FLASH_____ FRIDAY: Moving On, Perhaps?

It has been a week without a post, and in my punitive mind this is not acceptable.

But I'm going to tell the punitive part of my mind to shut the fuck up so I can focus on the things that are making me feel good instead. Take THAT punitivity! You've been punitively powned.

I was planning on writing a long post about how this apartment search was making me go bonkers, but today I finally found a place that I will hopefully be able to call home.

I'm superstitious, so I'm not going to say anything more than that until I fork over the money and finalize the deed. Until my feet are planted firmly in Greenpoint and not in the hell-hole I call home right now.

Maybe I'm exaggerating. There was a time I was hopeful about my new apartment. Kensington was everything I thought I needed: space. nature. beautiful homes. closet space. the Q train.

But you know what Kensington is to me right now?

REGGAE.

The Boom Boomboomboom Boom vibrating through the chair, straight through my seated bum, making my heart pump spasmodically to the same beat. Blood pressure rising. Urge to thrust fist through floor and grab the nearest pothead I can find and scream so loud that my spit shoots down their throat. The woman with lopsided breasts, teeth missing, her face so shockingly busted that my eyes almost bulged out of my head the first time I saw her.

Don't lecture me. I'm allowed to be mean when I spend $1200 on a place that broods such aggression. Where you reach to grab your toothbrush and a cockroach says hello. Where hot water isn't hot. Even unexplained specters, fueled by the negative energy of our heated anger, have plagued us.

I will miss the antique Victorian homes....lazy afternoon brunches at Connie's....The walks in Prospect Park. Rocky's Pizza....The reliable Chinese place that gave us an extra soda for delivery....That store called "Tis Da Season Too."...The sign over the paternity test clinic that asks "Does he really have his father's eyes?"...The way the light comes through our windows during the day....the predominantly Jewish car wash....

Dear Kensington, you are not all to blame. In the beginning...it was good. But it's time for a change. Ive found a place with friendly neighbors and a landlord that might as well be my third grandmother. Where the neighborhood has hardly changed since 1920. The streets are vibrant and cozy, sharing the bustle of the city life and the charm of a main street suburb. Polish groceries on every corner. Friends that live only a subway ride away.

There's even a dishwasher.

So, I apologize for any disappointment in this Friday's post; it's not so much of a flashback, as much as it's a flashforward. Hopefully, into a better future.

And no more fucking reggae.

Jamaican Me Crazy!

I am in the middle of a tumultuous love/hate relationship with my apartment right now. In all relationships, I suppose there are ups and downs. But I fear there is no compromise to be made on this one. The whole situation has become a prolonged agony; a torment between having to make a huge change that involves time, money and stress, or dealing with daily, nerve-wracking irritations that threaten a healthy, happy lifestyle.

Kensington ain't all its cracked up to be.....despite the obvious dinosaur.

I hate apartment hunting.

In the past six years or so, I have moved about....ehh.....I would say 10 times. This is a lot of schlepping, a lot of picking and choosing, a lot of money. And it seems that every time I move I end up spending more than I did last time.

I'm sick of it.

I thought that when I moved to Kensington, I'd be done. A place of my own....and in Brooklyn! (Elmhurst, Queens was not a happening place.) But no; yet again, there are problems...even worse than before, when it was just about space and location. Now it's a matter of sanity.

Let's review the pro's and con's of my Kensington abode....

PRO's (I'm not leaving the best for last, 'cause I'm eager to end loudly on the angry points)

• Proximity to @ Prospect Park - it's only a couple of blocks away to trees, greenery and ducks
• Proximity to Q Train - we all know this is the only reliable, true Express train
• Over 700 sq. ft of room.....for all of our crap; ie, clothes, books, paperwork, somebody's eclectic record/DVD/CD collection, more clothes, more books......
• Sunny - almost too much so, but I need my Vitamin D since I never get to see the light of day during 10+ working hours
  
• Cheapo - $1200 a month is a good price these days for a place that doesn't resemble a dilapidated cardboard box

CON's
Neighborhood - though very mutli-cultural, there is not much to do for a twenty-something (who hardly gets free time in the first place). No one likes to visit "us all the way out here" (by the way: fuck you "no one"), and there are no restaurants that stay open passed 7pm....except for KFC. And we've relented on the fried chicken many times, much to the dismay of our bowels.

