Wednesday, September 30, 2009

A Recap of My Weekend

I may be a Brooklyn snob, and it may be my contention that aside from theatre and tourist attractions, there's nothing Manhattan has that Brooklyn doesn't, but the real reason why I don't leave Brooklyn on the weekends is because of the MTA.

After a particularly shitty work week, I wanted to hole up in my apartment and not talk to anyone. Netflix Instant View has Seasons 1 and 2 of Dexter, so I ordered Chinese and settled in for a quality evening of Michael C. Hall and vegetable lo mein.

All of a sudden, my computer has one of those scary fatal error messages that Macs almost never get (they're reserved for shitty Dells). The problem with Macs, though, is that they are made so well, that when they break, we, as the user, can't do anything about it. Usually when my Dell laptop stopped working, I could yank out the battery pack or slam it with my fist and that would jar it back to life. Not so much for my beautiful Mac.

So I resigned to the fact that I would have to go to the Mac store in the morning. The Mac store is on 14th street in the Meatpacking District, so it should only take me about a half hour to get there via subway.

I get on the F train and make it to Jay Street in record time. I have to transfer at Jay to an A or C train and take it to 14th street. Waiting, waiting, waiting.

Finally an A train comes. Here's all of the announcements that were made in about 15 minutes:

This train is running over the F line until West 4th street. Once we get to west 4th, we'll resume A line service (repeat about 700 times)

Oh wait, this train is going express to 59th street from West 4th street. No stops for 50 blocks.

Correction: this train is going local.

Enough to make you want to lock yourself in your apartment and never leave. Ever.

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Monday, September 28, 2009

Walk this Way

Whenever my parents come and visit me in New York they complain incessantly about how much walking they have to do.

Up and down the subway stairs, up and down the stairs to my apartment, 15 blocks to the store, etc, etc.
It doesn't seem like a big deal to me because I do it every day.

But now that I'm living on Prospect Park West which is close to the park, and far away from everything else, I used Google Maps to see just how much, on average, I walk in my daily life.

From the subway to work: 1 mile

From work to the subway: 1 mile
From home to the gym: 1 mile

From the gym to home: 1 mile

From home to the grocery store: 1 mile

From the grocery store to home: 1 mile

I'm walking an average of 4 miles a day, not counting the flights of stairs in my apartment, at work, and all the miscellaneous walking I do or what do I when I'm at the gym.

No wonder my parents, who walk two feet to their cars every day, are always huffing and puffing when they visit.
Thanks, New York, for helping me work off all the beer without even realizing it.

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And now it's time for my favorite game...

It's called, "Who is giving off that terrible odor?" and 9 times out of 10 you play it on the subway.

How you play:

1. Recognize that there is a terrible smell of body odor. Someone who has live in New York City for more than 6 months has a nose for this kind of thing. The subway ALWAYS smells like urine, so discount that smell right away. Body odor? Bingo. Let's find who hasn't showered in awhile.

2. Look around, the person with offensive odor is probably homeless. Are there any homeless people around? DING DING DING—YOU WIN!

3. No homeless people? Weird, you must not be on the A train. Anyway, look around. Are there any huddled masses around (ie: FOREIGNERS)? I'm sorry if this is racist, but if you smell BO around you and someone is speaking a language other than English, you've most likely found the BO Bandit.

So you win. You found the source of the terrible smell that's making [most] people in the subway car want to vomit. What's your prize, you ask?

Your prize is that you have 15 stops to go and the train will be "momentarily held in the station because of train traffic" at EVERY. FUCKING. STOP.

Welcome to New York. Try not to kill yourself.

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Thursday, September 24, 2009

Where My Lesbos at?

My little corner of Brooklyn is regarded as a lesbian mecca, so much so that Park Slope was nicknaked "Dyke Slope." Classy, of course, but I see wayyyyy more straight couples pushing double-wide strollers than I do any cute sapphos.

Listen to me complain at Fucked in Park Slope.

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Open Letters

Dear My Job,

Stop turning me into a raving pyschopath.

Love always,



Dear Top Chef,

What's with all of the lesbians this season? And why are none of them cute?

Love always,



Dear Milagra,

Why do I always see you picking through the trash cans outside of our building? Please don't give me bedbugs.

Love always,



Dear NYC,

How can I love and hate you so much ALL AT THE SAME TIME?

