Nothing's Perfect

I wish you could be here with me right now. It's a beautiful Sunday morning. I can hear the occasional bike rider mosey on by, the spokes of his wheels whirring as he rides. A few minutes ago, a tattoo-clad hipster placed his used crap on the sidewalk, a cigarette askew between his lips, in the hopes that someone (the garbage man?) might take it away. About an hour ago, a sad little parade traversed Powers street, making its way down Leonard to the tunes of decrepit middle school bass drums.

Ahhh, The Brooklyn Nook.

But all is not peaches and cream here in what someone once referred to as "Heaven on Earth." Although today is relatively tranquil, I have just been privy to a week that can only be described as a roller coaster ride of awfulness. I try not to be too self-indulgent on this thing and turn it into a giant forum for "This is why my life sucks," but since it IS my blog, I'm going to compromise. I'm going to write an entry about one reason why my life sucks. Just one. And then I'll move on to brighter things. Sound good? If that compromise doesn't satisfy you, I'll make it exciting... with a classic WMWC scene!

Scene: BiddyLuddy, The Boyfriend, and Cupcake Lover stumble in the front door of The Brooklyn Nook after a full day of burgers, dogs, pizza, and beer. It is only a little past midnight, but the whole crowd is sleepy and full and about ready to get to bed. The Boyfriend heads into the kitchen, perhaps to brush his teeth or to remove his contact lenses... or both... when Cupcake Lover hears a high-pitched yell from the kitchen side of the railroad style apartment...

The Boyfriend: Ohhhh my God!

Cupcake Lover: What is it? What's wrong?

The Boyfriend: Oh my God, you have RATS.

Cupcake Lover: What? What are you talking about? 

The Boyfriend: I saw one picking at the garbage over here. 

The Boyfriend points to the space between the stove and the wall where the garbage can IS looking a little bit out of control.

Cupcake Lover: Wait a minute, there is a very distinct difference between "RATS" and "A RAT." Did you see multiple rats? Or just one? DO NOT say we have RATS unless you saw them in, like, a pack or something. Was there a pack?

The Boyfriend: Just one, he was eating at the garbage.

Cupcake Lover: Where did he go?

The Boyfriend: He's still behind the stove! Quick! Where's your camera? We have to take a picture to show your landlord!

The  Boyfriend goes to grab said camera, while Cupcake Lover takes a peek behind the stove. She discovers that yes, indeed, there IS a fat rat sitting behind her beautiful gas stove. In her beautiful apartment. She whimpers a bit.

Photo Copyright: The Boyfriend

The Boyfriend returns, camera in hand.

The Boyfriend: I can't get a good picture! Come here and look at this one. Can you see a tail?

Cupcake Lover: Stop taking pictures of the rat! Ugh. I can't believe we have a rat. We should just put some cheese in the broiler or something and lure him in.

The Boyfriend stops taking pictures, aghast.

The Boyfriend: That's horrible! You want to BROIL the rat?

Cupcake Lover thinks that yes, that's exactly what she meant. But she covers up her malicious intentions quickly, lest The Boyfriend think she's some sort of sadist.

Cupcake Lover: Uhhh, no, I just meant we could trap him in there. With the broiler OFF of course. [Whew, nice save.] Anyway, put the camera down. We'll close the door to the kitchen - it's not like rats can climb into the bed or anything. Tomorrow we'll call the exterminator.

The Boyfriend: Okay. Well, I think I got at least one good picture.

Cupcake Lover and The Boyfriend turn to leave the kitchen, knowing they can't do much of anything to amend the situation at the moment. Cupcake Lover goes to switch off the kitchen light... together they close the kitchen door. And double check to make sure it's closed. Both are a little uneasy and questioning whether or not rats, with their sticky little paws, CAN climb into the bed. No matter. It's time to sleep.

The Boyfriend: Goodnight, Lucifer.

Cupcake Lover: Do NOT name the rat!

End Scene.

