Who Needs Sleep? Well, you're never gonna get it.

I have a long history of poor sleeping. My whole family does. For the past couple of years it had become part of my sleep pattern to wake up for at least an hour or two in the middle of the night. Moving to this apartment saw a gradual improvement in my sleeping pattern. Not having roommates making full-on meals at 3 am, and no longer living in a neighborhood where night-long shouting matches and large garbage trucks are part of the background noise helped. But the past few weeks have seen a resurgence of insomnia with a vengeance. Case-in-point, now it is 5:15 am. I slept from approximately 1:45 am to 2:30 am, when I was awoken by Linus puking on the bed. I have not been able to return to sleep. Tim's alarm goes off in an hour and a half. That means I will probably fall asleep in an hour, so that I have juuust entered some good sleep when I get to be awake for him to snooze for 30 goddamn minutes. Not that I'm bitter. Then I will sleep until approximately forever, thus continuing a terrible pattern that will destroy my circadian rhythm. And no, I don't want tips for falling asleep or beating insomnia, thanks.

The job-that-must-not-be-named continues. I am doing the actual door-to-door work now in an upscale apartment building. The first day was great, but a family complained because the nanny spoke with me, so they quit letting me up. Their solution was to have the doorman (oh excuse me, concierge...he corrected me the other day) call up to each of the 90 apartments on my list. This is in between his regular doorman duties and he's kind of a dick about it. The other day he did other things and left me standing around waiting for him to call up to apartments for 45 minutes. We have this phony cordial relationship that I hate having with people, when in reality we are loathing each other more by the day.

On Saturday I had a different doorman who actually let me wander the halls, which was awesome. Today, Greg the Concierge was back and he gave me a hard time. First, insisting that I have been more productive when I have called up to apartments (not true) and then saying, well I had more yesterday because it was a Saturday afternoon. But today was Mother's Day. A FAMILY Day! And people were not going to want to talk to me. Also not true. Also? Not his problem. Which is interesting considering he has made it clear that we are not a team, not working together, and that he is basically doing me a favor.  Ultimately though he let me up, when I reminded him of how many apartments he was going to have to call.

All in all the work is ok. People have been pretty cooperative for the most part. Then, there was this interaction:
This kid who is like my age had made it clear that he has tons of money. i.e. "Oh I don't know if this is my primary residence. I have several residences and I'm always traveling. So you could even consider Paris, Milan, and London primary residences." (Totally serious by the way.)

So then I ask him about ethnicity. And he says that he doesn't understand. So I read off a list of possible Hispanic, Latino or Spanish origins for him. And he says "well I speak Spanish fluently." and I said...ok....well...is your family of any of these backgrounds? And he tells me he had an Argentinian nanny who "practically raised him." And then says he also speaks French and "you can see how this is so confusing!"

I was being observed by a supervisor. If I hadn't I would have said "you arrogant jerk. Speaking a language does not make you of that culture. You are a moron and you are clearly rich and white, so why don't we just go ahead and mark that down." In the end I wrote in "Latino" per his request.

He also said that his "power-of-attorney" sometimes stays at his place. Why he chose to identify her first as a power of attorney, rather than his sister (which he said later), is anyone's guess.  I assume it's to make sure I know he's so rich that he requires someone to have power of attorney.

So....basically what we have is a rich white kid, who travels a lot for his rich, white job. In his travels he meets people who have a wide variety of ethnic backgrounds and cultures. He starts to feel lame for just being a boring white kid, so at every opportunity tries to pretend like he is anything more interesting than a trust fund baby.  Blech.  So glad it's not someone I know in real life.

Supervisors keep telling me how great I'm doing though, which is good. I am hoping that once this part is done I can do some part-time office work for them. My goal is to not get a real job until September.

Bill, the guy who lives in my building and wouldn't tell me on what floor, hates me almost as much as Greg the Concierge. I will see him at team meetings and he ignores me. I saw him today and he said goodbye, looking at everyone but me. Fortunately, my life moves on. And it turns out that so many people are refusing to speak to him that it's becoming a problem. That's what you get jack-ass.

Now to try sleep again.  Perhaps my watching the Duggars as research for my next post.

In Which I Make A Trimphant Return to Blogging

Well, kids, you asked for it.  I am back, hopefully consistently.

I took a break from blogging because my most popular posts were about my dating disasters, and now that I am no longer dating I felt like I didn't have a lot to write about.

But the universe has blessed me with a job which I believe will be endless blog fodder, so I am going to document it.  We'll see how it goes.

So for those that don't know, I got a part-time temporary job working for the Man in the capacity of one who will be taking demographic information of those who reside in my community in an event that happens every ten years.  To avoid people finding my blog by searching for the actual name of this operation, I will not be using it.

