Happy New Year's Eve

Have a happy, healthy new year, everyone.  If I don't have another stroke, I'll be ahead of the game. 

A Not So Merry Start to Christmas In New York

This morning, I woke up at 5 a.m., only to be greeted by a cockroach that had entered my apartment.  Had Santa left me a pet? At least he could have gift wrapped it.  As I struggled out of bed, I grabbed my cane and crushed the son of a b**** (the cockroach; not Santa). What a way to start Christmas morning. Alone in my apartment, having killed my only visitor, watching the “A Christmas Story” marathon on TBS.

Christmas Eve Greetings

Merry Christmas to all who celebrate Christmas.  To the rest of you, enjoy your day off!

Why I Didn't Have Anything to Say Yesterday

I thought the world was going to end!

The Mayans Were Wrong

At least the world didn't end.  Other than that, to quote an unknown source, "I got nothin'!"

The Nightmare Before Christmas

‘Twas one week before Christmas
My site has hit “pause”
Contributions are quiet
I don’t know the cause

Have friends gone on break
When I need them most?
I know they are busy,
But without them I’m toast!

I haven’t been spending much time in my bed
As visions of homelessness dance in my head
If you’re reading this update I know that you care
Although you are busy, could you please again share

With all of your contacts
And people with hearts. . .

On Facebook
On Twitter
And all of the rest
Happy Holidays to all
You are the best!

To the People of Newtown

You're in my thoughts and prayers.

Starbucks $450 Gift Card Sold Out

Rant for today: Why would anyone buy a Starbucks gift card for $450, spend $400 for often-mediocre, overpriced coffee and $50 for a metal card? That it sold out is unbelievable! What are people thinking? 450 bucks down toilet is more like it!

After the Storm

To all those who have suffered from this devastating hurricane: you are in my thoughts and prayers.

A Special Sign

I've had a crappy week, both physically and emotionally.  Then something remarkable happened.  I received a catalog, which contained cat related holiday gifts.  Although the mailing label contained an unfamiliar name, it had my address, including my correct apartment number.  On the cover was a black cat that reminded me of Homer, who passed away several years ago.  I took it as a sign from Heaven.  My beloved cat was telling me not to give up. Suddenly, things didn't seem so bad. 

A Cautionary Tale

On Tuesday night, my muscles tightened up. I morphed into a human pretzel, and got stuck on the toilet.  While my TV blasted from the other room, I listened to Covert Affairs, followed by two episodes of Law and Order SVU and an episode of Law and Order Criminal Intent.  I heard a siren, and feared that one of my neighbors had called 911.  (As you know, I'm not a fan of the emergency room.) Then I realized that the siren was coming from the TV. Clara, my guardian angel, came to my rescue, from Brooklyn, in the middle of the night. Note to self: Do not watch cop shows if your post midnight plans include getting stuck on toilet.

I Should Have Read The Instructions

I  just joined Skype.  Suddenly, I was face to face with myself, thanks to the built in webcam on my computer.  I'm lucky I didn't crack the screen.  I look horrible! Then I somehow dialed a number, and a strange woman picked up the phone.  I didn't mean to hang up on you, whoever you are. I admit, I'm a bit technologically challenged at times.  I'm far too impatient to read the instructions.  At least I didn't call overseas.

A New Campaign

Walgreens has a new ad campaign that says it's "at the corner of happy and healthy". In my neighborhood, it's located at the corner of overpriced and understocked!

Too Much Time On My Hands

I'm so bored, I'm reading the label on the water bottle, which lists ingredients. I don't quite understand this concept; it's water! They have a toll free number for people who want to talk about the water. I'm not that bored!

Divorce vs. Murder

I can't decide whether to admit this joke is funny. Since I've never been married, I don't know if it's politically correct to laugh. A nice, calm and respectable lady went into the pharmacy,walked up to the pharmacist, looked straight into his eyes, and said, "I'd like to buy some cyanide." The pharmacist asked, "Why in the world do you need cyanide?" The lady replied, "I need it to poison my husband." The pharmacist's eyes got big and he explained, "I can't give you cyanide to kill your husband, that's against the law! I'll lose my license! They'll throw both of us in jail! All kinds of bad things will happen. Absolutely not! You CANNOT have any cyanide!" The lady reached into her purse and pulled out a picture of her husband in bed with the pharmacist's wife. The pharmacist looked at the picture and said, "You didn't tell me you had a prescription."

So Many Birds, So Little Time

There's a new TV show called 666 Park Avenue. (It's actually filmed at the Ansonia, which is a magnificent building across Central Park on the Upper West Side.) I've always loved the Ansonia, so I checked out the show. A large part of the episode was a modern day homage to Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds". What were the odds of that?! I was on the edge of my wheelchair. I watched in horror as hundreds (or thousands) of birds descended upon a tipsy exterminator, who happened to be cursing and staggering out of a bar. After the birds pecked out his eyes, a taxi ran him over. Note to self: Get window shades. As soon as possible.

Too Many Birds

Looking out my window, it’s like a scene from the Alfred Hitchcock movie “The Birds”. Thousands of pigeons (well maybe hundreds; suffice it to say there is a huge gathering) are lined up on the rooftop and ledges of the building across the street. Maybe they are just waiting to fly someplace else. I triple dog dare anyone who has seen that movie not to be freaked out by the sight of that many birds, slowly increasing in number, poised to attack. I swear they are staring at me, laughing at my cowardice. Which raises the question: Do birds laugh? One thing is for sure; there will be a massive amount of poop on the sidewalk below. I’m glad I’m not walking under there.

Without A Net

Saturday morning, October 6, 2012, 10:12 a.m., Columbus Day weekend. I’m alone until Monday. Nobody’s coming to visit. For the first time, I’m having a panic attack on a Saturday morning. How ironic. This used to be my favorite part of the week, and my favorite time of year. Saturday morning. Fall in New York. The endless possibilities. The whole weekend ahead of me. Gone are the days when I sat for hours in City Diner, reading, and sipping a bottomless cup of coffee while I mapped out my itinerary for the weekend. Gone. Possibly forever. The thing is, I appreciated every second of every day. Every day I thanked God for taking such good care of me. It was like I was waiting for the bottom to drop out of my life. I was too happy. Two years later, I’m having a panic attack, spastic in my wheelchair. I feel like every time I take a step with my cane, I’m walking a tightrope without a net. If I fall, I’m totally screwed.

Today's Date

"What is today's date?" seems to be the main inquiry of the mental health community. If I give the wrong answer, I might be declared insane. I could have told the psychiatrist, "Last night I ate a live raccoon for dinner". With this he'd have no problem, as long as I knew the correct date. It's ironic. In my BS (before stroke) life, I wouldn't have known the date unless I looked on one of my many devices. My brain was filled with more pressing concerns. Knowing the date has now become the bane of my existence.

An Unexpected Visitor

My right toe has been killing me. I called Visiting Nurse Service of New York, and asked them to send a podiatrist. Imagine my surprise when a psychiatrist showed up at my door. I asked myself what could have possibly led to this particular error. Obviously, a miscommunication of some sort had occurred. They are both types of doctors that start with the letter "P". They both end in "iatrist". Both words have the same amount of syllables. The person that I spoke to had a hearing disorder. I had a speaking disorder (I didn't). They screwed up. My right toe is still killing me, and I still haven't heard from the podiatrist. It makes a fabulous story, nonetheless.

Excerpt from My Memoir: Return to the Emergency Room, Part Two

12:00 p.m. An entourage of Neurologists appeared at my bedside. There were so many that I couldn’t count them all; they took up half the room. Included with the pack: the man I had seen earlier and another woman who had treated me in August. She commented that she was glad to see me making such a great recovery. The last time she saw me I had been unable to talk. This was absolutely what I needed to hear right now. The head of the pack was Dr. Cho, who inquired if anyone had spoken to me about Botox injections in my legs. I said I’d prefer it on my eyes, like a normal person. She then uttered the most beautiful words in the world: “You can go home; all the tests came back normal.” It was music to my ears. I love my apartment and will do whatever is necessary to remain there. I couldn’t help flashing back to when POD gave away my apartment. I will not let that happen. Ever again. After checking my insurance, Dr. Cho said she will be seeking pre-approval for the injections from Oxford. Good luck with that! I’ll be lucky if they approve this emergency room visit and the ambulance. They have previously declined some of my emergency room visits and ambulance trips, claiming it was not an emergency. They sent a questionnaire to my physical and occupational therapists which contained the queen mother of all time stupid questions: “How is your health?” If there is a hall of fame for stupid questions, Oxford is leading the pack. F*cking Oxford. I’m going to ask Dr. Greenwald about the Botox injections when I see him on Wednesday. *************************************************************************** 1:00 p.m. I still had not peed. I had to have a catheter inserted. Guess who had to do it. “Are you sure you can’t walk to the bathroom?” “Had you bothered to glance at my chart, you’d know the answer to that brilliant question.” “You said you could walk to the bathroom at home.” “I’m not at home. The nearest bathroom is miles away. My bathroom at home is within inches of my wheelchair. Besides, I need my cane. I was too busy being rushed to the hospital to bring it.” “I can give you a cane.” “I’d need a quad cane. If I was able to walk, which I’m not.” “I don’t have a quad cane.” “I’m here because my entire right side is as useless as this conversation. I can’t move my entire right side. How am I supposed to walk? Where did you graduate from charm school? Are you really a nurse?” After two very painful attempts, the catheter was finally inserted. She complained that it was too dark. I almost said, “It’s your mood that’s too dark.” But I stopped myself, considering what she was doing. I was already in pain. My hoo-hah hurt for hours after the catheter was removed. I’m lucky she didn’t castrate me. 1:15 p.m. The attending doctor came around to speak to me. I told her that I’d already seen the neurologists who said I was being discharged. She prepared the paperwork. She said they would arrange an ambulette for my trip home. I decided to wait until Clara, my home health aide, arrived. I had told her to stop at my apartment, pick up my wheelchair, and call the car service. I guess I didn’t make myself clear enough. You try to be clear at 4:30 in the morning, calling from the emergency room. I guess it’s impossible. I was very glad to see Clara. She’s the first person I called. She’s the one person on whom I can depend. Clara arrived, sans wheelchair and car service. I had to rely on the ambulette. My favorite nurse from Hell returned to cross examine me. “Didn’t you cancel the transportation?” “My plans changed. I don’t owe you an explanation. Just make the arrangements so I can get the heck out of here. Am I going home with the i.v. in my arm?” Of course, she forgot to remove the i.v. ************************************************************************* 3:30 p.m. The ambulette finally arrived. There’s nothing like waiting two hours for a ride that takes less than fifteen minutes. Thank heavens Clara was there to quiet me down; they probably would have thrown me out of the emergency room for my abominable behavior. Or arrested me for murdering Cruella (I could have successfully used justifiable homicide as a defense. For the record, that was a joke. Having to spend thirteen hours in the emergency room was as close to prison as I intend to get.) Not that I didn’t misbehave, or give them anything they didn’t deserve. My behavior would have been much worse if Clara hadn’t been there. It was comforting to have someone there to care about me; to put my pants back on; to put my leg brace back properly. 4:10 p.m. Arrived home. I would have kissed the ground if I had been able to do so. Clara put me in the shower because I’d peed myself. She was late for work. I gave her extra money this week because of her generosity of spirit. I’d have given her more, if I had it to give. Some nurses are only in it for the money. They might think that they are fooling people, but they’re not. These people should be fired; they should screen them out before they admit them into nursing school. Cruella is a shining example of this type of individual. I hope she has to go to the emergency room and is treated by the mirror image of herself. Karma is a bitch. Clara is the exact opposite; she is the nurse you are lucky to get. She actually likes to help people. She’s kind, competent and personable. She truly cares. I bless the day I met her. I hope to make her a part of my life forever. 6:00 p.m. Fell asleep in wheelchair until 2:00 a.m. When I got into bed, I thanked God for letting me go home. Looking back on the experience, I learned that it’s better to be unconscious in the emergency room. I’m reminded of the old joke about people who don’t have very long to live: they should do something that bores them to tears so they’ll feel like they have more time. My time in emergency seemed like a lifetime. That thirteen hours seemed like thirteen centuries; it was as though time had stopped. I never want to go through that experience again. On the other hand, it provided a gold mine of material. Maybe someday soon, I’ll laugh (after my butt heals. . .it’s Saturday and it’s still sore).

