Peasants vs. Queens

I had to pick up our lease for our new apartment today. In queens. Which takes an hour to get to from Canada. So..I haven't packed yet, I got in at 12pm last night after a 6 hour commute from Chicago and my roommate for one reason or another decided to not pick up the lease during the 6 days she was here when I wasn't, so naturally it is my responsibility.

Stupid things our realtor did:
1. Opened an office in queens.
2. Opened an office in Queens when they have apartments in the West Village.
3. Requires us to show the lease to our super in order to get keys.
4. Will not fax lease.
5. Only way to get lease is to go to Queens and pick it up.

Stupid things FedEx Kinkos did:
1. Hired idiots to work there.
2. Have broken fax machines
3. Hired idiots who will not help me use fax machine OR copier.
4. Charged me $ when nothing I did actually worked.

Stupid things I do:
Let all of this upset me, raise my blood pressure and give me anxiety.

So. We decided that I would pick up said lease from the office in Peasants (I refuse to call it queens) and fax it to her so she could get keys. I walked in the slush puddles for 6 blocks to get to kinkos. I requested help with the fax machine.

When I asked:
"Excuse me, Miss? Will it scan all the pages in my document or do I have to do it one by one?"

Her response:
"No."

My response: blank stare. Deep breath. Attempt to speak but then annoyed slight shake no of head.

Me: "No I can't scan more than one page? Or No I don't have to do it one by one"

Her: "You don't have to."

Again..not a fully informative sentence, but whatever.

After photo copying the entire backside of the lease, putting it through the fax machine twice on two separate machines...I think I successfully faxed 4 of the 20 pages and spent $15.

Do I like FedEx Kinkos or will I ever go to the one in Peasants again?

Me: "No."

I like to blame other people

For some reason, I have this "it isn't going to happen to me" attitude about most things...even when it is happening to everyone else. For example... this whole "snow storm in NYC" thing. Flights were cancelled left and right, the airport was a zoo, delays...etc... so when my mom told me to start looking at other options on Monday night for my Tuesday pm flight, I rolled my eyes. I didn't even know if my flight was cancelled, why would I make new travel plans? Good news -- not cancelled. 

I reluctantly arrive at the airport at 3;45 for a 6pm flight. I guess that's what they have airport bars for. So the lines are actually horrendous, so I get through Security at about 5pm which still gives me at least 35-40 minutes for 2-3 beers. I was banking on the fact that my flight would be delayed and I would receive more time for drinking alone in a crowded bar with all the other carry-ons. Nope. My flight was right on time. Did you know you could get a beer to-go cup? You can. I didn't... which I regret now. 

So blah blah... we fly... we land. On time. I am really lucky as I could have had my flight cancelled and rescheduled for Jan 1st. 

So... what happens next? Besides the fact that at every turn, I am running in to people or people are talking to me, I successfully retrieve my bag from baggage claim and start making my way to the taxi line. The long taxi line. The LONGEST taxi line I have ever seen. Fuck. Fuck fuck fuck. So I get in line where I usually do. But really... what am I going to do? 

Funny you should ask. No sooner did I get in line, I hear "Morgan?" I turn around and am face to face with this kid I met when I flew home for thanksgiving. Seems sort of serendipitous or whatever... minus the part that he facebook messaged me at least 3 times and I didn't respond to one of them. Awk. Ward. Then I let facebook boy convince me that it will be faster to take the M60 Bus. So I walk over there and wait for 20 minutes or so before getting mad. If I take the  M60 Bus, it will take me to a subway in QUEENS. Then I have to either get on the subway and travel for an hour + or get in a cab. All of which will take the same time anyways. So I leave facebook boy and get back in taxi line. 

So... my aunt made me check my bag which took off at least 15 minutes of taxi waiting time. Facebook boy made me get out of my first taxi line, wait for the bus for 20 minutes and then get in the WORST taxi line. I waited for another hour and a half before I got a taxi. My feet were frozen and I am pretty sure I started some beef with a large black woman. 