Love/hate always,


Monday, September 21, 2009

Dear Zachary: Watch it

It was quite the coincidence that the very week one of my best friends moved in with me, was the week that I watched this documentary for the first time. I was waiting for Scott to come home so we could go out and I logged into Netflix. On Instant View, I chose Dear Zachary. Fast-forward an hour, and I'm sitting on my couch, sobbing. Like CRYING, like you would not believe. This story touched me in a way that no other film, documentary, book, story, has ever had.

Dear Zachary is the incredible documentary about a 28-year-old doctor who was murdered in cold blood. His best friend since the time he was in kindergarten made this documentary to capture his friend for his son, who was born after his father was murdered.

This is honestly one of the best documentaries I've ever seen. I've watched it only twice, but each time I'm reduced to a puddle of tears. This story will stay with you long after the film is over. If you have Netflix, watch it on Instant View immediately.


Wednesday, September 16, 2009

Sometimes I get to eat food for free..

...Because I have to write about it.

Check out my review of Metromix's Hot Plates Live here.

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Tuesday, September 15, 2009


Sunday, September 13, 2009

Still Can't Get Over it

Saturday, September 12, 2009

Empire State of Mind

Anyone who works in the entertainment industry will tell you that there are usually three truths about our working lives:

1. You work all the time. Like, ALL the time. At your friend's birthday? You sneak into the bathroom with your iPhone, so you can check work emails. Serving as a bridesmaid in a wedding? Your boss is going to call you and ask you to do something, ala Sandra Bullock's character in Two Weeks Notice. Luckily, my boss has an adorable family, and accordingly, she'd like to spend time with them. I don't work much on weekends, but it's not a stretch for other people in industry.

2. You could make more money working at McDonald's. Seriously. You have a "cool" job, where your daily work is structured around researching the feud between Mariah Carey and Eminem, or ordering 75 bottles of vodka for a film screening, so they can pay you nothing. You're working in entertainment in New York City during a recession, and there are about 10 million other kids from small towns who sat in their rooms throughout their childhoods, dreaming of the day where they would move to the BIG APPLE, take it by storm, and shove it in the faces of all of the people who made fun of them. TAKE THAT, Christy Carfiello! Where do you work? CVS? SUCK IT.

3. You get to go to cool events and pretend you're VIP. As a pay back for working crazy long hours and getting paid a salary that makes you want to jump out of your boss's office window while screaming "WHY GOD WHYYYYYYYYYY," you get to go to awesome events and get the VIP treatment although you're definitely not a VIP.

Last night, I was invited to the Jay-Z Answer the Call concert at Madison Square Garden. It was a charity show to benefit the victims of 9/11. I was just happy to get tickets, as it sold out in about 10 seconds, but when I arrived, we were shown to the Club Suites. We were in a box, with a private bathroom, catered food, open bar, and an awesome view of the stage. Was I in heaven? Perhaps.

Jay-Z put on an awesome show, punctuated with awesome special guests. Biz Markie ("Don't ever talk to a girl who says she just has a friend") opened, and throughout the show, Jay-Z was joined on-stage by John Mayer, Rhianna, Beyonce, Mary J. Blige, Kanye West, and Puff Daddy (P. Diddy?). Mind officially blown.

But honestly, who am I that I get to sit in a private box in MSG and watch one of the biggest events? Yet another "is this my life?" moment to add to the list.

Really, what it comes down to is that no matter how difficult it is to make rent, how frustrating my job can be, and just how difficult life can be sometimes, when I can find myself in a private box at MSG, looking over thousands of people, lights flashing, music blaring, I just feel nothing more than greatful for every moment of my stupid little life.

It brought me here, didn't it?

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Wednesday, September 09, 2009

Sage Wisdom

Most people wait until they're settled into their apartment before throwing a housewarming party. I'm not like most people. You see, most people would also probably have boxes piled up in corners of their new place for weeks after they moved in because they're "busy."
You're not busier than me, I would shout at them in an argument I would obviously win.

I've never been obsessively neat (as former roommates could attest) but I have been obsessively obsessive about accomplishing things. So, when I moved in last week, I took Friday off from work and by Sunday morning, everything was unpacked and organized. I was settled, dammit, in record time. It was time to drink.

But housewarming parties have always struck me as a little strange. "Come see my new apartment, bring me wine and assorted useless gifts, compliment everything incessantly or I'LL KILL YOU—would you like some onion dip?" So I kept the guest list small, just a few friends from college.

If you're a longtime reader of this blog, you'll remember when Abi and I were going to move in together. To give you a quick backstory to our relationship: Abi is a flower child and I hate flowers. We are very different people, but we have bonded over our mutual hatred for everyone, and our mutual scary love for serial killers. Okay, "love" is the wrong word here. "Fascination" would be better. We had mutual friends in college, but our independent friendship was cemented when we both looked across a bar and looked at each other and said "Hey, do you think that woman looks like Aileen Wuornos?"

