shit had to go.  My friend Jenelle helped me unload most of it.  The rest I carried to the Goodwill up the street, one box here, another there.  Most of it was garbage, some of it was decent but ugly as sin, and some of it was stuff I figured I might be able to sell, but it would be a pain in the ass and take a long time and a lot of effort for only a little cash.  I needed space in the apartment more than I needed cash in my wallet, so off to the Goodwill it went.

I walked by today and saw some familiar china in the window.  Lenox, nothing special.  Horrible lamb and flower pattern.  Eleven plates, eight coffee cups, one pair of salt and pepper shakers.  I remember them well.  I remember being extremely grateful to have them out of my kitchen cabinets.  Imagine my surprise when I saw the price tag...


Hah.  Good luck, Goodwill.  Better your shelf space than mine.

Up on the roof

New York, NY
Metropolitan Museum of Art
up on the roof, overlooking Central Park


Thursday, August 19, 2010

Just when I thought I was going to kill everyone...

New York, NY

I saw this rainbow outside my window yesterday.


Plumbing update

For those of you just tuning in, I was having a little trouble with my plumbing last weekend.

As far as the rusty bathwater is concerned, the problem seems to be under control after much patience and a shameful amount of water down the drain.  It was literally painful for the tree-hugging, dirt-worshipping, nature-loving hippie in me to watch.  I'm betting I single-handedly tripled the building's water bill this month.

The bathroom sink and I quickly came to an understanding, which was more or less, "You WILL drain, motherfucker, otherwise I will continue to pour caustic chemicals down your throat and attack you with a coat hanger."  The bathroom sink got the message after a couple of hours and has been draining peacefully ever since.

The kitchen sink was a bit more obstinate.

As I mentioned, the drain was completely stopped, so when I poured the super-duper psycho industrial-strength drain opener in, all it did was collect in the sink basin, filling the sink with a noxious, greenish-colored liquid, which stayed there for three days.  The first two days I stomped around all pissed off, constantly checking to see if it had moved at all and wondering what my next course of action would be, because at this point I didn't want to involve the building maintenance guy, figuring he would probably tell me that I'm not supposed to pour chemicals like that down their pipes.  By the third day I had sort of forgotten about it, and I was surprised to glance in the sink that evening and see it empty.  So I poured the rest of the super-duper psycho drain opener in, waited two hours, and flushed it with hot water.  I haven't used it much, so far it's been draining obediently, but I still don't trust it.

*author's note* FORGET WHAT I JUST SAID.  In the name of honesty and accurate storytelling, I just went to go verify that what I told you was true and the sink really was still draining.  I looked down the drain and all seemed clear, so I opened the faucet and let it run for a few minutes... AND THE BITCH FILLED UP WITH WATER.  It's not draining.  Or maybe it is.  If it is, it's draining so slowly I'll be able to pack up and move out by the time it's finished.  To an apartment that has a functioning kitchen sink.

Sunday, August 15, 2010

Shadow Shot Sunday

New Orleans, Louisiana
Behind Jackson Square





Saturday, August 14, 2010

I know you don't really care but...

I'm ready to fucking scream right now.

My kitchen and bathroom sink are both clogged, so I have to brush my teeth and do my dishes in the bathtub.  I tried Drano, that didn't work, and getting the super to fix it seems to be a lost cause, he's not here on the weekends anyway.  I went to the hardware store today and asked the guy to sell me a sewer snake so I could try to fix it myself and he said oh no, you don't need that, just use a wire hanger, that'll work fine.  So I tried shoving a wire hanger down there and it didn't work.  At all.  Cocksucker.

So I went to the other hardware store and that guy wouldn't sell me a snake either.  I don't know what the fucking problem is.  Apparently, something about me just screams out, THIS GIRL CANNOT BE TRUSTED WITH BASIC PLUMBING TOOLS, NOT EVEN A SIMPLE DRAIN SNAKE.  Well, fuck you guys, is all I have to say about that.