Side note:

After my hour wait, this stupid family decided they didn't have to wait in line... so they were trying to weasel in in front of me. Um. HELL NO. So I proceeded to make really nasty looks at this kid and keep myself plastered to the person in front of me. He got the idea and tried to move in behind me. 3 people did the same as I did until some girl let him in. Come on New York! I had higher hopes for you. Part of me wanted to make a scene and start yelling, "Who do you think you are? We have all been waiting in this fucking line for god knows how long. Go to the end of the line! NO CUTTING! YOU CUTTER!" then perhaps I would start flailing my arms and pointing and yelling to the taxi line people. But... how could I prove it? Bitches. 

Anyways, she knew I was mad. She kept looking at me in a scary "i'm going to beat you up" way... so I pretended to not see her and averted eye contact at all costs. 

I guess this could have all been avoided if I would have listened to my friend Ryan who had landed 5 hours earlier, explaining that it took him 2 hours to leave the airport. I could have booked a car. 

I guess I have no one to blame but myself.... And facebook boy. 

Customer Service

So I'm home for Christmas, but need to arrange a move for December 30th when I return to NYC. I had sent a detailed list of everything I needed moved yesterday but hadn't heard back, so I called "FlatRate Movers" back this morning after having my coffee and making sure I was awake enough to make decisions and speak in proper english to a human being.

Cut To:

"Ok Morgan, I'll transfer you to one of our consultants that can give you an over the phone quote for your move"

Thanks.

A very low voice picks up a minute later, grumbling:

"Hi Morgan, my name is Damon. I will be taking care of you today. How are you doing?"
"Hi! I'm good. Thank you, how are you?"
"Bad."

Great. I don't say anything...

"I'm here working on Christmas Eve which I am not happy about but of course we have to be open and someone needs to be available to help you with your move... so. How can I assist you?"

I. Love. Damon. If I were able to say whatever I wanted to people when they called, I'm sure I would be a much happier person. Someone calls me at work and says: "I can't work out at 3pm with John today. Can he do 5:30?" Instead of saying: "Hi Chris, let me see what I can do about getting John to come in later for you today. What is the best way to reach you?"... I would like to say: "Fuck off." But... I'd be fired...

Anyways...he quoted me $1190 for a 2 bedroom move. I'm so sorry for wasting your time Damon... Merry Christmas!

Carry On...

The airport stresses me out. I always have this awkward sense of urgency to be as efficient as possible when going through security. So as I am unzipping computer cases, taking off my shoes and jacket while balancing two bins, whipping them all into their proper places on the rolling counter, Suzy two left feet and her best friend Georgia cross-eyed are bumping into each other, going through the metal detector with their belts and watches on, and forgetting to take their shoes off. My efficiency is not only worthless as I wait impatiently behind them; it’s just down right stupid. By the way, I didn’t put my bottle of perfume in a clear plastic bag and I didn’t get stopped… hmmm….

So today I smoothly walked through security, looking down at my mismatched socks cursing whatever fool decided to use their shoes for explosives. At least it wasn’t in their shirt. Or Bra. Imagine all the women having to take off their bras. 

So then after redressing myself in sweatshirt, coat, cowboy boots… putting my computer into it’s computer case and getting it inside of my bag which needs to then be secured onto my carryon, I’m sweating. 

Then I’m bored.

Then I call everyone I know. No one’s answering. I should have stayed at the bar longer. Going through security drunk is much better than going through it sober. I take my time, I don’t care if Suzy and Georgia set off the metal detector 18 times… much more peaceful.

So recently I purchased the largest carryon bag with the excitement of not ever having to check a bag again because it will hold everything I could ever need. MISTAKE. This bag has caused me more anxiety than I wish to admit. Being in group 3 or 4 to board means less overhead room. Less overhead room means a smaller chance of my BIG ASS FUCKING BAG fitting anywhere. So I get on the plane, roll the bag as best I can without hitting too many people… and find a spot overhead. Yay. But I need to put down my other bag because it’s too heavy and I won’t be able to lift my carry on. So I put my bag down in 23B and walk back… start getting embarrassed that it might not fit and start VERY awkwardly hoisting the heavy load of bricks up without any help. So I did it… but I’m bright red. I turn to thank the flight attendant who did virtually nothing. She confirms this by saying: “I didn’t do anything.” It is at that moment I notice that she is wearing a red apron and reindeer antlers. Great.