Landords - are useless. They smoke pot all day - which, whatever, I don't have a problem with - but if this keeps you from say, doing your job, then I would say it's a problem. Also, still waiting for him to fix the radiator which is emitting massive amounts of heat. We need to keep the window open and the fan on in the middle of winter just to breathe.

Cockroaches - they are in my sink. Their babies are under the coffee maker. They are dead in my toaster and their carcasses are hiding in my cabinets. Disembodied bug legs and antennae are causing us allergies. Cooking? What, so I can have some roach eggs in my soup? I don't think so.

We also had to chase a silverfish before it got to our bed. Do you know how fast those things are? It moves like a fucking cheetah on speed.....only with SIXTEEN LEGS. Yeah, not happy.

Mice - doesn't worry me too much. I think they are coming from the apartment below us, which leads me to my next crucial point....

Noise - this encompasses many things:

• ...the Jamaicans below us playing shitty reggae at all hours of the day AND night, which shakes our walls and floors, and beats repetitively under our pillows
• ...those same Jamaicans throwing things around their apartment as they SCREAM at each other at 7am. (I believe I've heard "No man can stand you!" and "Don't you touch him, he's only 8!", at which point I almost called child services.)
• ...one of their kids actually threatened to kill me while Ryan was home, then proceeded to taunt him through the floor by yelling, banging and BARKING as if in a drug-induced craze.
• ...and finally, the people next door to us playing shitty Gospel music, blaring through our kitchen, thus entrapping us within a bubble of bass-blasting misery.

*DISCLAIMER: the only reason I am calling them Jamaicans is a.) I don't know their surnames, and nothing else with which to identify them, and b.) they are, in fact, Jamaican. So, no I am not racist; I don't care who the hell they are, I just want them to shut the fuck up.

I just want a place that I can come home to after a long day of feeling completely exhausted, angered by commuters and frustrated with society, to just REST. Without having to whip out the Raid.....reel in agony over the digestive effects of take-out.....or stomp angrily on the floor whilst my entire body succumbs to the vibrations of the same goddamn notes of bongo drums EVERY SINGLE DAY!!!

I just want a place to call home.

As you might have already realized, I'm a little worked up about this issue. Finding a place has become both my dream and my secret hell, as all my sanity seems to both depend and hang on its balance.

So I ask, have you any advice?
Any leads? Any neighborhoods that I should grace with my unkosher presence?
(There's also a poll to the right if you want something short and sweet.)

This Is Not About the MTA, Is It....?

I have anger issues.

I realized this over the previous weekend after bitching out an MTA employee. Usually, I would maintain the belief that anyone who works for the MTA deserves this, as they seem to care nothing about anyone, and generally have no soul (except of course those guys who announce the stops like they're the radio jockey for Lite FM. Those guys got soul.)

But granted, they do work long hours and get screwed by the system (let us not forget the recent strike.) And this isn't my first time bitching someone out. Since I've started living in New York and grown some balls after a highly awkward childhood, I've had many a hot-headed encounter with persons of authority.

First there was the small incident of being reprimanded for unpacking my NYU dorm boxes from our family truck on move-in day. The police officer (or "traffic cop," which though sightly less intimidating is probably the most accurate) sternly instructed me to move our vehicle from the side of Water Street, as it was against standing room policy. I, dripping with sweat and already freaking out over carrying six large bins of crap up to the 15th floor (while mom complained about ridiculous amount of said crap) promptly began to yell my exasperated rant on the corner for all to hear:

"DOES IT LOOK LIKE I CAN MOVE THE CAR NOW??! NO ONE IS HELPING US, NYU COULD GIVE A CRAP ABOUT TRYING TO MAKE THIS EASIER AND THEY TOLD US TO PARK HERE. YOU CAN'T YELL AT ME! IF YOU HAVE A PROBLEM TAKE IT UP WITH THE DAMN SCHOOL!"

Needless to say, mom was quite startled that I had the gall to back-talk a police officer. He did leave us alone......but that's probably because he thought I was crazy.