This week was the training week.  So far training has gone about as expected.  It has been pretty disorganized and I have spent a lot of time reading my book.  The people in my training group are overwhelmingly middle-aged white men.  You work in your neighborhood, and this demographic is pretty consistent with the overall demographic of my neighborhood so I guess I shouldn't be surprised.  But I know I am not going to be good friends with anyone.  I should note here for people who read my blog, but don't know me or haven't been updated since my last post - I have since moved out of the ghetto in Brooklyn  to lower Manhattan in a more middle/upper-middle class neighborhood. 

Today was the last day of sitting-in-a-room training, which is good because if I had to listen to this one obnoxious guy ask one more moronic question my head was going to asplode.

The story for the purpose of today's blog is about one of the middle-aged white guys in my training, named William.  William's MO throughout the training has been to talk too loudly about how no one is going to a) answer their doors to us b) be nice to us when we come by or c) give us any information that might help us.  William also had come up with several nonsense hypothetical scenarios that took up immense amounts of discussion time and would then complain that things were dragging on.  I had decided that I think that William's feelings about how others will act is more of a reflection on how he himself would act were someone with our job to come to his home.  And I was proved right in the following exchange in which I decided for some unknown reason to strike up a conversation with him.

William had mentioned that a local VIP lived on the same floor as him in his building.  During a break I made a little comment about this local VIP and somehow ended up mentioning which apartment complex I live in. William started off friendly and said "Oh I live in that complex too!" And I said, oh really? What building? And he answered that he lives in building X.  And I said "oh that's funny, I've never seen you, I live in Building X too!"  (This is not out of the ordinary.  The building has 35 floors and I probably have only seen a fraction of the people who live there.)

But this is where it turns weird.  It was like I could see on William's face that he was really wishing that this conversation would be over, but I couldn't really understand why. I plodded on and asked what floor he lived on and told him what floor I live on.  William got even more uncomfortable and said "that's secret."  "Ok", I said, "but when I see you on the elevator, I will know."  William just shrugged and it was clear that we both wanted this conversation to end.  I kind of half-continued to conversation with a weak discussion about development in the area, even though I should just have left him to himself, but I felt like I couldn't leave it at his weird rebuffal.

For some reason, I am still thinking about this conversation because it just felt so strange to me.  But, it proved my original assumption - William is expecting everyone else to be weird, cagey, and assholes because those are all true of himself.

There was a brief moment today when I thought I would end up paired up with him to practice going door-to-door, but mercifully that didn't take place because I was almost in tears at the prospect of two hours of that miserable conversation.  I am sure William feels the same way.

Actual door-to-door is on Sunday...updates then.
 In fun news, local VIP lives in my buidling...although I may never know on which floor.

That's how we do in Clinton Hill

So I was doing my grocery shopping on Saturday at my local Pioneer supermarket. And I'm in the produce section, rifling through leafy greens to find ones that haven't turned mushy brown, cuz that's what you have to do at the Pioneer. And then I see this dude over at the deli, who looks a lot like Food Network celeb Ted Allen...but surely, Ted Allen -- who on many episodes of Queer Eye for the Straight Guy lamented that the proletariat does not enjoy duck pate -- does not shop at the Pioneer. Even though they renovated it a month or so ago, so they no longer store produce on the filthy floor. And they added some organic/natural foods. And they added some fancy cheeses (by my standards, keeping in mind here that I am pretty pissed that the $1.99 cheese I like to buy increased to $2.49). But still, this is no gourmet market. This is where I and the 2,000 denizens of the Lafayette Gardens projects shop. Not Ted Allen.
Turns out, he does. Because I am the master of finding things out about people on the internet, I learned that Ted Allen actually lives a few blocks from me.
And you may be saying to yourself, wait Caitlin, don't you live in the ghetto? Wasn't someone shot on your doorstep like a year ago? And you are partially right, friend. But, as many visitors have observed, one only has to travel a few blocks to get to very nice brownstones and less gang activity. Like, a few blocks in Ted Allen's direction...
So I find an article in New York Magazine from October 2008 in which he discussess his move to Clinton Hill. I found another article with his address, but I am withholding it out of respect for his privacy. What if one of my readers from Kansas decides to stalk him?!
My favorite part of the interview is as follows: When's the last time you drove a car?
Today. I love Clinton Hill, but the grocery stores suck.

Well said, Ted. But, I suppose we all have to make concessions once in a while.

The good old days weren't always good, or, I am sure one day I will look back on these years with nostalgia

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5KmUwVA3BqI

Anyone else who has posted the above 30 rock clip in their blog has done so to talk about what a hottie Jon Hamm is. Well not me. I am posting about Oswald. Because I HAVE Oswald in my building. I didn't know that was like, a thing, in New York. But it must be. If you don't watch the clip and didn't see the episode, basically Liz Lemon goes to give her neighbor his mail and a crazy guy answers the door. And then they explain that it's Oswald who lives in the basement and helps out sometimes.