Instead of a snake, the guy at the other hardware store sold me some industrial strength drain cleaner:


It smells like death, and the back of the bottle is covered with skull and crossbones and terribly frightening warnings in three different languages, so I figure it will probably work, although I don't know how because when I poured it down the drain it just filled the sink up, so now my sinks are both filled with nasty, foul-smelling, greenish-colored water.

But whatever, OK, fine, I'll wait two hours like the guy at the hardware store said to do, then I'll flush it with hot water and if that doesn't work, I'll just go back to the hardware store tomorrow and smack the guy in the face.  In the meantime, I'll just take a long, hot bath.  Won't that be nice?  Won't that be relaxing?

I've got one of those old bathtubs, the kind with two faucets, one for the shower nozzle and one to fill the tub.  Nice long tub, I've been looking forward to taking a bath in it ever since I moved in.  So I broke out some candles and lavender bath beads and started to fill the tub.

With nasty, sludgy, rusty, brick-red water.

I'm not even going to speculate on how long it's been since that faucet has been turned on.  Those pipes have probably been rusting for ten fucking years.  I let it run for fifteen minutes, full blast.  The water was still brick-red.  Moth-er-fuck-er.

I'm really going to fucking scream.

I know, I know.  You're thinking, "Uh, it's Saturday night in New York City.  Don't you have something better to do than sit home and worry about your clogged drains?"

No, I don't.  Not tonight.  Tonight, I want to take a hot bath with my vanilla candles and lavender bath beads, and then I want to brush my teeth in the bathroom sink, then I would like to eat some ice cream and wash the dish out in my kitchen sink.  Is that too much to ask?  Is it really?

It seems so.  Tonight, at least.

Can someone please send me a plumber?

*author's note*  Sorry to bore you with all that, but I had to rant to someone, and Sweetheart is still at work and all the rest of my friends have lives apparently, because no one would answer the phone except my ex-boyfriend from NINE YEARS AGO, and he was only home because his daughter was having a slumber party and he was supervising.  Do you know what he had to say?  "Wow, that sucks.  You should call a plumber.  Hey, did I tell you about the trip me and Lisa just went on?"

Fuck you, K.  Fuck you and your goddamned vacation.  We're talking about ME here, remember?

I hate my life right now.


Friday, August 13, 2010


Just when I thought it was all doom and gloom and depression, I came across this article.  Resiliency.  Better than strength.  More important than anything I can imagine.

Sing for me

New Orleans, Louisiana
Mississippi River 


Tuesday, August 10, 2010

Wednesday, August 4, 2010

The short version of the long story

There have been requests from the blogosphere (Hi, Cassie!) and other random sources for me to please explain the story of how and why I moved from San Francisco to New York with a six-month layover in New Orleans in between.

OK.  No problem.  For those who know me personally and are familiar with the story, feel free to move along.  You're probably sick of hearing it by now.  For those who don't know me personally and are unfamiliar with the story, buckle in.  It's going to be a bumpy ride.

So.  Here we go.

After a complicated and convoluted initial twenty years of existence (another story for another time) I moved from Long Island, NY to New Orleans, Louisiana in 1996, found my Shangri-La, and remained there in a state of delirious bliss, my days and nights filled with music and dancing, great booze and even better food, family and friends, love and laughter.

After nine-ish years or so, I began to grow weary of my familiar bliss, car-jackings on my corner, murders twenty feet from my front door.  Yes, quite literally.  Twenty feet from my front doorstep.

So I began a search for a new home.

I wandered, as I always had, but this time with a purpose in mind.  Trying to find the next stop.  Quite frankly, the rest of the country left me cold.  Nothing seemed right.  Until I went to San Francisco.

Oh, San Francisco!  She was so sexy, so smart.  Gorgeous, truly stunning, natural beauty everywhere.  She really had her shit together, too.  I heard that all of the restaurants offered health insurance, and then someone mentioned medical marijuana delivery and I was sold.

