In Celebration of Easter

Today, I saw Christ, reincarnate.*

I know i know, its hard to believe. I mean, why would Jesus come back to talk to a Jew? Isnt he busy being nailed to the cross, leading a religion, having a champagne brunch and passing out mutli-colored eggs to children? You probably dont believe me and hell- you might not even believe in him. But read on and I think you'll be pretty convinced.

This morning i woke up hungover, tired, full (from apprx. 8 beers i drank last night and the fried chicken i got on the walk home at 4 am this morning) and pretty damn happy. I laid in bed, looked at my awesome BLUE wall in the morning light, took a sip of water and reached for my computer for a happy morning of checking facebook, blogs, news etc.

I flip it on and it tells me I have software updates. "Why not?" I say to myself "I have all day to do nothing, I can spare the 45 seconds". Updates finish installing and the computer restarts and all I see is this:



For those of you unfamiliar with macs, this is the cute little icon for HARDDRIVE DEATH. "How do you know this, Heather?" you are surely asking yourself. Well, friend, I know because it just happened to me SIX MONTHS AGO.

Immediately I start to panic. I bolt out of bed, throw on a sports bra, put on my sneakers, throw my computer in a bag and head to the Apple store in SoHo. On the nearly half hour walk*, I am mentally talking myself down from the proverbial ledge. Last time this happened, it cost $400 and a few days to fix and I don't have either one right now. $400 might as well be $4,000,000 to me and I leave for New Orleans (!!!!) on Thursday morning. I am on the verge of tears, on a hellbent path through the east village, glaring at strangers because, really, its all their fault. Its unusually cold out, windy and sunny and I have on a light trench and no sunglasses. I am miserable.

Finally, I arrive at the apple store on Prince Street, open the doors and tell the greeters what my issue is. He says that they are by appointment only (which i mean, REALLY? how are people who are going to break their computers know they will need to make an appointment?) but since its Easter Sunday (first sign) that they might be able to put me on standby. We walk upstairs and he passes me off to the Genius Bar. My fate is in their hands.

A little boy who I can only assume was about 13, came over to help try and schedule me. He tells me they are too busy and don't have any standby appointments but if I would like I could make one for TWO DAYS from now so they can do the consultation and tell me whats wrong and then it would "only" take a couple more days to fix it. Or, I can just drop it off and they will call me in 48 hours and tell me what they want to do it and have me sign off on it and then take another few days to fix it. When i hear this, I am even more upset. Leaving your shit with apple means $$$$$$ and I dont even have $. Plus, I dont have a tv or cable, so the computer is what i do when Im home. We just got internet, and I am enjoying the speed and efficiency of actual paid internet (thanks for the 4 years of pirated internet though, Lowerline St.). I am upset.

Boy-whom-I-could-have-given-birth-to walks me over to the computer where I sign in to leave my computer and asks me what I want to do. I think about it: "I am an adult. Just yesterday I went to Ikea and assembled a kitchen table and I considered it the highlight of my week. I painted a wall all by myself. I have a 401K. I can handle. I can find a way to get the money. It will be okay".

Well, thats what I would have thought, if I didn't immediately burst into tears.

Yes, I cried in the apple store. And not, "oh your eyes are kind of wet" crying, but CRYING. I am a little embarassed but mostly FURIOUS AT MAC that I have to leave my computer for a week and pay them tons of money so they can just erase my whole goddamned hard drive and I can lose all my shit again.

Somewhere along the way, probably when the middle schooler realized he was dealing with a clearly unstable woman, I was passed off to another "concierge", who led me over to a genius to drop my computer off and get all my shit together.

When I first saw him, I thought nothing of him. Just another mere mortal who would say something to make me angry or cry or flail hysterically on the floor, no big. "Jay" (coincidence? nope.) opens my computer and puts his special apple thing in to view my harddrive on his computer. He asks me questions and I give him short bitchy answers, fighting back tears. He looks at me with a mix of confusion, sympathy and fear and keeps playing with my computer. I sit there silently crying and thinking of creative ways to make ramen noodles.

