A British Reset

I was supposed to write about this months ago. I got lazy. Get over it. 

Anyway...So, I'm 30 and I don't have any kids yet, and this is something that my mother reminds me of every time she comments on the phone that she can actually hear me eating cheese and watching Netflix (“My son in law is not just going to knock on the door, Danielle.” It’s a moot point because even if he did, I’m not answering when Vampire Diaries is on, so go away bro).

 Krista and I making Ma proud.

While I haven't yet managed to give her really any hope of grandchildren, you will be pleased to know that I have, in fact, done the exact opposite. You know that gene that women supposedly have that makes them forget about the pain of childbirth, lest they never want to have any more? Well I decided to use mine to help forget how absolutely terrifying it can be to pack your shit and start over somewhere new. It's a good thing too, my July 2014 move to sunny London marks the 3rd time in my life that I've relocated to a major city.

There are 900 reasons why I did this and only one reason why I was able to get it to work. I'm an insurance broker for really tough things and the weirder the thing, the more it ends up here (trust me that's all you want to know about that without wanting to melon your own eyeball out with a spoon). Anyway, Lloyd's of London is the oldest insurance 'market' in the world and doing deals on the floor there is like crack to insurance nerds like me. Anyway there was an opening I was qualified for and I jumped on it. After one calendar year of nagging my bosses in New York to the point where the sound of my voice incited violence, I packed my stuff and transferred on out. There's a lot more to that part of the story I won't go into but know this: corporate politics could kill us all and I firmly believe that when I look back on my career, making this work will still be the best broke of my life. There is so much good work to do here, I can't WAIT.

 

Lloyd's, on a day when the Queen came

As for the other reasons, well, I just really like adventure. I seek geographic solutions to boredom. I don’t know, I thought it'd be fun to live in London and get to travel in Europe on the weekends and maybe even learn to drive on the other side of the car/road. I want a London flat and a British bank account. Maybe meet a boy with a dumb accent I can make fun of, and he mine. For some reason the concept of backpacking for a few months never seemed like enough for me. I like the idea of going somewhere indefinitely and then seeing what kind of person it makes you. Maybe stay forever. Maybe not. (This concept stresses a lot of people around me out) Indeed, Los Angeles made me a world-class parallel parker and New York made me an unusually aggressive speaker. Well, I was always an aggressive speaker but New York made it to the point where I was aggressive even to them. You can imagine how much I've startled the English. The two nice guys that sit next to me have started swearing a lot and coming off more harshly (“the f-ck is that guy talking about!?”) as a direct result of being in constant close contact with me. I feel bad about this but it’s a real delight to hear a New York sentence with an English accent.

Anyway, super fun fact about moving to London: Within 2 weeks all the things you romanticized in your head, the way people sound, the way they react to the way you sound, the cars, the red buses, the whole thing...all of that goes away and you're left with the decision you've made. You're now 7,000 miles away from your family and enough time zones away to render only about 4 hours a day appropriate for phone calls (read: drunk dialing my mother at 9am her time will always be the most fun I'll have that day). You don't know anyone and the sound of your own accent annoys you in your head.

The good thing is I was able to figure out, honestly, if I wanted to be here or not. My initial relocation was only 4-6 months and it only took me about a month to figure out that I wanted to stay. It wasn’t even a particularly easy month. In fact the easiest thing I did was not get hit by a car flying down the road in the other direction (there were some near misses). The good thing is I know I made the decision honestly. This shit is hard, often lonely, and full of social faux pas you don’t even know you’re making until you make them and look like a Grade-A Jackass (how the hell was I supposed to know that saying “fanny pack” is wildly inappropriate here?). You know what else though? It never, even for a second, stops being interesting. The city is HUGE and spread out and absolutely beautiful. Every accent is different and all equally fun to mock. The only danger in this though is hearing them have a go at yours. It sounds like they’re straining to say words incorrectly and it sounds completely just...completely insane. Sort of makes you uncomfortable in the way that hearing a recording of your own voice does. I remember thinking, Jesus, is that what my accent sounds like?

 

You do get used to it. 

So you guys will get a kick out of this. The English LOVE pre-made food. Love it. Pret, Pod, Abokado, everywhere. Even the grocery store. All stocked with sandwiches, salads, wraps, etc. The grocery store has MORE premade food that you take home and heat up than ingredients to make food. I asked for cookie dough one day and the guy looked at me like I was an asshole. The food is good and all, and definitely preferred to fast food, but dammit, a gal could REALLY use some Chipotle up in here. On that note, shitty American things like ranch dressing, hot dogs, and frozen waffles are just not a thing here. I mean it’s probably a conscious effort not to poison themselves to death, which is admirable, but sometimes I just want a red Robin chicken finger and I want to dunk it in a big thing of ranch. Is that so much to ask?