Well, picture Oswald...but make him black, mute, and an alcoholic and make Liz Lemon's fancy tv writer's building into a dumper social worker's building and then you have my apartment and the guy from this post who lives in my basement and sometimes washes the window in the door.

I don't know his name, so in my head I usually call him Chris because sometimes he wears a Dickies-type work short with Chris sewn on, even though I am pretty sure it came from the garbage. Maybe I will switch it to Oswald.

One time I saw him stabbing a caged rat with what appeared to be a sharpened stick. True story.

for those following my plight...

Frank is now completely gone from the apartment!
And, if you live in the greater tri-state area and want to go with me to Ikea next week to get a couch let me know. Last time it was so bad that my friend left all the shit he had picked out in the middle of the store, out of being overwhelmed. So I need the support.
I'm getting Extorp; I already have it picked out.
My apartment is going to be so less shitty! Maybe I will feel comfortable enough to have people over besides one night stands.

On that note, there is apparently a blog called I Bang The Worst Dudes....um hasn't that been my blog for like a year??
The Jezebel people think that perhaps it is a joke....but given that I think every scenario excluding the ones with STDs has happened to me, I'm inclined to think it is not.
Anyway, what an auspicious week: Worst President Ever=gone! Worst Roommate Ever=gone!

Hope lives on in Clinton Hill.

Target, I love you, but you're bringing me down

This is a conversation I had with my friend today:
E: I think I am going to get a bike this spring
Me: You totally should, I was really glad I got mine last year
E: Where do you keep yours?
Me: Um, ok...well....so there is this mute homeless man who I guess squats in the basement of my building? And he hoards stuff? Like, I threw out this chopper that didn't work and then he had it. And sometimes he has food back there and I am not sure if he gets it from a food pantry or the garbage. And then sometimes he has other stuff that he hoards but you wouldn't know why because it's not useful and you can't sell it. Anyway, I keep my bike back there. I keep it in the little back area where the homeless man who sleeps on a cot in my building's basement keeps stuff he finds in our trash.
E: Oh ok. Yeah, who knows why people hoard what they do.

I love Brooklyn.

I forgot to blog about my two year living in New York anniversary! It was the 8th. In thinking about it I was trying to think about my favorite moving to New York memory. And at first I was thinking about re-living the day I went from the hotel I was in to my friend's apartment and the cabbie threw all of my crap onto the street because he didn't want to go to Brooklyn. But then, this blog showed up and reminded me that of course I had to write about the worst day in my whole life, which is the first time I went to the Atlantic terminal target.

Unfortunately, I deleted my myspace so I no longer have the gem of a blog that I wrote back when the wounds of that day were still fresh and my tears barely dried. But I will try to sum it up as best I can, keeping in mind that the lens of experience and jadedness mars the ability to portray exactly how devastating this episode was.

To set the scene: It is January, 2007. I have lived in New York City (said as in Pace salsa commercial) for less than one week. This is the day that I move into the apartment that I will live in for my first 18 months here and although I don't yet know it, will be the scene of many stories to come.
I am extremely anxious and on edge about everything. I only have what I could bring with me on the plane, so I head to Target to pick up some essentials. My new roommate -- who I actually don't even live with yet -- has a shopping cart similar to the one pictured, that I decide to take with me.

When I get to Target I get a regular shopping cart and put the old lady shopping cart inside of it and go about my business. There is an escalator in this Target with a separate entrance for carts. As I head to the second floor and put my shopping cart on the escalator, I note a wall next to the cart escalator and think to myself "Hm, I wonder if my old lady cart will be too tall sticking out of the cart and get stuck on the wall?" And then I proceed to put the whole contraption on the escalator.
Now, you may have heard me tell this story before. Or you may just have sensed the foreshadowing and are not surprised, that yes the cart does get stuck to the wall. I watch in slow motion as the old lady cart begins to bend until it is completely jammed up against the wall. At that point, the Target cart tips over, spilling out all of my carefully selected school supplies. I reach out and let out a movie slow motion "Noooo"...but there is no hope. Other shoppers look on in disgust as their own carts are victims of the pileup. Several employees band together and free the cart, handing me back the old lady cart that is now at a 45 degree angle to its original formation. And I. start. crying. And I can't stop. And I'm just crying and crying and crying. But I have shit to buy, so I am shopping and walking through the store and just crying the whole time. Obviously this is going to become my normal state. Like the girl who had hiccups for however long...I will just be the girl that cries...I will have to live out the rest of my life going through every day activities sobbing.
So, with a full cart I go to pay...only to learn that all of my credit cards are declined because my banks helpfully put holds on them due to suspect spending. Nothing changes for me though...I just keep crying and crying and I leave the store. In the melee, I have lost one of my gloves, so I walk out with one hand in my pocket and my gloved hand towing the wrecked property of a stranger (where's THAT lyrics Alanis?). It is bitter cold, but my tears flow hot and do not freeze.