And I imagine that this is what a religious experience is like. When you are at your lowest, you can't believe its really happening at first. But sure enough, after he had played with it for a while, he looked at me and said "here, email the stuff you want to keep to yourself and Ill just wipe out your harddrive and reinstall it right now. Do you mind waiting twenty minutes?"

I instantly start to feel better, but I am cautious. "How much will this cost?"
"Nothing. We dont have to keep it so its no cost"

Can you hear the holy music people?

I literally almost made out with him, but I am pretty sure thats not the correct way to react when you meet Jesus. I couldn't believe it. This man, this deity, took me down to the end of the genius bar and walked me through the reinstall. In the meantime, he teaches me how to do things that I didnt know before. He sets up my computer the way I want it. He ignored the stares of the "conceirges" who told me I couldn't get help today. He stood up for me, just like he stood up for (most of) you. He saved me- picked me up off the floor, wiped my tears away and replenished me with wine and free gigabyte space. It was a religious experience.


At the end of it all, I felt like a new person. My computer is fine, fast, beautiful. I thanked him and apologized for being mean earlier and he laughed and said he understood. He really is forgiving.

So, if you want to have a religious experience- go to the Apple store on Prince street. Ask for Jay(esus).

Happy Easter, Jay(esus). Thanks for the resurrection.



*If you are offended by this post, eh. We probably shouldn't be friends anyway.

**The other night, on a date with a SEXY guy, he was walking me back to my apartment and I FELL out of my shoes (yes, plural) on my block, ate it hard (like sprawled out across the pavement) and got this nasty cut on the side of my foot that was bleeding everywhere. Its hurts to wear shoes, walk, stand upright, etc. So when I say walked, I mean hobbled. I'm pretty sure sexy guy will call soon. Who wouldn't want to date this?

An Inspirational Interlude

First of all, I have to say that since I have been facebooking/twittering about my brand new lower east side apartment, no less than three people* have asked me when I am going to blog about it. Which is AWESOME and I can’t tell you how much I love you all for caring about me, but more importantly, caring about my blog that much. Seriously, I love you all.

But, this post is not about my new apartment, mainly because I want to do an “OMG IM IN A NEW APARTMENT” post once I am actually in there and have photographic evidence and wireless internet and nothing to do on a Tuesday night because I will get home at 6:30 instead of 8:30.

No, instead this post is about an important life lesson I was reminded of this weekend and have been waiting to impart onto my legions of (seven) loyal readers.

When I was looking for a job this summer, one of my mentors set up a meeting with the VP of Corp Comm at a pretty big agency here in the city which was super intimidating. When I went in and told him what I felt were my main barriers to getting hired (no New York city experience, no New York city network and the economy). And he affirmed my fears and basically said “yeah, that’s going to make it a lot harder” which sent me into a frenzied panic attack I have only recently recovered from. But, he also said to apply everywhere and to see where I ended up, even if it wasn’t the exact right position. That as long as you got in, worked hard, did good well that the rest would fall into place. You can prove yourself and excel in any position, as long as you remain true to your work ethics and make your position your own.

It was excellent advice and was really a huge factor in my decision to take the job I currently have. I sort of lost sight of the wisdom for a while until this weekend, when inspiration hit me on 7th avenue.

It was Saturday and I came into the city to sign my lease. It was beautiful outside- a little chilly but still so sunny and pleasant. As I walked to Chelsea to meet my future roommate at work (she’s awesome, btw- but that’s for later) I walked by this hard working young (old?) man:




Yes, this man is dressed in a cheese costume. Handing out flyers for a pizza place, trying to get people to come in. What struck me odd about this was two things:
A. The cheese costume was so half-assedly put together and so ridiculous looking that it added absolutely no value to what he was peddling- to adults by the way, not kids. It wasn’t comical, it wasn’t over the top, it was almost as if I it was just a regular guy and I had imagined the cheese costume in some sort of weird endorphin induced hallucination.

