Bad Advice

McFired!

I miss blogs. Not necessarily writing one, but reading them. Especially sites like Gawker and Reblogging Donk. Sure, everyone and their mother has a Substacks, but I'm not in a position to splash out money for all the ones I'd like to read, since I was recently laid off. 

So since I'm spending eight bucks a month (which I also technically can't afford!), I thought I'd try and start updating this one. Here's what I've been up to:

I quit writing! Sure, one ex described my career as "typing," (dick) but I actually DID have people paying me to "type" a bunch of words and turn them in. For many years! There were books! Columns! Features! Marketing copy—sooooo much marketing copy! But as the market devalued my work (and everyone else's too, not boo-hooing just for me), I decided to move into a more stable career in social work. And yes, I realize how deranged it sounds to move into social work as a steady source of income, since it's the only job where I'd possibly be making LESS money, though I would, presumably, have health insurance as part of the deal.

I diligently applied to schools and got into Hunter. A great school for that field and I was so excited to begin learning again. Even being older than many of my teachers, I loved the hell out of it. Unfortunately, a surgical accident combined with an anesthesiologist's arrogance, cost me my voice. If you're interested, you can read all about it here. 

When you're a social worker, you need people to be able to hear you, especially as I'd envisioned going into elder care. As I quickly learned from my dad and stepmom, people who are hearing impaired REALLY couldn't hear me. Doing field work was part of the deal and I couldn't do that, so I took a leave of absence. A then-friend ran a recruiting firm and she'd found me a bunch of work in the past, so when she asked if I wanted to give recruiting a try, I figured what the hell. The pandemic hit and I was happy to have a job and even happier that it didn't involve being in a tiny government office crammed with sick people. Guess I'm not as altruistic as I'd originally envisioned. 

Turns out, I was good at recruiting and I liked it. I met so many interesting people, I placed tons of people in great jobs, and made the company an assload of money. (I brought in over $400k one year!) But then the market turned and they had meanwhile hired a shiny young MBA, so the old battleaxe was laid off. I'm sure it'll be fine in time, but for now, that hurts! Especially my wallet. 

And so now, after being a writer for many years, a recruiter for nearly five—in addition to all the other nutso jobs I've had—I need to figure out what's next. I love writing, but having been out of it for quite a while, the imposter syndrome is looming large. (I also hate constantly pitching and then chasing checks.) What's an elder lady to do?! Open to any and all ideas. Please spill if you have any good ones. 

A Wildly Incomplete Eulogy for Sylvia

Sylvia and I met in the nineties—just a few months after my mom died of cancer. I had watched in anger as my mom’s friends, and even some family members, abandoned her, putting off hospital visits until it was too late, and letting calls go unreturned. Whatever their reasons, it pissed me off, and made me think about how people with AIDS probably faced even more isolation, since that disease was far more stigmatized than cancer was. So after she died, I signed up to be an AIDS buddy with the Jewish Board of Family Services.

After going through a brief training, the social worker told me that they had a volunteer who needed help with her patient—he was too big a job for one person. I didn't really understand what that meant, but Sylvia was that volunteer and I quickly found out that she needed help because she had been assigned the world’s worst human. At the risk of making us sound bitchy, Jay—not his real name—was possibly the worst person I’ve ever met.

Jay was cruel, ignorant, racist, and despite being gay—homophobic; openly bragging, with glee, about all the men he had potentially—hopefully—infected. He started fights with other patients from his stretcher, and found our suiting up in gloves, gowns, and masks, a grievous insult, even though his doctors asked us to do so, because they were afraid we’d infect him with something from the outside world. We leaned on each other throughout the rest of his brief life and bonded over guiltily complaining to each other about his latest asshole move. But I knew I would love Sylvia forever after she told me about her phone call with Jay’s mother.

