we all go for different reasons I suppose.

Aunt: Was "HE" there?
Me: Jesus was. My favorite eye candy wasn't.

------------

Even so! I seem to have found a church I don't totally hate. The reasons are plentiful but I'll give you the short list as to how/why my ass has regularly found it's way into a church pew for the last few weeks:

1. There's a guy (as you might have gathered). A ridiculously tall guy who I'm shamefully fixated on.
   
   Sidenote: Capt'n Hottie Pants is in good company. I'm also a little obsessed with a guy from the train (he gave up his seat for an old lady) and another guy who somehow manages to make a Long Island accent sound sexy. Which seriously, I know. Long Island accents are about as sexy as finding gum on the bottom of your brand new shoes... It's a weird combination of cute and ick.
   
   
2. TGC meets in this beautiful old church. A completely swoon-worthy space that gives you plenty of things to pay attention to if the service ever gets boring. Not that it has, but I like to have a back up plan.
   
   
3. On the way into the Lent service this past Wednesday, one of the friends I was with dropped the F-bomb. She did it casually as though it was no big thing and really, there's nothing that could have made me love her more. Not only that, but everyone I've met there has been unbelievably lovely.
   
   
4. It gives me something to do on a Sunday night, when normally I'd just be laying on the couch resisting the urge to dive bomb a tub of Ben & Jerry's.
   
   
5. The pastor regularly calls us out on our nonsense.
   
   For example, I'm all for gays having the same rights as legally married straight people and I think the church should stop focusing solely on gay marriage and abortion as the only two issues of cultural significance. As a result of these beliefs, I tend to get cranky with the church collective, which may be justified, but whatever they're doing from way up on their high horse isn't really the point. If I care about the rights of gay people, then I should be doing something about it rather than hating on the institution at large. Likewise, if I think the environment is of monumental concern but can't be bothered to do anything about it, then that's a reflection of my character and my priorities. Not theirs.
   
   
6. A few weeks ago I drank a glass of wine before church. I'd forgotten somehow that I hadn't really eaten that day, so I ended up sitting in the back row feeling tipsier than one probably should while trying to pray to the big man in the sky. Incidentally, that was also the night I first spied Capt'n Hottie and spent most of the service sneaking glances at him. On the way home I decided that I was basically begging to be struck down by lightning because really, drunk and on the prowl in Church? I very much doubt that Jesus would be impressed. I figured I owed him at least a few weeks of my attention to make up for it.

So. Umm. Yeah.

That's the latest on that, I guess.

my survival instincts are severly lacking

My apologies again, Internet. It's not that I don't love you, it's just that lately I haven't had much to report. This time of year all I want to do is hibernate under the covers until Spring. And somehow, I just didn't think you'd all appreciate an in depth analysis of why the blankets from my alma matter are the greatest creation in the history of blankets (hint: it involves sweatshirt fabric).

-------

Anyone who has been reading this blog for a while, knows that issues with the apartment are old news. I mean, why should it surprise anyone that my Sudanese landlords decided to grill indoors? Why should it be shocking that my apartment filled with smoke and now, four days later still smells like a 4th of July backyard barbecue? It was cold outside dear reader. Why should they have resisted the urge to bring the Webber indoors where they could more easily warm their chilled fingers against the open flames?

Truthfully though, my own behavior from that night is only slightly less appalling than theirs. I thought I'd smelled a whiff of smoke, but brushed it off. It was 8pm on a Monday night. It was Gossip Girl time. For those who don't understand why GG would influence my decision to investigate the source of some flames, you should know this: given the choice between life or death by smoke inhalation, I would chose the later just as long as I made it through to see the scenes from next week's episode.

So there I sat, watching GG, telling myself things like "That's not real smoke. That's just your brain doing funny things in response to the smoking hotness of Chase Crawford." Denial was working well until the alarm started bleeping at me. For whatever reason, I promptly panicked. It was one thing to smell smoke, it was quite another to have my alarm recognizing the presence of said smoke. Moreover, it seemed that the smoke was starting to billow around the light fixtures.

I then did what any sane person would do: run around the apartment unplugging things and feeling up the wall for hot spots. It should be noted that the walls of my apartment got more action in that five minutes than I've had in months (hi mom!).