B. He did NOT look pissed off about this. In fact, disgruntled flyer givers everywhere could take a lesson from this man and his blasé attitude to his Swiss costume. And, based on the fact that he’s wearing the costume to begin with, you have to assume that his managers are dicks and mildly oppressive, but he did not seem bothered at all.

When I went to sign the lease and walked back a few hours later, he was STILL there. Not-pissed-off-about-being-in-a-cheese-costume man, handing out flyers on 7th Avenue. And I couldn’t help but wonder where he was going in life and admire how hard he was working to get there.



*Okay, one I sort of forced into asking by merely suggesting that he may want to see a write up of the story instead of listening to me laboriously discuss all the details. And the other said it sort of sarcastically, like “oh, are you going to blog about it?” Whatever…still counts.

An HR memo to Spring

Dear Spring,

I know its your first day on the job and everything, and believe me, I sympathize. My first week on the job I created a media list so large I couldn’t even send it through email. Sometimes, you get a little overeager when you are trying to impress and things don’t always turn out the way you wanted. I totally get it.

However, if you don’t hear a little criticism then you’ll never learn, right? So lets try to keep the snow away, especially on your first day. Maybe you haven’t had the chance to read the manual yet, but snow on the first day of spring is really soul-sucker. It really just makes people want to drown some small animals and I don’t want to be fielding calls from PETA all day because the new guy screwed up. You’re not the only one with a job to do.

But like I said, everyone is allowed a few mistakes at the beginning. Just make sure to get your shit together by April 1, because I am moving and not taking any winter clothes with me. That’s how much faith I am putting in you, Spring. Don’t let me down.

As always, please don’t hesitate to contact me or your supervisors (God) with any questions. We’re really excited to have you on board.

Best,

The Northeast United States Human Resources Department


P.S. I have an overactive imagination and there are 3 out of 12 people in my office today. I may update again. Who knows where this day will go?

P.P.S. I may have found an apartment (I went the really small, great area route)! Details to come.

The Apartment Hunting Chronicles Episode Two: I Officially Hate Everybody

Its not so much that apartment hunting makes me want to kick small puppies, its more the liars. LIARS make me want to kick puppies and if you find yours suddenly bruised, I am not liable for any emotional or physical damages.

In episode one, we discussed the ads. The craigslist ads for apartments. Craig and his silly bitch list for liars. And, for reasons still undisclosed, that’s pretty much as far as I got the first time around. This time though, its serious.

The problem with New York, that I believe is more so exaggerated than anywhere else, (although DC may come in at a close second) is that unless you are a grillionaire playboy, theres no such thing as a good apartment in a good area. If you’re lucky (for those of you paying attention- I’m not), an average person can mayyyyyybe find an okay apartment in an okay area. But usually, the way it works is you can move into shitty, closet-like amenities in a great area or an amazing fantastic apartment across the street from the projects (not an exaggeration, the forerunner on my list right now is literally across the street from state subsidized projects- but the apartment is beautiful).

So really, I guess its not a huge shock that all the legitimate ads are a little exaggerated. And, it might not be really lying, but more the kind of lying that you start to believe because you have to for your own sanity. Lies such as, “its not a bad area, it just has a lot of local color!” orrrr “my exboyfriend is clearly only dating her because she is exactly like me, how pathetic” orrr “at the end of the day, Hurricane Katrina was a great learning experience”. You know, the kind of shit that gets you through the night.

When all is said and done however, I’d like a little heads up before hitting the worst streets of NYC, checking directions on my Iphone and toting a designer bag. All of the apartments I am looking at are sort of on the border of good and evil, and it would be nice to get a “don’t come alone after dark” orrrr a “btw, when I say its close to the train station, I mean it’s a fifteen minute uphill walk through Spanish Harlem”. I’ll concede that might be too much to ask for, seeing as I’ve lived in proximity to NYC nearly all of my life and should know better. Fine.