I settle into my seat, put on my iPod, and send a few texts. All the stress is behind me. I am then confronted by a smiling reindeer that asks me if I am in the right seat. It is at that point that I realize I didn’t even look at the letters. I just picked the middle seat in the place I pictured my seat to be. My ticket said 23B. Apparently I was in 23E. How do I manage to do this? More embarrassment. Clearly the letters E and B are not the same… and I literally have no excuse. I’m not even drunk. Ah well.

On top of all of this, I am not very good at flying. I get scared every time we hit turbulence, or when we take off or land… but don’t worry. I have Dancer and Prancer the magical flying reindeer attendants to make me feel safe.

Thank you United. These really are the friendly skies. 

Conflicting Cabbie

So... if we follow sticker one... what exactly are we putting in the ashtrays?

Also... why do we not wear seat belts when we are in cabs? It's almost like not buckling up before getting on an upside down roller coaster ride. New Yorkers are risky.

Train Karma

Sometimes I measure how good a day is going to be by what I like to call my Train Karma. Train Karma is when I arrive at my subway stop and the train pulls into the station seconds later. Really good train karma is when you then make a perfect transfer across the platform to the local and/or express train. If you also arrive right on time to make your cross town bus...well let's just say you're probably going to win $1000 and kiss a sexy stranger that day.

I feel badly for people who have drivers or take cabs because... if you don't have to travel an hour to work using all forms of public transportation you don't get to use the train karma meter, therefore spending your days in the dark...never knowing what kind of day it will be.

So...thank you A train. Today should be a really good day. 

Kickin' It

I am always in a hurry. Even when I don't know where I am going, I am in a hurry. You can tell this by the way I am speed walking almost on top of the person in front of me, checking my blackberry, and making lion claws at the back of the head of whatever slow walker in front of me that doesn't seem to understand that my gliding gazelle legs are being completely hindered by their meander. I do understand that my behavior is both completely inappropriate and irrational. The swearing under my breath, the many failed attempts to cut around said walker and the obvious eye rolls and sighs when I am unable to do so...

I also understand that if I have to walk the streets at every hour of the day with a million other people, I've earned the right to be irrational. Why are there so many people walking around? ESPECIALLY IN CHINATOWN? WHY!? What are they all doing? It smells like fish...like, "I'm going to vomit on your shoe right now because of how bad this fish smells" fish... and is it just me, or is no one buying anything? I think ever since they put in a Nordstrom Rack, those knock off bags have really taken a big hit.

Anyways, I digress. I just don't understand how everyone pays upwards of $1000/month in rent and are able to mindlessly walk the streets all. the. time. I think it's time to get a job.

Back to being irrational...

I find myself often thinking about how badly I want to kick the person in front of me. Just once. Just a nice, hard kick in the back of the knee so they can feel the pain that I am feeling as I CRAWL down the sidewalk. Today for instance was especially bad because how am I supposed to kick this:

After much consideration, I opted to not choose this as my first pedestrian kick. But if you do get kicked ... don't say I didn't warn you.

My New York Way

I think that New Yorkers call Houston street - HOW-STIHN - just so they can have another reason to be bitchy and mean to those who are not "in-the-know." I honestly cannot think of any other logical reason to pronounce it that way. It still bugs my midwest mind. I'm sure if I did a little research, I'd learn that it was someone's name or something... but regardless... 

I do however enjoy the fact that I now call it How-stihn without thinking twice. 

As I sat and enjoyed my breakfast this morning, with every bite I took, globs of cream cheese ooze out of my sandwiched everything bagel. I began thinking... I used to always eat my bagel slowly as two separate pieces, each smoothly shmeared with the perfect amount of cream cheese. I now ate my bagel sandwiched with way too much cream cheese like a ravenous beast. I'm not sure why eating a bagel as a sandwich or a pizza folded is that big of a deal... but it seems like evolution has caused me to change my eating habits to the "NYC" way.

Other evolutionary effects of living in NYC?