ANYWAY

As I bolted around the apartment yanking cords out of the outlets and groping the walls, I also noticed the mountain of laundry I'd been neglecting. It was sitting in the center of my bedroom floor, in plain sight of the fireman who'd be barreling down my door at any minute. This was no ordinary pile of laundry. It was a pile of underthings. Unmentionables. Bits-o-fabric-to-cover-m'bits... if you catch my drift. The unmentionables were promptly shoved into a closet along with a smaller pile of discarded outfits. My apartment building was burning down and I was concerned with what the fireman would think of my housekeeping. This disturbs you and me both. But, while we're on the subject, what was I planning on doing if I found a hot spot? MacGuyvering the wall down and extinguishing the flames with the sheer force of my mind? I have no explanation.

The mystery source of the smoke was discovered when I leaned my head out the window to check for flames and noticed a light shooting out of a doorway below. There stood my Super, grinning ear-to-ear. He'd gone back to Sudan for the last few months and the lamb barbecue happening beneath my floorboards, was his welcome home party. All this was explained as he offered me bits of meat and reminded me to "be careful of who you love." I just barely resisted the urge to confess my undying love for him. He is unbelievably adorable and if I could haul him around town in my purse, I totally would. As far as I'm concerned, he can grill inside whenever his little heart desires. Because the Sudanese? They can marinade a lamb like nobodies business.

listen, the leaves were really pretty OK?

my apologies for the lack of updatage. I spent the weekend catching up with friends, drinking mimosas and posing for photos like this:
more later.

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EDIT: If you followed Twitter at all you might have noticed the numerous references to where I was. In retrospect, it appears that every other word tripping out of my mouth was "Chicago". It was a long overdue vacation in a city I love, with friends that I love even more. Suffice it to say, it was hard to leave. Last night sitting in the back of the cab, I was entirely relieved to be back home until I looked over at the skyline. Staring back at me was the sight of a purple and orange Empire State Building. I will not apologize for the eye-roll that followed. Sometimes, New York, you're a little much.

bored? thirsty? need friends?

Join us for the second yodeng meetup on Oct. 8th at Spitzer's Corner on 101 Rivington. We'll be there from 7-9pm.

my AM commute

There's nothing like seeing a homeless man blatantly rummaging around in his nether regions to really make you appreciate the city you live in. For that sir, I can spare some change.

clearly, I have no dignity

I wish I had a plausible excuse for disappearing off the face of the internet for the last month or so. But, to be totally and completely honest, Internet, I don't. Not that I don't love you. We've got a pretty good thing going right now. You're like cheap therapy and for that, my whole family thanks you.

In other less boring news, I joined Match.com. That slapping noise you just heard was the sound of my mom's jaw hitting the keyboard. And that tinkling noise? Uh-huh. She's reaching for the keys.

Before you start giggling like a hyena with a caffeine problem, let me just explain. I joined on a whim and then I filled the damn profile in a less whim-inspired moment. After that, I sat and waited. As of this post 862 people have viewed my profile and from those 862 people an infinite number have winked, sent flirty messages and in every other fathomable way possible, tried to assert that we were DEFFINITELY a match. Apparently men are able to reach this stunning conclusion by staring at a picture for a few minutes. But here's the thing, I sort of hate it. Except now it's like a bad relationship that I don't know how to get out of because Match is still charging me for this stupid experiment.

The feeling vaguely resembles that of a first date where one person (me) just wants to make googley eyes at the other person and the other person (match.com) wants to go to third base with my bank account. To state the perhaps not-so-obvious: I am just not that kind of girl. So now I'm back to square one. Making googley eyes at real people rather than a computer screen and feeling much more comfortable with the current state of things in general. That said, if you happen to know any single men living in the NY metropolitan area who are between the ages of 24-30, taller than 5'11, are emotionally available but not too mushy because that makes me all itchy and uncomfortable AND are ok with the fact that I will always love sweatpants more than I love them, will swear like a sailor but still expect their butt to be in a church pew come Sunday then for shitsakes, hook a girl up.

I have to say, the BEST and I mean tears-rolling-down-my-face-laughing email that I received was this one from a guy who I can only describe as a crazy bigot who couldn't spell worth beans.

