Once upon a time, having bad credit really didn’t mean too much of anything. You could still do all the things you wanted and needed to do, you just had to deal with those annoying bill collectors and be sure to keep a co-signer in your back pocket.
But oh how times have changed!
These days, bad credit can ruin your life. You can’t rent a car, you might not be able to get an apartment on your own, you’ll be denied new credit, and that dream job of yours just might slip through your fingers. This post is called “The Joy of Bad Credit”, not because having bad credit is good thing, but because I’m actually taking quite a bit of joy out of the bad credit situation of a co-worker. I know, I know. I’m terrible.
A woman I work with, let’s call her “Maria”, just started working in my department about a month ago. Immediately, she rubbed me the wrong way. I can be pretty hard on people, so I thought to myself, “lighten up Coco, just be nice to the girl!” So that’s what I did. I tried to be nice. But as I started talking to people, I realized that I wasn’t the only one that didn’t like Maria. Three other people in my department told me that Maria had also rubbed them the wrong way and they didn’t particularly care for her. Once I realized that my initial judgment was justified, all niceties went out the door.
When Maria was first hired, we ran a background check on her and her credit was HORRENDOUS. It was so bad, I was surprised that her credit score wasn’t in the negative numbers! She had almost one hundred thousand dollars in credit card debt that was in collection and charged off. The list of her credit card accounts both open and closed went on for days. Her car was repossessed, she defaulted on student loans, it was the pits. I honestly had never seen anything like it before. The director of my department was extremely alarmed by this and was adamant about not hiring her. In his words, “if she’s this irresponsible with her own money, how responsible can she be if we put her in charge of a budget?” A very good argument I must say. My manager really wanted her though. Supposedly, Maria was the best candidate we interviewed so my boss fought hard to bring her on board. When confronted with her sketchy credit past, Maria claimed she wasn’t able to pay her bills because her father was ill and she had to take time off work to care for him, causing her financial hardship. But that doesn’t quite explain why someone making $50K a year charged $30K to Pottery Barn. That’s not called hardship, that’s called LIVING BEYOND YOUR MEANS! And more importantly, why would someone living in a one bedroom apartment in the Bronx charge $30K to Pottery Barn? Did she personally furnish every unit in her entire building? Or did she just get overzealous with throw pillows and book ends?
Anyhoo, my boss eventually won and Maria was hired. But once she came on board and started acting like a bitch on a power trip, I started reminiscing about her messed up credit. And every time she did something that irked or annoyed me, I took a low blow and said something completely ridiculous under the guise of just making small talk.
“Did you see Grey’s Anatomy last night? What’s your FICO score?”
“Ya know, people with bad credit shouldn’t buy coffee from Starbucks. It’s just not a wise investment.”
“I find it amusing that people with bad credit continue to apply for credit cards. How funny is that!”
“Did you know that if you have bad credit, you can’t adopt a puppy from a shelter?”
“People who have bad credit shouldn’t throw stones at glass houses…or something like that.”
I WISH you could have seen the expression on Maria’s face when I would make these seemingly random comments about bad credit! She has no idea that I’m privy to her financial situation, so I’m sure she finds it odd that out of the blue I’ll say something like, “Do you happen to know what time it is? Man, I’m so glad I don’t have bad credit.” I know, it’s childish, immature, and I should definitely know better. But it’s also hilarious! When you’re dealing with an insecure, passive aggressive woman that has proven herself to be conniving and untrustworthy, it’s awfully hard not to stoop to her level. I realize that I’m being just as bad as she is by constantly saying these things, so I’m putting forth an effort to curtail my behavior. But seriously, people with bad credit shouldn’t throw stones at glass houses.
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Vomit on my ankle - A reoccurring experience
Last summer, my friend Aina and I were headed to a birthday party in Lewisham, a town just outside of London. Once we got to the train station, we continued our journey on the bus but had absolutely no luck in finding the party.
"Aina, this is ridiculous," I said (as usual). "We're never going to find this place, let's just turn around and go back home."
Just as I was finishing that sentence, a woman standing in the aisle threw up all over the place. Vomit was everywhere! Aina was sitting in the outside seat so she practically jumped onto my lap to avoid getting showered in the drunk woman's puke. Fortunately, not much of it got on us. I think Aina got a little on her leg and some got on my ankle. It wasn't a whole lot, but just enough to make me nauseous and gag uncontrollably until we got off the bus.
Fast forward 7 or 8 months later and I find myself in a similar situation again. I was on the 1 train (I gotta stop with this public transportation stuff) and I was writing my to-do list in my notebook. I wasn't paying attention to anything that was going on around me, but suddenly I felt something warm and moist on my ankle. I looked down and saw vomit all over the place. My first thought was, "Where in the hell did this come from?!" I must have really been in the zone because less than two feet away from me someone threw up, incited panic, exited at the next stop, and I didn't notice a thing until the crap started running down my ankle. What a loser! (And I'm referring to myself, not the asshole that threw up).
"Aina, this is ridiculous," I said (as usual). "We're never going to find this place, let's just turn around and go back home."
Just as I was finishing that sentence, a woman standing in the aisle threw up all over the place. Vomit was everywhere! Aina was sitting in the outside seat so she practically jumped onto my lap to avoid getting showered in the drunk woman's puke. Fortunately, not much of it got on us. I think Aina got a little on her leg and some got on my ankle. It wasn't a whole lot, but just enough to make me nauseous and gag uncontrollably until we got off the bus.
Fast forward 7 or 8 months later and I find myself in a similar situation again. I was on the 1 train (I gotta stop with this public transportation stuff) and I was writing my to-do list in my notebook. I wasn't paying attention to anything that was going on around me, but suddenly I felt something warm and moist on my ankle. I looked down and saw vomit all over the place. My first thought was, "Where in the hell did this come from?!" I must have really been in the zone because less than two feet away from me someone threw up, incited panic, exited at the next stop, and I didn't notice a thing until the crap started running down my ankle. What a loser! (And I'm referring to myself, not the asshole that threw up).