Jay’s ultra-right wing evangelical family in Oklahoma had disowned him after they discovered he was gay, but now that he was dying, there was a constant stream of religious greeting cards, imploring him to accept the lord Jesus Christ as his savior and promising that this acceptance would cure him. In his dying desperate state, Jay half believed this, which was unspeakably cruel, no matter how big an asshole he’d been. When Sylvia called his mother to give her an update on his condition—hoping they might visit, which they didn’t—Sylvia made sure to tell her that we were from the Jewish Board of Family Services; not some Christian outfit.

Over the years, Sylvia and her husband Julian kind of adopted me, as they did so many people. The timing of our relationship, along with our age difference, could’ve meant that we fell into a mother/daughter relationship, but we didn’t. She and Julian definitely looked out for me, but they never nagged and there was none of the baggage that comes with family—at least with my family. I have many great and lovely friends, but my relationship with them was unlike anything I’d ever experienced or can ever hope to again.

Before meeting her, I’d never had brisket and now I know how to cook it. (Secret ingredient: prunes.) They recommended tons of books to me, some of which I even read! Against my very sincere protests, Sylvia bought a copy of my first book, “How Not to Date” and told me about the funny looks she’d gotten on the crosstown bus, reading it on her way to get her hair done. I KNEW she wouldn’t like it and I was horrified about some of the things she learned about me reading it, but she managed to be very diplomatic without outright lying in her review.

She introduced me to the fantastic art of Florine Stettheimer, and sat me next to Peter Martins at the NYC Ballet. My New York was so different than Sylvia and Julian’s and I loved seeing it through their eyes. As I cycled through a series of jerky boyfriends, their relationship reminded me of how love should be—respectful and kind, always evolving. So I didn’t bother introducing them to any of my chumps until I found Spyro, the guy I would eventually—FINALLY, to Sylvia’s mind—marry.

I said earlier that Sylvia wasn’t like a mother to me, but there was this one time in Amsterdam . . . my sister and I were planning a trip and so Sylvia and Julian decided to meet us there. My sister Sue had convinced me to rent bikes with her—I’m extremely uncoordinated, so this wasn’t my idea of fun. Predictably, I fell off my bike. You know how sometimes accidents seem like they happen in slow motion? This one actually did happen in slow motion. We were at a stop and my jeans got tangled in a pedal or something and I tipped over, sloooowly onto the pavement. I skinned my knee and my sister skinned my ego by laughing at my near-bruise experience. She said I’d fallen so slowly she could’ve leapt off her bike and come over and caught me. Though I might note that she didn’t.

That night Sylvia and Julian took us out to dinner at their favorite Amsterdam restaurant. I told them of my brutal fall and showed Sylvia my skinned knee. Sylvia fussed like I’d taken a bullet, as my sister rolled her eyes. My own mom wouldn’t acknowledge we were sick unless we were practically vomiting blood, so this was very satisfying. Though less so to my sister.

They say that couples who lose children have a high rate of divorce and Sylvia and Julian lost both of theirs, yet they had one of the most beautiful marriages I’ve ever witnessed. I’m not candy coating it—I know they had arguments and no relationship is perfect, but they took care of each other in a way that was incredible and inspiring to witness.

Before Julian died, in his ultimate act of love, and with the help of their incredible cousins, Paul and Barbara, he made certain that Sylvia would be taken care of, both physically and emotionally. By hiring the most incredible helpers a person could ever hope for—Isabel, Marjorie, Glenda, Christina, Joan and Yolanda—none of her family or friends ever had to worry that Sylvia might not be getting the best care possible. These women went above and beyond, not just doing normal home health aide work, but cooking meals she loved and singing to her, even when singing might not be their strong suit.

Like all of us, I’m gutted by Sylvia’s death, but knowing she died peacefully and painlessly, secure in the knowledge that so many people loved her so much, should be a huge comfort to us all. And I say this eulogy is incomplete because she was all of this, but so much more than I can write down in a couple paragraphs. 

Elvis has left the building.