"I don't know if you understand this, so let me spell this out for you.......You are a good-looking woman and your probably really annoying, I mean you really do appear annoying and I bet most of your past
boyfriends cheated on you b/c your so annoying....So get up and go annoy everyone in America, b/c you seem to be an expert on it.

P.S you should change your intro to hi my name is Sarah and I'm really annoying...."

Sadly, I just don't think it's going to work out between us.

"I think I have mouses..."

In the last month or so my apartment was somehow taken over by a mouse. Initially, when I spotted him darting across the living room, I had a good old fashioned freak out and proceeded to text Julie messages like "MOUSE. I HAVE A MOUSE!"... which was followed up with much saner messages like "MOUUUUUUUUUUUUUSE. I AM LOSING MY SHIT." I saw him often enough in the last few days, that I took to stomping around the apartment in my Ugg boots every night when I got home from work. I looked like Atilla The Tall Dutch Hun. Finally, this past weekend I dragged The Uncle to the hardware store. After consulting with our local Sears Consultant we went old school, and bought a set of six bait'em and squish'em traps.

Theoretically, I was relieved to finally be dealing with the mouse issue. While stomping around the apartment does have its own entertainment value, consistently freaking the hell out every time something darts across the room, does not. Also, that little sucker ate my cashew nuts thereby forcing me to toss the whole bag. For anyone who reads this site but does not have the pleasure of knowing me in real life, it's safe to say that you do not want to get between me and my snacks.

Yesterday morning I checked all the traps and sure enough, Fivo was there staring back up at me. I disposed of him and proceeded to make gaggy faces for the next half hour. THEN last night in the middle of the Gossip Girl finale, I heard two traps go off in the living room. Two traps. In the room where I was sitting. Internet, I do not consider jumping up to stand on the couch while yelling "Ewwww. Ewwww. OH LORD IT'S STILL WIGGLING!!!!!!!!" an overreaction. I dare say it was tame, because I swear on snacks and everything else that is good and holy, I have never wished for a boyfriend more. So I did what all single girls do when they live alone, and are faced with things that should be handled by those without a gag reflex. Chugged a beer and edged it into a dust pan. This morning there was another one, which leads me to believe that Fivo did not in fact go west, but instead invited the whole damn clan up to my place for a party. I'll keep you all posted, but in the meantime I'll be the one stomping around 1R in her boots.
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Edit: Unfortunately, the title of this post did actually come out of my mouth. I said it yesterday while riding in the car with The Uncle, only to glance over and notice him staring at me, like "Woman, I'm about to beat you with a Websters and I won't even feel bad. Your parents will thank me." So, I stared back and stated as eloquently as I possibly could, "I write good." In my family, it's not so much a function of being right all the time, as it is pretending like you are even when you know the facts are stacked against you. Because facts? They are just small, insignificant details standing in the way of you winning an argument.

therapy

Therapy session 1: Sitting in sweatpants, drinking wine and chatting with one of my favorite people on this earth. We were crying and telling one another just how much we loved/valued our friendship in 20 minutes flat. Happily buzzed in 45 (both complete light weights), and elbow deep in our take-out Thai food about an hour after that. Note to self: need weekends like this more often.

Therapy session 2: Holding a sleeping baby. Realize that she is her own kind of perfect, even if the uncertainty of her future sometimes devastates me.

Therapy session 3: Driving into work because I can't find street parking and refuse to get another ticket. Accidentally land myself in the middle of a construction zone, stuck behind a cab driver who is trying to put his car in reverse. One yelling match (complete with waving and dramatic hand gestures) later, I realize that I have managed in that moment to get rid of every stress from the last 3 weeks. Decide to yell at cab drivers more often.

whoops

If anyone needed proof that I am not remotely prepared to be a parent, they needed only listen to my mom's voice mail from last night. "Hey love, this is mom. Just calling to see how your weekend was...if you went to NJ...how the baby is doing. Also, just wanted to make sure that you were ok after your date with Abdul."

Interpretation: Because if you are NOT ok, I will most definitely drive down there in your defense and do things that the Lord himself might disapprove of (full disclosure, my mom is a pastor).

In highschool I went to my senior prom with a boy who was in college. A boy who had played football. About two weeks after the event, I told my dad I was pregnant just to see what his reaction would be. This was my own form of entertainment - watching my dad change from an odd shade of green to straight up pissed. But in this particular instance, it hadn't even crossed my mind that my parents would read this post and wonder if I'd gotten myself into a situation I couldn't handle. In truth, Abdul was a gentleman. A gentleman who winked. A lot.