 

A feeding frenzy of fresh mediocrity. 

Here’s another fun fact: Brits don’t talk about things. There seems to be a commonly understood list of things not to talk about and these topics are to be avoided at all cost. There is another very loud American girl that works in our area as well. Our desks face each other so really, every morning is a colorful session of gossip/opinion sharing/evening recap because that’s what American bitches do. We respect privacy, we don’t lie, and we’re never malicious but we also do not censor ourselves. The English kids around us have positively fallen out of their chairs in shock a few times. Anyway the things Brits don’t talk about usually boils down to anything involving feelings or subjects that can invoke strong showings of emotion from anyone within a 10 mile radius. Remember that Family Guy where Joe Swanson is crying and Peter, Quagmire and Cleveland just can’t deal with it and slither away? That actually happens here.

 

Joe loses the perp. 

American’s love to be larger than life, and the way I talk is larger than life even by American standards. So for me, controlling my emotions is a struggle I couldn't give two shits to overcome. I don’t get any more angry than anyone else. Okay I don't get that much more angry than anyone else. Just...look I’m my mother’s daughter and sometimes I like to get all Italian or whatever and complain and yell at people and flail my hands around and all I want you jerkoffs to do enthusiastically agree and nod your stupid head and go, “hell yeah!” Well there have been no ‘hell yeahs’ here, just people so desperately uncomfortable I can see them physically lean towards the door.

I figured, screw it. Stick em' with the pointy end anyway. The Brits are going to get a full dose of Danielle and they’re going to learn to love it, as much as I love them. Ask my coworkers about the struggles of opening a British bank account, or the exact status of my visa, or how I feel about how badly the Jets are doing this year. Ask them how I feel about that account I lost, or how I feel about New York Pizza. They’ll tell you in alarming detail. They're learning to put up with the American tendency to criminally overstate things, another trait which I possess to cartoonish proportions. Whatever. Indian food did change my life, that movie was the greatest thing I ever laid my eyeballs on, and I really did want to push that guy out of the back of a moving truck going 75 miles an hour. I call people "dicks" at least 27 times a day and I mean it every single time.

 

"Oh what are you, a f-ckin world traveler?"

You know what is nice about being here though? The English have great wit and tremendous vocabularies by American standards. Their communication, even when awkward or dry, is very deliberate. I mean they also say crazy shit like “he had a bee in his bonnet about that,” but that only adds to the fun. The men here love chocolate. LOVE chocolate.  Granted their chocolate is so phenomenally better that I lack the words to explain it. Bring in a bag of fun-sized bag of what-the-hell-ever and they gather like moths.

Anyway, I don’t really know what else to say about my experience so far. It’s been about three months and I am still living in ex-pat housing that my work set up for me. I don’t start the real, actual living here thing until January 1, which I imagine is probably going to be…comical. In the meantime all I can do is keep trying to adjust and enjoy it as best I can. I miss New York so much sometimes that it feels like someone punched me in the stomach. I miss the California sun and my insane family and my friends, all of whom are doing their own spreading out right now. I miss pizza (although I did find a Killer place here recently) and Mexican food and the sound of Jimmy Fallon or Saturday Night Live starting. But then I have to remember that one time, I lived on the beach in Santa Monica, another time I lived right by Central Park in New York City, and then I moved right smack in a really neat part of London…and then I turned 30. Challenges aside it hasn’t been too bad a way to spend the younger years of my life. Quite the contrary actually. I can’t wait to see what happens next.

 America - Where you still owe us taxes.

Apartment Hunting in NYC (and Other Forms of Insanity)

I’ve had a really hard time not being homeless lately. Seriously, in the last calendar year, I’ve been homeless on two different occasions for periods lasting over a month. I can’t tell you what wonders it does for your self-esteem. In my defense, the first time I was homeless wasn’t my fault. It was Sandy’s. She was a vicious, life-sucking bitch from which there was no escape.

We'll always have Paris?

 

The second time? Yeah that one was totally my fault.