On July 17, Elvis, Spyro, Inky, Mitzi, Oscar and I packed up the apartment and moved from Williamsburg, Brooklyn to Jackson Heights, Queens.

While Williamsburg has been the butt of five bazillion jokes, I was born in New Jersey, so I'm used to being at the ass-end of a funny. Yes, Bedford Avenue has fancy cheeses to be sampled and boys in too-tight, ill-fitting women's skinny slacks to mock, but I'd lived there for 20 years and I was kind of attached; to the four walls I'd painted loud colors, to the ridiculously specific restaurants, to the little community my neighbors and I had become. I mean, how lucky was I to have one of my closest friends just one floor away?

Growing up, my family moved around a bunch, so until I landed on North 11th Street, I never really had any place that I considered a home. But this place was big enough for one person (though it eventually housed two humans, plus three cats) and cheap enough that I could afford it on my own, which was key as a freelancer with a rollercoaster-like income. After five or six years, I started to consider it my home and instead of freaking out at the committment, I liked it. I loved it, actually.

The apartment and I knew each other's idiosyncracies. I knew that the front door wouldn't stay shut unless you locked it and it knew that unless it swung right open, I probably would've left my keys in the door or locked myself out during the hard-drinking, party-girl years. I knew that the water in the shower could go from lukewarm to scalding in a nanosecond, so my reflexes were kept razor-sharp, waiting to hear the tell-tale "clank" that signified I'd better jump out of the way before boiling water exploded all over my head.

When I first moved to the neighborhood in 1994, there wasn't even an ATM. Weekends took preparation because unless you were felt like schlepping back into Manhattan for cash, you weren't getting any. Anyone who cares has probably now read about the trajectory of Williamsburg from a community of immigrants to artists to rich people, but to be living there while this was happening was alternately dizzying, amusing, and a little frightening. I know I also suffered from a certain amount of denial.

I hadn't wanted to move to Brooklyn. I was forced to after my ex-boyfriend left me for another woman. Walking up out of the L train that gray, rainy April day, I felt as though I'd been sentenced to some kind of purgatory; leaving behind the giant pre-war palaces of the Upper West Side for the rickety wood houses of Williamsburg. But its dumpy charm worked its magic and within a year or two I was smitten. That adoration only increased when a year and a half into my time there, I found my own apartment, just a half-block from the park.

Back then, realtors—especially Brooklyn realtors—didn't use the internet. So I sat down in Lenny's office one Saturday and waited for him to show me apartments. We saw some eh places, but nothing stuck. I went back to the house I shared on North 7th Street, slightly discouraged. I should mention that the entire HOUSE I lived in then, rented for $900 and we had a big back yard and we were only 1/2 a block from the Bedford Ave stop on the L.

Anyway, at about six or seven that night, Lenny called to say he'd seen a place that was perfect—in other words, no drop-ceilings, no wall-to-wall carpeting. He picked me up in his sedan and we drove to North 11th, between Roebling and Union. Unlike the mirror-walled atrocities he'd been showing me all afternoon, this one was sparse. Three decent-sized rooms, white walls, wood floors, top floor—all for $600. I asked the landlady what she needed from me because I wanted this with all my heart.

I'd already filled out a credit report for Lenny, but she said she needed to talk to him and would be in touch shortly. As I trudged home through desolate blocks lined by warehouses and cruised by slow-moving cars looking for tricks, I worried that I'd done something wrong. The next night Millie called and asked if I could come talk to her.

I put on my finest ass-kissing outfit and sat down in Millie's kitchen. Instead of quizzing me about my income, which was always a difficult question to answer, because my fulltime job entailed following heroin addicts around, she told me that she knew I was young and that she would only be asking $550 a month rent. What?! Who LOWERS the rent? But if any of the other tenants asked, I was to say I was a friend of one of her cousins. Rent had to be paid promptly, there'd be no lease, and the money had to be delivered via either cash or money order. This wasn't uncommon back then, so I quickly agreed.