Excerpt from My Memoir: Return to the Emergency Room, Part One

Late Tuesday night (actually early Wednesday morning) when I got into bed, my entire right side went straight as a board. I was terrified, fearing that I was having another stroke. I had no choice but to call 911. Two paramedics arrived with a member of Manhattan’s finest (police officer). They asked if I wanted to go to the hospital. I didn’t want to go (who in their right mind does)? but I figured I’d better, just in case. . . I arrived at the Mt. Sinai emergency room at 2:30 a.m. I quickly figured out that this was going to be a nightmare. When I had the stroke I was seen immediately and had lapsed into unconsciousness before things became really bad. It’s easier to be unconscious than to face the ordeal of being trapped for thirteen hours in a packed emergency room. They did a cat scan and took enough blood from me to feed a dozen vampires. The attending (doctor) referred me to a neurologist. Coincidentally, the neurologist was the same one who initially saw me in August. He said the cat scan showed a big scar where the aneurism had been, but (thank God) I didn’t have another stroke. He explained that I was still in danger of having a seizure until the scar healed. (Note to self: Must get job so I can afford to keep taking very expensive anti-seizure drug.) He said he was pleased to see me recovering so nicely. This was encouraging; I was terrified that my diagnosis of “spasticity” would undo all the goals I had accomplished. He wrote a prescription for a muscle relaxer and said I wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while; they had to wait and see if the prescription worked and for the results of the remaining blood tests. I might have to be admitted to the hospital. It all depended on the test results. In the interim, I had to pee twice. I hadn’t had anything to drink; I guess it was nerves. I was lucky enough to have a male nurse called Darwin who cared. He hadn’t stabbed me to death when he took (most of) my blood. He brought me the bedpan. For the first time ever, I was able to use it. It usually hurts my ass so much that I’m unable to go. The expression “royal pain in the ass” was coined when a queen was asked to use a bedpan. It was impossible not to overhear bits of conversation; we were practically piled on top of one another. One man asked if this was a detox center. Another was the poster child from that “scare people into not smoking” ad campaign; he had no legs, and only one arm with which he used to drive his motorized wheelchair. He kept leaving the e/r to have a cigarette. While he was outside, he kept trying to hit on unsuspecting women. (I saw the unsuspecting women while I was being loaded onto the ambulette thirteen hours later. If I didn’t see it, I wouldn’t have believed it.) When he returned to the emergency room, he began to curse and moan. They put me with the mental patients. Across from me was a manic depressive woman looking to refill her prescription. She told her story to a lazy hospital transporter who pretended to listen but was really fast asleep. They paged him repeatedly, but he ignored the pages. She was from California. She had no idea where she was or how she had gotten there. She mumbled something like “I hate Kennedy”. If I didn’t feel so awful, I would have asked her which Kennedy she hated and why. A couple of beds down was an elderly Spanish woman who was hearing imaginary voices. The Spanish nurse spent an hour consoling this woman, and her imaginary voices, in Spanish, while she ignored everyone else. An elderly, frail, white woman had the audacity to ask for her medication, which had been promised to her “immediately” (It had been two hours; she was still waiting.) The nurses called security. They said she was a threat. I heard the entire conversation. She didn’t threaten anybody. The only threat was that the nurses might be forced to do their jobs before they were darn good and ready. “I didn’t threaten anybody. I was just exercising my right to be treated like a human being. Patients bill of rights; ever hear of it?” Security left. The woman received her medication shortly thereafter. Reverse discrimination ran rampant in the emergency room. They were targeting elderly white women who dared to ask questions. If I had been able to move, I would have handed out my business cards. It was now approximately 7:30 a.m. My anti-seizure medication was an hour overdue. I still hadn’t been given the magic muscle relaxer that had been ordered several hours before. I suspected that the pharmacist was on an extended hiatus or simply not there. I had flashbacks of my inpatient stay. Stuff like this happened all the time. Darwin was long gone. The Spanish nurse was only dealing with the Spanish community; if your name wasn’t Hernandez or Lopez you were out of luck. I didn’t see anyone except a guy who muttered “No Speak English”. He brought me a container of mouthwash, a small tube of toothpaste and a toothbrush. This would have been appreciated if I’d been able to move. I wasn’t given any water or anything to spit the toothpaste in. Oh, well. It would make a lovely parting gift if I was lucky enough to make it out of here. 8:30 a.m. Still no sign of anyone. I had the main telephone number to Mt. Sinai on my mobile phone. I dialed the number, and asked to be connected to the adult emergency room. It rang several times before a man picked up. “Emergency room.” “Hi. I’m here, in desperate need of a bedpan.” “What is your exact location?” “I’m wedged between the schizophrenic Spanish lady and the manic depressive woman from California. Near bed 11; I’m in the hall.” “I’ll send someone right away.” A half hour later, a man appeared with a giant bedpan the size of Texas. “I can’t use that.” “We don’t have anything smaller right now.” I am prone to “stage fright”; the inability to pee unless the circumstances are right. After an hour on the giant bedpan, I had to remove it. It had taken on a life of its own; it was starting to become part of my anatomy. I could feel an enormous, extremely painful dent forming on my ass. I had no alternative. I had to pee in my pull up panties. The attendant was very nice and put extra padding on my bed, to prepare for this added humiliation. 10:30 a.m. I finally got the magic pill. I still did not get my anti-seizure medication. Since August, I have been mistreated by a plethora of bad nurses. They were angels compared with the nurse that I was forced to deal with now. I will refer to her as Cruella DeVille. If there was a prize for worst nurse on the planet, Cruella would win it, hands down. “I need my anti-seizure medication. My neurologist will confirm this; it’s clearly indicated on my chart. Maybe if you read the patients’ charts occasionally, you might learn something.” “If you have a seizure,we’ll deal with it then. I am not allowed to give you medicine unless an emergency room doctor approves it. There is no such approval written in your emergency room chart.” WHAT THE HELL? I decided to scream; I was not about to take any more crap from this witch. “What happened?” The rotten nurses always ask this question, in a menacing tone that makes you feel like you must apologize for interrupting their perpetual coffee break. “I need my Keppra. I am not going to be quiet until I get it.” “You’re making the other patients think that we’re not taking care of you.” “If the shoe fits. . .I’m sure they’re already aware. You’re not taking care of them, either. I can hear them complaining; are you deaf?” I began to moan. 10:45 a.m. I get my Keppra anti-seizure medication. “Can I please have some water, or does someone have to approve it?” 11:30 a.m. The magic pill hasn’t worked. I’m still a human diving board. The side effects are working, though. Now I have a raging headache, accompanied by a full bladder which I cannot empty. I dialed the emergency room again. Cruella answered the phone, after it rang about one hundred times. “This is your favorite patient. Can I please have some Tylenol?” She hung up on me. I continued to call the emergency room. I hung up as soon as she answered. I repeated this procedure periodically for the remainder of my time at the emergency room. They couldn’t prove that it was me. I started to cry, loudly. I’ve perfected the art of crying at a volume that’s going to get things accomplished. I don’t like to do it, but if nothing else works, I won’t hesitate to pull out all the stops. It’s somewhere between many decibels and breaking the sound barrier. A female doctor walked by and asked Cruella why I was crying. I heard her inform the doctor that I’d requested Tylenol. Apparently the doctor was not happy with Cruella ignoring my request. I got my Tylenol, and I got her in trouble. Win, win. Good for me.

"Comedy Equals Tragedy, Plus Time"

Where the heck do I begin? “Comedy equals tragedy plus time.” Carol Burnett. . . Hello there! :) jhjkgkjgjhghjg this place stinks! The above was written from Village Care Rehab Center/Nursing Home. I am typing this with one hand because the other hand no longer works. Prior to August 20, 2011, I had the world by the balls. I was a lawyer. I genuinely cared about my clients. One of my bosses nicknamed me Norma Rae because I always stuck up for the underdog. I did a lot of pro bono work. That’s what I miss most from my days of practicing law; it felt fantastic to help so many people in need. I helped people who had been wrongfully accused of acts that they didn’t commit. I helped people fight for, and save, their jobs in a world filled with sexual harassment and a**hole supervisors. I represented whistleblowers who had the guts to say something was unsafe at their company. I helped people save their homes. I helped people buy their homes. I helped people adopt children. I counseled many abused women, and enabled them to leave life threatening situations. I represented many people who were innocent and injured. Every day I did battle with an insurance company, or a defense attorney. I had just received a thirty-thousand dollar raise. I had recently moved to my dream apartment on Manhattan’s Upper West Side. Then my world collapsed. Little did I know at the time, that I was about to face the most challenging battle of my life.

To All of My Friends (Part 2)

To my Jewish friends: I hope you have (or had) an easy fast. To my non-Jewish friends who have (or had) another day off: Don't you just love the Jewish holidays?

Happy Monday

I, for once, have nothing to say. Except for that!

To All of My Friends

To my Jewish friends: Have a Healthy and Happy New Year! To the lucky folks who took the day off because of Rosh Hashana: Good For You! Enjoy the Day. To everyone else: Better luck next year!

Water, Water, Everywhere, But Not A Drop To Drink

Today I had no water. The fire department was here. They made the building clean out the enormous water tank, which apparently had reached unsafe levels. Now I have water, but it's coming out dark brown. So brown that it could easily be mistaken for coffee. Or worse. If I had an empty Starbucks cup, I'd fill it with the water and say it was their newest blend. I pity the fool that asks me to make coffee tonight. . .

Why Doctors Have Illegible Handwriting

Doctors have atrocious penmanship because nobody will notice when they misspell the very long names of generic prescriptions. The brand name prescriptions are much easier to spell, yet nobody can afford them. Insurance companies rarely pay for a brand name drug when a generic alternative is available. You might think you have excellent health insurance coverage, until you have to use it. People have health insurance to protect themselves, but insurance is big business. Bean-counting fools that aren't even doctors are making life-altering decisions. When choosing your health insurance, be afraid. Be very afraid.