This whole travesty happened a few weeks ago, but the saga of The Rat has not ended. We set out some poison for the little bastard, but for weeks he didn't touch it. Until last night, when our adorable Welsh subletter, who has been sleeping on a mattress on the floor since we have had some trouble obtaining a bed frame (but will soon!), woke up dreamily thinking there was a cat on her bed.

Needless to say, we do not have a cat.

The Rat had CRAWLED ONTO HER BED. Yes, you heard that right. ON HER BED.

The poor thing moved halfway across the world only to wind up with vermin in her bed. Granted, she seems to be way less offended than she probably should be (plus now she has a timeless New York City story to tell all her "mates"), but I still feel bad. And disappointed that my perfect little Nook isn't so perfect after all. I love living here, but I can't help but be a little upset that my third roommate is furry.

No matter. That rat is going DOWN. How dare he disturb my happiness! As I write this, a trap is set with a little piece of hamburger bun and peanut butter. It looks enticing, sitting next to the rat poison by the stove. Mmmm mmmm mmmm. Sounds delicious, right Lucifer?

And, well, if all else fails... I'm turning on the broiler.

Like a Fish Needs a Bicycle

There you have it, folks. My life is finally out of boxes and in Brooklyn, slowly settling down and making its way towards normality. Which explains why it's been so long since I've written a blog post. You know, it's hard to sit and focus when you aren't even sure what box your underwear are packed in and you're still trying to find someone to help you transport a mattress from Stamford, CT to Williamsburg on top of a Cheerio-encrusted minivan. Moving myself was a very labor and time-intensive job, and simply put: I'm beat.

But that won't curb my blogging, Cupcake Lovers! So I'll start with the inevitable question: Who helped with the aforementioned mattress? Who got up at the wee hour of 11 a.m. to snag me some discount twine and make sure I stayed below 55 mph? (Me: Omg! I forgot! There's a mattress tied to the roof!) Who risked his life letting me, the most timid driver ever, navigate various highways? Why, The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend, of course. Who must be given a new title at this point since we're approaching a ridiculous level of Are We or Aren't We. I'm tempted to put it to a WMWC poll, but since you all don't seem to enjoy commenting (you're more the sneaky, stalkerish type... like me) here are some ideas:

Possible New Titles for The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend (Formerly The Boyfriend)

1. You Know You're My Boyfriend So Stop Avoiding It

2. The Ex-Boyfriend Minus the Ex

3. The Confused, Reluctant, Sort-Of Boyfriend

4. The Newly Instated (But Not Officially) Boyfriend

5. My Male Friend Who I Sometimes Like and Sometimes Want to Kick. Hard.

6. The Boyfriend*

I don't know, I can't make any decisions right now. I'm going to give it some time and possibly go for the Roger Maris-esque asterisk since the original title of The Boyfriend has been marred. Either way, things with That Guy are fine and what happens will happen. Regardless, he's been nagging me to blog (Him: You haven't posted since May 9th! Me: I didn't even know that!) so I figure I have at least one fan. And at least he likes the Internet version of me. Sigh.

But that's enough about that. Here's the more important part of this post: My. Life. Is. Awesome. My apartment is fantastic, my bed is huge, my backyard is a dream. The other night I laid out on the grass with That Guy, my roommate, and her dad while we drank beers by the light of some lanterns I grabbed at Ikea. My roommate's dad told us stories from back in the day that involved LSD, road trips, and a whole lotta hitchhiking as the four of us tried to spot stars. Besides the fact that it wasn't quite summery and warm, it was a beautiful evening. And all I kept muttering was "How did my life get so good?"

It's true though. Even though everything isn't necessarily perfect, I am so lucky to have this place to live and call my own. And I'm determined for it to be kick ass. I painted my room alone. It took me like 12 hours of straight work and precarious ladder-standing, wondering if I would fall and no one would be around to hear my cries of "I've fallen and I can't get up!" But my walls are now "Morning Sunshine" yellow (two full coats!) and I feel like a NOW-joining, womyn-writing, Ms. Magazine-reading independent woman.

Yes we can, Rosie.