BAM! Friendship.

One time, our team name at Trivia was "Karla and Paul," after Karla Homolka and Paul Bernardo, the Ken & Barbie Killers. For her birthday, I sent her hourly photos of Aileen Wuornos celebrating her birthday in various poses as a countdown to when we could finally leave work and head to the bar for 200 drinks.


Anyway, while we have serial killers in common, we have little else—when we were going to move in together, she told everyone she was going to do a "sage burning" of the whole apartment to rid it of its "negative energy." Everyone we were friends with laughed and said, "Abi, you're living with Amanda—it's going to take more than some sage to get rid of the negative energy."

So, as a housewarming gift, Abi got me a sage burning kit. Everyone laughed, and I believe I told her I hate her. Fast forward a billion beers later, I'm walking some friends out of the apartment and hanging out with them on the stoop until their cab comes. I come back inside and discover that Abi has lit the sage on fire and is frantically running through my apartment, waving it over all of the door frames.

I believe "what the fuck" was shouted as Abi reassured me that the place now had "good vibes."


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Life in the Tenament

Breaking news: Milagra just put out a nice new door mat.

Who needs to go to the store and buy a proper door mat (I got one at Target for $5, BTW) when some old rags, a button down shirt, an old paint can, and some Jesus sandals can do the trick?

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Friday, September 04, 2009

Last Weekend of Summer

See you guys never.



Thursday, September 03, 2009

Most likely the funniest penis enlargement email I've ever gotten

Today, I received this junk mail to my work email:


How’s life treating you, bro?

It’s naturally been ages. That was a hard time for me! I faced certain problems with my men’s health, if you know what I mean. It was an absolute disaster for me! Every time I tried to make love with Celine, my penis let me down. It was hanging helplessly. I was wrecked and ashamed! Being 47 years old and having no erection!? It’s fucken stupid! I was pissed off! But Celine was so delicate and careful that she managed to talk me into trying one of those drugs for erectile dysfunction treatment.

It is no fun, I must tell you. I was ready to try anything! And she ordered that Cialis + V
iagra Powerpack from some on-line store. It was delivered the next day. But it all doesn’t matter; the most important thing is that it helped me! I regained my sexual power and we have normal sex now! But I continue taking these awesome pills because I don’t want that horrible time to come back.

So, dude, if you face this problem now you know where to look for help!

Cialis + Viagra Powerpack is a trusted drug, word!

His girlfriend, Celine is my favorite part, because I just mentally pictured Celine Dion. Since she married that 75-year-old guy, the couple has probably addressed this issue anyway. TRU LYFE ISSUEZ.

Tuesday, September 01, 2009

Meet Milagra

I've mentioned in my previous posts that my new next door neighbor is a bit of a character.

By "bit of a character," I mean a seventy-year-old Mexican lady who calls me "Mami." She has lived in the building for 35 years and pays about $300 a month in rent (love ya, rent control) and breaks into my apartment when I'm not there.

Okay, okay, I'll back up.

The terms of my lease allowed me access to the apartment on August 15, even though I wasn't to officially move out of my old apartment until 8/29. So, I slowly began moving stuff into my new apartment. I made sure to turn all of the lights out before I left, but each time I came back with more stuff, a light was on.

This happened two more times and I realized that I wasn't crazy—someone was coming in and checking my stuff out. Nothing was missing, but it's still pretty fucked up that someone is just coming into the apartment to nose around while I'm gone.

So, I called the management company who serves as my "landlord" and they told me that the Super doesn't even have a key and they sent someone to change the locks right away.

Here's why I'm pretty positive my personal Miracle is the one that broke in:

1. Who else would it be?
2. She is permanently planted on the front stoop (like a doorman, but she wears stained polo shirts and speaks in broken English and would probably steal my packages rather than hold them for me), so she knows when everyone is coming and going.
3. Before I officially moved in, she told me when I passed her on the front stoop that "[oh Mami] they left [my] door unlocked." She wouldn't have known that unless she tried to open it and go in.
4. The management company didn't change the locks before I moved in, and I'm sure that at some point over the past 35 years, one of the neighbors probably gave her an extra key that she's using to creep around my apartment like TLC in the early 90's.
5. Because she's MEXICAN, hellllllo.

Okay, I'm kidding about #5, but come on, it's totally her.

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