In Memory of the Victims of 9/11/01

I dedicate my blog to you. You are sorely missed by your loved ones and friends. You'll remain in our hearts forever!

A Beautiful Day, Weatherwise at Least.

Today was the worst day of my life. CVS, the worst pharmacy on the planet, refused to honor my drug coupons. They tried to charge me over $200 for my anti-seizure medication, when I had a coupon for $25. They tried to say it wasn't the same drug. (Of course, it was). It would be cheaper to have a seizure. I don't know what I'm going to do now. But that wasn't even the worst part of my day. The worst part was when I tried out a job in telephone sales, which pays nothing unless you make a sale, which is impossible. I spent hours listening to "how to get past a gatekeeper, how to sell to a lawyer, blah, blah, blah." I didn't get any writing done, and I feel guilty, like I wasted the beautiful weather on this precious day doing something terrible. On the bright side, I was able to walk a short distance outside, with my physical therapist, without the wheelchair. That's what I'm going to focus on.

All's Well That Ends Well

At last, the reason I didn't find an apartment: I was out of a job. The company I had worked for went out of business, and I collected unemployment until I found my next job. Had I moved, I wouldn't have been able to afford the massive rent increase. The baboon also lost his job, and got evicted. My new neighbors were much more considerate. It all worked out for the best.

Running Out of Time

I feel like giving up on my search for the perfect apartment. I don’t feel like watching Craigslist. I feel like closing my e-mail. If I never hear from another broker again, it will be too soon. I saw a few ads yesterday, and I still haven’t called. Something inside is stopping me. Maybe it’s the summer cold that I caught by being trapped, wearing only one layer, on an air-conditioned, 40 degree below zero, cross-town bus, that had to detour because a car blew up on 67th street in the middle of Central Park. (What were the odds?). Maybe fear of the economy. My favorite Tasti-d- Lite closed yesterday. All of those lovely people who actually cared about customer service showed up for work to find a stone-faced bean counter who ordered them to close up shop. I gave my phone number to the manager who’d been kind to me, offering a reference. I wished I could do more. This hit me hard. It could happen to anyone. New York has always been the city where dreams come true. People come here from all over the world, hoping to find their miracle. I was one of those optimists. I’m trying to stay strong. All my friends said I was crazy to move to New York. I ignored them. They say I’m crazy to remain. I ignore them. I don’t know what it is, but something in my gut is keeping me from doing anything in furtherance of getting an apartment. I’m sick and tired, literally and figuratively. Last time, getting an apartment was so easy and this time. . . There must be a reason why I haven’t yet found an apartment. I pray it’s nothing bad. I only wish I knew. The only thing I know-I’m running out of time.

Quote of the Day

"18 years ago the USA had Steve Jobs, Bob Hope & Johnny Cash. Now they have no Jobs, no Hope, and no Cash."

Alternative Job Opportunity

Ladies-Learn to be a Dominatrix, Make $$$ Controlling (Midtown - Manhattan) Date: 2012-09-04, 12:52AM EDT Join an elite, established and elegant Fetish Exploration/Role-play studio in Upscale Dungeon in Midtown Manhattan. Training and mentoring offered to open-minded and motivated women who are curious about the art of Power-Exchange and BDSM. Experience (lifestyle or professional) a plus. Switches and submissive also welcome. Full-time and part-time positions available. No experience necessary -- we will handle training. We will provide training for the right person. No experience required other than some basic knowledge of S/M and a willingness to learn. This is a completely legal dungeon and never allow sexual activities, massage, or anything else illegal. All shift available, Daytime, Nighttime, weekends. Great for students or those of you with other jobs and you can work part-time or full-time depending on when you are available. We can provide your clothing until you buy your own one. We provide a discreet, stable, clean and opulently equipped location, a generous wage. For immediate consideration and interview appointments. We have professional training class every week you must participate also you must help train new girls every day. Please reply email a brief introduction regarding your interests also please attach your photo. Sometimes, you just gotta love Craigslist. I'm so glad that it's a legal dungeon; otherwise, that would be a real deal breaker.

At Least He's Sorry

Spam in response to my Craigslist post:
"If you have not found an apartment yet, or are about to move into your apartment. We have appliances like refrigerators, washers, dryers, stoves starting at just 100 dollars and we can deliver it anywhere in NJ, Parts of NY and parts of PA. If your interested give me a call 000-888-7428. We also sell furniture thats priced lower than anything you will find in the furnitures stores. If you are interested get back to me i will send you the link to our website so you can see what is available. If your not in need of anything right now than sorry to bother you."
 At least he's sorry!

The Funniest Response Yet

Speaking of monkeys, I posted another ad: $1995 Hoping to be ex-neighbor of Neanderthal/baboon needs UWS apt. ASAP (Upper West Side) I have income requirements sufficient for this price range, tax returns, pay stubs, proof that I have been at same job for 5 years, and letters of recommendation. I have lived and rented same NYC apt for 5 years and must leave because a Neanderthal/baboon moved in next door and I'm tired of hearing baboon music, thudding, and horrifying sounds of 24/7 baboon loving. (if he can get some, there is hope for ANYONE).. I cannot provide credit check due to identity theft and security concerns. Seeking quiet, quality prewar studio or 1 bedroom apartment in well maintained building with live in super, light, and ample closets. I am decent, responsible person with not-so- good luck in neighbors. Response to baboon ad: Hey Baboon's neighbor,  I'm sorry if my mother in law was getting on your nerves. She gets on my nerves too. I have a 1 bedroom that I'd like 1250 for. Please call me at ********6. It's on 117th street. Thanks a lot! -Eli Eli, you made my day!

Happy New Year-1970

I just posted this real ad-get a load of the date: $2000 Quiet Studio or 1 Bedroom Wanted-Upper West Side (Upper West Side) Date: 1969-12-31, 7:33PM EST Single female looking for Quiet studio or 1 bedroom, Upper West side; good closets, good light; Doorman or at least elevator; on site super; prewar preferred. good management company. Brokers are not welcome. I will NOT pay a fee. I wonder how long it will be before that gets fixed. I can travel back in time, post an ad on Craigs List before Craigs List even existed, but I can’t find an apartment. . . Here’s the first response, from a broker who either refuses to read, is unable to read, or does not speak English. Hi there, I was very attracted to your ad posted on CL  titled, "2000 Quiet Studio or 1 Bedroom Wanted". I think I can definitely help you with your search. I am a licensed broker for Manhattan Apartments- one of the major brokerage firms in NYC. We have a huge listing of apartments in all around the city. Some questions for you:When is your moving date exactly?2. Would you consider other areas as well?3. Do  you have any strictly preference on elevator, doorman or other criteria?Anyway, I am going to send the url of our website, where you can do initial search: http://www.manhattanapts.com/rentals/index.php If you like something you see, PLEASE direct your call to me, and I will put together the list and get out to show you the apartments. Thanks,Sonny.  Is this guy nuts? Maybe this is from a trained chimpanzee. Dear genius, what part of my ad did you not understand? I’m supposed to let you get commission if I search? There’s no chance I’ll be disappointed with the viewing. I’m already disappointed with your email.

Happy Birthday To Me!

Two more “Are you still looking for a rental?” are you still looking for a rental? No, I’m just posting ads, waiting to receive stupid responses like yours. did you already find a location? Did you have to go to grad school to come up with that question?

"Hullo"

They won’t call me back to look at Trump Riverside apt, but are inviting the rat: From what I’ve heard about that building, he won’t be the first one living there! I have a gorgeous studio at Trump Place (71st & Riverside). Please let me know if you're interested.  Spammer from Hell, too dumb realize you sent me same email 10 times, changed “dad” to “friend”, and changed e-mail and name. I hope you rot in spammers prison. "Hullo, I just discovered your ad on newyork craigslist. Did you get much response to $2000 rat seeking studio or 1 bedroom (upper west side)? I kept getting turned down by all the places i was trying to get into. Then my dad told me to get a free credit report from this website: http://melinda80.eb2a.com/co68f4vgpp/3428effect5qip.php The apartment owner was really impressed i took it to the viewing and got the place ahead of everyone else. Hope it works out for you. bye Mary Leach" “hullo” you idiot. Leach- perfect name for you, next time try Mary Cockroach, Mary Parasite, Mary Senseless Waste of Human Life

30 Duane Reades

There are supermarkets, 30 Duane Reades, excellent restaurants, bars and shops all around you. Simple open kitchen that gives you some room to manuver but you could use one of those butcher blocks with wheels. (at which time you would no longer have any room to “manuver”) Sorry No Pets. (Damn. I was looking forward to walking my dog past all of the Duane Reades.)Why would anyone care if they were near 30 Duane Reades? Hypochondriacs looking for inflated prices? $1995 Quintessential Upper West Side. Black walnuts on your doorstep. (huh?) $1699 No Fee UWS studio in the mid W. 70's that's perfect for a student. Translation: cramped, slum like hole in wall, too crappy for anyone else to consider.

What They Really Mean

QUAINT STUDIO ON 83RD STREET AND COLUMBUS.. GREAT LOCATION 5 MIN WALK TO THE B,C,1 TRAIN... CLOSE TO BEAUTIFUL RESTAURANTS AND SHOPPING... (Translation. Quaint = run down dump. Great location= the only good thing about the apartment. 5 minute walk to trains= you’ll be using them more often, because you’ll soon tire of living here. Restaurants and shopping are irrelevant, because you’ve spent all your extra cash on this overpriced dump.) SPACIOUS ENOUGH FOR SMALL SOFA/FUTON ++ QUEEN SIZE BED AND SMALL DESK.. (Translation: if you expect to fit those items in this apartment, don’t bother bringing any of your other possessions, don’t be overweight, and don’t expect to walk around the apartment without bumping into everything.) Gut Renovated 1 Bdrm. Translation: they’re still building it. Bring your hard hat, anti-asbestos gear and hope for the best. $1995 / 1br - Open House Monday - Great 1bdrm near Central Park (Upper West Side) Super location near the park, subways and all the stores and shops you'd need. Showing today for immediate move in; Hardwood floors, great light and windows. Walk up 3 floors. Recently renovated Pets ok. (It would have been nice if they gave location. Is it a new contest; the person who finds the open house gets the apartment?

Why I Hate Craigslist, Part 4

$1695 / 1br - WHY BE "KING OF QUEENS?" LIVE IN MANHATTAN! PETS: We allow 1 pet per apartment under 12lbs, no exceptions! (better put your kitty or pup on a diet before moving into this building) $1595 70s W PRISTINE STUDIO!! RESTORED B/S!! ACTUAL PICS!! (Only a broker would guess that B/S stood for Brownstone. Everyone who has ever dealt with a broker would guess otherwise. . .) $1500 / 2br - total splendor in this 2 bedroom apt in ridgewood queens (Upper West Side) Did someone move Queens to the Upper West Side? LARGE STUDIO W. HUGGGGGGGEEEEE LOFT SPACE.. GREAT LOCATION LOCATED ON 73RD AND WEST END AVE.. ( ok we get it. . . you can take your thumb off the keys, now.)

