Bad Advice

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?

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.

Nothing like a little grammatically challenged bigotry to start your day!

This morning I woke up to an email from the owner of a place called Jamie Scherrer's Auction House, imploring me to be proud because I am white. Sigh. Something I had fuck-all to do with and has already given me melanoma. But I digress.

I believe Jamie Scherrer The Racist sent me this email by mistake, as we've never met and I hope we never do. Many of the people on the cc list list were named McGuire, so I'm guessing he's subliterate and got me mixed up with a Julie or Joanie. I find it particularly ironic that many of the names on the cc list (yep, not even smart enough to be shamed into blind cc'ing) are Irish. I guess they've forgotten that we micks were once the target of such hatred and bigotry. Or, more likely, they don't care because they're too busy being proud of being palefaces, because that's SUCH A FUCKING ACHIEVEMENT and is never used as a moronic excuse for putting others down.

I'm posting the almost-too-ignorant-to-be-hateful screed in its entirety below. I've already written them a nice Yelp review, (as well as a reply to their email) but I hope you'll do your part and spread this around. Here's the email—and here's Jamie Scherrer's email address if you feel like getting in touch with him yourself: [email protected]:

Subject: Be Proud To Be White I DONT THINK THAT IS
ALLOWED IS IT

This is very interesting!!!

Be  Proud To Be White..   ( There is a good point made here)

I have been wondering why Whites are racists, and no other
race is ...

Michael Richards makes his point ... and whether we like
it or not, he is telliing the  truth.

Michael Richards, better known as Kramer from TV's Seinfeld
does make a good point.

This was his defense speech in court after making racial
comments in his comedy act.

He makes some very interesting  points ...

Someone finally said it.  How many are actually paying
attention to this?

There are African Americans, Mexican Americans, Asian
Americans, Arab Americans, etc.

And then there are just Americans ... You pass me on the
street and sneer in my  direction.

You call me 'White boy,' 'Cracker,' 'Honkey,' 'Whitey,'
'Caveman' ... and that's OK ...

But when I call you, Nigger, Kike, Towel head,  Sand-nigger,
Camel Jockey, Beaner, Gook, or  Chink ... You call me a
racist.

You say that whites commit a lot of violence against you ...

So why are the ghettos the most dangerous places to live?

You have  the United Negro College Fund. You have Martin
Luther King Day.

You have Black History  Month.

You have Cesar Chavez  Day.

You have Yom Hashoah.

You have Ma'uled Al-Nabi.

You have the NAACP.

You have BET....

If we had WET (White Entertainment Television), we'd be
racists.

If we had  a White Pride Day, you would call us racists.

If we had White History Month, we'd be racists.

If we had any organization for only whites to 'advance' OUR
lives, we'd be racists.

We have a Hispanic Chamber of Commerce, a Black Chamber of
Commerce, and then we just have the plain Chamber of
Commerce.

Wonder who pays for that??

A white woman could not be in the Miss Black American
pageant, but any color can be in the Miss  America pageant.

If we had  a college fund that only gave white students
scholarships ... you know we'd be racists.

There are  over 60 openly proclaimed Black Colleges in the
US ...

Yet if there were 'White colleges', that would be a  racist
college.

In the Million Man March, you believed that you were
marching for your race and rights.

If we marched for our race and rights, you would call us
racists.

You are proud to be black, brown, yellow and orange, and
you're not afraid to announce  it.

But when we announce our white pride, you call us racists.

You rob us, car jack us, and shoot at us.

But, when a white police officer shoots a black gang member
or beats up a black drug dealer running from the law and
posing a threat to society, you call him a racist.

I am proud ... But you call me a racist.

Why is it that only whites can be racists??

There is nothing improper about this e-mail ...

Let's see which of you are proud enough to send it on.

I sadly don't think many will.

That's why we have LOST most of OUR RIGHTS in this  country.

We won't stand up for ourselves!

BE "PROUD" TO  BE WHITE!

It's not a crime YET... but getting very close!

It is estimated that ONLY   5% of those reaching this point
in this e-mail, will pass it on.

I  DID!!

Color me uptight. . .

. . . but I am of the opinion that once you've had a child or two, you give up your right to make a sex tape. Not because you get old and ugly post-procreation—au contraire. Some of the cutest people I know have babies. But just how you shouldn't drink and smoke crack (unless you really can't help yourself) while you're preggo; each and every parent—this goes for dads as well—should save their offspring from the potential horror of ever stumbling across a video of them naked, sweaty and busting a nut.

Apparently John Edwards didn't get this memo. The big dum-dum not only cheated on his wife, but he and his side piece videotaped it! Ack!  This is idiotic on so many levels I can't even count that high. But at least he's somewhat photogenic. Fingers crossed that sad-sack Mark Sanford never figured out how to hit the "record" button. I really don't need to see a video of that droopy mope stuffing his Viagra-infused ween into his South of the Border hottie.

Yikes.

I've lived in Williamsburg for 15 years now and only once has someone tried to rob me (knock wood). I believe I told that story elsewhere (he didn't get anything because I am a crazy lady), so I'll spare you. But ever since the condos started going up and the rich people started moving in, the neighborhood has seemed much more violent. You'd think all the Bugaboo strollers and smug couples in their matching athletic gear would make it feel safer, but you'd be wrong.