We go get dinner *wink*...I move, but I come visit *wink*... I get job with city, and then we go somewhere special!! *wink, wink*... I call you, yes? *wink*... ooooooh no, we have to say goodnight? *wink*

As if Abdul didn't make the night interesting enough, we managed to get ourselves into a political debate with the only other diner sitting in the restaurant. We were sitting there chatting about the upcoming election and how pretty Hillary's pant suit looked on this last debate and how Barack is so friggen' great that it warms my politically apathetic heart. Then out of no where, random lady pipes up from across the room that the media is treating Hil "SO unfairly" and being "TOTALLY BIASED towards Barack... because, well, because he's Black and they don't want to appear racist!"

I tried very hard to wipe the "wtf" expression off my face. I suspect that I failed miserably.

Fortunately, this didn't seem to bother her a whit and she proceeded to blather on for a few minutes about her own views before bringing up the last election. At which point, I stated quite nicely that I didn't vote in the last election because I couldn't really support either candidate. I didn't like Bush, but I also couldn't figure out what the hell Kerry stood for except that he was "Not Bush." Random lady stared at me, and then (I shit you not) said "Well, then you're just as responsible as Bush is for sending this country to war.

So, there you have it. I am responsible for inducing heart-failure in my parents (sorry guys), and for sending our great nation to war (REALLY sorry about that one, America).

it was the marriage proposal that gave it away

Par for the course, in terms of my dating life, last night I accidentally wound up on a date with my bodega guy.

For those non New Yorkers, a bodega is a little shop on every street corner. They carry beer, toilet paper, an assortment of cookies, ice cream and Cheez-Whiz. In terms of inventory, it is almost like they tore a page out of my diary. The entry that was so aptly entitled “What Makes Life Worth Living.”

I happen to live directly above one of these little shops, which is soopa-fantastic for multiple reasons. First, it means I have no neighbors downstairs to irritate while doing my kick-boxing videos. Second, it means I can pretend that I might (in some other alternate universe), do kick-boxing videos whenever the spirit moves me rather than simply catching up on episodes of The Hills.

On Sunday mornings, I romp down the steps in my sweatpants and fuzzy slippers, walk all of two feet to the store to pick up The NY Times. Then, I march up the street to get a pumpernickel everything bagel. I do this every single weekend. And so, I see Abdul every single weekend.

Last night, I got home and Abdul was standing outside the store. We chatted for a few minutes about the weather, how quickly this week was going and then, just as I was about to head inside, he asked “want to go get some food?” And I, being an idiot, thought to myself “THAT’S SO NEIGHBORLY!!!”

Turns out that in this particular case, Abdul’s definition of “neighborly”, involved getting to know each other in the biblical sense …I think that perhaps he was referencing a different dictionary than I was.

lightening in the microwave

[the greatest toilet seat known to man]

I spent all weekend (and by "all weekend" I mean non-social daylight hours) finishing up some painting projects around the apartment and enduring a semi-hellish trip to IKEA. I heart IKEA almost as much as I do snacks. But by noon the place was infested with parents and all of their 10+ offspring. I don't care what kind of eye-hand coordination skills you're trying to develop in your kid, it's not cute to hand them a shopping cart and let them navigate the overly crowded aisles. It's just not. If you're a parent reading this, and are guilty of said offense, then I would just like to be the first to inform you that every other person there who didn't haul their kids along for a 5hr shopping trip, probably wanted to throw their Swedish meatballs at your head. Or, maybe that's just me.


Sunday, I looked around the digs and felt like the work had finally paid off. The things about the apartment that initially drove me crazy, I decided I loved. Sparky toilet seat? Best. Toilet. Seat. Ever. Fixtures that had been painted with tacky brass paint? Quirky and adorable. I even danced a little jig to fully express my satisfaction. I danced as only a white, dutch girl can dance. Badly.

Then, this morning I wake up and notice what looks to be char marks on my newly painted walls. Apparently I had an electrical fire and my fire alarm didn't bother to warn me about it. MOREOVER, I now have CHAR marks on my wall. The wall, that I just finished painting.

Oh, the irony.