Bedding was included in the many items I picked out that day that never left the store. I didn't have a bed and my new roommate had been kind enough to let me take the futon from the living room into my room to sleep on, and she had even got out some sheets for me. After destroying her personal things, I didn't have the heart to ask for a blanket. I spent the next 3 nights sleeping on the futon with just a sheet...wearing every item of clothing I had brought with me, including gloves and a hat...shivering and crying until I finally bought a blanket.

For a long time I blamed the Target experiene on my own general ineptitude. But then Fucked in Park Slope comes along with their secret cameras to help me prove to the world that the Atlantic Center Target is the worst Target in the world.

Observe:
This is Part 1.

FIPS Undercover - Worst TARGET Evah (Brooklyn, NY) from Effed in Park Slope on Vimeo.

This is Part II


FIPS Undercover II: Target Sucks (Brooklyn, NY) from Effed in Park Slope on Vimeo.


I am pretty excited for III and IV

I like to think I have come a long ways since that day two years ago. But....basically...I live in a shittier apartment in the same neighborhood with worse roommates and I still shop at that Target and hate it every time. BUT I generally move through my days without excessive tearfulness. So that's something.
And now I have a bike that a mute bum watches over.

mental/fitness

I need to go to the gym, so I am taking my time getting there. it closes at 8...sometimes I sniggle enough and successfully manage to not make it before it closes.
I guess I do kind of have a new year's resolution...I have been talking about doing a duathalon (running and biking) for like a year and a half. It had become a joke because it is this thing that i talk about and say i am TOTALLY committed to..and then it doesn't happen. Last fall I was going to do one, and then last spring, and then this past fall...But, this time I'm committed for real. There are two in April, one in Prospect Park and one in Central Park, so I want to be ready to do one of those. It's about 3 miles running, 10 miles biking and then another 3 miles running. Right now I could probably do half of that, slowly. While crying the entire time. But I'm working up to it.
Also, my mom and I are doing a bike new york thing in May where you ride through the 4 boroughs and it's 42 miles. It's not a race really and apparently you can take the whole day to do it if you want to, so it's not the tour de france over here...but it's a lot more than biking 10 miles at the gym while watching Jeopardy.

I watched Jeopardy twice this week while on the bike. On the first day the champion's interesting anecdote was that one time a female friend of his was in the hospital and he had to go buy a dress for her and announced to the whole store that it was for a friend. On day two his anecdote was that he had a dog who liked halloween....and by halloween he apparently meant that the dog liked it when kids came to the door and he would get all up in their shit. When he first said it I was kind of hopeful, like maybe the dog went and picked out his own costumes or could hand out candy to kids. But no. He liked to be obnoxious at the door and slobber all over children.
I hope that if I am ever on Jeopardy I have something more interesting to talk about than that once I bought an outfit for the opposite gender as an act of kindness and that I had an animal that acted like an animal. In reality I probably will just tell Lucy and Linus stories the whole time. Or talk about the Duggars or something.
Alex Trebec will be like "Caitlin, a social worker from Brooklyn New York...I hear you have a hidden talent? Tell us about that"
And then I would kind of giggle awkwardly and say "Well Alex I can name all 18 of the Duggar children in order of their birth."
And then I would start off all "Josh, Jana, John-David, Jill" and then he would have to cut me off and it would be embarrassing. And then I would lose because the whole time I would be replaying my interesting anecdote in my head and wouldn't be able to focus on European history.
What a disaster.
BUT if I do my duathalon I can say that I am a duathlete or a multi-sport athlete or that I have biked through all 5 boroughs in one day. It will show that I am well rounded. Anyway I better get to the gym or I will end up, well, rounded. HA!

America and Caitlin love cultural diversity

This post is basically just a series of my thoughts from the last 12 hours. I swear it's all connected.

I got the cats this litter that I don't like recently. It seriously sucks...doesn't clump, really emphasizes the ammonia odor quality of feline urine...no good. I like arm and hammer super scoop. So today I went to go get some arm and hammer super scoop. I went to the Pioneer, which is remodeling and obnoxious to go into. No super scoop. C-Town. No super scoop. The weird store next to C-Town that smells weird. No super scoop. The bodega on the corner. No super scoop. Family Dollar. No super scoop. So as I was wandering around to every store within two blocks of my apartment, I was thinking, goddammit this is what I hate about New York. I can't get my fucking cat litter. In other normal cities where they have huge grocery stores within 5 minutes of anywhere, I would be able to get all the different varieties of super scoop - multi-cat AND odor control. I ended up getting Cat's Pride...which is ok, but it's no super scoop.