I used to toddle home at 4am and never worry about getting jumped. Now I get nervous in the afternoon—and it's not just me being paranoid. Other long-time residents report the same feeling. It's a new, nasty, malevolent vibe that must come when you move haves into a neighborhood formerly populated with have-nots. Gentrification's growing pains.

Cheesy Behavior

Our refrigerator has been "broken" and I only just this week got around to getting it fixed. The night before the repair dude was due, I went to Whole Foods and picked up some cheese to celebrate. We hadn't been keeping any food around because it just wound up covered in blue fuzz a day or two later, so this was a big deal.

I bought some Reggiano Parmesan, some not-very-tasty Mexican cheese, and a nice wedge of manchego.

So the next day the refrigerator guy comes exactly when he said he would. It turns out, my nice new refrigerator needed to be defrosted so I spent $95 for him to tell me that. Yes, I feel like a jerk, but at least my food will be cold from now on. I decided to celebrate with a slice of manchego.

I open the cheese drawer and am horrified to see that the manchego is unwrapped and has a big chunk missing out of it—and there are bite marks! Naturally, my first thought is to blame the boyfriend, but first I cut out the teeth marks and slice myself off a piece. Yum. I call the BF at work to yell at him.

"Hey! Next time use a knife and wrap the rest up in plastic," I bitch. He has no idea what I'm talking about. "The manchego—you just bit into it and threw it back into the fridge—that's really disgusting."

"We have manchego," he asks excitedly. He then swears up and down that he didn't even know I'd bought any cheese, didn't bite the cheese he didn't know about, but wants me to save him some. I'm too busy being grossed out to pay much attention. Unless Inky and Mabel figured out how to open the refrigerator and then the cheese drawer, there's only one person who could've gnawed my cheese: the refrigerator repair man!

What the hell, Mr. Repair Man!?! I would've happily sliced you off a piece of delicious cheese! But you had to go bite my manchego. WHY?!!? That's just nasty.

(I know that's a photo of brie, but just you try to find a chewed-up piece of manchego on the internet.)

Surprise!!!

Of all the identities in all the world, why would anyone steal mine? Wouldn't you think a thief would do a little research and decide to impersonate, oh, I don't know—someone with a good credit rating? Someone who didn't owe the IRS a bunch of money? Someone who actually owned something—anything—of some kind of value? But no, someone stole mine and promptly drained my bank account.

To add insult to brokeness, once he was all dressed up in my identity, he went shopping at Costco. Not Barney's or Bendels or anywhere I'd shop if money weren't an object. No, I get the white-trash ID thief, who spends my dough in the land of ten-gallon Cheese-Coodle barrels and thousand-roll packs of Charmin. To his credit, he did buy a computer, but still—a crappy Costco computer.

While my bank has—so far—been pretty accommodating about the whole thing, Costco is on my nerves. The first rep I spoke with actually hung up on me after I demanded her last name and a direct phone number for the fraud department. "We're not allowed to give that information out," was Evelyn's robotic response. Great. They're allowed to send an $800 computer to a fictitious person on someone else's dime, but not allowed to give me a phone number that will save me from hours on hold. Nice. Remind me never to shop there again—oh wait, I never have.

The second rep confirmed that yep, I'd been ripped off, but refused to tell me what name the thief used (though he did confirm it wasn't mine) or where my computer had been delivered. Oh yeah—it was bought online, so they must have this skell's address! But they won't tell me for "liability reasons." I asked the fraud guy if that meant they were afraid I'd track the scumbag down and exact revenge. He laughed nervously and I got the impression that's absolutely why they won't release that information.

So in exactly 24 hours, I'll be flying solo to Mexico (oh, and a big go-fuck-yourself to the Greek consulate for that one), for a vacation I may no longer be able to afford. Good times. Posting will be light during the next week, but who knows—maybe the identity thief will steal my Typepad log-in info too.

Santino's been stolen!

My friend and neighbor Rose, had Santino, her beautiful red scooter, stolen from right outside our building. You can find details here or here. If anyone has any information, please contact either Rose through the info listed in the links or write me c/o this blog.

UPDATE: Santino has been found! Apparently the clowns who stole him were unfamiliar with how to drive him and so wedged him between two cars across the street.

Copycats!!!!!

This week's issue of The Stranger!

 My book—coincidence or no that I write for their competition? They say that imitation is the sincerest form of flattery, so this can only mean one thing—Dan Savage is feeling threatened by my incisive and witty take on relationships! It's only a matter of time until I achieve world domination! Why look—here's a dating piece I did for Time Out this week! What's next? CNN? Oh, yes! Bwah ha ha!!!

UPDATE: Turns out, Dan Savage is actually kind of humor-impaired. Who knew? (Or maybe I'm just not that funny . . . he's certainly given me some food for thought!)

Jackass #10

The dick-for-brains Dan Abrams producer who called sex-worker rights activist (and ex sex worker) Audacia Ray and asked her if she "had been a whore." Next!

Obviously, not every media outlet is staffed by buffoons, so you can hear Dacia's insights on the Spitzer Debacle on this morning's Brian Lehrer show. I have very mixed feelings about prostitution—I think it should be legalized, but it also bums me out, because a lot of times, I think the women involved (both the prostitutes and the in-the-dark wives) end up getting screwed—and not just by condom-avoidant politicians. Regardless of my feelings, it was nice to wake up to an intelligent and balanced discussion on the matter. Then I picked up the Post and saw that, as usual, they were keeping it classy with their coverline, "Ho No." Nice.