Cheers!

I know it's gauche (despite its brief comeback the summer of 2008), but I'm gonna go out on a limb and say it:

I really like rosé.

[the fast and the] FURIOUS

Premise One: I am concerned that my super thinks my lease is up August 1. He has apparently been giving out the key to brokers so they can begin showing the apartment. A month early. With no warning. I am very angry. And very nervous we're going to have to whip out the contract in order to prove we get to stay here (granted the privilege?) of staying here UNTIL THE END OF THE LEASE. Which, with our super, will definitely be a pleasure.

Premise Two: Starting now, I need to keep this place immaculate. For two months. I am...not really...an immaculate person.

Conclusion: I hate Rapid Realty. I hate my super (nothing new here). Increasingly, I hate my apartment, which is over-priced--if only we'd known better--and tiny and poorly designed and at least 30 degrees overheated year-round. I have to keep reminding myself that this does not mean I hate New York.

The Pursuit of Happiness

I am a big fan of secular holidays, but Thanksgiving is stressful and Valentine's Day is fraught. The 4th of July and Groundhog's Day, however, are reasons to celebrate.

Today's events did raise one question: if you know you are plunging into the thick of a huge crowd--say, for example, the masses watching fireworks by the river--why would you bring your GIGANTIC dog?

This Too Shall Pass

If I lived in a basement apartment, it would be less hot. If I lived in a basement apartment, I'd have few windows and no light. Two ineffective fans per single room later, I'd be willing to live in a cave.

Gilded Lilies

On the subway yesterday, it hit me: I am beginning to resent middle-aged women. I know this is the height of misogyny. [The sense of disgust of older women is so deeply entrenched in Hollywood that even when the role is specifically for an older woman, no one wants to see an actual older woman on screen, writes Hadley Freeman in The Guardian.]. Still, I can't help it.

In my defense, my feelings don't extend to all ladies of a certain age: it's a special breed of women I keep encountering who are unwilling to cede their now-faded youth to the young. They are the Gertrude-aged actresses auditioning for Juliet. They are the aggressive shoppers fighting high school girls for ironically acid-washed jeans at Top Shop.

Despite it being an almost-constant hindrance, my youth is allegedly one of the few things I have going for me. Can't they let me have even that?

He Does WHAT and Lives WHERE?

Everyone knows there are two topics of conversation at parties in New York: Where do you live and what do you do? I didn't realize, though, that there are apparently also only two topics of conversation between friends: Where other people live and what other people do.

The Sidewalks of New York

The weather is [mostly] warm; the sky is [often] sunny. This can only mean one thing: the street canvassers have come out of hiding. They are everywhere, and they are coming for you. I will cross the street. I will talk on my phone. Once I was walking through Union Square sobbing. But there is no obstacle too large for the canvasser. They will find you, they will block your path, they will follow you down the street. I have never been physically attacked, though I feel it coming.

And the thing is, I have canvassed. I, of all people, should have sympathy for my fellow soldiers doomed to a life of liberal causes. I should have sympathy, but I don't. My bleeding heart has turned to ice. Common manners no longer apply. It is a matter of survival--one must escape or risk the consequences.