The Monsters of 63 West Realty

$1195 SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SUNDAYYYYY!!! **STUDIOS FOR RENT @ LINCOLN CENTER** SUNDAY! SUNDAY! SUNDAYYYYY! Come One! Come All! ...to the event of the century when The MONSTERS of 63 West Realty SLASH prices and CRUSH the competition when we declare WAR on high prices! You'll experience THRILLS! SPILLS! and BONE CRUNCHING CHILLS...when we offer Studio Apts in a Full Service Building for $1195.00 dollars a month! Get down to 244 west 64th street ANY WAY POSSIBLE, whether its Train, Bus, Plane, Bike, Rickshaw, Hangglider or the ever so popular Long Island Railroad...you 'll pay for the full seat but you'll ONLY NEED THE EDGE!!! Where? 244 west 64th st When? 10:30am to 11:30am Why? What? are the odds the management company are MONSTERS, the thrills start after you move into this dump, the rent goes up, and the monsters ignore your complaints and maintenance requests. For kicks, I Googled the name of building and got these reviews: Never Never Never! Years at this apartment: 2008 - 2009 NY-New-York-63rd-West-This place is awful. Everything we have keeps breaking and the repair people never come to fix it, and when they do it's broken again two days later. Our elevator has been out for the last nine days. Today it was finally fixed and now the water is out, without any warning and no sign of coming back. If this were a one time occurrence, I would understand but this happens constantly. Never rent here. The most heinous place to reside. From: -Anonymous- Years at this apartment: 2009 - 2009 If you are interested in dumping your hard-earned money into a terribly small, noisy, mouse-infested apartment, look no further! I lived at 63rd West in a studio apartment for a year and a half. The apartment was so tiny, and the wall of the apartment did not reach the floor, so I was constantly seeing people walking past my apartment. These are highly expensive units, thin walls, and right next to the projects. You might as well save your money and pitch a tent in Central Park instead of renting an apartment at 63rd West. Nice place if you like housing projects... Years at this apartment: 2007 - 2009 This group lists their address at 244 W. 64th to entice you to see the apartments. Half of the apartments face 63rd st. 63rd is a dead end loop that ends at the famous "Amsterdam Houses". these are a 4 block long section of city housing projects which basically cut off the "63rd West" apartments from the rest of the UWS area. I refused to live there, had a friend that figured it was safe enough. Wait till you get targeted by the next door neighbors, beat by a gang of them, and have to watch the police scratch their heads and do nothing about it. Mixed in with these reviews are phony reviews that management company published using fake names. Clearly, creativity is a job requirement here. They must get unemployed fiction writers or ad execs to come up with this stuff.

Why I Hate Craigslist, Part 3

$4200 Luxery Deals on short term rentals (Upper West Side) Central park house is a great place to live, accross from Central park. PRICE IS SUBJECT TO CHANGE 159 a day 1250 a week 4200a month Flat pannal tv! This is not a realestate company and we are not brokers (nor are they spellers)so there is no fee what so ever. This deal wont last!!! price is subject to change (this ad has been running since the 1st copy of the New York Times was published) $1950 / 1br - ++NO FEE++ CENTRAL PARK DUPLES (Upper West Side) Duples? Don’t realtors have spell check? Call me Now to see this Amazing Apartment!!! Showing Today morning and afternoon!!! Eran. Grammar would be too much to ask. Eran you should change your name to Erun as in, E run back to school. Here’s an ad that will repel everyone (except perverts and college brats): $1920 Forget the Dorms... 24 HR Drman, Roofdeck, lounge, gym & more!! Complimentary Beer Bong with rental (Upper West Side) $2150 / 1br - ~~~NEW IN MARKET~~~AMAING DEAL~~~ (Upper West Side) $1400 / 1br - Studio in Prime UWS for only $1400 **NOO FEE** AVAIL AS SOON AS 8/1/09 (Upper West Side) Contact you? **NOO WAY $2195 / 1br - Newly Furnished Central Park w/up Apt with outside space Showing++ (Upper West Side) Must be good person/s. Available right away. *BEDROOM LARGE ENOUGH TO HOLD A QUEENS BED Well, that’s a bit personal $17875 / 4br - LUX DRMN—Stun’g C.PARK/Linc Ctr/B’way Views!—grnt/mrble/W/D—Prestine! (Upper West Side) U R ask’ng all that rent and U cn’t even spell out the description? Sh’me on u! Image may not be of the actual apt., but is typical of apts. in this building. Translation: image is never the actual apartment.Only thing in common with real apartment is four walls and ceiling, and even that is not guaranteed. FULLY FURNISHED-AVAIKLABLE ASAP.SHORT OR LONG TERM. $2200 / 3br - ((NO FEE)) ~80 WUS~ WOW!! Brand new ALCOV STUDIO (Upper West Side) YOUR SEARC ENDS TODAY!!! This apartment is the BEST value for YOUR money!!! Gigantoc studio 580 SQF ,totally renovated,Brand new spread kitachen with all new appliances Just got renovated full size bathroom. Don’t let this GREAT DEAL to pass you by. (This is too easy. Insert your own wisecrack.) GOURGEOUS PRE WAR BUILDING I have a great 1 bedroom in my building it was just renovated and is ready to move it Query: why do brokers post their photos? Who gives a sh*t what they look like? And most of them are ugly!!!We want to see the apartment, not your ugly mug. Maybe if George Clooney posted an ad, I’d have a different opinion. ENORMOUSE STUDIO ON UPPER WEST CLOSE TO 1,B,C TRAIN That might be good for the rat. . .or a cat. $2550 / 1br - ....... LIVE LIKE A CEO / SPEND LIKE A JANITOR ....... (Upper West Side) Contact Aaron anytime (Seriously) That is so offensive on so many levels. Where do I begin? Let’s call him at 4 a.m. and say (Seriously), I represent the janitor’s union, and 5000 of us are on our way to your home. We’re carrying large brooms and intend to take turns shoving them up every one of your bodily orifices… You pompous ass. L@@@@K·Entire Furn2 Bedrm Apt 4 Rent·Safe·Clean·Out of State Welcome· Go F@@@@K yourself

Greetings From Mexico

Here’s a note from Mexico. Greetings... Rat... My Wife and I enjoyed your ad very much. We ran across it while we were looking for someone. We are in Puerto Peñasco Sonora Mexico... Rocky Point as it is called in the States... about 3 hours drive from Phoenix... google if you like much comes up. We realize that you are wanting to stay in New York but  we had to drop you a line. S and A.

Rules

Rules of thumb when searching for an apartment: When they sign “best”, expect the worst. When they sign “cheers”, it’s not too cheery. The better the location, the crappier the apartment. Columbus and Central Park West, 60’s to 80’s are worst offenders. Check records for bedbug reports. When the ad shows a street sign or photo of the park but not of apt, forget it! When the building provides complementary shuttle transportation to subway and bus stops, it should also provide a bulletproof vest and police escort. When you see canned photos of wax museum replica of doorman, stuffed animals and a bimbo with big implants squatting over a yoga mat, forget it. Avoid captions with @@@@*****!!!!!WOW!!!! and indecipherable abbreviations.

Sometimes, Less Is More

P.S. Your ad was hilarious

Two More Craigslist Postings

Time for two new postings, because, yes, I am that bored. . . $2000 New arrived from Kazakhstan seeking very nice housing (Upper West Side) Date: 2009-07-29, 12:31PM EDT. I starting big movie career and has made me arrive to new York. NEed very nice apartment to entertain the peoples, much space to fit 300 familly members and 14 wifes when they arrive to visit. Have many pets, horse and cow. HAve big trust fund. Need big studio or 1 bedroom, indoor plumbing. Thank you, Very nice. And another. . . $2300 Spirit seeking place to grow (Upper West Side) Date: 1969-12-31, 7:33PM EST I passed away 2 weeks ago. My spirit has just returned to the city. I want to haunt an apartment like the prewar gem that I used to have: 1 bedroom, good closets to hide in, good light and windows to drift in and out of. Doorman preferred, and live in super.I need all the help I can get since I no longer have fingers. Elevator not necessary since I float. Great financials. Contrary to popular belief, I could take it with me!!!!!

Swampland In Miami

Why am I relieved at not finding an apartment? I’m not sure which scares me more: not finding an apartment, or finding one. Moneywise, it really would be cheaper to have the baboon knocked off. Where is Tony Soprano when you need him, with a built in defense of justifiable homicide? One final e-mail: -----Original Message----- From: me To: Swindler@findadump.com Sent: Tue, Jul 28, 2009 3:24 pm Subject: Re: NEW APT!!! The apartment's not for me. Thanks anyway. . but please let me know when a portion of the Brooklyn Bridge becomes available; I’d love an ocean view. Can you hook me up with some swampland in Miami? What a surprise; she hasn’t responded. Damn, I was hoping she’d try to sell me a portion of the Brooklyn Bridge. Good riddance, thanks for the material. Next. . .

More Worst From "Best"