All I had to do was pretend to be a friend of her cousin's? No skin off my ass. But over the years I learned that my former landlady loved nothing more than telling a completely transparent lie. Even if there was no real benefit to fibbing, she'd stretch the truth. And these lies always included any of several elements:

• a "mafia" relation

• a "cousin" to blame for anything from an unreturned phone call to an issue with the plumbing

• her failing health, her mother's failing health, her sister's failing health. . .

And so for 16 or so years, we lived in relative peace. Well, except for that time when she tried to double all the tenants' rents and we got together and hired a lawyer. I wound up getting a massive rent reduction because even at her discounted rent, she was still overcharging me as far as DHCR was concerned. But still, mostly things were okay. We didn't bug her for repairs, she didn't hire thugs to crack the building's foundations.

But when Millie started acting stranger than usual late last summer, we knew something was up. With condos clattering upwards to the sky around us, it didn't take a genius to figure out that she was selling the building. Around that time another "cousin" started coming around. And with that "cousin," came an annoying jerk named Avi.

Avi was a tool. A realtor/massage therapist (shudder), Avi moved into the apartment across the hall from ours and started asking questions—like how much would it take us to leave? My landlady, Millie—an unabashed anti-semite—tried to pass him off as a good friend of hers. Sure, she was an elderly Irish lady (who pretended to be Italian) who openly hated Jews and never left her stoop unless it was to go upstate to visit her ailing mother or sister; why wouldn't she be friends with an East-Village-dwelling, dick-swinging Israeli, forty years her junior?

She finally confessed that the building was being sold. To "The Jews," as she called the new landlords. Other than that, she feigned ignorance of their actual names, to prevent us from identifying them. "I think one is named Moishe," she offered. She warned us that they had "deep pockets" and that we would not be able to fight them, because they were so all-powerful. We might be able to get them to buy us out of our leases for ten or maybe even fifty-thousand bucks, but she wasn't certain.

As for Millie—she got at least $3.5 million, but probably more to sweeten the pot. And, really, who could blame her? If I were sitting on a ramshackle goldmine that had been paid off in the sixties, I'd probably sell it off too. But even though she was retiring from the landlord business as a multi-millionairess, Millie still simpered like a little bitch, as she packed up her cheapo furniture. She bleated about how sorry she was that we'd all soon be homeless. I asked her if she was going to go on a cruise or something to celebrate her mega-windfall. Nope. She was just going to hang out with her sister upstate. As pathetic as that was, it was probably the only truthful thing she said during the entire ordeal.

As soon as the sale went down, Avi slithered off, presumably back into the hole he'd crawled out of. The new landlords started calling before the sale even closed, feigning hurt feelings that we'd preemptively organized and hired a lawyer. "Lawyer? I don't have a lawyer—why do YOU have a lawyer?!" one of them had the balls to say to my neighbor.

In some ways, Millie was correct—none of us had the energy or unlimited funding to fight to stay in our homes. But in other ways, she was dead wrong. A confidentiality clause won't let me say much about it, but if you're a rent-stabilized tenant whose landlord wants them out, the first thing you should do is hire a lawyer. Or at least speak with one from a group like Met Council. Do not be afraid and do not give up. YOU are in the driver's seat.

Although leaving Williamsburg was sad and difficult, we're now homeowners in Queens. Sure, I can't find cashew cheese on my block, but I have a little patio and you couldn't even rent a studio in Williamsburg for the combined cost of my mortgage and maintenance. I miss having a seven-minute commute into the East Village, but I'll just start reading more books on my ride. This morning I logged into Facebook to find that some vile woman had posted a screed against the "underage slums" who played too loudly in the skateboard park across from her fabulous condo. It was on the "Friends of McCarren Park" Facebook page, which I had belonged to. But now I've moved on and I don't need to be friends with that park, or the type of person who would write such hateful words. I happily hit the "leave group" button. My move is now complete.