Wednesday, December 20, 2006
Second chances
I hadn’t been following this Miss America fiasco, but I saw a headline on MSN yesterday that said “Miss USA going to rehab, will keep crown,” and I immediately thought to myself, “WTF?”
I believe second chances are a good thing. No one is perfect and we all make mistakes so it’s only fair that we be given the opportunity to redeem ourselves once we screw up. We’ve had actresses run over people and flee the scene and we’ve had an impeached president go on to become a best-selling author. But one thing I’ve noticed about public figures (and even non-public figures) who mess up, if the mistake involves illegal drugs of any sort, they must pay the price before a second chance is even considered. Case in point, Kate Moss.
When the pictures of Cocaine Kate surfaced showing her looking pretty damn fabulous in preparation to snort a line of coke, she lost just about every contract she had. H&M dropped her, Burberry gave her the boot, Chanel quietly dismissed her, and then jewelry behemoth H. Stern told Kate to keep it moving. She lost millions and became the topic of much debate and scandal. But Kate bounced back. After “going to rehab” (I firmly believe the chick still gets high, how else can you explain her continued relationship with Pete Dougherty?) a new and improved Kate scored new, lucrative deals and was soon making more money than she was before her cocaine bust. After she was fired, kicked around and tossed aside, she was given a second chance and came back with a vengeance.
The story seems to be a little different with Tara Conner.
After winning the Miss America title 8 months ago, Tara moved to New York where she is sharing an apartment in Trump Plaza with the winner of the Miss Teen USA pageant. Both girls were seen all over NYC barhopping until the wee hours of the morning, getting completely wasted despite being underage, making out with each other at clubs, dancing on table tops and inviting all kinds of men back to their apartment. Tara was constantly criticized in the NY tabloids about her party animal behavior and amid speculation of drug use she was given a drug test and failed. Turns out that small-town Tara is a bonafide coke-head.
So now that we know the true character of the woman attending all of these charity events as the face of all that’s good in America and inadvertently serving as a role-model for young girls who are forced into pageantry by their mothers, isn’t it only fair she be fired, kicked around and tossed aside just like Kate Moss?
Maybe I’m being too harsh, but as much as I believe in second chances, I also believe that when a precedent is set it’s only fair that everyone suffer the same fate. When pictures of Vanessa Williams surfaced in Playboy shortly after she won the Miss America crown, her title was promptly stripped and given to the first runner-up. Vanessa took those pictures way before she even participated in the pageant, but nonetheless her crown was still taken away. And she didn’t even snort or hit the pipe! In 2002, Miss Universe was stripped of her crown for not showing up to photo shoots and charity events. Once again, no nose candy or pipe to speak of; just an attendance problem. So here we have a woman who not only is a drug abusing lush, but also hooks up with Miss Teen USA of all people and this is who we let keep the crown???
I’m sorry, but I don’t care if she’s a country girl who got swept up in the big city, I don’t care that she’s barely legal and made poor juvenile decisions, and I don’t care if she gives a press conference crying her eyes out about how she won’t let anyone down. A precedent was set – you f*ck up, you’re out. Plain and simple. As a friend of mine likes to say, “you knew what it was from the beginning.” When you make the decision to become a representation of the US, you make the decision to live your life (or at least your reign) under a microscope. So stop your crying! Tara should just count her lucky stars that her only punishment is a little bit of embarrassment because she could have easily been sent back to the backwoods of Kentucky; good thing for her The Donald is a sucker for pretty young things.
I believe second chances are a good thing. No one is perfect and we all make mistakes so it’s only fair that we be given the opportunity to redeem ourselves once we screw up. We’ve had actresses run over people and flee the scene and we’ve had an impeached president go on to become a best-selling author. But one thing I’ve noticed about public figures (and even non-public figures) who mess up, if the mistake involves illegal drugs of any sort, they must pay the price before a second chance is even considered. Case in point, Kate Moss.
When the pictures of Cocaine Kate surfaced showing her looking pretty damn fabulous in preparation to snort a line of coke, she lost just about every contract she had. H&M dropped her, Burberry gave her the boot, Chanel quietly dismissed her, and then jewelry behemoth H. Stern told Kate to keep it moving. She lost millions and became the topic of much debate and scandal. But Kate bounced back. After “going to rehab” (I firmly believe the chick still gets high, how else can you explain her continued relationship with Pete Dougherty?) a new and improved Kate scored new, lucrative deals and was soon making more money than she was before her cocaine bust. After she was fired, kicked around and tossed aside, she was given a second chance and came back with a vengeance.
The story seems to be a little different with Tara Conner.
After winning the Miss America title 8 months ago, Tara moved to New York where she is sharing an apartment in Trump Plaza with the winner of the Miss Teen USA pageant. Both girls were seen all over NYC barhopping until the wee hours of the morning, getting completely wasted despite being underage, making out with each other at clubs, dancing on table tops and inviting all kinds of men back to their apartment. Tara was constantly criticized in the NY tabloids about her party animal behavior and amid speculation of drug use she was given a drug test and failed. Turns out that small-town Tara is a bonafide coke-head.
So now that we know the true character of the woman attending all of these charity events as the face of all that’s good in America and inadvertently serving as a role-model for young girls who are forced into pageantry by their mothers, isn’t it only fair she be fired, kicked around and tossed aside just like Kate Moss?