1. I'm very apt to throw a child-like tantrum when it takes too long to do anything... including walk somewhere, wait for a train, wait in line... wait anywhere. 
2. I am severely annoyed by Times Square.
3. I don't flinch or stare at people wearing costumes, with painted faces, talking to themselves or their imaginary friend, or those missing limbs, eyes, or any other oddity that may turn heads. Well... unless I decide to discreetly take a picture.
4. I have no problem talking back to just about anyone. 
5. When you get on an escalator - if you aren't going to walk up or down it... stand to the RIGHT!
6. I blame Bloomberg for everything. 
7. Whilst walking, I'm either listening to music or on my blackberry.

8. It seems normal to pay 15 dollars to see a movie, 8 dollars for a beer and $1000 a month for a room the size of a jail cell.


I still call it "pop" though. Some things never change. 

The Dirty Bird Gets The Worm (AKA The Night I met Owen Wilson)

As a personal assistant, it is my job during the holidays to run around like a headless elf purchasing gifts, putting together gifts, and wrapping gifts... Yesterday was day 4 of errand running and I am happy to say that I am toning my biceps rather nicely from all the shopping bags I'm shlepping around. Anyways, with the stress of work added to the stress of needing to find an apartment by January 1st and having no time, I bound into work around 11am. Bags in hand, no makeup masked with black ray bans, and the same outfit as yesterday, anyone who saw me would describe me as nothing less than a hot mess. 

It was about that moment I was informed that I would be needed at the desk at 1pm instead of 3pm. Now this really fucks with my day. I was planning to head down to the Regency Hotel for a quick shower and to eat a nice relaxing lunch before working (and also changing my shirt), and now this was not possible. So I cried for 3 minutes about how tired (ugly) I was (felt), and then sucked it up. Elves are good like that. 

I showered at the gym (where I work), put back on my dirty outfit with new underwear, because obviously I don't carry an extra shirt but I carry extra underwear, blew out my hair, borrowed makeup from a personal trainer and settled into my desk for an afternoon of slaving.

It actually ended up being a pretty productive day all in all. CUT TO: 5pm.

One of our regular clients was training this particular evening at 5pm. When he arrived he mentioned that  his friend would be coming in to join him for a training session. 

10 minutes later, I am chatting with a client and in walks a blonde man with a wool hat making it hard to make out his face. I did a double take, looked back to the client I was speaking with, and we both said, "Owen Wilson?"

Yes. It was. Mr. Regular's friend was Owen.

When working the front desk, it is our responsibility to keep the gym clean. This includes clearing out dirty towels, putting out fresh ones, stocking water, cleaning machines, and my all time favorite - garbage. We have about six little bins at our gym that most of our clients just drop their used water bottles in. When the garbage bag isn't covered in coffee, we typically just pull out the plastic bottle and toss it in the big garbage can in back. So, while Owen Wilson trained, I became very aware of the fact that I was the girl who touched sweaty towels and went garbage picking.

At the end of their workout, Mr. Regular and Owen came and sat in reception where I was. They were chatting about going to MoMA for some Warhol event. Mr. Regular asked me how that sounded and if he needed to shower before going. Owen then proceeded to explain to me (in his owen wilson voice) that he doesn't have B.O., he's just sweaty. "People who eat right and are healthy don't smell" (not true). He then stood up and walked over and put his sweaty arm in my face and asked if it smelled. During this time, Mr. Regular was literally standing without his shirt on changing in the background. I looked up at Mr. Wilson and told him that, in fact, his arm did not smell (but really, who's forearm is going to smell?). 

He (Wilson) then told me that I should come with them to MoMA so that at least one of them was clean (little did they know...). I laughed. They were serious. I told them I was not great at art, but I was great at drinking. 

Anyhow... we were supposed to all go for drinks, but work always gets in the way for those celebrities. Maybe tonight.

Lessons learned? There is always a silver lining to every extra shift you are forced to work, and if you look and feel like shit, you're probably going to meet Owen Wilson.