Goodbye, Julian

My friend Julian died on Friday, January 10. His memorial service is today and I read this (though I did not project the silly selfie I talked him into):

There are so many things to love about Julian—

His intellect, his sense of humor, his photographic talents, his insatiable curiosity—never have I met someone so enthusiastic about learning new things.

Julian knew art, he knew literature, he knew music, and he loved New York City as only a Jersey boy could.

Even when he wasn’t going anywhere special, Julian was always a snazzy dresser, immaculately turned out.

Julian’s refusal to eat nearly any kind of vegetable gave me great joy and has always made me feel like I possess secret ammunition when vegetarians start gassing on about their superior lifestyles.

But the thing I loved most about Julian was what an incredible husband he was to my friend Sylvia.

Julian’s love for Sylvia shone through in everything he did. In a world where marriages seem nearly disposable and most of my friends who’ve been married have done it at least twice, theirs is a union that lasted 71 remarkable years, though it was subjected to some of the most excruciating tests a marriage should have to endure.

Julian was the kindest, most respectful and loving partner a woman could ask for. In an ideal world, all young men would be compelled to graduate from the Julian Ander School for Chivalrous Gentlemen before they were allowed to marry, or even date.

I love you, Julian. You are missed.

Holidays, Schmolidays. . . .

Thanksgiving has never been my favorite holiday. A day devoted to eating turkey and giving thanks? Eh. I don't loathe it, like I do the Fourth of July or New Year's, but it's more of a shrug than a must-have. For a few years I hosted friends, but then somewhere along the line that tradition fell by the wayside. Last year we spent it in Paris, which was enchanting and I even forgot what day it was. The year before that, we spent it in a shitty restaurant in Bay Ridge fresh off visiting Spyro's terminally ill dad in the hospital. The food sucked, but not as horribly as the situation did.

This year was supposed to be spent with my family. Sadly, my intestines had other ideas. I got really sick. Like crazy pooptacular sick. Like, I don't want to be more than five feet from my toilet sick. I even made Spyro sleep on the sofa lest he block my path to the can. Hey, he's a big guy and a sound sleeper—accidents can happen.

The fevers I experienced were unlike anything I'd ever felt. One night I woke up drenched in sweat, screaming "FFFFFFFFFFFFFFFFF—!!" Like I couldn't get the word "fuck" out. I'd been certain that a gaggle of Muslim goblins were scratching at my door, singing some sort of deranged demon song. (They weren't.)

Spyro helpfully suggested I try his mom's home remedy which entailed swallowing a mouthful of oregano. I did not do this.

By Thursday the fever had broken and I thought I might rally. I had been warning my dad all week that I might not be able to make it, because boy, explosive diarrhea is not fun at home, but to have it at my dad's house with my two brothers bearing witness—I'd never live that shit (heh) down. Nor did I want to be caught short in a cab on the BQE.

But later that morning it became apparent that Montezuma was not yet done exacting his revenge. So I decided to stay home and eat a sad little peanut butter and jelly sandwich on whole wheat with no ill effects. Finally, something to be thankful for. Burp.

Let's hope Christmas is a happier holiday.

Oh, and that photo? Not the accommodations I have at home. That's the Rolls Royce of toilets, the Toto Washlet S300.

Stress!

Why can't I handle stress by working out obsessively like Henry Rollins does? I mean, if his abs are any indicator, he's pretty stressed. Or maybe the gym is his idea of fun. Me, I'm sitting here in yoga pants (not doing yoga), valiently trying to resist the siren call of the chocolate bread pudding lurking in my refrigerator. Must not eat (or drink) my feelings.

I know I should meditate—I even have an app for that. Or go take a brisk walk. Or something. But I can't. I just sit and obsess. Driving myself mental.