Maybe I’m being too harsh, but as much as I believe in second chances, I also believe that when a precedent is set it’s only fair that everyone suffer the same fate. When pictures of Vanessa Williams surfaced in Playboy shortly after she won the Miss America crown, her title was promptly stripped and given to the first runner-up. Vanessa took those pictures way before she even participated in the pageant, but nonetheless her crown was still taken away. And she didn’t even snort or hit the pipe! In 2002, Miss Universe was stripped of her crown for not showing up to photo shoots and charity events. Once again, no nose candy or pipe to speak of; just an attendance problem. So here we have a woman who not only is a drug abusing lush, but also hooks up with Miss Teen USA of all people and this is who we let keep the crown???
I’m sorry, but I don’t care if she’s a country girl who got swept up in the big city, I don’t care that she’s barely legal and made poor juvenile decisions, and I don’t care if she gives a press conference crying her eyes out about how she won’t let anyone down. A precedent was set – you f*ck up, you’re out. Plain and simple. As a friend of mine likes to say, “you knew what it was from the beginning.” When you make the decision to become a representation of the US, you make the decision to live your life (or at least your reign) under a microscope. So stop your crying! Tara should just count her lucky stars that her only punishment is a little bit of embarrassment because she could have easily been sent back to the backwoods of Kentucky; good thing for her The Donald is a sucker for pretty young things.
Monday, December 18, 2006
Child rearing on the 6
I was on my way to the Met to meet up with friends this weekend, but instead of trying unsuccessfully to hail a cab, I jumped on the uptown 6 train. Riding on the 6 reminds me of J. Lo. Once upon a time I used to think, “All I have to do is ride the 6 everyday and eventually I’ll become an international superstar with my own clothing line and anorexic husband!” Coincidentally, a woman sitting across from me was reading an issue of Vogue Living and J. Ho, I mean J. Lo was on the cover. I was looking at the magazine, my mind wandering some place that I can’t quite remember when all of a sudden my daze was rudely interrupted by a screaming child.
Right next to the lady reading Vogue sat a screaming toddler that looked exactly like Bubba Sparx. He was kicking his legs and flailing his arms all over the place, so his mother said, “Stop screaming!! If you kick the lady, I swear to God I’m going to punch you.” Part of me wanted to laugh, but part of me was in a state of shock after hearing the woman repeatedly say, “Do it, I dare you. I swear if you kick the lady I’m going to punch you.”
Bubba called her bluff and two seconds later he kicked the lady in the arm, causing the Vogue to fall out of her hands and on to the floor. As soon as he did it, I held my breath; As much as I dislike ill-mannered kids, I was seriously hoping that this woman wouldn’t punch her child! Thankfully, she didn’t. Instead, she grabbed him by the collar, picked him up and slammed him into his stroller and yelled, “Mutherf*cker you know you make me mad when you do that!”
Lock your doors people. In 10-15 years Bubba is going to grow up to be a very resentful, angry young man and thanks to his sorry ass mother, more than likely he will try to kill someone.
Right next to the lady reading Vogue sat a screaming toddler that looked exactly like Bubba Sparx. He was kicking his legs and flailing his arms all over the place, so his mother said, “Stop screaming!! If you kick the lady, I swear to God I’m going to punch you.” Part of me wanted to laugh, but part of me was in a state of shock after hearing the woman repeatedly say, “Do it, I dare you. I swear if you kick the lady I’m going to punch you.”
Bubba called her bluff and two seconds later he kicked the lady in the arm, causing the Vogue to fall out of her hands and on to the floor. As soon as he did it, I held my breath; As much as I dislike ill-mannered kids, I was seriously hoping that this woman wouldn’t punch her child! Thankfully, she didn’t. Instead, she grabbed him by the collar, picked him up and slammed him into his stroller and yelled, “Mutherf*cker you know you make me mad when you do that!”
Lock your doors people. In 10-15 years Bubba is going to grow up to be a very resentful, angry young man and thanks to his sorry ass mother, more than likely he will try to kill someone.
Thursday, December 14, 2006
The Greatest Stalker of All Time: Google, Inc.
I have no idea when Google was first introduced, but what I do know is that my life would never be the same without it. In the early years, Yahoo was my search engine of choice; it was one stop shopping! On one site I could check my email, get my daily gossip fix, get the headline news, check scores from last night's football game, get the forecast, chat with my friends on messenger and do the usual searches when I needed info. People were always talking about how great Google was, but I didn't really like it because the homepage was so plain. Its blank white screen was a far cry from all of the entertaining and distracting links and photos on Yahoo's page. But eventually, I began using Google's search engine exclusively because it seemed to give me more relevant and accurate information than all the other engines combined.
Little by little, I was using Google for EVERYTHING. They introduced Google Earth, a really cool 3D map of the world that you can zoom in and out of, viewing everything from the playground at your old school to the topography and terrain of the Tuscan countryside.
Then there was Blogger. What was once a bootleg site used by pseudo-writers (including myself) to produce their blogs, is now a damn good site that made blogging a helluva lot easier once Google got their hands on it. In addition to all of that, there's Google Maps for the directionally challenged, Google Picasa for those of you who are sick to death of Shutterfly, Google Sketchup for you design people, Google Video Player, Google Calender, Google Talk, Google Mars, Google Moon, GOOGLE, GOOGLE, GOOGLE! Everything on the planet (and apparently outer space too) is run by Google!! Just a few months ago they purchased YouTube, solidifying their stake in the stalker-web world.
It's not all of those services alone that makes Google the G-SOAT(Greatest Stalker of All Time), it's actually their new email service, Gmail that takes the cake.
I resisted switching to Gmail, but now I'm sold. You can easily search through emails using keywords, a nifty chat system allows you to IM friends, you can archive emails, and all of your email conversations are kept in the body of one single email. So when I send an email to 20 people, instead of having a million new messages arrive in my inbox, all replies are kept in the body of one email so that I can easily keep track of the conversations. How cool is that?