Along the same lines, I guess you could say that my current mood is Empowered. My roommate and I found this apartment on our own, we've basically furnished it and made it the Brooklyn Nook together, and now I'm really living life in a Grown-Up Apartment with a Grown-Up Job and Grown-Up Friends. I would even venture to say that I'm making the transition into full blown adulthood both smoothly and gracefully. And it feels good.

I know this post isn't necessarily up to par, but I just wanted to say to you who read this that I'm here, I'm constantly brainstorming about what to put on here, and I've now committed myself to being a Blogger. Example? When I interviewed to be rehired at Anthropologie (the store, not a misspelled version of the science) they asked me what I liked to do in my spare time.

My answer? "Well, I'm really into blogging, and I like to explore the city?"

Ha. Who am I? When did I become this cool, New York City person? I think I like it.

11211

Starting on May 1st, 2009, that is my new zip code.

It may not look like much, but that is soon to be our backyard. 

Summer BBQs, anyone? You're invited!

I knew it. I knew something good was around the corner. Yesterday, when my roommate called me to say that the landlord of the very first apartment we fell in love with in Brooklyn had decided to "go with her heart" and offer it to us, I was both ecstatic and surprised. When I wrote my last (Debbie Downer) entry, I was pretty much broken by this whole apartment hunt animal. But it seems as if my abusive boyfriend (Brooklyn) decided it was time to enter the honeymoon stage and show up at my doorstep with flowers and candy. The wait is over. On May 1st, BiddyLuddy and I will be taking the bottle of champagne I got for my 21st birthday to our empty apartment to pop the cork and celebrate the end of an era - the end of living at home. For good.

Mind you, this fact only dawned on me today, after the lease had been signed. I called my grandparents to tell them about the apartment, and of course my Grandpa asked me, "When are you coming home next?" And I realized... Oh My God. I don't know. I DON'T KNOW. I'm not? I mean, I AM coming home for one of my best friend's graduation party, and I know I'll go home during the whole moving process. But I won't be living at home anymore. I'm a real grown-up. It is terrifying. 

It is overwhelmingly exciting. 

I was reading a Time magazine the other day (swiped from the Journalism department) when I came across an interview with Michael J. Fox. A reader asked him about how his diagnosis with Parkinson's Disease had affected his beliefs about life, death, and spirituality. He said that it's a wake-up call, but he also said, "I think that's a good thing for us to get out of the way - the earliest you can responsibly deal with the fact that this isn't a dress rehearsal." And by "this" he obviously means life. I don't know why I found this so poignant. Maybe it's because Michael J. Fox has been handed some really tough things to deal with in his life, or maybe it's because I always had a huge, inappropriate crush on Marty McFly in his Calvins. Either way, I feel like I've been really living this past year... no dress rehearsals, only closing night performances. Hopefully that makes sense to the people who read my blog besides my fellow musical theater aficionados.

I never want to sleepwalk through life, and I never want to feel numb. I want to feel each and every thing I get the opportunity to experience. This past year, I've learned that not everything feels so good or always turns out for the best. But it's all a solid reminder that I'm breathing and living and lucky enough to be here.

And all of this because 11211 is my future neighborhood. I can now hold up my fingers - the ones I use to represent the things I need to make this summer (and my life) even better - and put one down. 11211, you were well worth the distress and the worry.

Oh, and by the way, I'm going to have a kick ass housewarming get-together. And BiddyLuddy and I are totally going to get a kiddie pool for the hot New York summer. And put ice in it. Sweet!

I Think I Need a Hug and a Drink

In the last few days, I have been driven to insanity, had my emotions toyed with, my heartstrings pulled, my hopes lifted, and the same hopes ultimately dashed... over and over again.

And who is responsible?

Brooklyn, NY.

So wonderful, yet so harrowing.

Aha! You weren't expecting that, were you? You thought I was going to say You Know Who, didn't you? Surprisingly enough, it is my new least favorite game called Are You My New Apartment? that is literally making me sit right here at my desk to skip class, blog, and simultaneously pull my hair out. Which, of course, requires typing with the tip of my nose, since both my hands are engaged in strenuous hair-pulling and nailbiting.