The next time I flew off the handle, was in Ohio. Ryan and I had rented a car to drive back to NY with all his stuff (why do I always seem to be in the process of moving! No wonder I'm so stressed...) Everything was all reserved a month in advance and I was feeling dandy as we approached the Avis counter at the airport....until he informed me that my credit card was invalid.

Me: Why is it invalid?
Indifferent Employee: Because it's a debit card.
Me: Yes, but it's also a credit card.
Indifferent Employee: The system won't read it as such.
Me: Why didn't they tell me when I was GIVING MY CARD INFO OVER THE PHONE A MONTH AGO??!!!
Indifferent Employee: I don't know.
Me: I NEED THIS CAR TODAY! I have no other way of getting back to NY! How can I pay for it?! I can give you CASH-
Indifferent Employee: We don't take cash, only credit cards.
Me (to Ryan): Maybe we can use your mom's card for now....
Indifferent Employee: But she would have to be the one to drive the car if it's in her name.
Me: WHaaaAAAA???!!!^%(^&#*^)#$*@($)!#(!!!????

Cue ballistics.

In a slew of tears, swear words and most likely some crazy spastics, I chewed the indifference right out of that mofo. That's when he called airport security. Ryan, meanwhile, hid behind the counter and tried to forget he ever knew me.

You can call it rebellion, or PMS, or even temporary insanity. I call it lack-of-patience-cause-I-live-in-freaking-NYC. And yes, perhaps, I have a bit of a problem with managing my anger.

Can you really blame me though? After years of being so eager to please, the exemplary student that was just scraping by, I wanna get mad. If you push me, I'm gonna push back.

But I think that sometimes, things can get out of hand. And it's gotten to the point that my fuse goes off without me even thinking about, or realizing that I'm acting out of raw, raging emotion. My bout with the MTA is an example of that.

It was the night of the torrential downpour. It was 2am. We were tired and waterlogged. Luckily, we caught a Q and were making our way back to our lovely Kensington cockroach-infested abode. The Q stops at Atlantic/Pacific to this announcement:

"Due to a downed tree on the Q line, all service is suspended until further notice."

That's it? No other alternatives? No "sorry we're leaving you in the cold and rain tonight to fend for yourselves"? No sympathy for those who cannot afford a cab?

I was fuming.

After exiting the train, I marched right up to the MTA man in his reflective vest, a train attendant standing nonchalantly behind him in her sunglasses (?), and commanded him to tell me how the hell I was supposed to get back home if there were no freaking trains running to where I needed to go.

He looked at me with no emotion whatsoever and shook his head. "I don't know."

Damn I wish I could use the phrase "I don't know" for every single answer to god-knows-what!
"Do you know how to do your job?"
"I don't know."
"Well gee, sir, I'm sorry to trouble you with such a silly question; as if you'd know, wearing that shitty MTA yellow vest and everything."

If people don't think I know, they'll leave me alone! I bet this is what this guy was thinking. I wasn't settling for that.

"Where are you going?" he finally asked, once I wouldn't shut up. A crowd had formed around me: I was speaking for the masses!

"I need to get to Church Ave, the Q stop. To Kensington"
"You can take the IRT line."
"That WHAT? What are we in the fucking '80s? What the fuck are you talking about."
"The 1, 2, 3 line, number lines. Take it to Brooklyn College."
"Are you on crack???! That is nowhere near where I just told you I'm going!"
The woman behind him just stared on. I couldn't tell if she was just enjoying the show, or if she was in fact dead inside.

I stormed off, cursing and thanking him for being such an asshole. Ryan stared at me as if I had unleashed my inner She-Hulk. I had actually convinced myself that my confrontation was nothing more than an exasperated plead for advice. But, according to Ryan, it was more like raging-bitchtastic-spit-flying-tirade.

After sharing a cab ride home with a very nervous Jewish waiter/ex-personal trainer (which happened to calm me down a bit - I was upstaged by neuroticism) it finally hit me. I was uncalled for. I was out of control. I was angry. And it made me feel so awful inside, that I could turn into such a monster of a person. But I don't think it had anything to do with the MTA....but perhaps it did have to do with Authority.


So, wherever you are, sleepy-looking MTA employee. I hope that you can forgive me for my harsh behavior. Please don't throw yourself in front of a train: I'm sure you were just over-worked and pissed off by New Yorkers, like you are every day. Just like me.