I noticed one day that there are lots of ads within Gmail. I also noticed that the ads were products or services that were directly related to whatever email I was currently reading. A friend of mine that works at UBS Investment Bank sent me an email and while I was reading it I noticed an ad about the private wealth management services offered by UBS. My friend replied to an email I sent to her in which I was talking about how I really wanted a tuna melt with lots of cheese and a new lease. Right next to that email were ads for Starkist Tuna and a new luxury apartment high-rise in Manhattan. Then all of a sudden I realized that it wasn't a coincidence; Google was reading my emails and playing on my sympathies by showing me those "sponsored links." STALKERS!!!
So not only do I plan my day on Google Calender, chat on Google Talk, search for everything under the sun on Google.com, send all kinds of incriminating evidence over Gmail, but I'm also suckered into clicking on links and potentially spending money all because of a conversation I'm having with my cousin about Triscuits and leather boots. How ridiculous is that! Google, Inc. has access to almost every facet of my life -- Who I talk to and how often I talk to them, what I love, what I hate, what my plans are for the day, who I stalk on the web, what sites I like to visit, what words I have trouble spelling, where I'm traveling to for the holidays, what videos I watch over and over again, etc., etc. Google knows and remembers just about every single thing that millions of people do once they log into a service that is provided by google.com. Pretty ridiculous, huh?
But that doesn't scare me; I want more!
The good people at Google, Inc. need to take technology just a few steps further and develop more services, like Google Child - a site that gives birth to your child and happily raises them from the ages of 5-18 and pays their college tuition. Or maybe even Google Smack-a-Ho, the service that will beat a bitch's ass for you when you don't want to risk messing up your hair or getting your own ass beat in the process. And let's not forget Google Find Me A Good Man - the site that automatically compiles the information of billions of eligible bachelors from around the world that don't owe back child support. Google already has the well deserved reputation of G-SOAT, so they should just go ahead and make the world an even better place and offer Google Government Assistance - the site that completely removes retarded, washed-up, incompetent, and loser politicians from office.
Little by little, I was using Google for EVERYTHING. They introduced Google Earth, a really cool 3D map of the world that you can zoom in and out of, viewing everything from the playground at your old school to the topography and terrain of the Tuscan countryside.
Then there was Blogger. What was once a bootleg site used by pseudo-writers (including myself) to produce their blogs, is now a damn good site that made blogging a helluva lot easier once Google got their hands on it. In addition to all of that, there's Google Maps for the directionally challenged, Google Picasa for those of you who are sick to death of Shutterfly, Google Sketchup for you design people, Google Video Player, Google Calender, Google Talk, Google Mars, Google Moon, GOOGLE, GOOGLE, GOOGLE! Everything on the planet (and apparently outer space too) is run by Google!! Just a few months ago they purchased YouTube, solidifying their stake in the stalker-web world.
It's not all of those services alone that makes Google the G-SOAT(Greatest Stalker of All Time), it's actually their new email service, Gmail that takes the cake.
I resisted switching to Gmail, but now I'm sold. You can easily search through emails using keywords, a nifty chat system allows you to IM friends, you can archive emails, and all of your email conversations are kept in the body of one single email. So when I send an email to 20 people, instead of having a million new messages arrive in my inbox, all replies are kept in the body of one email so that I can easily keep track of the conversations. How cool is that?
I noticed one day that there are lots of ads within Gmail. I also noticed that the ads were products or services that were directly related to whatever email I was currently reading. A friend of mine that works at UBS Investment Bank sent me an email and while I was reading it I noticed an ad about the private wealth management services offered by UBS. My friend replied to an email I sent to her in which I was talking about how I really wanted a tuna melt with lots of cheese and a new lease. Right next to that email were ads for Starkist Tuna and a new luxury apartment high-rise in Manhattan. Then all of a sudden I realized that it wasn't a coincidence; Google was reading my emails and playing on my sympathies by showing me those "sponsored links." STALKERS!!!
So not only do I plan my day on Google Calender, chat on Google Talk, search for everything under the sun on Google.com, send all kinds of incriminating evidence over Gmail, but I'm also suckered into clicking on links and potentially spending money all because of a conversation I'm having with my cousin about Triscuits and leather boots. How ridiculous is that! Google, Inc. has access to almost every facet of my life -- Who I talk to and how often I talk to them, what I love, what I hate, what my plans are for the day, who I stalk on the web, what sites I like to visit, what words I have trouble spelling, where I'm traveling to for the holidays, what videos I watch over and over again, etc., etc. Google knows and remembers just about every single thing that millions of people do once they log into a service that is provided by google.com. Pretty ridiculous, huh?
But that doesn't scare me; I want more!
The good people at Google, Inc. need to take technology just a few steps further and develop more services, like Google Child - a site that gives birth to your child and happily raises them from the ages of 5-18 and pays their college tuition. Or maybe even Google Smack-a-Ho, the service that will beat a bitch's ass for you when you don't want to risk messing up your hair or getting your own ass beat in the process. And let's not forget Google Find Me A Good Man - the site that automatically compiles the information of billions of eligible bachelors from around the world that don't owe back child support. Google already has the well deserved reputation of G-SOAT, so they should just go ahead and make the world an even better place and offer Google Government Assistance - the site that completely removes retarded, washed-up, incompetent, and loser politicians from office.
Saturday, December 09, 2006
Quietly judging myself
So yes, I judge people. But as hard as I am on people, I'm equally hard on myself as well. Over the course of the past few months I've berated myself with names like stupid, retard, lazy, ridiculous, so on and so forth. And it was all due to my recent life transition.
After spending an amazingly fun-filled year in London, this past August I moved back to the US. Just as summer was fading away, I was having panic attacks at the thought of moving back to Ohio and sitting around my parents house watching tv until I got bed sores. I wanted to move to New York, but the idea of moving there with no job, no home, no money, and no clue, it didn't seem like the best idea. But then my brother's girlfriend and my dad came to the rescue. My brother's girlfriend gave me a great job lead that actually turned into an offer I accepted, and my dad asked an old friend if I could crash with her for a bit and she happily said yes. It all seemed to be coming together!