Anyway, then I was leaving the gym this evening and I said goodnight to the security guard because I am polite and I was putting on my sweatshirt and he motioned me over. He was pointing at the tattoo on my ankle, which I got my senior year in college, of an Om. Pictured above. Mine is red. It's kind of awesome. I am actually always a little wary when an Indian or Hindu person notices my tattoo because I feel like I can't speak articulately about why I have it. It's really more representative of my made up snake and salamander religion, which I also can't speak very articulately about....but, like, I'm not Christian and I would never have a tattoo of a cross. Anyways, the security guard had an om tattooed on his arm. Fortunately, he didn't call me out on being a Hindu fraud and instead talked about how a lot of white people are into Hinduism and he thinks it's just great. Here are some other things I learned about him:
He is from Surinam by way of Holland
Holland is nice
Surinam is nice. There aren't a lot of people.
There aren't a lot of people from Surinam in New York.
He came here in 2002.
His daughter lives in Holland.
Holland takes care of its people better than America.
English is hard to learn.
His nephew may or may not speak good english.

Then I was thinking how much I love new york and the different kinds of people. Sometimes. Sometimes I miss homogeneity. So THEN I was all filled with naive pride for America and opportunities and black men as president. And then I was remembering election night and how it was kind of awesome to be in my neighborhood.
Living in a poor black neighborhood, across the street from the projects, basically guarantees an Obama landslide on my block. And when they called it, the streets were filled with people cheering, honking their horns, shouting, white people hugging black people and general elation. That shit didn't happen in eugene, I imagine....at least not where either my parents or my sister live.
The election also brought me and asperger's together because we watched the returns. I offered her some ice cream. She offered me some beer. And I was reminded of another time when I crossed cultural boundaries. When I worked at the nursing home in Harlem and everyone hated me because I was white, especially this girl I had to share the computer/janitor's closet with. But I noticed that she always read People. And then Anna Nicole Smith died. So I asked her if she had heard anything about why she died. And she offered me a twizzler.
Anna Nicole Smith and Barack Obama aren't so far apart as you might think. They both have united a country. Or, at least me with people who don't especially like me.
Yesterday Asperger's and I watched a documentary about these autistic savant twins. Which 1. was awesome. and 2. was very meta.

Also, I was reading a thing about racist jokes that people had heard since the election, and one of them was that the white house was going to replace the rose garden with a watermelon patch. And my first thought was that they were going to do that for purely gardening purposes. Because I just listened to this episode of Fresh Air with the guy who wrote In Defense of Food, and he wrote an open letter to McCain and Obama encouraging whoever would be in the white house next to replace the lawn with like a vegetable garden. Anyway. I am kind of pleased that that was my first assumption.

sunny days sweeipin' the clouds away

It was a beautiful fall day yesterday and I was walking around Brooklyn with my friend and he remarked that the day reminded him of Sesame Street. Now, the day did not remind me of Sesame Street, although walking around in Brooklyn often does. But, what it really made me think about was how much most things remind me of tv shows that I watched growing up. Perennial favorites for references are Punky Brewster and The Cosby Show. As in: Oh, I see that person took the door off the fridge when they put it out for garbage. You're supposed to do that I learned from the episode of Punky Brewster where Cherie gets trapped in the fridge and Punky and Margo have to give her CPR and Allen is no help because he was fucking around when they learned how to do it in class. Or: Oh, I love to sew but I don't think I would ever make shirts...they would end up looking like the faux designer shirt Denise made for Theo with one sleeve to long and all kinds of messed up.
As a matter of fact, if I could compare everything in my life to a tv show from the 80's I probably would.
As I get older, my other TV favorite reference is Friends. As in a recent discussion with my friend about having to go out to lunch for a goodbye party for a co-worker and ordering the second cheapest thing on the menu only to learn the tab was divided equally among the entire group so now I got spaghetti marinara and I have to pay for your shrimp alfredo. Both of us were reminded of the episode of Friends where the 3 poorest friends: Rachel, Joey and Phoebe (at the time -this was while Rachel was still a waitress and Joey wasn't yet Dr. Drake Ramore) are lamenting that they have to go out to fancy dinners with the other three when they can't afford it.
Although the ubiquitous NYC reference show in recent years is Sex and the City, I find that I can in no way relate and it rarely enters my discussions.
But here is my secret confession. The show I think about almost every day, but don't have the guts to bring up in polite conversation: Ghostwriter.
Here are instances where I think about it:
1. Ghostwriter was set in Brooklyn, I live in Brooklyn.
2: Alex's family owns a bodega which I had only ever heard of from the show. Now I go to a bodega several times a week.
3: Community gardens. I pass at least one, and sometimes two, community gardens when I walk to the gym. And every time. Every goddamn time I walk past I think of the Ghostwriter story arc in which the neighborhood is getting sick from vegetables grown in the community garden because some company had buried toxic waste barrels in the garden.
4: There are countless other instances in which Ghostwriter is brought to mind and I am too ashamed to write about them here.

So what tv shows do you find yourself referring to frequently?