The shit that really pisses me off is when I get to the top of the hill and finally meet the person, suddenly everything changes. The rent listed on the ad was for the first month only- after that it increases by $200. The only utility included is water (WTF people, EVERY APARTMENT includes water in their rent). The room includes a closet- its just in the hall on the other side of the apartment. The room is furnished- with a 15 year old futon on a metal frame. The 20 year old female who will be showing the place? Whoops, I meant 35 year old man. What a crazy typo. Or the people who just don’t show up. FUCK YOU PEOPLE WHO DON’T SHOW UP. I could be at home watching spongebob instead of standing on a street corner in Bushwick, watching cars with tinted windows roll slooooowly by me.

Its all sort of comical I guess, unless its you dragging your sorry ass up to these great apts in terrible areas after a lonnnnnnng day at work, expecting to meet a nice musician named Anne (25, from long island) and instead its her 40 year old LIVE-IN boyfriend holding their pet ferret (ew) showing you a room that is smaller than my creepy, dead-child storing closet in my apt in New Orleans (Note to reader: WE didn’t store the dead children, we’re just pretty sure that’s the only thing it could have possibly been used for prior to our moving in).

So, moral of the story is, never grow up. If you do grow up- live at home forever or kill yourself before you have to move out. Or hire a broker to do your dirty work for you (please note, this requires making much more money than I make). Or don’t ever move to NY. Or, make friends who will move with you instead of forcing yourself to make awkward small talk with a 40 year old holding a ferret who you KNOW you will never ever move in with.

And the sad part? I am really keeping my fingers crossed for that place across from the projects? Other than the whole “dangerous, impoverished neighbors” thing, it’s a great place with a really sweet roommate.

The sadder part? I have FOUR more appointments tonight. Oy vey.

Ch-ch-ch-ch-changes

I am moving.

To new York

Probably Brooklyn. Everything is happening sort of fast and I may not be 100% (or well, 50%) ready. But I am doing it. I am quite sick of living my life from the Jersey sidelines and after receiving confirmation from work that they love me as much as I love them, the time feels right. I feel more secure, more mature and more ready to take this next big step in my life.



(Most of you know why it was put on hold, so there’s no need to rehash)



I would be lying if I were to say that I wasn’t scared, because I am. More scared than I thought I would be. Especially because, uhm hi. Living far from home isn’t exactly a new thing. When I moved away the first time, I basically picked a place that couldn’t have been more opposite than the community I called home (and really- pretty much opposite from every other city that everyone else calls home. Suckers). I dived in headfirst to the craziest and most rewarding experience of my life so far- which was living in New Orleans. Everything about it was new and scary and different and I don’t even remember feeling fear. Just excitement.



I have to take a moment here to tell my mom’s favorite story about me. (If she ever finds the link to this blog and reads such story, she will likely pee herself for seeing it in print. I have heard it more times than I care to recall and I am channeling her as I am writing it). I was a fierce independent spirit as a kid, so much so that I robbed my mother of many precious moments and milestones of parenthood. When I say “as a kid”, I am referring to the period of birth until uhhhh now. I went to a big elementary school of about 1,500 kids and I am the oldest child in my family. On the first day of kindergarten, my mother (like all the other mothers) parked the car, walked me into school and waited with me on the little kindergarten line until we went into class. On the second day of kindergarten, I (rather brightly) observed the other parents dropping their older children off in front of the school where they walked in by themselves.



Adorable, curious little me: “Mom, why are you parking your car when the other parents are just driving up to the front of the school?”

Mom, sharing a precious moment with her daughter: “Well. Those are the older kids so they don’t need their mommies to walk them in. One day, when you’re ready, I’ll drop you off there too”

Tenacious, independent, fearless little me: “Oh. I’m ready now. You can just drop me off”



And she did. And I got my 5 year old little butt out of the car and marched my jellies right into the school of 1,500 kids. And I never looked back.