But let's not forget that I'm fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and I change my mind like most people change their underwear. Mix all of that together in a big ol' pot and what you end up with is a pretty f*cked up situation.
It all started so well. I really liked the new job, my new friend that I was staying with was great and I seemed to be dealing quite well with the reverse culture shock. I waited a couple of weeks before I started the apartment search, I wanted to relax and take my time with it just to be sure I found something that I really liked. But even though I was forewarned time and time again, the apartment search was more difficult than I could have ever imagined. I'm convinced that it's easier to adopt a Cambodian baby then it is to find a decent apartment in New York. I nixed the idea of having a roommate. I had four when I lived in London and one of them was a borderline drunk that had the tendency to piss on floors and throw pumpkins out of windows, so I'm sure you understand why I wanted to go it alone. However, living solo in NYC is a costly proposition. While trying to firmly stick to my budget, I looked at one sh*thole apartment after another, including one that was $1K a month but had no bathroom, no kitchen of any kind, and the "bedroom" was actually a crawl space in the ceiling that could only be reached by climbing a ladder. Things weren't looking so hot!
Day after day, I went here and there searching high and low for a home of my own, but wasn't having any luck. Yes, there were times when I did see a few that could have worked very well. But because I'm fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and I change my mind like most people change their underwear, I passed on them and instantly regretted it after realizing how truly ridiculous I was being.
Studio on the Upper West Side
"Are you going to re-finish these floors? No? Ok, I don't think I'm interested."
1 BR in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn
"Is there anyway that you can replace the bathtub? No? Ok, I think I'm going to continue my search."
Studio in Harlem
"Are those children I hear? Ok, what other buildings do you have?"
1 BR in Jersey City
"Are you going to re-tile the bathroom? No? Ok, I need to pray on this."
Studio in Washington Heights
"Gosh this is small! Do you realize how small this is? Where does the bed go!? Thanks, but no thanks!"
Studio in Hoboken
"You want $1,500 for this? What do you think this is, Manhattan???"
Studio in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn
"Wow, a fireplace! Ooooh, these oak floors are beautiful! CROWN MOLDING!!! Wait, where's the bathtub? There's only a shower stall? There's only 1 closet in this entire place? Can you please show me the way out?"
1 BR in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn
"Isn't this the neighborhood where Biggie is from? I could have sworn I heard about it in rap songs! Yeah, I need to keep in moving."
1 BR in Crown Heights, Brooklyn
"Can you PLEASE replace these floors? Also, am I allowed to hang chandeliers? What do you mean 'get out'?"
Yes my friends, I passed on a few very good apartments all for very, very ridiculous reasons. Time was running out. I was dangerously close to murdering my friend's sedity dog and I think she was getting sick and tired of me taking over her living room. We had a bit of a riff one weekend and I decided enough was enough, I had to go. I moved into an apartment in Jersey City and within 2 days, I wanted out. The apartment itself was great. 1 BR, very spacious, great bathroom, good building, etc. But I couldn't get over the fact I was living in Jersey. My commute to work was a bitch, Fresh Direct didn't deliver in my zip code, the blocks surrounding my areas were unsavory, and I lived directly across the street from a freakin' fire department. It was an all-around bad situation. So not only was I living in dirty Jerz, but I was awakened at 4am by firetrucks and couldn't even have my groceries delivered. It was time to go.
Thankfully, my landlord of 5 days understood and let me out of the lease (but only after giving me back half the money I gave him). I was annoyed by it, but it was a small price to pay to get the heck of out Jersey and back in NY where I belonged. I was in total agreement with my friend Christen, "you can't live a Sex & the City lifestyle living in dirty Jerz."
I was given exactly 3 days to vacate, so that meant I had just 72 hours to find a new apartment, sign a lease, and get moved in. Talk about pressure! Craigslist had become my new bestfriend and obsession, so I spent every waking moment browsing the listings hoping to find something in my price range in NY that wouldn't give me the willies. I came across a basement apartment in Brooklyn and decided to go for it.
At first glance, it seemed cool. It had new appliances, the landlord was nice, it was definitely in my price range, and freshly painted. There were only three things that bothered me: it was a basement apartment, it was far as hell, and the bathrooms were split. One bathroom had a shower stall and sink (boooo, no tub!), while the other bathroom had the toilet and another sink. Very bizarre. But I was in a time crunch and they basically offered me the place right there on the spot, so I took it. Yay! I found a new apartment in just 24 hours!
You know me, it didn't take long for me to start having issues with my new place. On my second day, I noticed an occasional bug here and there. Fair enough, it is the basement after all, these things happen. A few days later, I noticed just how ridiculous the kitchen floor was. Not only was it ugly, but it was horribly stained with orange paint that the last tenant used to paint the place. No amount of scrubbing can get rid of orange paint stains on linoleum. The very next day, a pipe in the bathroom burst and water was everywhere! I had to go stay with my friend Kea for a couple of days until they got everything patched and repaired. After about 3 weeks, I figured I was cool. The bugs were now non-existent, the landlord agreed to replace the kitchen floor (yes!), and I was in the process of picking out furniture to turn this little basement into my home. But then, tragedy struck. I was on the phone talking to one of my friends when I saw a little mouse peer from behind one of my favorite pair of shoes.
I. Almost. Died.
My reaction to this was probably a little abnormal. I grabbed my laptop and started looking for a cat on Craigslist. If there's anything that will get rid of mice, it's definitely a cat! Within 2 hours, I had arranged for 3 cats to be delivered to my house the very next day. Never mind that I'm allergic to cats, never mind that I barely have enough time to look after myself properly; what the hell was I going to do with THREE cats running around my place? Talk about a mess! Between cat hair, the litter box, furniture being scratched up, and probably coming home to the cats tossing around dead mice, I realized I wasn't being quite ridiculous enough. Why bother trying to get rid of the suckers when I could just move, right? Because moving to a third residence in as many months is a perfectly logical thing to do!