More of the worst from Ms. Best. . . Subject: NEW APT Cheryl !!! I just got a NEW listing for an apartment NOT being advertised. It's a one bedroom on West 69 Street -- beautiful street. Amazing one bedroom apartment !! If you want to see it, I can have Dummy show it to you today. I would normally collect one month fee on this (since I have a real estate firm) -- but if you want it -- then I'll work something out with you -- as a favor. Let me know! Best, * To:Best. Can he show it 5:30 ish? Thanks! From: Best. You and I seem to be on our computers at the same time. The owner wants $2500 I may be able to get it for you at $2200 -- lowest. And instead of charging you one month (which I charge everyone -- I would only charge you $1000). Best thing about this: 1. Unique one bedroom apt - which I think you will love 2. I process all paperwork 3. I will greenlight you -- but -- pls, no stalling -- other people want to see this apt -- if you like it be ready to apply for it tonite?? OK?? Best. As a FAVOR?$1,000 dollars? If this person ever shook my hand, I would immediately count my fingers (or maybe she would just take the entire hand and sell it back to me for only $1,000 ) If this was the Taj Mahal of west 69th street, I probably wouldn’t rent from someone this unscrupulous. But curiosity prevailed. . . To: Best. what time? 5:30 in front of LANCOME / Columbus 69 Street Good Luck!Best. The closer it got to 5:30, the more I asked myself “What are you doing?” the best I could come up with was “It won’t be a total waste. I can get cookies at Magnolia Bakery, or grab a smoothie at the gym. Plus it will make great material for the journal.” The real truth: I wanted to see the apartment. It occurred to me that looking for the perfect apartment is like dating. You go through many toads, get many stories, laugh, get frustrated, cry, experience great hope and crashing disappointment, feel humiliated, second guess yourself and, hopefully, eventually find someone you can love, or at least tolerate. You may have to lower your expectations at some point, and reset your priorities. Hmmm. . . I’ve never been one to lower my expectations. Maybe that’s why I’ve never been married. After I made the appointment to look at the apartment, I felt like I was getting ready for a bad blind date. I was already planning my exit strategy, practicing how to say “no”. My stomach began to ache, and I could hear my mother saying, “Give it a chance.” There was a better chance of me standing in the Lancôme doorway, wearing nothing but a Bart Simpson mask over my hoo-hah than giving this chick money for an apartment. I prayed that I wouldn’t like the apartment. Dummy approached, 10 minutes late, and we went around the corner to the apartment. Location, perfect. It was a prewar walkup that smelled like George Washington’s horse had just taken a crap there. We walked up a flight of steps to a 1st floor apartment. The ground floor apartment is known as basement. Northern exposure, great if you’re a vampire or allergic to light. Big windows, mirror. Doll sized stove, smallish kitchen with dogsh*t brown cabinets. Small, dark bathroom, but I’d seen worse. 70 square feet, including a sleep loft and storage loft. I don’t like steps and am afraid of ladders. I climbed up the steps to the sleep loft and learned that unless you’re a Munchkin or one of Snow White’s companions, you can’t stand up. “Why don’t you show this apartment to Vern Troyer, Mini Me, Tinkerbell, Mickey Rooney, and the guy from Different Strokes who always said “what choo talkin’ ‘bout, Willis?” “You can fit a king sized bed in there” chimed Dummy. What a gift for sales this guy had. “Sideways?” I added. “For a tiny king to sleep in?” “Is there a live in Super?” I asked. “No.” “Who do I contact if there’s a problem?” Silence. He looked as if I’d asked him to solve a nuclear physics equation. “I’m not in love with this apartment.” $2200 for this dump? With all the apartments I’ve seen, I know the value is $1800, tops. No wonder it’s not being advertised-it’s an embarrassment. It’s unique, all right-unique that anyone in their right mind would want to live here. I’d love it? Is she greedy, and nuts???!! “Do you want to look at the other apartment again, from last week?” “Sure, what the hell.” On the way, I tried to make small talk. It was the longest three blocks of my life. “How long have you been doing real estate?” “Four years.” “Why did you become an agent?” “I got tired of selling recalled Ford Pintos. My boss said I’d be a natural at real estate.” “How long have you worked for her?” “Three months.” “Where were you before?” “I’d rather not say.” Bernard Madoff Real Estate? Federal prison? “New Jersey.” What a pity. He could have found me my dream home in Piscataway. Ewwww. “Are you hoping to get into sales instead of rentals?” “Nope.” “Why not? I thought everyone did.” “Rentals are quick cash.” I thought of the $1,000 for nothing. "You're not kidding. . . " The apartment wasn’t as bad as I remembered. It was worse. Under 300 square feet, under construction; an asbestos emergency waiting to happen. Electricity-gouging AC/heat compressor took up one fourth of the apartment. Lovely northern exposure where sunlight never comes. The doorman was even more charming than I remembered. I think he passed away two years ago and nobody told him. “I’m not in love with it. Thanks for showing me the apartments.” “Do you want to make an offer?” What part of “I’m not in love with these apartments” did this imbecile not understand? “No.” Wow, that was easier than I thought. I walked away, happy and relieved. Wait a minute. Why am I relieved at not finding an apartment?

The One That Got Away

Where do I begin with this response to my normal “seeking quiet studio or 1 bedroom” ad... -----Original Message----- Subject: $2000 Quiet Studio or 1 Bedroom Wanted-Upper West Side (Upper West Side) Hi.   I have an apartment on 72nd St @ Columbus. I can show it to you today. The rent is $1950 month. This is a two bedroom apartment with 1 and a half bathrooms. My father (88 yr old retired journalist) uses the 2nd bedroom and half bath a few hours a day for a few days a week. You would have the place to yourself every night and most weekends. And full use of the full bathroom.   Pre-war, doorman, two elevators plus service elevator. Laundry in basement.   Let me know if you want to see it today. I have to leave to the airport at 5pm, so I can show it up to 4:30..   thanks, A My office mate encouraged me to respond. It didn’t take much encouragement. To: A. Subject: Re: $2000 Quiet Studio or 1 Bedroom Wanted-Upper West Side (Upper West Side) Hi A, Sorry I can't make it today to see the apartment, but I cannot get out of work. I'm curious. . .where is your father the rest of the time? What does "most weekends" mean, and who else would be joining me when I don't have the place to myself? What building is it? Thank you, C. Here’s the response. . . My dad lives with his wife on West End Ave. No one else would have access to the apartment, so it is all yours when he is not using the 2nd bedroom as his office. As for the weekends, he initially told me he doesn't use the office on the weekends, but I have since learned that he occasionally needs to swing by to get something or check email... but I can ask him to minimize that, and to be sure to let you know if he needs to come by during the weekend if that would be better for you. The apartment is on the 7th floor at 41 W72nd St. Doorman building currently remodeling the lobby. 2 elevators, plus one service elevator. laundry in the basement.   I head back to SF this evening, but if you want to see the place and meet my dad, I can arrange that.   thanks, A.     I really wanted to see this apartment and meet the old man, but my office mate talked me out of it. Just my luck, he’d have a heart attack, expose himself, or something else horrific would happen. I’m tempted to write to him and see if it’s still available. I really want to see this apartment. . .

Am I Serious?

The rat responses continue to arrive. . .The award for the best broker inquiry goes to Mor, who had the following brilliant response to the rat's craigslist posting: ************************************************************************** Are you serious? MOR. ************************************************************************* Mor, are you stupid? Do you have a sense of humor? I think not. I have a great slogan: Mor = mor than stupid. Full blown idiot.

Even An Inmate Can Get An Apartment

Let’s see. . . can an inmate get an apartment? $1975 newly released inmate needs apartment (Upper West Side). Date: 2009-07-27, 1:57PM EDT Reply to: hous-hgcjj-1291628528@craigslist.org. I have great financials and excellent credit. I did my time, ready to spend my dimes on nice apartment. ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++ Uh; yes. . . platinumpropgroup to hous-hgcjj-1291628528 Welcome home I have several apts in that area contact me http://newyork.craigslist.org/mnh/hou/1291628528.html Sent via BlackBerry from T-Mobile Call me re apts 646-287-****

Why I Hate Craigslist, Part Two

A NICE STUDIO IN LINCOLN CENTER (about 200 sq ft.) PERFECT FOR STUDENTS AND YOUNG PRIFESSIONALS. (Perfect for kindergarten students? Dwarf students? Young people who can’t spell?) Apt for rent close to all hurryyyy west harlen (Upper West Side) Yes, I’ll hurryyy to "west harlen", as soon as you can prove it exists! *************************************************************************** My Normal CL Ad (in pertinent part): $2000 Quiet Studio or 1 Bedroom Wanted-(Upper West Side) ************************************************************************** Abnormal Response To My Normal CL Ad: "hello. i saw your post in craigslist that you are looking for apartment, i am stockbroker in banking presently in for seminar on stock exchange.i would love to rent out a flat to a friendly person who could be a companion,honesty , accommodating, kind, and always be truthful ,even when i feel meeting Him/Her. Also the flat can be occupied by single and couples. However,my apartment Flat is very comfortable flat on ground of brand new duplex flat 70square mater each sides of the rooms Located in quiet residential area , with numerous shops, bars, restaurants & amenities close by. Furnished 1-bedroom apartment he amount per month is 1500 dollar security deposit for damaging bill is 200 dollar waiting to read from you as soon as possible" WTF???

In The Race For An Apartment, The Rat Is Winning

Another set of Spambags(combination of spammer/scumbags) sent the same message from 12 different fake yahoo accounts promising to find an apartment for the rat, if the rat provided his social security number. Let's hear it for the future stars of America’s Dumbest Criminals! It's nice to know that a rat with great credit can get an apt from an owner-unbelievable. Furnished, no less. . . "As a landlord I own and live in a brownstone on the Upper West side on 89th St betw. Central Park West and Columbus. I have available starting August 1 a 2nd floor furnished very charming and quite one bedroom apt overlooking a garden. Minimum 3 months with option to renew $2500 (monthly) utilities are included Cable TV/Hi speed internet. If you are interested call L"

Better Off Being A Rat

What did I learn today? The rat got 15 emails offering to help find apt. The ad saying "identity theft/cannot order credit report" got nothing but an email from a real estate agent saying "I can’t help you." Better to be a rat, or someone with no credit history at all.

Rat Seeking Studio

Time for another CL posting; I’m that frustrated and bored. . . Rat seeking studio or 1 bedroom (Upper West Side) Date: 2009-07-24, 11:08AM EDT I've been displaced from my 2nd avenue abode due to construction of the subway. Other displaced rats have been dug out of their homes and ended up with me. It's too crowded! I want to move across the park to the Upper West Side. Since Gilligan will get off the island before the subway is complete, I need to move now. Seeking quiet, sunny location with good closets to hide in, and decent kitchen to raid. My credit is excellent. I work for the Barnum and Bailey Circus, training elephants. I am a retired actor; I starred in Ben. it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests within minutes, the rat responses begin to arrive. . . my name is xxxxx and im an agent with rapid realty, i would love to help you find a place this weekend. you can check rapidnyc.com to find many of our no fee apartments available, be sure to leave me the reference numbers to the ad, if you see something you like give me call 307-123-5141 thank you Hey, putz-aren’t you supposed to do the work?

Monstrosity For Rent

Sample ads confirming Why Craigslist doesn’t work. Query: Why don’t brokers learn how to type and spell? WindowedAlcoveHotcakes*2left4AugMvIn*FreeGym/pool1stYr*24HrSvcs*WhlFds (Upper West Side) WOW!!!! MONSTROSITY ON PARK-WILL NOT LAST!!!! 2500 WHITE CLOVE BUILDING-1 BR. $3699 / 3br - *** Great 3 Br/2 Bath in the low 80's! New!! Cahracter! (Upper West Side) Fee Disclosure: nine. (FYI genius broker): mon·stros·i·ty. Pronunciation: \män-ˈsträ-sə-tē\ noun Inflected Form(s): Date: 15th century 1 a: a malformation of a plant or animal b: something deviating from the normal : freak2: the quality or state of being monstrous3 a: an object of great and often frightening size, force, or complexity b: an excessively bad or shocking example