Once in high school, one of the siblings stuck something with foil on it in the microwave. The whole thing promptly started sparking, and my mom could only point and yell "LIGHTENING! LIGHTENING IN THE MICROWAVE!!!!!!!" Today, when I noticed the burn marks, I whispered "lightening... in my wall."

I get kinda hectic inside

Sometimes between work and life, I forget all the reasons that I love living here. Reasons other than the most obvious one: every kind of cuisine can be delivered. Here's lookin' at you Coco Roco. Because even though I haven't tested you yet or your Chicaron de Calamar, I love that when I do have a hankering for some Peruvian, you've got my back. And so dear friends, in the name of remembering why NY is a city like no other, I give you my favorites from the last 24hrs:

1. Seeing 50+ police cars with their lights all on sitting in a parking lot for no other apparent reason than to provide a) a surprisingly great light show OR b) the appearance of a overly collaborative department of po-pos.
2. Listening to my male dressing room attendant sing every word of Mariah Carey's Fantasy
3. Different store. Different dude attendant singing Beyonce Dangerously in Love.
4. Finding out that Barack Obama carries a picture of me in his wallet and made me a mixtape. Which really, is just all kind of adorable.

floods + compliments = troo lov

My apartment Super is Sudanese. Not Sudanese in the way that I am Dutch, cheap, and love Stroompwaffles. Rather, Mr. Hassan is Sudanese in the way that allows him to easily define the world "genocide" even though our government only manages to figure it out in hindsight. Which is probably why I've developed a slightly ridiculous affection for him making me want to feed him cookies, wrap him in a blanket, and apologize for our idiotic President all while pinching his cheeks. Every now and then I get notes shoved under my door full of phonetic spellings and have to fight the urge to reply in kind. Not that it would be a long note, probably something like "Yor the best. Thanks for beeng soo grate."

This past weekend we finally had a reason to meet for the very first time since my toilet decided that it no longer felt like flushing. What it did feel like doing was vomiting all over my floor on a regular basis. Not just a trickle, or a spatter. We're talking Noah's Ark type deluge. In true grownup fashion, my response to the problem (after I called Mr. Hassan) was to stare at the lake growing on my floor, go make myself a gin and tonic, and settle in for a Law + Order marathon. Apparently sometime between hours 1 through 4 of my television watching, the flooding caused the ceiling downstairs to collapse. True story.

I was nervous about finally meeting him. What if he didn't like me? What if he freaked out that I painted the cupboards wasabi green? What if I couldn't resist the urge to feed him an endless supply of Pillsbury Slice n' Bakes? Would he think that the flooding was caused by an excessive use of Charmin Ultra? Because I have used Scott's and really, I don't think I could go back without risking some very serious chaffing.

Leave it to Mr. Hassan to fix my toilet and calm my fears. He came and we flushed the toilet just so we could witness the flood together. After we realized that in spite of all appearances, animals weren't going to come marching out of my bathroom two-by-two, he smiled, took my hand and said "Hi, Miss Sarah. I, Hassan Seleh. Don't worry. We fix it. I call plumber and he come." Then, as if my heart wasn't already melted around my feet, he yelled "SOOO BOOOTIFUL! You single? Not married? You should be MARRIED".

I. Lov. Him.

What. The. Fug.

My dad didn’t seem especially sympathetic when I exclaimed on the telephone “It’s BRASS paint that they DRIPPED everywhere”. He quite logically pointed out that this is NY, and therefore unless you’re living in monstrosities like thisaone, there’s bound to be 10 coats of paint on everything.

Which is all good and fine, and probably very true. In all fairness to him, quite likely, me complaining about my really friggin’ fugly apartment fixtures is sort of like the skinniest girl in the room casually mentioning that her New Year’s resolution is to “go on a diet!!” and get “really, really fit!!” saying it with such seriousness, that you want to wallup her and simultaneously shove a burrito down her throat. In other words, it’s annoying. That being said, the slightly obsessive part of me is still very much obsessing about how I can remedy the affront that is brass paint. Lo, the "before" and "after" photos.I've decided that I won't bother with the door jambs, or door handles. The light switches, outlets, and lighting fixtures however, should probably fear for their lives.