So that's what I did; I moved. Again.
Honestly, I tried to put up a good fight. I'm like 500 times bigger than a mouse so there is no reason why they should be running ish, but seriously, I was scare to death. I was creeping around my apartment and peeping around corners like I was dodging an assassin's bullet. Just when I had agreed to let the exterminators come and do their work so I could stay in the apartment, I heard mice running around inside the ceiling. I felt like at any minute the ceiling was just going to open up and hundreds of screeching mice were going to come pouring down on me. So I started ducking, I started dodging, and I ran into my bedroom and started crying. It was all over for me, the mice won.
I was fortunate enough in that the very next day I found an apartment that I really love. The oak floors are immaculate, the bathroom is newly renovated with the most adorable pedestal sink I've ever seen, brand new appliances, no bug or rodent problems and Fresh Direct delivers:-) I'm in temporary quarters at the moment and will be moving into my new place January 1st, and will be signing a year lease that I have no intention of breaking. I did see quite a few children running around when I went on my second viewing, but I've been through this enough to know that I can't have everything. Even though I'm known for being fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and changing my mind like most people change their underwear, I would like to to think that New York is aggressively chipping away at those negative attributes. I've been an absolute mess when it comes to this whole apartment thing and I have no problems with telling you just how ridiculous I have been; If I can't judge yourself, then I have absolutely no business judging anyone.
After spending an amazingly fun-filled year in London, this past August I moved back to the US. Just as summer was fading away, I was having panic attacks at the thought of moving back to Ohio and sitting around my parents house watching tv until I got bed sores. I wanted to move to New York, but the idea of moving there with no job, no home, no money, and no clue, it didn't seem like the best idea. But then my brother's girlfriend and my dad came to the rescue. My brother's girlfriend gave me a great job lead that actually turned into an offer I accepted, and my dad asked an old friend if I could crash with her for a bit and she happily said yes. It all seemed to be coming together!
But let's not forget that I'm fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and I change my mind like most people change their underwear. Mix all of that together in a big ol' pot and what you end up with is a pretty f*cked up situation.
It all started so well. I really liked the new job, my new friend that I was staying with was great and I seemed to be dealing quite well with the reverse culture shock. I waited a couple of weeks before I started the apartment search, I wanted to relax and take my time with it just to be sure I found something that I really liked. But even though I was forewarned time and time again, the apartment search was more difficult than I could have ever imagined. I'm convinced that it's easier to adopt a Cambodian baby then it is to find a decent apartment in New York. I nixed the idea of having a roommate. I had four when I lived in London and one of them was a borderline drunk that had the tendency to piss on floors and throw pumpkins out of windows, so I'm sure you understand why I wanted to go it alone. However, living solo in NYC is a costly proposition. While trying to firmly stick to my budget, I looked at one sh*thole apartment after another, including one that was $1K a month but had no bathroom, no kitchen of any kind, and the "bedroom" was actually a crawl space in the ceiling that could only be reached by climbing a ladder. Things weren't looking so hot!
Day after day, I went here and there searching high and low for a home of my own, but wasn't having any luck. Yes, there were times when I did see a few that could have worked very well. But because I'm fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and I change my mind like most people change their underwear, I passed on them and instantly regretted it after realizing how truly ridiculous I was being.
Studio on the Upper West Side
"Are you going to re-finish these floors? No? Ok, I don't think I'm interested."
1 BR in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn
"Is there anyway that you can replace the bathtub? No? Ok, I think I'm going to continue my search."
Studio in Harlem
"Are those children I hear? Ok, what other buildings do you have?"
1 BR in Jersey City
"Are you going to re-tile the bathroom? No? Ok, I need to pray on this."
Studio in Washington Heights
"Gosh this is small! Do you realize how small this is? Where does the bed go!? Thanks, but no thanks!"
Studio in Hoboken
"You want $1,500 for this? What do you think this is, Manhattan???"
Studio in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn
"Wow, a fireplace! Ooooh, these oak floors are beautiful! CROWN MOLDING!!! Wait, where's the bathtub? There's only a shower stall? There's only 1 closet in this entire place? Can you please show me the way out?"
1 BR in Bed-Stuy, Brooklyn
"Isn't this the neighborhood where Biggie is from? I could have sworn I heard about it in rap songs! Yeah, I need to keep in moving."
1 BR in Crown Heights, Brooklyn
"Can you PLEASE replace these floors? Also, am I allowed to hang chandeliers? What do you mean 'get out'?"
Yes my friends, I passed on a few very good apartments all for very, very ridiculous reasons. Time was running out. I was dangerously close to murdering my friend's sedity dog and I think she was getting sick and tired of me taking over her living room. We had a bit of a riff one weekend and I decided enough was enough, I had to go. I moved into an apartment in Jersey City and within 2 days, I wanted out. The apartment itself was great. 1 BR, very spacious, great bathroom, good building, etc. But I couldn't get over the fact I was living in Jersey. My commute to work was a bitch, Fresh Direct didn't deliver in my zip code, the blocks surrounding my areas were unsavory, and I lived directly across the street from a freakin' fire department. It was an all-around bad situation. So not only was I living in dirty Jerz, but I was awakened at 4am by firetrucks and couldn't even have my groceries delivered. It was time to go.
Thankfully, my landlord of 5 days understood and let me out of the lease (but only after giving me back half the money I gave him). I was annoyed by it, but it was a small price to pay to get the heck of out Jersey and back in NY where I belonged. I was in total agreement with my friend Christen, "you can't live a Sex & the City lifestyle living in dirty Jerz."