I decided about 7 months ago that I was ready to live alone. My sister decided to move to Norway to find a Scandinavian to make babies with or some shit, and meanwhile I had just gotten a new job. I said to myself, I said, “Danielle, it’s time to move on up, and move on out.” I think the people walking by thought it was weird that I was talking to myself. Hey, all the more reason I need my own space, right?

So moving in New York City is basically the worst thing that will ever happen to you. They say it used to be divorcing in New York that was the worst, but I don’t buy that. Apparently until 2010, New York didn’t have no fault divorce, which meant that one party actually had to accuse the other of cruelty, abandonment or adultery and the other had to either defend themselves or forfeit like babies. Personally, I wouldn’t have a problem with this concept at all. On the contrary I'd have had a blast with it. I once dated a guy who was so terrified of being alone that he generously overlapped me with my replacement. Another guy suffered such a profound emotional short-circuit that it would have actually been quite entertaining to watch had I not been on the receiving end of it. Flying to Italy next to an empty seat was the cherry on that shit show.

  Taking shit from no one, in Montepulciano

 

Anyway, had these guys been husbands, I would have used those divorce accusations like various seasonings on a rare slab of meat. I would have sold tickets and had Playbills drawn up for the court proceedings. 

So, yeah, moving is absolutely the worst thing that will ever happen to you in this city. Just so I'm clear, the list of things you’d rather have happen to you includes (but is not limited to) being bit by a diseased subway rat, falling asleep on the subway and ending up in Queens, being publically tarred and feathered, and accidentally showing up to work naked. 

Why is moving in New York so awful? Glad you asked. 

First off, just to start the party, you need 1^st month, last month, security deposit AND a broker fee (which is usually about a month and a half’s worth of rent. I shit you not). Really, all the good apartments are listed through brokers so it’s not really worth attempting to get out of this. Some broker houses are no-fee. I found an apartment through one once. I nearly wept with joy. Anyway, you also need a bunch of savings on top of all that money so the landlord doesn’t freak out that you might lose your job and be shit out of luck. Also, you need to prove you make 40x the monthly rent. If you don’t, you need a guarantor (cosigner) that makes 80-100x the rent. ALSO, you have to use movers because, well, it’s New York City. All this on top of the fact the rent is bullshit high. Like, ungodly, are-you-kidding-me high. 

  Lower East Side. 1 Bedroom, 400 sqft. $2395. First, last, security, broker fee. Must make 40x rent to apply. No guarantors.

 

It was about 2 weeks into the apartment search when I found myself on the subway, quietly sobbing over the 43 shitholes I had seen so far. Here I am pushing 30, working my gnards off, and what does it get me? A fleabag you wouldn’t put your cat in (you will note that I forgot my big-girl panties that day). It was that day that someone told me I ought to look into co-ops. Apparently renting from a co-op is very cheap because the application process is so long and tedious that few actually attempt to do it. Meanwhile the unit owners just want a steady tenant who will stay as long as possible while they hold their investment so they charge pretty reasonable rates. What this clown didn’t tell me is that applying to a co-op board is like applying to have someone look up your internet search history in front of you, before you’ve had the chance to erase it all (“Well we see that you take a lot of interest in the personal life of Alexander Skaarsgard. Would you tell us more about that please?”).

Of course not yet knowing this, I took his advice and found a great place on Central Park West and 83rd in a historic building not too far from the Dakota. Suddenly, things were looking up. I found the secret! While everyone else was looking at 6^th floor walkups with no kitchen and a family of roaches living under the mini-fridge (cockroaches FLY in New York by the way, it’s the shit nightmares are made of), I was looking in one of the oldest and nicest buildings in New York, RIGHT on the park. Yes ma’am, I thought to myself, I finally got a piece of the pie.

All it costs you is your soul.

 

It turns out that the first thing you have to do when applying for a co-op is actually sign the lease. The co-op board then has to approve the lease. Then I had to pay a deposit. 

Then I got the board packet. 

The board packet is basically a 25 page handbook on how to hand-deliver someone your identity on a silver platter. With the sheer breadth of information this co-op board has on me, stealing my identity is the least of my concerns. These people could probably buy foreign real estate, sign me up for the Army, or adopt a child with that information. Honestly they probably have enough information to find a way to get rid of all my information and wipe me off the grid. Even better, I had to make 8 copies of the finished application packet. 8! Some disgruntled intern at the managing broker’s office is buying fake Rolex’s from China with my credit card right now, I can just feel it. 