(Side note: I told that story to a former boyfriend and he looked at me, rolled his eyes and said “I’m not surprised. you should tell that to guys as a warning before they start to date you”. I’m pretty sure it wasn’t a compliment.)



And now? Maybe its my old age catching up to me. Or maybe it’s the doom and gloom, apocalyptic-type hype around the recession. Maybe because it isn’t happening exactly how I pictured it. Maybe its because I don’t really know as many people as I thought and don’t really understand how to go about meeting people outside of work as an adult. Maybe its because I am actually paying for my own rent (shut up). Whatever my deal is, I am really freaking nervous about making this leap.



But also- EXCITED. I am looking at apartments this weekend and if all goes as according to plan (which, lets be real, when does it ever?) I’ll be official on April 1. A real person. A grown up.



Well….sort of. It’s a step in the right direction at least.



Up next?

Learning how to cook

Making friends (anyone in NYC wanna holler at your girl? I’m really a lot of fun and not NEARLY as crazy as this blog may lead you to believe.)

Learning how to be frugal, possibly by default (when I first wrote that, I wrote “buy” default. This will be SO much harder than I am picturing)

GO TO NEW ORLEANS APRIL 15th!! (WHAT WHAT)

Enjoying summer, spend as much time as possible and wear sunglasses 24.7



So uh, wish me luck? Send me money? Hang out with me? Move here?



Mazel tov?

Have a Nice Trip

Because I am competitive by nature (and also- kind of a bitch) every morning I engage in a death-match race with a stupid little (what I can only assume is a) Russian (accent) girl to get to the lone one-seater on the top level of the train. Although it is childish and largely one-sided, I can’t help but feel victorious when I settle into my own little seat that I will not have to share with another commuter, stretch my legs out and look out of my own window to face the day ahead.

The best thing about this seat is that it is right by the stairs to the lower deck, so I am usually one of the first ones off the train and do not have to fight through masses of angry Jersey-ians to get up the elevator and into Penn Station. Today, however, I discovered another benefit to sitting right by the stairs when a young, boyishly handsome man made eyes with me as he was getting off the train- and then fell down the stairs.

What made this particular fall epic, however, was that as he was falling down the stairs he sang a song about falling down the stairs.

Yes- a song. Well, more of a little ditty. It went something like this: “ahh ahh I’m fall-ing down the stairs”. (Sing in ditty form).

Now, I am no stranger to falling. In fact, I fall once a week and tripped twice on the way to work this morning (new shoes). I fall so often that I have actually become good at it and when people see me fall for the first time they often comment on how graceful I am. I don’t fall so much as slide elegantly toward the ground at inappropriate moments and inconvenient places. Its something I am sort of proud of- like my useless knowledge of the American Revolution or ability to remember the names of my nail polishes (“Big Apple Red” this week- thanks, OPI).

I am also no stranger to epic falls. Last summer, during orientation, I got into the first of what would be many fight with Terrible Tom of the Oppressive Office of Co-Curricular Programs at Loyola. Terrible Tom fucked up my life hardcore that semester by completely disregarding any conversations or plans I had responsibly made with the OOCCP the prior semester AND then had the nerve to call AKPsi nationals and essentially tell on me (in case you are reading this Tom, even they thought you were a huge douche). We met the first day or orientation and by the last we were already glaring at each other across the quad and would continue glaring until I graduated. But, Tom unwittingly got his revenge, or more accurately, I handed him his revenge on a silver platter- when I emerged from the school bus transporting the orientation leaders and freshman to our own alcohol-free night at Venue (LOL) wearing an adorable black dress and my Marc Jacobs heels . When I say “emerged”, I mean “ate it hard down the stairs and landed spread eagle on the bottom step”. And, the piece de resistance of the epic nature of the tumble- Terrible Tom was standing right there, helping girls in their heels get off the bus. He was so close that if I were a less graceful fall-er, I surely would have landed right on him.