I was given exactly 3 days to vacate, so that meant I had just 72 hours to find a new apartment, sign a lease, and get moved in. Talk about pressure! Craigslist had become my new bestfriend and obsession, so I spent every waking moment browsing the listings hoping to find something in my price range in NY that wouldn't give me the willies. I came across a basement apartment in Brooklyn and decided to go for it.
At first glance, it seemed cool. It had new appliances, the landlord was nice, it was definitely in my price range, and freshly painted. There were only three things that bothered me: it was a basement apartment, it was far as hell, and the bathrooms were split. One bathroom had a shower stall and sink (boooo, no tub!), while the other bathroom had the toilet and another sink. Very bizarre. But I was in a time crunch and they basically offered me the place right there on the spot, so I took it. Yay! I found a new apartment in just 24 hours!
You know me, it didn't take long for me to start having issues with my new place. On my second day, I noticed an occasional bug here and there. Fair enough, it is the basement after all, these things happen. A few days later, I noticed just how ridiculous the kitchen floor was. Not only was it ugly, but it was horribly stained with orange paint that the last tenant used to paint the place. No amount of scrubbing can get rid of orange paint stains on linoleum. The very next day, a pipe in the bathroom burst and water was everywhere! I had to go stay with my friend Kea for a couple of days until they got everything patched and repaired. After about 3 weeks, I figured I was cool. The bugs were now non-existent, the landlord agreed to replace the kitchen floor (yes!), and I was in the process of picking out furniture to turn this little basement into my home. But then, tragedy struck. I was on the phone talking to one of my friends when I saw a little mouse peer from behind one of my favorite pair of shoes.
I. Almost. Died.
My reaction to this was probably a little abnormal. I grabbed my laptop and started looking for a cat on Craigslist. If there's anything that will get rid of mice, it's definitely a cat! Within 2 hours, I had arranged for 3 cats to be delivered to my house the very next day. Never mind that I'm allergic to cats, never mind that I barely have enough time to look after myself properly; what the hell was I going to do with THREE cats running around my place? Talk about a mess! Between cat hair, the litter box, furniture being scratched up, and probably coming home to the cats tossing around dead mice, I realized I wasn't being quite ridiculous enough. Why bother trying to get rid of the suckers when I could just move, right? Because moving to a third residence in as many months is a perfectly logical thing to do!
So that's what I did; I moved. Again.
Honestly, I tried to put up a good fight. I'm like 500 times bigger than a mouse so there is no reason why they should be running ish, but seriously, I was scare to death. I was creeping around my apartment and peeping around corners like I was dodging an assassin's bullet. Just when I had agreed to let the exterminators come and do their work so I could stay in the apartment, I heard mice running around inside the ceiling. I felt like at any minute the ceiling was just going to open up and hundreds of screeching mice were going to come pouring down on me. So I started ducking, I started dodging, and I ran into my bedroom and started crying. It was all over for me, the mice won.
I was fortunate enough in that the very next day I found an apartment that I really love. The oak floors are immaculate, the bathroom is newly renovated with the most adorable pedestal sink I've ever seen, brand new appliances, no bug or rodent problems and Fresh Direct delivers:-) I'm in temporary quarters at the moment and will be moving into my new place January 1st, and will be signing a year lease that I have no intention of breaking. I did see quite a few children running around when I went on my second viewing, but I've been through this enough to know that I can't have everything. Even though I'm known for being fickle, introverted, easily annoyed, judgmental, slightly sedity, very dramatic, passive aggressive, and changing my mind like most people change their underwear, I would like to to think that New York is aggressively chipping away at those negative attributes. I've been an absolute mess when it comes to this whole apartment thing and I have no problems with telling you just how ridiculous I have been; If I can't judge yourself, then I have absolutely no business judging anyone.
Sunday, December 03, 2006
You remind me of a pimple I once had on my forehead
With the exception of my baby daddy, when I listen to music I usually ignore the lyrics and focus on the music itself. I do this because 90% of the time the lyrics really suck and once I know them, I stop liking the song. Case in point, "A Dozen Roses" by Monica. Initially I liked this song, partly because I had no idea what she was saying and the music was catchy. I kept hearing a reference to Gucci shoes, so of course I was compelled to take a closer listen and hear exactly what she was talking about. Here is a sampling...
Boy you remind me, remind me of my Gucci shoes
Everytime you walk past, all the girls be looking at you
You got style just like a Bentley coupe
And I be losing my mind everytime I get next to you...
Boy you remind me of 26s on my ride
Complete spinning around looking like a superstar...
Like the ice on my wrist, its like kick on my hip
MAC on my lips, Armor Oil on my whip, butter on my shrimp...
Baby you always stay on my mind
You're just like my rims, you shine...
Keep a money clip you remind me of a tip
Like a pair of jeans from Abercrombie when they rip...
WTF?
Maybe I'm old fashion, maybe I'm sedity, or maybe I'm a bit of both; but if someone I loved told me that I'm like a pair of jeans from Abercrombie when they rip, or like butter on his shrimp, excuse me for being a tad bit offended! Are these what love songs are these days, being compared to lip gloss and car wax? Give me a break! I fully admit that when R. Kelly came out with "You Remind Me of My Jeep", I played that song until it couldn't be played anymore. It was original, it was risque, it was hilarious. But seriously, this mess has got to stop. What's next? Comparing your boyfriend to the creamy sauce on your noodles? Or maybe telling your girl your love for her is as strong as the boil in your armpit? Someone needs to tell these losers to stop writing songs because the ish has gotten out of hand!
Boy you remind me, remind me of my Gucci shoes
Everytime you walk past, all the girls be looking at you
You got style just like a Bentley coupe
And I be losing my mind everytime I get next to you...
Boy you remind me of 26s on my ride
Complete spinning around looking like a superstar...
Like the ice on my wrist, its like kick on my hip
MAC on my lips, Armor Oil on my whip, butter on my shrimp...