Re-visiting old friends

There is nothing of interest going on in my life. Frank drank my milk, left a tablespoon of milk and then bought me some new.
Here is a blog I wrote in July of 2007 which is kind of funny. I saw Nelson on the train tonight on my way home. If you don't remember Nelson, he was mentioned in this post as the first neighbor I ever met...the one who has HIV and leukemia (which is apparently in remission).
So I get on the train and I look next to me, and there is Nelson sitting there. I see him every once in a while in the neighborhood and we'll say hi or whatever. So he's sitting on the train and we look over and recognize each other and so I say hi and he gets all queeny and gives me a big hug and says, "Hi!! omg I haven't seen you in ohmygod! I can't even remember the last time I saw you so I'll just say I haven't seen you in ohmygod!"
We chatted like old friends the rest of the way on the train. By that, of course, that I mean he rambled on while I sat there and tried to decide if he was high or just crazy. Topics included: his leukemia, and how it is in remission. His HIV, and how he still has it. His husband's viral load, and how it's slightly higher than they would like it to be. The new diet they are on to try to get his viral load down. Their new business, and how if I ever want to I can get my computer fixed for free. And also, how, apparently he was (just last night) telling his husband how I should come over for dinner.
I do not think this last part was true. 1. he did not know my name. He had to ask me. He later explained it by saying that he couldn't remember my name just now, but that last night he remembered it and was talking to his husband about me and how I'm such a great neighbor. 2. He's just a big crackhead liar. He kept saying things and I was like, you're making this up just right now. He said that he and his husband have been together 20 years, but last night was the first time they'd ever kissed. His husband's birthday is coming up, Nelson doesn't know what to get him but, "girl, you and I should go down to 5th avenue and just do some shopping to get him something. I am going to borrow my mom's car. Do you have a driver's license? Is it valid? Mine is suspended. But I just knew that you would be able to drive. In fact, I had you in mind to drive when I asked my mom to borrow her car."
I am not making this up. And this is how I accidentally invited him to dinner. I just off-handedly mentioned that I was going to be barbecuing, which I guess meant that Nelson and his husband should join Abby and I. In fact! It can be a celebration barbecue, because Nelson has been clean for 11 years...actually! today is the anniversary!
And that is the type of thing that I was like, you're just saying that....I'm not entirely sure that he's clean at all, but even if he is, it just felt like he was making up that this was the anniversary.
As we were walking home he asked a woman if he could buy a cigarette off of her. He then asked me for 50 cents, because he didn't think he had it. I said I had a quarter, and he was like, "oh maybe I have another quarter." So he reaches into his pocket and he totally had like 75 cents in there. Crack head scam artist.
So he decided he should come over at 8:30 for dinner. Crack heads tend to be flaky, so my only hope was that he would forget. It may have been the only hope I had that my roommate wouldn't kick me out. When she came home and I told her that I had accidentally invited Nelson over, she was real, real irritated.
But, fortunately for my livelihood, he did not show up. And that will just teach me to be a little bit quicker on my feet next time I run into one of my crack head neighbors on the train.
Nelson also gave me a juicy juice juice box. I guess it was a fair trade for the quarter he scammed.


Abby was my roommate for a year and a half. And we had a good, but kind of weird relationship. She came home that night and I told her that I accidentally invited Nelson over for dinner. All she said was "Goddammit Caitlin!" and went to her room. Months later she told me that he did stop by at like midnight but I was already in bed. I think she just said that to make me feel bad.

the pleasures of the first world

I moved today. And, as I wrote about before, I am still nervous about this apartment. I think a few decor changes and a good scrub down will fix it right up. But the room I think is the smallest I have ever lived in, maybe not including dorm rooms. And the apartment has a funny smell, which, again, I think could be remedied by some cleaning and some candles.

Meanwhile, Hurricane Gustav looks like it's about to demolish New Orleans (again). And I can't read about this stuff. Because then how can I legitimately feel sorry for myself..."oohh waaah....my apartment that is not about to be destroyed is too smaaallll" "booohooo...my back hurts from moving all of my possessions, and not even just the ones that mean the most to me." Other people and their catastrophes really rain on my self-indulgent pity parade.

The movers were two hours late coming and they did not call. I was pissed because I was aready at the storage unit and just had to sit on the sidewalk with all my stuff like an abandoned kid. For two hours. It wasn't like I was at home and could dick around finishing stuff or plug the tv back in or something. After they were done moving and I paid them, the mover had the gall to ask me for a tip. Are you kidding me? You're gonna ask me that after you were two hours late. What a jackass. Irreminded him that they were two hours late. So then he whines, "you're on the third floor. I got all sweaty"
That's right asshole, cuz you're a MOVER....you MOVE things....and when one moves, one gets sweaty. Deal. I did not give him a tip. My tolerance for being ripped off is pretty much nil at this point.

Oooh my life is so saaaddd...I had to argue with a guy to not tip him the equivalent of the average monthly income in Ethioooopia.

Boo to social consciousness.