A Wolf By Any Other Name Is Still An Idiot

I called one company and said “I’m a convicted murderer and child molester, and just got out of prison. I have excellent credit, though.” They said “come right in, we have several luxury apartments that can suit your needs.” One of the apartments they showed me had a special playroom for children! I found the following person via a recommendation from a friend; I should have known better. With the stress of trying to get an apartment, I forgot the most important factor-my friend is an idiot. " Applications are always cash -- I will give you a receipt. There is a studio coming up On August 1st that I think I mentioned yesterday. Here is the info for it: 184 West 70th Street. STUDIO, Apartment #8H $2,195 Doorman building, has small gym and laundry in the basement. Great, super great UWS neighborhood. Please try to take a look at this apartment. I will be sending you information as I find it. And, please let me know how you're progressing. Best, Name Withheld For Fear of Lawsuit." “small gym” turned out to be 2 of the first step machines ever invented (busted) and a hamster spinning on its wheel, in the basement. “Laundry” was a giant sink in the basement. Were those giant cockroaches, or laundry concierges? Turns out this person is trying to pocket 150 dollars of my hard earned cash (called an "application fee", non-refundable, of course, even if I didn’t get the apartment). They were trying to get an additional referral fee from a building that I found myself on the internet, and visited 2 weeks before I ever heard of them. There was no application fee if I applied directly with the management company, and negotiable rent. While trying to bilk me, this person didn’t even show up, but sent a dim witted assistant who went upstairs without me, leaving me sitting in the lobby with a nasty doorman. He finally showed me 2 dumps, and didn’t mention that rent was negotiable. The apartments were bastardized with cardboard walls and tiny square footage. My boot boxes are bigger than these apartments. It’s too bad, because from outside the building is beautiful. The assistant looked at me like I was crazy when I said it was stupid to pay 150 dollars, cash only, to possibly be rejected. That I would get a receipt seemed to make him think I’d find it less reprehensible. Thanks, pal. Nothing I’d like better to be reminded, in writing, that I was stupid and/or desperate enough to be ripped off by the likes of you. He urged me to apply, and asked “Do you want me to call the broker?” I said no and got out of there. As I walked away, discouraged, I remembered the events of my prior visit to this building. A tenant cornered me and advised that it was a very young crowd and management didn’t care at all. The one honest doorman said “Things get reported when I’m here, but I’m only here 3 days”. The other doorman has the personality of an undertaker on valium. My subsequent internet research confirmed that management rents out the vacant apartments to tourists, has open scaffolding and code violations, and treats tenants like crap. The broker sent another email today, urging me to apply for the apartment. I told her that I wasn’t in love with it. Here’s the nonsense I got back. . . "Thanks for getting back to me -- here's how I see it -- 1. You can "apply" for that studio and I can do my best to see you are "accepted" or 2. You can apply for the one you really like. I keep on thinking that if you are accepted by one landlord in the same neighborhood, you will have a better chance at getting an apt of your choice -- my opinion. Looking for more apts without knowing if you will be accepted isn't a great strategy. Ok -- let me know what you want me to do. Best, NWFFOL" ***Ironic- why is it that the worst people sign their e-mail “best”?

More Craigslist Madness

$1500 Upper West Side housing wanted. Date: 2009-07-21, 2:14PM EDT Reply to: hous-uzjkh-1281480746@craigslist.org Very small person looking for place in doorman, elevator, prewar chest of drawers with ample closet space and plenty of natural light, a la Kramer, on Upper West Side. Kramer's chest of drawers preferred but will accept similar chest of drawers. Will pay extra for top drawer; I realize this is penthouse location. Breakfast or wake up service not needed, but I will not tolerate gas, snoring or excessive noise from other tenants. I trust that my Rottweiler will not pose a problem. it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests *************************************************************************** (e-mail to undisclosed recipients, a/k/a everyone, received immediately after I posted my ad) Hello! Just incase you need help moving, I run a small Moving and delivery service and can help you move. Best, R **************************************************************************When they conclude with "Best", it's always the worst.    _______________PRINCE WITH A VAN, READY TO GIVE YOU A HAND *************************************************************************** Running a close second: Responses that arrive 30 seconds after the posting appears. Speaking of the devil: Hi, Are you still searching for an apt? this message was remailed to you via: hous-k9nsn-1284682751@craigslist.org. “No, in the 30 seconds since I posted the ad, the apartment fairy magically appeared and presented me with a lease for a prewar, 1 bedroom apartment in a luxury doorman building. I’m moving in 5 minutes.”

First Of Many Craigslist Postings

$2200 little old woman seeking bigger shoe (upper west side). Date: 2009-07-23, 10:51AM EDT. Reply to: hous-k9nsn-1284682751@craigslist.org. I'm a little old woman living in a Converse Chuck Taylor shoe. I have so many children, I don't know what to do. I need a bigger shoe, possibly a Converse Hi-top, Doc Maarten, or large boot. Good closet space and nice view required. Live in Super or shoe repair specialist preferred. Location: upper west side. it's NOT ok to contact this poster with services or other commercial interests.

The Reason

The next morning: Walked to East Side gym, walked on treadmill for 30 minutes, called Bergdorf’s, had them put aside T shirt and matching leggings. Walked to Bergdorf’s, Happy birthday to me. Five days until I officially give up the search. It’s back to Bergdorf’s for me. I’ll go to gym more often, try some light cardio. Epilogue. The Monday after my birthday, I was shocked to learn that my company was going out of business. At last; the reason I was unable to find an apartment. I had to collect unemployment. This was clearly not the right time to move. I was easily able to afford my rent stabilized apartment. If I had moved, I wouldn’t have been able to afford the increased rent. The baboon lost his job, too. He got evicted. I started my apartment search again in Fall, 2010. Stay tuned for Adventures in Real Estate, Part Two. . .

Shopping Is The New Cardio

Cardio adjustment: Walk to gym, purchase smoothie. Walk to bus, ride to office. After work, walk to Saks to take annual look at self in 3 way mirror. Horrified, begin light cardio at gym tomorrow. While I’m here, begin pre - birthday shopping cardio. Walk around entire 5th floor, try not to pause. Pause at denim section. Pick up many pairs of jeans, sprint to fitting room. Pulling on distressed jeans. Hudson, J Brand too tight; made many attempts to pull them up, but won’t get past my calves. Seven jeans made it up after many attempts, extra exertion trying to keep foot from going through holes in pants. Try on other random jeans, which look like the ones I already have. All jeans look awful due to horrendous expansion of ass. Try on cute special event fashion night in New York T shirt to benefit 911 victims. Exit fitting room, purchase T shirt and Seven jeans with most holes. Marvel about how I just spent the most money on the least amount of material. Rationale “You’re going to die, you can’t get an apartment, you might as well spend it all.” Not to mention the annual “It’s my birthday week; Happy Birthday to Me”. Go to ladies room, walk down escalator 5 flights, trying not to stop anywhere. Almost out of store, Chanel nail polish called to me. Kept going. Up 5th avenue. Leggings in Bendel’s window. Went in, lap around table with leggings. Lace, leather, zippered denim, black, navy, tights with sequins on front only (stupid); prices much too high for leggings; gasp, exit Bendel’s. Outside Bendels, get accosted by 2 con men/thugs pretending to sell their about to become a hit rap CD, asking for donations. Told them to screw off; how many calories did that burn? Traumatized by thugs, speed walked to Bergdorf’s. Had to go to 5F, just to see. Made revolution around, starting with shoes (gorgeous fringed boots by Joie; when did they start making boots?) Had to check out DVF. Found animal print/camouflaged leggings. Tried them on; made huge ass seem less horrific; Happy birthday to me. Noticed cute white Marc Jacobs Tee Shirt; kept going. Rode escalator down to basement. Chanel nail polishes called to me again. Met company rep who tried to make me over. Instead purchased new fall nail polishes. Happy birthday to me. Rep sent me back to Bendel’s to get last 2 Lilac polishes that Bergdorf's just sold out of. Almost made birthday appointment for makeover, but didn’t. Ran back to Bendels, past thugs, told them again to screw off. Climbed steps to Chanel makeup counter, bought polishes. Happy birthday to me. Walked home, muttering “What the hell have I done?” added up purchases, walked faster, in disbelief. Unpacked purchases. Happy birthday to me. Note to self: stick to treadmill and city. Walking in stores is too dangerous.

Decisions

THINGS I SHOULD DO TO BABOON Play CD recording of crowing rooster at top volume on Bose wave radio, every day at 5:00 a.m. including weekends. Bark loudly like mad dog during wee hours. Super inquires about dog, invite Super in and say “I’ve never had a dog. I told you that man is crazy.” When he cooks road kill, spray Lysol into kitchen fan, which will waft into his kitchen. Thought for today: Sometimes I just sits and thinks; Sometimes I just sits; Sometimes I just sits in sunny spot in office window, like a cat; Sometimes there’s Haiku: Air conditioning. Too much in this little room. Freezing my tail off. August 26, 2009. I haven’t thought about new apartment since my chest began to hurt. Dr. office called, wanting to do a $400 dollar test, not covered by insurance, to see if there is blockage. I have high cholesterol. I haven’t scheduled the test. They want to decide whether to put me on the cholesterol medication, which carries risk of liver or kidney problems. It all boils down to when your number’s up, it’s up. Is my number up? One final peek at Craigslist. Nothing interesting there. Birthday in 2 days, nobody here to celebrate, nothing to celebrate, no apartment. Looming possibility of imminent heart disease or Alzheimer’s. Happy Birthday. First things first: should I get the test? Maybe. I’d rather try to adjust diet and exercise more. Day one diet adjustment: I looked up heart healthy foods on internet. Everything I like, I can’t have. Salads? Hell, no. Microwave meals are not the solution; too much sodium. I can’t cook. If I try to cook, the apartment might catch fire. Does my gas even work? The stove is good for storing my perfumes. Where will I store my perfumes? Maybe try to find a heart healthy restaurant. The only one I saw on internet is vegetarian. The salt content in EJ’s food is probably higher than Atlantic Ocean. No pizza, no Chinese. Can I cheat with steamed dumplings? Cheeseless pizza? Is sautéing the same as fried? This is too depressing. . .

Indecision

Another call from Marty this morning. “Just want to see if you’re still alive.” “The guy across the hall from me moved. He was the only good neighbor. Now I’ll probably have three crap neighbors. I can’t get an apartment.” “You can’t do it now anyway, with the economy so bad.” “I don’t know if I should sign the lease, or go month to month.” “You should sign the lease, but then you have to stay. You already have one judgment on your credit report from the identity theft, you don’t need another one.” “My credit’s already screwed. Maybe it doesn’t matter.” “Have you been going out?” “I go the gym on the Upper West Side. They have a nice restaurant. I sit there and read.” “Who do you sit with?” “I sit alone. Who am I supposed to sit with; Regis?” “I can’t believe you haven’t found anybody. You can’t be trying.” "I'm trying." “Then you must be contagious. What do you have, MRSA and all the STDs combined?” “You get worse every time I talk to you.” I couldn’t tell him about yesterday’s terrifying near death experience. I had chest pains. I had them for a week, but ignored them. Suddenly, they were all I could think about. Maybe I shouldn’t have spent ten hours in the 93 degree heat, on the sundeck of the Upper East Side location of my health club. I go there every so often to remind myself how much I want to live anywhere but on the Upper East Side. I was listening to “The Confederacy of Dummies”; a gaggle of immature, pathetic old men, bragging about themselves and talking about the twenty something women as if they had a chance. Same cast of characters every week. High white wedge woman; wedge sandals so high she needs a stepladder to put them on. At first glance it looks like she painted two bricks white and taped them to her feet. Old, bald, deaf, senile, fat fart; puts his chairs on top of yours, even though there are miles of unoccupied space; sprays lotion that goes on you, not on his cue ball head or medicine ball stomach; coughs, grunts, and stares at you like he's a wild animal. When someone calls him on his rude behavior, he ignores them. Other characters include an assortment of Park Avenue blonde bimbos, proudly showing off their recent breast implants; butt - floss - wearing "happy ending" masseuses; hookers accompanied by Wall Street losers who bring them as guests. Must stop now. Too depressing. Luckily, I got an appointment with the only decent Dr. on my health plan. Normally, there is a 2-month wait for an appointment. They had a cancellation, and I got right in. I prayed I wasn't dying. The Dr. said my problem was muscular, that chest pain upon exertion is when to worry. After many tests, the Dr. said that I was okay. I didn’t bring my sunglasses to the Dr. because I was sure he would put me in the hospital and I didn’t want them stolen. I felt relieved. At least I wasn’t as dead as my neighborhood. If only the baboon would move. . .