Baby you always stay on my mind
You're just like my rims, you shine...
Keep a money clip you remind me of a tip
Like a pair of jeans from Abercrombie when they rip...
WTF?
Maybe I'm old fashion, maybe I'm sedity, or maybe I'm a bit of both; but if someone I loved told me that I'm like a pair of jeans from Abercrombie when they rip, or like butter on his shrimp, excuse me for being a tad bit offended! Are these what love songs are these days, being compared to lip gloss and car wax? Give me a break! I fully admit that when R. Kelly came out with "You Remind Me of My Jeep", I played that song until it couldn't be played anymore. It was original, it was risque, it was hilarious. But seriously, this mess has got to stop. What's next? Comparing your boyfriend to the creamy sauce on your noodles? Or maybe telling your girl your love for her is as strong as the boil in your armpit? Someone needs to tell these losers to stop writing songs because the ish has gotten out of hand!
Saturday, December 02, 2006
Image is nothing, hair is everything?
I can’t begin to tell you the importance of image. Most people believe that when you portray a certain image that it is actually false; a façade that hides the hideous real you. Which in some cases I suppose that’s actually true. When Brittany Spears first came on the scene, we had no idea that she was really a trashy, hillbilly yokel. And who ever would have thought that Whitney Houston was really a (recovering) ghettofied crackhead! The images had us fooled, but is that really such a bad thing?
I began thinking about image a few weeks ago as I was going through resumes for a new editor position that just opened up at my job. As I sifted through all of the piles, there was one guy that I kept going back to time and time again. His resume (i.e. image) was impeccable. Ivy league grad, great internship experience, freelanced at some of the top magazines, had a stint at the NY Times and had a very strong passion for our industry. Hands down, he was the best candidate of the bunch. I called him and did a short interview over the phone and was still very impressed with him. I invited him in for an in person interview and was really looking forward to meeting him.
When Mr. Writer Extraordinaire showed up at the office, I was immediately taken aback by his hair. This dude had an afro that was out of this world! I mean, it was ridiculous! I’m not talking about a modern, styled ‘fro either. I’m talking about something that’s so scary looking, you’d expect small children to fall out of it at any minute screaming for their mothers. It was a cross between Don King and Buckwheat. Who in the hell shows up at a job interview looking like Don King or Buckwheat, unless you’re Don King or Buckwheat!?!? As we sat down and got to the business at hand, I couldn’t focus on anything because I was hypnotized by his hair.
Does he ever comb it?
Exactly what possessed him to do this? Is he just trying to keep it real?
How long has he been growing that thing?
As a black woman, I should know better. During my college years and time abroad I can’t tell you how many times confused white people have asked me similar questions.
“Why do you always wear a shower cap?”
“Why do you wrap your hair in a circle?”
“That’s a really cool scarf! How come you wear it to bed every night?”
“You don’t wash your hair everyday? That’s awesome!"
I could go on and on about the many questions non-black people have asked about my hair. I know exactly how it feels, so why was I so fixated on Writer Extraordinaire’s hair? It was because his image had me fooled. After looking at his resume and speaking with him on the phone, I expected him to look the part of the very polished and put together man that I had gotten to know on paper. But instead, I was faced with a man with unruly and spellbinding hair, and a very questionable suit. Despite of all this, I was still pulling for him to get the job, because like I said, he was the best of the bunch. The final decision wasn’t up to me, so I was hoping that everyone else would be just as impressed with him as I was and kindly ignore his unfortunate 'fro. Ultimately, Writer Extraordinaire did not get the job, and I will also wonder if his f*cked up hair was the reason behind it. Lesson of the day: comb your hair.
I began thinking about image a few weeks ago as I was going through resumes for a new editor position that just opened up at my job. As I sifted through all of the piles, there was one guy that I kept going back to time and time again. His resume (i.e. image) was impeccable. Ivy league grad, great internship experience, freelanced at some of the top magazines, had a stint at the NY Times and had a very strong passion for our industry. Hands down, he was the best candidate of the bunch. I called him and did a short interview over the phone and was still very impressed with him. I invited him in for an in person interview and was really looking forward to meeting him.
When Mr. Writer Extraordinaire showed up at the office, I was immediately taken aback by his hair. This dude had an afro that was out of this world! I mean, it was ridiculous! I’m not talking about a modern, styled ‘fro either. I’m talking about something that’s so scary looking, you’d expect small children to fall out of it at any minute screaming for their mothers. It was a cross between Don King and Buckwheat. Who in the hell shows up at a job interview looking like Don King or Buckwheat, unless you’re Don King or Buckwheat!?!? As we sat down and got to the business at hand, I couldn’t focus on anything because I was hypnotized by his hair.
Does he ever comb it?
Exactly what possessed him to do this? Is he just trying to keep it real?
How long has he been growing that thing?
As a black woman, I should know better. During my college years and time abroad I can’t tell you how many times confused white people have asked me similar questions.
“Why do you always wear a shower cap?”
“Why do you wrap your hair in a circle?”
“That’s a really cool scarf! How come you wear it to bed every night?”
“You don’t wash your hair everyday? That’s awesome!"
I could go on and on about the many questions non-black people have asked about my hair. I know exactly how it feels, so why was I so fixated on Writer Extraordinaire’s hair? It was because his image had me fooled. After looking at his resume and speaking with him on the phone, I expected him to look the part of the very polished and put together man that I had gotten to know on paper. But instead, I was faced with a man with unruly and spellbinding hair, and a very questionable suit. Despite of all this, I was still pulling for him to get the job, because like I said, he was the best of the bunch. The final decision wasn’t up to me, so I was hoping that everyone else would be just as impressed with him as I was and kindly ignore his unfortunate 'fro. Ultimately, Writer Extraordinaire did not get the job, and I will also wonder if his f*cked up hair was the reason behind it. Lesson of the day: comb your hair.
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