D-d-d-d-downgrade

I am moving tomorrow. I am really nervous about this apartment because there are 3 other roommates. I don't actually like other people, so this is kind of a lot for me. Plus, I think they may have been a little disingenuous about how clean they are.
But there it is.
And, basically, I can never move again, because in the 4 years that I have been an actual grown up, my quality of living has just disintegrated.
The first place I ever lived on my own was 2 bedrooms, 1.5 baths, with a garage, dishwasher, garbage disposal (there's another small pleasure. How great is it to not have to fish crap out of the sink. Ugh it makes me nauseous just thinking about it.), washer and dryer!, etc. for which I paid $450 a month.
This place will be 3 other people, a room that is smaller than I thought it was when I first saw it, and of course none of the modern conveniences that I would like to be a part of my life. Someday soon we will be reunited, washer and dryer....dishwasher, you can come too.
However, I will have cable again, which means I can quit watching Everybody Loves Raymond. AND i will have cable in my room, which I have not had since that first place 4 years ago....and if there's anything I love, it's living the life of a recluse. Just me on my bed with my cats watching tv.
Blah blah blah I know that was in Oregon and now I'm in New York and it's different...but it has just been a steady decline since then.
Anyway, I should be packing, which is why so many updates.

We have to get back to the Island

When I moved out of my old place, ALL I wanted was to be gone. I wanted to be done with the neighborhood, with the apartment, with the landlord, all of it. My sublet is up at the end of the month and I am back to looking at places. With everything that I was so over with that neighborhood, and with this dude who got shot in the face on my old corner, why do I keep gravitating towards places in the same area?

vermin

The exterminator came to the apartment yesterday.

The exterminator came to exterminate for bed bugs.

We have bed bugs.

Or, more accurately, I have bed bugs. They have not yet struck Abby, and God-willing, they never will. Although, from what I read on the internet, it sounds like I will be battling bed bugs for the rest of my life.

A few weeks ago I noticed some welts. I decided I was having an allergic reaction to something and dismissed them. Then a couple weeks later I got them again. I know that NYC has a bed bug epidemic. And news sources reassure me that it is not because I am filthy, but still, I was in complete denial that they were a possibility. Ok, not complete denial. I looked on the internet for how you detect bed bugs. I checked my mattress, noticed no signs, and called it good. Until Tuesday night when I was sitting in bed, felt something on me and found a bed bug. Tuesday night didn't provide a lot of rest.
Wednesday night wasn't a lot better. I slept on the couch. I had torn apart my room looking for more evidence and had found in my box spring a nauseatingly clear sign that yes, I did have bed bugs. I threw out the box spring. You're actually not supposed to do this. You're supposed to wrap it up if you throw it out so the infestation doesn't spread. And you're supposed to label it so that some schmuck from the projects across the street doesn't take it and spread bed bugs to the entire complex. I did neither, and on Thursday the box spring was gone. Oh well.
Wednesday I also called the land lord, who refused to pay for extermination. "Your bed, your problem" he said. We couldn't get an exterminator to come on Thursday, so I spent Thursday night on the couch too. another rough night. Every tickle. Every itch was cause for a bed bug inspection. And when you have bed bugs, you get phantom itches a lot.
Friday morning the exterminator came to give an estimate. $600. Which Abby says she does not feel like she needs to pay half of, since they are in my room. I spend a few minutes having a nervous breakdown in my room. Decide that I will just go get bed bug spray and do it myself. Even though every website I read said to just get it professionally done and get it over with. I come out of my room to send the exterminator on his way.
"Well, I can negotiate", he says. After some back-and-forth and some language barrier problems, I talk him down to $400. I leave for the day so he can do his thing.
While I am out I go to Bed Bath and Beyond to get a mattress cover that protects against bed bugs. And also new pillows because I threw mine out. And while I was at it, pillow protectors too. This all came to about $130. I had also spent $50 on cleaning supplies earlier, to do a full on scrub of the house.
I came back in the evening to a sprayed house. The chemical burn in my throat made me feel confident that maybe, just maybe, this will turn out ok. I went to the laundromat to wash my linens on HOT and to dry some of my clothes, also on HOT. supposedly this kills the bed bugs.
I put sheets back on my bed, cleaned my room and went to sleep in my bed. A long, comfortable sleep. A hopeful sleep that I may be safe from bed bugs for awhile.
It is now 3 am on Saturday night/Sunday morning. About a half hour ago I woke up to go to the bathroom and get some water. I came back into bed. I get in bed and the cats are nosing around acting all weird in a way that usually makes me concerned that Linus has a mouse (which was another terrible, sleepless, vermin filled night several months ago). But in this case, I am worried they have seen a bed bug. Linus starts to nose under the covers and then under me. So I get up. I kneel on my mattress looking for any signs of "the animal", which is what the exterminator kept calling it. I feel a poke on my lower back, under my shirt. I freeze and then slowly reach back, knowing that I will find a bed bug there. But I didn't! No bed bug!
No.
Oh no.
It was one of the largest roaches I have ever seen. On me. Biting me. Under my shirt.
I just shuddered writing about it. So imagine my horror.
I'm back on the couch. Itchy all over. Anticipating yet another sleepless night filled with the 5 am news and history channel specials about stone henge. And job searches in Portland.