Facebook Admission Far Too Easy

The other morning, as I was getting ready for work, I happened to take 3 Ibuprofen, a multi vitamin and a calcium tablet. As I was leaving my apartment, I checked facebook and mindlessly made a status update that read something along the lines of:

"I just took 3 Ibuprofen, a multi vitamin and a calcium tablet. I'm having minor overdose anxiety."

It is an on going joke between myself and my loved ones about my hypochondriasis... and this status was clearly not serious.

Two and a half hours later, I am at my desk at work and I look down to my cellphone and see my mom's friend Donna's name pop up on my caller id. A slight wash of panic runs over me. The fact that Donna never calls me makes me feel that something happened and makes me scared to answer the phone. I do anyway.

"Hello?"
"Are you ok!??!"
"I... what?"
"It's mom. I'm on Donna's phone. Are you ok??? Donna said your status said you took too many pills."
".... Are you serious? I'm hanging up."

**Click**

Deep breaths. Take a deep breath. If I was seriously concerned about having overdosed on vitamins, I am POSITIVE that I would not just write it on my facebook wall and hope for the best.

I really think there should be a test that all new facebook members must take before being given full facebook friending abilities. Something along the lines of...

1. Do you have a child on facebook?
2. Did you recently break up with your boyfriend? (because you are not going to want to see what he is up to now that he's single)
3. Are you depressed or attention deprived (and likely to write depressing quotes about how much you hate your life)?
4. Do you currently have a job? (because if you do, you probably will not want to have a facebook page)
5. Is the whole "internet thing" new to you?

If you answer yes to any of these, you are not allowed to be on facebook. I think it would solve a lot of problems.

Up until a few months ago, my mother and all of her friends were not able to see my status updates or my wall posts. Trying to be a nice daughter (and after her begging), I gave my mother wall privileges. The first day she was allowed to write on my wall, she wrote a comment that said: "You are so beautiful and smart and the best friend and daughter in the whole world!"

 Clearly I am going to have to revoke these privileges.

Princess Piano Bar

My absolute favorite bar in the city, my safe haven, is a tiny hole in the wall piano bar in the west village. When I've had a bad day, a long week, or just need something to break up the UES hell I work in, I meander down to Christopher street into this cozy, homey, I-can-go-there-by-myself-and-not-feel-awkward-or-have-social-anxiety bar.

When you walk in, there's a piano to the right and a bar in the back. Thats about it. Every one gathers around the piano as medleys of musicals are played and we all join into song... and sometimes dance. But mainly song.

LAST night a particularly odd group of singers were seated around the bar at 7pm when I walked in...alone. Two girls who looked like mis-fit hippie/hipsters, a token gay who couldn't sing, an old couple who kept requesting songs no one had heard of, their friend Ed who I believe had social anxiety because he kept saying he needed to get home, aaand me.

Oh yes, and random groups of people dressed as Santa's kept trying to come in, but the bartender banned the Santas because this was a novelty bar and they were ruining it with their debauchery. Santacon is a once a year bar crawl where everyone dresses up as Santas (mainly those men and women who are missing things like frat parties and spirit weeks) and basically drink from 10am until Santa would vomit from even considering Milk and Cookies.

One of the old couples final requests was "A Whole New World" from Aladdin. God knows why. Oh, did I mention that no one could really sing around the piano except the piano player and myself? Fact. I imagine the old man could sing in his day, but now it was just loud and a bit off key... So we started singing A Whole New World, and when Jasmine came in, the old man pointed to me like "Take it away"... so I sang Jasmine's part whilst I awkwardly peeled the label off my stella. I wasn't going to stand up and sing to the patron's of the bar, so I figured awkward label peeling was my best option.

My favorite part of the evening, though, was about 20 minutes later when there was a lull in the singing. The bar was mostly quiet still, and old man off key came up behind me and started singing "I can show you the world. Shining shimmering...splennnndid.... " And I...who am alone.... started looking for a friend whom I could share an uncomfortable smile with... "Tell me princesss, now when did you last.." but I gave up because no one wanted to acknowledge the weirdo singing Aladdin into the back of "that girls" head. So I turned around and gave him as friendly of a smile as I could.

And he said to me, "You are a princess, though."