To the former occupant of 1R:

Somehow, though your reasoning dumbfounds me, you managed to paint every surface including, but not limited to the door jambs, light switches, outlets, coat hooks, door knobs, and light fixtures in a tacky bronze metallic paint. Not once, but apparently multiple times, so that removing said light switches, outlets, and coat hooks required raw determination and the strength of a friggin’ Viking (thankfully, I have both). Anyway, I just wanted to drop you a line and say thank you for your unbelievably thorough display of bad taste.

-s-

it's over.

That apartment I mentioned? The one with a bedroom, separate from the living room, and miracle of all miracles a reasonable amount of closet space?! Yes, that one.

It's mine. Officially, it all goes down on Dec. 1st. To commemorate the event I bought a poster. A poster I love almost as much as I do closet space.

EDIT - No, I did not pay the 2K fee and somehow I managed to get them to drop my rent by $150/mo. The details are a bit fuzzy, but I do seem to recall throwing down the words "couisin" and "lawyer" somewhere along the line.

apt. hunt continues

Last night I put a deposit down on an apartment. A massive 1bdr. apartment, in a fantastic neighborhood, with a laundrymat 2 doors down. I can handle 2 doors down. The space needs paint, and a fresh grout job in the bathroom. But, by the time I put the deposit down, I'd psyched myself out not to care. I thought things like "Paint? You LOVE painting. You were MADE to paint these cupboards something resembling Pantone 383C... or maybe 390C."

Did I mention that by the time I climbed the train to head back to NJ, that I'd already mentally decorated the place? Because I had.

First I'd tackle the kitchen and the bedroom and then I'd work on the hallway and living room next. Anyone that visited between now and whenever I finished said living room, was just going to have to suck it up and deal. Afterall, that's why God invented air mattresses. I'd graciously decided to overlook the fugly linoleum in the hallway, remembering that CB2 now carries FLOR tiles, and that CB2 just opened a store in Soho. If CB2 didn't have what I wanted, I could hit up Ikea, which in addition to air mattresses, is God's other gift to housewares.

So I guess, it shouldn't surprise me that this morning the landlord requested a broker's fee. Which basically equates to 2K getting shot straight down the crapper in the apartment that I have already decorated in my head.

And now I'm cranky, having to decide whether or not just to bite the bullet and go for it. Or go with option B) which involves me fully embracing my dutch instincts and telling the landlord where exactly he can stick his effin' fee.

lunchtime in union sq.

Today I was sitting in the park, quietly noshing on a burrito and reading a magazine when a skinny version of Milton from Office Space walks up and asks if I’ll play some chess with him.

I decline.

Milton asks if instead he can suck on my toes.

I decline.

Milton asks why sucking on toes freaks women out. After all, he’s doing the sucking.

I stare at him, and slowly tuck my flip-flop clad feet under the table.

Milton asks if he can hold my hand saying “I’m into those too”.

I decline again.

Milton sits quietly for a second and then sings in a high, screechy falsetto “Ok, fine. But just remember you’re looo-v-eeely” before walking off.

…This is my life these days.

the weekend

I spent the weekend in NYC and NJ. To those who say that NJ is our nation’s armpit I say this: perhaps, if that armpit happens to belong to Brad Pitt who doesn’t sweat or have bodily functions. Newark and Jersey City don’t count friends. They’re both the part of the state we all wish would float off into the sunset. Except then we would not have fishes in the sea because I’m fairly sure Newark would kill them all. So, we keep Newark, as a favor to our great nation. So there.

On my way back, Mary Kate Olsen’s name was called over the loudspeaker to a gate that was IN MY TERMINAL. I have no justification for the thought process that followed other than the fact that I was raised on Full House:

Thought 1: I wonder if she’s still rockin’ that boho-chic look
Thought 2: We’d totally be friends
Thought 3: Maybe I should go investigate
Thought 4: I kind of want to buy her a cheese burger. With bacon.
Thought 5: A burger? I’m such an ass.
Thought 6: You are going to stay put missy. If she wants to travel through Laguardia (seriously the worst airport ever) and dress like a bag lady, that’s her business not yours.

I did not go investigate, or introduce myself to my new best friend or attempt to introduce her to the glories of red meat and calories. Instead I got back to the more important business at hand – catching up on my Harry Potter. And you can feel free to judge me as being a monumental dork based on that last statement. But so far? Loooove it.