In The Toilet

My apartment search is in the toilet. The one percent of my brain containing my common sense says this is for the best. I’m better staying in the low rent dump next to the baboon, because it beats homelessness in a bad economy. However it’s the ninety-nine percent remainder of my brain that’s urging me to continue the search. The last time I looked for an apartment, it was easy. This time it is impossible. There has to be a reason why. Limped to work. Missed M2 bus that failed to stop at bus stop, but stopped 2 blocks later, not at bus stop. Driver: “This isn’t a stop.” Me: “You didn’t stop at the stop, and you’re letting off passengers here.” She slammed the door in my face, and bus sped off. Message on voice mail, which is closest you ever get to speaking to someone at MTA: “I just want to let you know that the M2 driver failed to stop at 50th and 5th Avenue, but stopped and illegally let out passengers 2 blocks later. The nasty driver saw me limping to the correct stop, but sped by. When I tried to board the bus after people got out, she refused, and shut the door in my face. I know you won’t take any disciplinary measures. But I was hoping that maybe you can give this message to the driver: the limping woman you refused to pick up today called to say ‘go screw yourself’.” Went to Starbucks. Nobody there. No line. They still made the wrong drink, and I waited 20 minutes. “Of course I understand how iced café Americano sounds like iced peppermint mocha. How many shots did I order? Are you kidding?”

My Left Foot

I have a hairline fractured left foot. How I got it, I have no idea. On Tuesday evening I got off my bed and my left foot hurt. It was swollen and partially numb. I didn’t recall banging it, or hurting it. Who gets a fracture sitting on their bed, watching a telenovela? I panicked. Had a poisonous insect bitten me? There are countless ways for pests to enter my apartment; I might as well be living in a tent. I went to sleep, hoping it would get better. Sure enough, it got worse. While at work, I plugged my symptoms into Web MD, which convinced me I was dying. I could have cellulitis, or a blood clot. Since the probability of needing money for a new apartment is near zero, I went to my expensive celebrity Upper East Side Dr. who treats Jim Carrey, Oprah, and me (his token loser). “Your foot is black and blue. Didn’t you notice?” “I’m nearsighted. My apartment is dark. I couldn’t see that far.” “You have a hairline fracture.” “How did I get it? I didn’t feel anything. I was sitting on my bed, and when I got up, it started to hurt. How does someone break her foot by watching TV? It wasn’t even an action show.” “Do you exercise?” “Yes, but I don’t recall hurting myself. Am I so insane as to not realize when I injure myself?” “Yes.” “I was afraid it was a blood clot, or I was dying.” “You’re not dying.” “Since I’m not dying, I might as well buy more supplements.” Three hundred dollars later, armed with omega 3, antioxidants, vitamin D, acidophilus, and multivitamins, I limped home in the rain. All those Tasti-D-Lites and skim milk lattes and I still get a f**king fracture. Maybe it’s time to buy the calcium supplements that taste like chocolate or caramel.

Instincts

VIRGO. August 11,2009. Sally Brompton horoscope. “Once again you are paying too much attention to what others are saying and not enough to what your heart is telling you. You don’t need advice or assistance, you just need to listen to and act on your instincts. It shouldn’t be too hard.” But Sally Brompton, it is hard. For the first time, I don’t trust my instincts. I don’t know what my instincts are anymore. I’m beaten and defeated with this apartment search. I don’t know what to do. My instinct says don’t sign on for another year living in crap, next to that babboon. My instinct wants a better apartment that I can call home. My instinct yearns for the peaceful feeling I had when I moved into my fantastic apartment in my old hometown, before my life crumbled into disaster. My instinct is sad that I didn’t get the old fart’s apartment, even though it was too small and I don’t want an old fart interfering in my life, banning valises and pets. My instinct says don’t give up, but my rational depressed brain says you probably won’t have a choice, accept your fate, and save your money until next year. If you’re foolish enough to continue living in this godforsaken city. $1900 Live like a STAR w/o PAYING! Luxury Doorman Studio+Gym&More!*NO FEE! (Upper West Side) (map) Great idea, until they evict you. Any more bright ideas? Craigslist, I’m over you.You’re no longer funny. You are pathetic. As am I.

90something Degree Rant

It’s easy to understand why so many angry comics come from New York. Fifth Avenue was a parking lot, and after waiting 20 minutes for a bus, I walked 22 blocks. I finally caught up with a bus; eight blocks from my office, only to find my Metrocard expired a day early, due to the fare increase. To celebrate this increase, the MTA decided to cut several bus routes and not tell anybody. Like the chorus in a Greek tragedy, other frustrated passengers chimed in, “They think no one will notice.” Why would anyone notice standing at a crowded bus stop for 45 minutes in 90-degree heat, that their regular bus was nowhere in sight? I wandered into Starbucks, where the wait was longer than at the DMV. I stood in line like a fool, wondering why the tour bus folks always use the Starbucks bathroom. They never buy anything. Is this part of the tour? Get out at Starbucks, use restroom, and return to bus. The barista smiled and repeated a new mantra: “If it’s not perfect, I’ll be happy to make it again.” “This isn’t what I ordered. I wanted a venti non-fat ice decaf with sugar free hazelnut. This is too small. Not to mention I could have renewed my drivers license in less time than it took to get this wrong beverage.” The smile turned into a scowl. “The ticket says grande.” “Well, I didn’t say grande.” The barista growled, turned around, poured more coffee and added ice. Which gave me time to wonder why the smallest thimble sized beverages are called “tall”. “Why the attitude? It’s not like you had to go to Columbia, ride on the back of a donkey with Juan Valdez, and pick coffee beans in stifling substandard conditions. You changed a cup and added ice. At least tell people the truth-it it’s not perfect, I’ll make it again, but I’ll glare at you and you’ll be lucky if I don’t spit in it.” She looked like she wanted to shoot me. Has anyone ever noticed that if you take the i out of “barista”, replace it with a d, and scramble the letters, it spells “bastard”? Put that on your recycled cups.

Facing The Truth

My inner optimist thanked him for caring. My inner pessimist got angry. How dare he give me false hope, talking about how nice he would make the apartment, when I had so little chance of getting it? Obviously, he was waiting to see if anyone better took the apartment over the weekend. My inner dreamer tried to figure out how to make the finances work, panicked over clutter, and considered using eBay or having a moving out sale like in Confessions of a Shopaholic. My inner fool felt sad about leaving the current apartment; giving up rent stabilization, temporarily forgetting about the baboon and Borat, the pests, the noise, the splinters from the floors, the insensitive super, the pampered alimony witches, and being surrounded by Golf - Umbrella - Toting - Type -A - Upper - East - Side - Jerks. My inner realist said you don’t have a prayer ; give up; this is not the right time, or the best situation for you. Over the weekend, I remained confused as ever. Was I more afraid of not finding an apartment, or finding one? My musings repeated themselves, as if I had selected “repeat” for the CD player in my head. In the rare event that he offers me this apartment, am I meant to take it? Is this the only apartment I may ever get? Is this my destiny? If he doesn’t offer the apartment, it wasn’t meant to be. Odds are good to excellent I’ll give up, accept my fate, and stop looking. I’ll be disappointed, but will I be more relieved than disappointed? Will I be devastated? Will he even call at all? This was like deciding whether to take a case to trial. Without an offer, there’s nothing to decide; you try the case and fate steps in. With an offer, you have a choice to make. I sat on pins and needles, waiting for an offer. Monday afternoon arrived, and the CD in my brain continued to ramble. I’m in limbo. No phone call yet. If he doesn’t call, he’s someone who doesn’t keep his word and I’m better off. If he calls and says no, I will be devastated. How many more times can I put myself through this agony? I must give up. I’ll be deaf, cluttered, and unhappy, but there's always next year. I feel trapped already. Must stop obsessing. Maybe check out Craigslist one more time. Search: done. Result: nothing. Note to self: If the good Lord, your real estate agent (and the only one you can trust), has not found you an apartment by August 31, it isn’t the right time to move. Accept your fate as a blessing, which it most likely is.Try to make it through the year without going insane. Get rid of your excess crap and save some money. 2:35 p.m. no phone call. Office mate asking, “Shall we make it like the medical shows? What time shall we call it?” Time of death of apartment search, dashing of all hope to live like human being in lovely apartment on Upper West Side, return to imminent loser status? Assistant saying giving up sounds so sad. Yes, it is. I should have known. If he were nice, he would have at least given me a courtesy call, saying thanks but no thanks. To keep someone hanging, hope seeping away every second that goes by. . . It’s cruel. Of course, they’re cruel. They’re in real estate. Whoever said real estate is happy, was nuts! This is worse than waiting for a man to call. None of them are worth it. Note to self: this apartment is not worth it. Try to relax, be positive, and enjoy rest of day. When shall I call it, totally? End of month, or when I get call from current management company? Man, oh, man. I hate giving up. I was so close to being Weasy Jefferson. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. It.Wasn’t.Meant.To.Be.Period. Loserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloserloser You big loser. Cheer up. It’s not the end of the world. It’s rude to not call when you say you will. It’s the way of the world. It’s NYC. Bright side: the good Lord wants you to have a pet, maybe. Or at least that option. And a bedroom. And enough closet space. And to have savings. Bad side: baboon. Etc. UGH. Maybe leave NYC? What a jerk. He could have called. Rip my heart out; why don't you? For a brief moment, I thought Dad was speaking to me through this man. Dad would have said all of those things. Was this a sign? Dad wouldn’t have gotten my hopes up, then left me hanging. Unless he needed to teach me a lesson that would make me see the big picture. A new record has been set. The oldest man in the world promised to call me and broke his promise. And it hurt the most. Maybe that’s why I went through the torture of liking and not getting the apartment. As a wake up call. But this is not making me feel any better. 201 W. 77th apt 14G time of death: 4:14 p.m. I give up. On this apartment. On the project, I’m not sure. Can you feel my devastation jumping off the page? Too sad to write. Tomorrow is another day. The bright side? At least I didn’t spend 50 bucks to be rejected. Or three hundred.