Moving back to Oregon was always a consideration. New York is too expensive to be livable beyond your 20s, when it's ok to eat mac and cheese 3 times a week. Then I thought maybe I would stay another year. Then I thought about getting a job and how it could take a long time and how I don't have the money to live here very long with no job. So then moving back to oregon and staying with my parents while I look for a job seemed like a more practical idea.
With every bug I find on my person, moving to Portland just seems better every time.

I pay $750 for my apartment. It is about 900 sq ft. tall ceilings. Lots of space. Big windows. I share with a roommate. Hardwood floors which are impossible to clean. Across the street from some projects. there was a shooting at the funeral home across the street on thursday. I have to walk down to the laundromat, which just increased their prices. $750 includes no utilities.

A quick craiglist search finds me an apartment in Portland for $700. 2 bedroom 2 bath. Washer and dryer in the apartment. Carpeting. Parking. And a back yard.

I applied for a job at a hospital in Portland. I think I'll apply for some more tomorrow.

Meanwhile I am going to take a shower and get back to bed on my lovely couch.

these are the people in your neighborhood

Here is what I love about my neighborhood. I can leave the house in sweatpants and I am the most popular girl on the block.
I was doing laundry today. Laundry day=sweatpants. And, because my pants are a little long, I tuck them into rainboots. It was not raining. My hair is half in a ponytail, half messy, because I'm too lazy to brush my hair. I can do this and no one stares. No one comments. I fit in. It's great.
I got a "hey mami" from an older gentleman as I was walking to the store. Not an unusual greeting, and actually my personal favorite. I also got what I believe was a hiss as I walked in front of the pizza shop. Not a greeting I enjoy.
Then there was a woman I have never seen in front of the pizza shop. Black, probably about in her 50's, wearing a puffy coat and what I would describe as a church hat. The kind with a flower. "Hey baby", she said, as I walked by carrying my empty laundry basket on my way to fetch my clothes from the dryer. "Hey" I replied.
I retrieved my clothes and walked back, my lady friend was still there.
"Daaamn girl, you was quick! Daaammnnn", she laughed.
"Yeah", I said, "I don't mess around went it comes to laundry".
She laughed some more. Repeating, "damn, girl you was quick!" And, "I hear ya baby, I hear ya darling" as I unlocked the door of the building and retreated to my apartment.
Love it.

Note: For those who may not be familiar, that picture is of the corner across the street, featuring the priest from Dios Es Amor church downstairs, his megaphone, and the Lafayette Gardens sign (rip) which was unfortunately destroyed in an accident I witnessed involving a car jumping the curb.

I wrote a whole long post about my first two days in Florida. But Blogger only saved my original draft, which annoys me because losing posts was the whole reason I switched. Oh well. When I get around to it I will re-do it.

Produce produce

When people ask me what my favorite thing about New York City is, this is my answer: Produce Carts.
For serious. Of all NYC has to offer, produce carts top my list. I can leave the gym feeling a little 11 0'clockish and go to my very favorite produce stand on the corner and get a banana for a quarter. I love it. No going through a drive-through, no trying to find the nearest safeway.
The other reason is because I live in a crappy neighborhood. The Bravo supermarket stocks 15 different kinds of bologna (no exaggeration), and their produce section is about the same size. Also, for some reason they have this huge box of extremely brown bananas underneath the regular produce. I don't know if people are supposed to buy those or what. But there it is. Anyway, point being that produce can kind of be hit or miss and the prices can shift pretty dramatically. Produce stands are usually cheaper.
So why does this come up now?
According to this article, NYC wants to issue 1,500 new street vendor licenses to put produce stands in poor neighborhoods. Like mine. This would be awesome. New food cart licenses haven't been issued since the seventies. And since it's easier to find fried chicken and liquor in my neighborhood than it is to find a reasonably priced apple, I think it would be good for everyone.
Some schmuck councilman, John Liu, said this:
"The theory behind this bill is if you increase the supply, the demand will increase, and that's likely a faulty premise," Council Member John Liu of Queens said in an interview yesterday. "If there was demand, it's doubtful that the stores would simply refuse to address it." He called the legislation "wishful thinking," and warned it would eat into existing grocers' profits without providing its intended health benefits."
What a douche.
The people of Bed-Stuy have obviously been demanding an increased bologna selection, but vegetables just haven't sold. Maybe because apples are often $2 a pound. You can get enough bologna for like 50 sandwiches for that much. Of course this is a whole larger issue about subsidies in different food industries, etc. But, Bed-Stuy demands produce stands!

In less political news, the next season of ANTM has started. Who else hates Fatima? Is she going to be this season's Heather?

Also this is episode one of Caitlin version 2.0. Thoughts?