So I moved there, got the best job I have ever had, and unfortunately discovered that the douchebag-to-cool-person ratio is painfully skewed in the wrong direction.  Again, remind me to tell you the story about The Incident With The Jumper Cables someday.  Please let me say, however, that what I miss the most about San Francisco is without a doubt the amazing, incredible, brilliant, talented, generous and beautiful friends I made there.  But in general, San Francisco and I, we just didn't see eye to eye.

So for four and a half years I struggled and tried to be happy in a city I really wasn't happy in and went to visit New Orleans on a constant basis and did my best to enjoy living in San Francisco and tried to make a square peg fit in a round hole and then I broke my knee in Peru.  This was about a year ago.  I was down for the count, out of work for several months.  While I was recovering, I had all the time in the world to think and travel and visit home (New Orleans) and realize WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING?!?!  I miss New Orleans, my family, my friends, my life, my joy, it's all there, what the fuck am I doing in San Francisco, living half a life, laughing only half my laughter, crying way too many tears?

So, while on a knee recovery visit to my beloved New Orleans, I made the decision that I would move back.  I tied up my loose ends, made some calls to San Francisco, told my job I wasn't coming back.  Gave notice to my apartment manager and room mate.  The decision was made, the deal was done.

Three days later, I got a phone call saying that my mother was dead.  Seems she jumped off the roof of an apartment building in Manhattan on Christmas Eve.  As a matter of fact, I was sitting right here when I got the call.

By the way, here I should probably mention that until that day, I had no idea where my mother was or what she was doing with her life.  For twenty-three years, I had only a vague clue where the woman was.  Suspected she was in Manhattan.  Didn't know for sure.  Again, another story for another time.

Turns out Mom owned an apartment in a co-op building in New York City.  Turns out she did pretty well for herself, in a round-about way.  Turns out the apartment was paid for, cash.  No mortgage due.  Lucky me.

There was no will, I'm the only heir, by default it goes to me.  Maintenance fees are due each month, at what amounts to a very affordable price, by NY standards.  So logically, it made sense for me to move in.

Regardless of the fact that I was in the middle of moving back to my beloved Nouvelle OrlĂ©ans.  Nevermind that I was about to go to lots of trouble and spend a bunch of money dragging all my shit halfway across the country.  Forget that New Orleans was welcoming me home with arms wide open.

I had some things to think about.

Like I said, my move from SF to New Orleans was already in motion when I got the news, and initially it was all such a mess that I needed a minute to figure things out.  Where better than home, surrounded by friends and family, loved ones?  I packed up my shit, drove across the country, went to New Orleans, went to work, and starting thinking.

I decided to move to New York.

Regardless of how happy I was.  Nevermind that my day to day life was so fulfilling I really thought I was crazy for leaving.  Forget the fact that I had just (finally) met an amazing Sweetheart that put me on a pedestal, treated me like a queen and made me scream so loud in the sack I forgot other men even existed.

New York just seemed like the right thing to do.

So I packed up my shit, (again) and drove across the country (again) and moved my ass up to New York.

Here I am.  I just got here.  Don't even have a job yet.  We'll see what happens.  I'm sure it will all be fine.  I'm actually getting on a plane to New Orleans tomorrow morning.  Just a visit.  Only a week.  Had a ticket with Southwest I had to use up before the tenth.  I figured, where else but home?  Go dancing, visit Sweetheart.  Eat some gumbo.  Ride down by the river one last heartbreaking time.

Hmm.  That makes, what?  I've been gone eighteen days?  Eighteen days and I'm already salivating, scratching, clawing, foaming at the mouth, chomping at the bit, dying to get home?  How long will I make it in New York?  A year?  Two, three, five?  Who's taking bets?

Sorry.  I know I promised you a short story.  But it was, really.  It could have been much longer.  Trust me.  You want the long version?  Really?  Send me an email.  Make sure you've got time to spare...

Monday, August 2, 2010


New York, NY
In the kitchen at Per Se


Sunday, August 1, 2010

Shadow Shot Sunday

New York, NY
Museum of Natural History