Haunted By Mom

After I wrote the below paragraph, the man called. He questioned something on my bank statement; another debit card purchase that he thought was a debt. I clarified the issue for the second time, shocked to have heard from him at all. He said I needed a financial adviser and could not believe I had so little money saved. “You are not in control of your finances. You don’t need all the items you have; they don’t make you happy. Get rid of the clutter. You probably have 200 pairs of shoes that you don’t wear. You need to pay rent, Con-Ed, and cable. For a treat, you can eat out or go to the movies.” Wait a minute. Am I really hearing this? “You must dress better. You need to get your hair done. You have to respect yourself. When I say good morning to my tenants on their way to work, they are impeccably attired.” I’d have to look presentable when I saw him before going to work, to say “good morning”? What am I, in boarding school? This, coming from a cross between Montgomery Burns and Ebenezer Scrooge? How could I make him understand that I go to work in jeans, leggings, and Uggs? I talk on the phone all day. Nobody sees me. “The women in the building always look great, even when they are going to the gym.” I envisioned him wearing a Lucy van Pelt (Peanuts)/Ladybird Johnson fright wig. He morphed into my mother. I had almost forgotten how awful it felt when she used to comment how much prettier and more fashionably dressed the other women were. When I brought home a cute guy she’d say “You’ll never hold on to him. He only dates showgirls.” Hi, Mom. Thanks for coming back to haunt me. What took you so long? I guess the Alzheimer’s disappears when you get to Heaven. I finally understand why people used to say that I grew up normal in spite of my mother. “I’m not your father, but I’m talking to you like this because you are nice.” He’s not my father, but if Dad was around he would have said the same thing about my finances. He would have left the fashion insults to Mom. Were my parents sending me a message from Heaven? Wasn’t it bad enough that last night, I cried myself to sleep with shame? Was he trying to help, or just making me feel even worse about the situation and myself? “You should look at the other apartments; how beautiful they are. Except for the girl who keeps valises under her bed.” I heard you the first time. Enough with the valises, already. No clutter. I get it. You’ll enter my apartment whenever you want. Which would not be a problem, but valises under my bed would be the best scenario. “Will you really keep the apartment nice?” For the umpteenth time, I assured him I would. Why did he keep asking me? Was he senile? What kind of question was that, to ask, even once? Why wouldn’t I want to keep a beautiful apartment nice? Why didn’t he trust me? Did he trust anyone? A warning went off in my brain as I recalled a quote from his first tenant, Ben Franklin: “The people who don’t trust the most are the people you should trust the least.” “Can you pay 2 months security deposit?” “Yes”. If I were a normal apartment seeker with a less tragic situation, would I even consider renting a place from someone who cares what I keep under my bed? The no pets issue is also a problem. I loved the apartment. If I were a normal, animal hating, clutter free person with savings, invisible suitcases, and hardly any clothes, this would be perfect. Except for the sober doorman who said the owner is cheap. Except for the drunk part time doorman. Except for the unattended packages. Except for no pets. Except for fear of being broke, and the $2000 curse. (Once my rent goes over $2000, something bad happens. I'm destined. . .) Except for the location across from a schoolyard that looks more like a section 8 slum. Except for the substandard elevators and multiple outstanding building code violations. California closets will not help if I’m falling 14 flights down an elevator shaft. Except for the owner jacking up the price of the apartment to $2100 dollars a month, the day after I saw it advertised for $2000 on Craigslist. What would happen if this guy entered my apartment, saw something he perceived as clutter, and tried to evict me? This is New York. He is proud of having lawyers in the building. Will he tell the subsequent applicant that he rejected the prior applicant because she was a broke loser who had too many belongings? Has this search driven me so insane as to believe I should rent from a person who inspects my apartment and tells me how to spend my money? “I’ll call you Monday.” “Thank you, Mr. Burns.” “Excuse me?” “Thank you, Sir.”

Valises Under The Bed

When I arrived at 201 W. 88th street, a “part-time” doorman (who appeared to be a full time drunk) staggered to greet me. If anyone lit a match near this guy, the building would ignite. “Part time” consisted of daytime hours, but I could rest assured that the video surveillance would catch the rapist, murderer, or robber who gained access the rest of the time. He let me wander around the spacious and well-appointed lobby, complete with fresh flowers and large antique mirror. I noticed a variety of packages for tenants piled against an unattended wall. Anyone could easily walk out, or go upstairs, with someone else’s package. Note to self: Insure all packages; you may never receive any of them. Fate stepped in, and the super appeared. I inquired about the vacant apartment. “The studio?” “Yes.” “Are you meeting a broker?” “Not until tomorrow, but can I see the apartment now?” “Go ahead. 14G; it’s open.” The elevator went to the 15th floor, bounced, then returned to 14. “That’s normal”, said a tenant. It’s all about lowering expectations, I reminded myself. I flashed back to my former building, where the elevator bounced, dropped three floors, and permanently injured me to the tune of two herniated discs. I opened the door to the apartment, and, sadly, fell in love. Even though it was under construction, I knew it would be exactly what I wanted. If the building would have me. Which it would not. The kitchen had big black and white floor tiles, with white cabinets and everything new. The bathroom had a tiled decorative black and white floral pattern on the floor, beautiful sconce lighting and everything new. There were 2 California closets, one walk in. I walked through an archway to a large space with crown moldings, 2 more sconces and a chandelier. It was a northwest exposure, filled with big windows and plenty of light. Even the kitchen and bathroom had windows, facing west. The apartment was quiet, with solid walls and no signs of baboonery. A beautiful newly polished patterned hardwood floor completed the room. This was the closest I had seen to perfection, and reminded me of my beautiful apartment from the non-loser part of my life. Except it cost a lot more money, was about a quarter of the size of my former digs, and Homer (my beloved sixteen year old cat who passed away from cancer) wasn’t there. Heavy sigh. If Homer was still here, would I even care about finding a new apartment? I rode downstairs to find a different, sober doorman. He explained that he was a substitute. (Had the other one passed out, or gone to an AA meeting?) I asked him about tenant complaints. He said the only complaints are that the owner is cheap. Insanity took over and I asked him how to apply for the apartment. “Here’s the owner’s number. Call him now; he’ll answer or call you right back. He knows everyone in the building.” I called the owner, who invited me to his office around the corner from the building. When I walked into his office, I saw a perfect match, a prewar owner to go with the prewar building. He probably rented an apartment to Ben Franklin. He probably bought the first building in New York. I sat down, and he started grilling me. “You’re a lawyer? There are many lawyers in the building. One just moved in, went to Harvard. I like lawyers. Now they are too busy to cause trouble. Used to be they had time on their hands, to sue landlords.” To sue for what; insufficient kindling to light the stove? Leaky bucket for the well? Is it appropriate for him to be rifling through rental applications and telling people about his tenants? “The apartment is $2100. Did you use a broker?” “I called, and got the address. The broker wasn’t available until tomorrow, but I wanted to see the apartment today. I took a shot.” “Did you give your last name to the broker? Cancel the appointment.” I saw where he was going with this. He wanted to save the broker fee. Like I cared. “No problem; I will cancel the appointment. But the ad on Craigslist said the apartment was $2000.” He ignored that comment. All three times I made it. Maybe he wasn’t such a nice old man. “Are you sure you would keep the apartment nice? I have a tenant, I don’t like her. She keeps valises under her bed.” “I’d keep it in pristine condition. I love the apartment.” “I hate clutter. You’re not one of those shopaholics who will cram the apartment?” he glared suspiciously at the bag containing my Gore-Tex sneakers. “How many sneakers do you have?” “I needed those. I don’t have any waterproof sneakers.” Was that an appropriate question? Who was this guy? I did love this apartment. “You don’t have any pets, do you?” “No. Why don’t you allow pets?” “A long time ago a tenant had a little dog that bit another tenant. I don’t want any more messes in my building.” “What if I had a dog that went to Harvard? Or the Yale mascot bulldog?” “What?” “Nothing. I don’t have any pets. Does this include cats?” “No cats, either. Too dirty.” Could I really live somewhere where getting another cat was not an option? “I don’t have any pets.” If I get one, I’ll keep the litter box under the bed, next to my valises. I wouldn’t get the apartment. It didn’t matter. Maybe if hell froze over and I got the apartment, I could sneak in a cat, dress him in an outfit from Bonpoint and say he was my son. “If any maintenance is needed, put the request in writing. Then I come to your apartment to evaluate the problem. It may take a day or two.” He appeared so frail, it was a miracle he could press the elevator button. “Do you make the repairs?” “No, I need to check on what is going on in the apartment. I visit my buildings every day. I’ll send you to some apartments, so you can see how they decorate. You will keep the apartment nice, won’t you?” Wait a minute. A property owner who dictates decoration and prohibits clutter? Since when is that a requirement in NYC? Had his radar gone off, pegging me as a shopaholic, queen of clutter, and all around slob? How desperate am I? “Here’s a pamphlet I give out, with instructions on how to care for the tiles, fixtures, and floors.” Is he kidding? “How’s your credit?” Here we go. I told him the sad story, the identity theft, sick parents, the works. “But I have recommendations, salary verifications and bank statements.” “Why don’t you earn more money?” How humiliating. I launched into how moving to the city was stressful enough, so I took a less demanding position. “How many places have you been rejected from?” The nerve of this guy. “None. I haven’t liked anything enough to fight for.” “These are very nice letters. Joanne, make a copy of these.” “Why haven’t you saved more money?” I told him about trying to clean up identity theft, dealing with sick parents, root canals, cat with cancer, and living in New York. “I think you’re a shopaholic. I know you had it rough, but that does not help.” Should I be grateful to this man, or just embarrassed? “Why haven’t you cleared up this mess? You’re a lawyer.” I tried to explain it happened a long time ago, there were complications, I retained a lawyer who is working on it, but it takes time. “What’s the matter with you? Are you sick?” Oh, man. I had better get out of here before he takes a Sharpie from his desk and writes LOSER on my forehead. “What are these numbers? Do you owe all this?” “No, they are debits from my bank statements. I don’t owe anything. All the items on my credit report are from identity theft.” “You are nice. I don’t let people live in my buildings unless they are nice. But I have to order your credit report. I will let you know. Thank you for coming in.” “It was nice meeting you.” Don’t worry, I won’t let the door hit me on the way out, and if it does, I won’t sue you. Thanks for making me feel like such a flaming jerk. I crossed the street. The M72 was waiting, but I needed to walk. I didn’t care if it rained on me. I had my waterproof sneakers, but left my dignity in the old fart’s office. I hadn’t felt this hopeless in a long time. I used to have life by the balls. How did I allow myself to get in this position? I got home, devastated. I had a large Tasti-D-Lite for dinner and cried myself to sleep. Giving up on the apartment search feels like a bad break up, only worse. In my former life, if a man broke my heart I cuddled up with ice cream and my pussycat in my lovely apartment. I should have skipped the Tasti. Now I’d be fat and miserable, living alone in this baboon infested dump. I never missed my former apartment in Philly more. I couldn’t miss my cat more. Nothing is worse than losing your best friend after sixteen years. I’ve cried for him every day since December 3, 2007, the day he passed away. Ok, so there are things worse than losing an apartment. I’ll try to remember that during baboon mating season.