Part of my stress comes from not working enough. I have copywriting gigs, but not too much creative stuff happening right now. Here's a piece I wrote about wishing I could go back to dressing like a lunatic. Oh, and this one about being the worst exerciser in my boot camp. And another rehashing of the bed pooper piece. Does that ever get old?

A bigger part of my stress comes from my housing situation, which is a long, boring tall that I'll spare you. We've all heard this story a million times anyway: move into a neighborhood where nobody from Manhattan wants to live, a billionaire mayor rezones the place so it's safe for the giant glass towers that the rich seem to favor, thousands of wealthy brokers and models move in, and out you go, but to where? Where will all the regular people go? Certainly they can't stay in Brooklyn where your average human can't buy a house because they'll be outbid by speculators who are snapping them all up to rent out at exorbitant rates. (Read the story if you want to open a vein.) Will the new mayor shut these rapacious developers down? Or will it be more of the same?

The search for the perfect caftan

I would first like to remind anyone who happens to be reading, that I am not a fashion blogger. I don't even play one on TV. I did recently write a story about wishing I could go back to dressing like a lunatic, but mostly my clothing choices run towards Boden, J. Crew, and heavily discounted crap I find at Century 21. I've written in the past about my love for Mrs. Roper wear and so for the past year, I have been looking for the perfect caftan. As I near the age where I surpass "old" and move into "really fucking old," I figure it's about time. So wasn't I excited to see a caftan on J. Crew's sale site today.

Excited, that is, until I started reading the description. Here are the problems with this garment:

1. It's white and not available in any other colors. White means I will either get my period in it, drop a blob of something covered in olive oil on it, or it will become covered with cat hair in no time flat. Three black cats and a white muumuu? Not going to happen.

2. It's silk! White silk. This thing would be done for like a tissue during allergy season in one day.

3. At full price it goes for the completely laughable price of $499. It's on sale for the still hilarious $299.99. And even though J. Crew is doing 40% off sale price it's still close to $200. For a white silk caftan. I may as well burn a couple hundies and save myself the shipping costs.

The butt of many a Seinfeld joke, J. Peterman has an entire caftan section and they have sales frequently. Unfortunately, they look a lot better in the paintings than they do in the photo reference they recently began providing. This is probably because they're all cotton, which is nice, but I need a little dazzle. Maybe some gold threads or sequins. . . .

Perhaps not surprisingly, QVC has a number of caftans for sale, including this Bob Mackie number. . .

. . . and this beaded leopard Dennis Basso (who's he?) caftan.

Fellow Millburn High School alum Rachel Zoe is apparently a "caftan addict," which is yet another on the long list of things we have in common (alongside a refusal to swallow solid foods). Here's her rather disappointing take on the muumuu.

Ebay is probably the most reliable place to spot some dazzle. Like this sequinned leopard garment—only $15.95

Of course finding the quality goods on the 'bay, means you have to sift through items like this wondrous homage to the cheetah. (Only $52 if you're interested.)

These are pretty, so Moroccan caftans might be the way to go. . .

Except they're sheer, which would just frighten the UPS guy.

This hand-painted baby from China is beautiful, but I worry that one-size-fits-all from Asia may not wrap around my ginormo American ass.

Okay, I think I'm in love. At $89, it's a little spendy, but how incredibly cool is this vintage explosion of fun? Should I do it?

Vacation!

When the going gets tough, the tough move their asses to Provincetown for a couple days. This is the night view from the deck of our hotel. In the morning the sound of seagulls wakes us up—that and the intense sunlight streaming into the room. I love our hotel—Dyer's Beach House—but no blackout shades here!

I spent the first part of the trip with my friend Julie. Where once we had big '80s hair, we're both sensible blondes now. Then El Spyro got to town for a few days. It's like having two different vacations in one. And I need at least two to get past the building bullshit and also losing two different sources of income. I'd like to tell you I used the time to contemplate the next chapter of my life and had actually come to the conclusion that maybe yoga might be the thing for me. I'm such a deep thinker. And then I read this story about the two most insufferable people who ever lived (and bred!) and realized all my scorn for yoga was well deserved.