But I don't particularly want to blog about the details of this apartment hunt. Those are boring and stressful (big bathroom! bad location! broker fee!) and forcing those on you, WMWC readers, would only make the whole situation worse. I think, instead, I would like to continue with the "Brooklyn as my new abusive (hipster) boyfriend" metaphor and tell you a little story complete with (control yourself!) a SCENE.

Scene: Park Slope, Brooklyn. Cupcake Lover and BiddyLuddy are wrangling their umbrellas as the wind and rain assault them, full-force. BiddyLuddy's umbrella has seen better days as it droops in more places than one. Cupcake Lover quietly curses her decision to wear a dress that essentially covers little more than her [tights-covered] ass cheeks, considering the hurricane winds that are now threatening to expose more than she would like all of Park Slope to be privy to. Luckily, few people have braved the rain, and so CL silently makes a note that underwear exposure chances should be slim-to-none. Just then, two sketchy looking men walk in the direction of CL and BL. The two women continue their conversation.

Cupcake Lover: (About the apartment) I WANT it! I want to live in it! I want to buy it, I will put down a deposit...

Biddy Luddy: Me too! I hope we get it I hope we - Oh look! It's so close to the mall too! It's perfect, it's so perfect.

Sketchy looking men come closer, start taunting.

Sketcher #1: Oh, mamis, you're hot, you're so hot!

Sketcher #2: [Agrees with similar tone of voice]

Sketcher#1: You're beautiful, you're sooo beautiful.

At this moment, Sketcher #1 proceeds to reach out as he passes and run his hand along the side of Cupcake Lover's [wish-it-was-a-liiiiittle-thinner] thigh. She jumps a foot in the air and starts freaking out.

Cupcake Lover: AHH I hate when they touch me I hate it! I hate when they talk to me but I REALLY HATE WHEN THEY TOUCH ME I hate it I hate it I feel so dirty.

Cupcake Lover gets over it, gets on the subway, and heads home to blog about the experience, all the while wondering if perhaps she had worn pants or a skirt that wasn't so devilishly close to exposure, she would have avoided the uncomfortable borough-molestation that had befallen her.

Oh, Brooklyn. I include this scene because it is a perfect example of the way our apartment hunt has made me feel these past few days. I feel used and dirty... put through a vicious spin cycle and hung out to dry on a windy day. I've been to so many apartments and fallen in love with them, only to realize that we may not secure them and that we may not secure ANY place. Each lovely little affordable Brooklyn nook gives me wonderful visions: Me, at a Natural Foods store, inevitably wearing plaid. Me, lounging in a park in Ray-Bans. Me, barbecuing in the backyard or on the roof. Me, jogging along the residential streets. Me, in the local coffee shop with Wi-Fi. Me, working at some adorable hipster bar.

And the ever popular: Me, opening the charming door of a lovely brownstone to welcome The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend, knowing full well that there is a parking space outside for him to put his shiny car and a sunny, beautiful apartment we can hang out in.

Yeah, that last one is the most far-fetched (except for maybe the Ray-Bans... those are expensive!), but I am, as usual, hopeful and utterly hopeless (insert shoulder shrug here). I'm not going to apologize for it - I figure by now you must be used to it.

I also hope that by now you understand what it is I'm feeling. I have all those previously described visions for my summer, my school year, my LIFE, and I just can't seem to get any of them to come true in this moment. My life is currently filled to the brim with potential - potential for gorgeous living space, for exciting summer job, for romantic bliss. And yet when I hold up my fingers, hoping to slowly fold them down one by one, I can't reduce my checklist at all. It is utterly exhausting. What does a girl do?

Well, I happen to think the question is really, "What choice do I have?" I don't have one. I can't go back to Connecticut for the summer only to amuse myself with awkward high school run-ins and typical suburbia fare that includes, but isn't limited to: mall, movies, and cheap beer. It's find an apartment or bust. It's get a job or bust. And if The Well-Intentioned Ex-Boyfriend isn't going to be showing up on my doorstep (that I WILL secure!) well, then, someone else will be. I'm on the verge of so many great things. I just know it.

I'm crossing my fingers and saying a little prayer that maybe - just maybe - something good is coming.