So anyway, long story short- I fall a lot. And I think if I could sing while falling, it would really add some flavor to the routine. I mean, I already have the physical aspect down, so really the only thing left is musical accompaniment. Sometimes, I involuntarily shout “FALLING!”, but that’s about as advanced as I get. So now I have to get to work on doing some serious composing. And, taking into account that a fall usually happens in less than 10 seconds, it will take considerable time and talent.

Sometimes I am amazed by my continual evolvement.

This is What Feminist Looks Like (Apparently)

Anyone who has been around me and/or talked to me in the past two weeks knows that I have been closely following the story of this wackjob in California who had octuplets recently (in addition to the six children she already had). I sort of had to at first- it directly pertains to one of our clients. But, as the weeks wore on and the client became satisfied, I still can’t tear my eyes away from this story. So many things offend me about this that I don’t know where to start. So, lets make a list:

1.Her publicist is an idiot and if Nadya Suleman paid me whatever she is paying this sketchy LA agency she could walk out of this mess with a somewhat decent reputation.

Exhibit A: Her publicist admitted she was on food stamps the SAME DAY that Nadya did an interview with dateline and said she never accepted any government money. Get your story straight, ladies.

Exhibit B: They both were on camera saying they didn’t expect to make any money off of this (although apparently Nadya was trying to sell her story to Oprah for $2 million, she ended up giving the first interview to Ann Curry at NBC for free) and then yesterday they set up this nightmare: http://www.thenadyasulemanfamily.com/ Setting the crimes against human decency thing aside for a moment, from a public relations perspective that was the most idiotic move I could ever imagine making. Wanting people to take you seriously and denying adamantly that you are asking for money and then SETTING UP A PROFESSIONAL WEBSITE (that probably cost a pretty penny) OF WHICH THE EXPLICIST PURPOSE IS TO ASK STRANGERS FOR MONEY.

That’s two lies (of many more to come, I am sure) that not only drag Nadya through the mud, they really give public relations a bad name, since people seem to think we are professional liars when really the whole job is about telling the truth and making sure a company and/or person never gets caught in a lie.

2.She calls herself a feminist and anyone who doesn’t support her choice to bring 14 children into the world without a partner (or job, incidentally) is judging her because of her lifestyle choice to be an independent single mom.

Hang on. I have to take a break because I am SEETHING WITH RAGE.

I am a feminist. I believe in equality of people. I believe that women can do anything a man can do and, conversely, that a woman does not need a man to do anything. Including having children. In fact, I think it is pretty badass when a woman does not let her marital status stop her from having children if that is what she wants.

Nadya Suleman, however, is a loonybird wackjob who only had babies to satisfy her own loneliness(this is not my personal judgement- she readily admitted this to Ann Curry in her dateline interview. Another obvious failure of media training from the crook in LA who is taking her money to ruin her reputation). When she started popping them out, she was uneducated and unemployed (she has a bachelors now, but is still unemployed). She lives in a house her parents own. She collects food stamps and workers compensation from the government. She needed to be a mother and needed someone to love her so bad she had completely reckless disregard for the 14 lives she was about to ruin (15 if you include her own, and 17 if you include her obviously embarrassed and horrified parents).

These are not the choices of an independent feminist. Nadya did not have children because she wanted them and could support them, she had them in a desperate attempt to try and fix herself. She had no identity and decided to create one as a mother and didn’t really give a second thought to how she would actually care for these human beings she was about to bring into the world.

No one is judging her because she is a single mother. We are judging her because she is clearly mentally unbalanced.

3.All of her eight kids have the middle name “angel”

No further explanation necessary.

4.She didn’t even know an eighth baby was in her womb until she had already birthed the other seven in under 5 minutes.

This doesn’t infuriate me as much as it does gross me out. When you have so many people living in you that you cant even count them all- well, it’s a problem.

And, okay I know they took them out via C-section but I cant be the only one who is dealing with some very serious and disturbing “slip n’ slide” imagery. Right?

5.No money for food, but plenty of money for fake nails.