There was also a little writing and researching. Like every asshole and their mother, I'm working on a memoir and found out some truly disturbing things about my past. So in the interest of enjoying the rest of my week, I put that away and had a hearty laugh over Julia Allison's book proposal instead. It's unintentionally hilarious and completely stupid, but I have no doubt that some publishing house will buy it and print that instead of something anyone with half a brain would bother reading. Lest you think I'm just a catty jerk, Marisha Pessl's book, Night Film, is completely riveting and Michael Cunningham's, Land's End, is a gorgeous ode to Provincetown. I'm reading the shit out of this vacation and loving every second of it. I just started Danny Bland's, In Case We Die, and I'm addicted.

We also some some art here in town. And go figure, I discover a New York artist, Harry Folsom, to love.

Today if the oceans allow, it's whale watching and more oysters! Tomorrow, home. And in case you're thinking of robbing the joint while I'm away, I have a live-in catsitter who'll kick your ass and leave it for Inky to devour.

Do you know this guy?

The dude on the right. We think he's the new owner or one of their representatives. The one on the left is the "appraiser" who tried to get into a couple of our apartments this morning. Never mind that they are all laid out the same and there's a warehoused one he could've strolled through. Or he could've looked in the apartment currently occupied by the dirtbag who arranged the entire deal.

But no, the new owner wanted to see an apartment that was occupied by one of the people they plan on evicting. Maybe touch our stuff, whatnot. It's not enough that we're going to be thrown out of our building so they can build a terrarium for rich people; they want to check out our decor, pet our cats, HUMILIATE US IN OUR PAJAMAS.

Fuck them.

Confirmed!

They're everywhere. Oversized, glass and plastic condos, filled with people I feel like I loathe, though I'm sure most are perfectly fine and I'm just being a resentful bitch because I'm being priced out of my neighborhood.

After much elusiveness, my landlord finally confessed yesterday that she's selling our building and weakly protested that the "deep pocketed" buyers might keep us on as tenants. Mmmm hmmm. That's why someone pays millions for a small building with three rent-stabilized tenants, two illegally deregulated apartments and one warehoused rent-controlled place. So they can lose money on their ridiculous investment.

The only question is just how evil they'll be about getting us out.

Six apartments will be leaving the rent regulated rolls because who wouldn't rather have a big ugly building, filled with rich kids who can afford $5000 a month rent or three quarters of a million bucks for a shoddily constructed, cookie-cutter apartment with granite countertops (gross) and stainless-steel appliances (less gross, but hardly a selling point when the rest of your apartment is tacked-together sheetrock)?

I can't really blame my landlady. She's old and tired and now she gets to retire a millionaire. I can't say I wouldn't do the same. I blame Bloomberg for rezoning this neighborhood and turning it into a playground for people who have strollers that cost more than any car I've ever owned. I read something today that said "using data gathered by the the U.S. Census Bureau, The New Yorker calculated that the income gap in Manhattan is comparable to that of countries like Sierra Leone and Namibia." Oof.

And while I know it sounds like I'm throwing myself a great big pity party (okay, I am), I also know that I'm a whole lot better off than most. I'm marginally employed, my boyfriend is completely employed, and while we're definitely going to have to leave Williamsburg, we're going down fighting, which we can afford to do. And when we do finally get dragged out of our home, kicking and screaming, we will be able to find another apartment (I hope!).

Maybe I'll find a new neighborhood that I like even better. Where people push those umbrella strollers from Target and obnoxious bitches in labia-baring shorts don't ruin my dinner with their unbearable uptalk and make-believe gluten allergies. True, I probably won't be able to choose between Australian, Swedish, or pretentiously American artisanal coffee houses, but maybe I'll be able to find an apartment with an actual bedroom door and a little outdoor space. Who knows.