Anyway, I turned in 3 months of full bank statements, an itemized list of every asset/account/IRA/401k/social security/etc., 5 letters of recommendation, one personal statement, a resume, my job contract, 2 years of FULL 1040 tax returns, details of every credit card/gym membership/Netflix/Time Warner account, and a pile of recent pay stubs. The owner of the unit was really nervous that I wouldn’t get accepted (she only gets to submit one applicant per monthly board cycle) so she emailed/texted EVERYDAY with “suggestions’ for little tweaks and clarifications here and there. I believe I burst into tears over the phone with her at least twice. One time I tried to back out and was totally willing to lose the deposit. She gently reminded me that the board would shove my application through and I would be financially liable for the entire lease anyway (talked to a lawyer: yeah, they can do that). 

Now I had my shit to them before June 1^st, hoping for a July 1^st move in date. As of June 27^th I hadn’t heard a thing. As of June 1^st, I have been homeless. It’s July 3^rd (still with me?). The board finally got back to me on June 28th and agreed to interview me on July 2^nd, a day after I was to move in. Technically the lease was void by this point, but I figured, what the hell? It’s the last step and I’m going to have to find another place anyway. Plus, unless the board formally declined me, the owner lady was not going to give me my deposit back (I think she honestly thought she was legally entitled to it even if they approved me next fucking February). 

Anyway, I sat down with two members of the board last night. One guy was a litigator in my field of work and the other was a Harvard MBA banker lady. The building is like a networker’s wet dream (gross). So I bit my tongue, talked shop, and awaited word. I figured I’d hear in a month or so and would be resigned to couch surfing until then (read: friends love this).

  Yea this is pretty much the vibe.

Well, as of this morning I heard the good news, I got the damn place! Thing is, my shit has been in storage for well over a month now and to tell you the truth I can’t even remember what the apartment looks like, or what it feels like to have my own stuff. I’ve been living out of a suitcase, subleasing a place in Brooklyn up until the last few days when that lease was up and I had to resort to couch surfing (to those who have housed me: you know who you are. You people are god-like). Unfortunately I can't move in right away. I’m flying home to Redding for a few days and then I move in on Monday. Regardless. I’m glad it’s finally over. 

I just want to say that if you ever decide to move in or to New York, make sure you have no shame, a lot of extra cash lying around, the patience of a saint, and the emotional apathy of one of my ex-boyfriends. If you pull it off without at least 4 serious bouts of stress related heartburn, I commend you. You are a better man than me. 

Oh hey, look! The board just sent me a memo detailing the move in process. Apparently there’s a $400 move-in fee. Great!

                                                                                    Worth it. 
                                                                     Also,  Check out my Victory Song

Ghana: A Tale of Two Yards of Fabric Pt. 2

I should probably go ahead and tell you about this whole two yards of fabric business. I can't speak for all of Africa, but I can say that in Ghana, there are few problems that fabric can't fix. Nearly every marketplace vendor sells these colorful, patterned pieces of fabric which have the following possible uses: towel, headwrap, blanket, skirt, swimsuit coverup, dress, baby bjorn (more on this later), yoga mat, tro-tro seat cover...the list is endless. Two yards of fabric is like the damn Swiss Army Knife of Ghanian survival, except without the hefty pricetag and mandatory expulsion from grade school. Women do not travel without them. I have been attached to mine since I arrived. I plan to bring several back and sling them via late night infomercials where I will demonstrate the various uses in front of a bewildered live audience (which will be interrupted a few times with pre-taped segments showing the disasterous black-and-white "before" life of a pour soul without fabric, throwing their back out carrying babies and what not).

I first used my fabric in the capitol city of Accra, the morning after my first night, as a towel. The shower I had taken was cold, as would be nearly every shower I thereafter. Hot water is rare. This is significantly less of an issue than it was in post-Sandy NYC, where those city folk just basically lost their damn minds. It's just so hot here that you really don't mind.

We headed to the street in search of a taxi when I discovered that despite the urban environment, it was perfectly normal for goats and chickens to wander through traffic. The goats are smaller here, maybe the size of a young Labrador, which only made the sight of them maneuvering through about a billion honking taxis all the more incredible.

We passed by a guy with a machete selling fresh coconuts, which solved my issue of not knowing where I was going to get my morning coconut water (feel free to take a pause, maybe go into child's pose, and be impressed with my trendiness). Finally we got into a taxi and headed to the "station."

"Stations," I've come to understand, are large parking lots located directly on the surface of the sun, bustling with people selling everything you can imagine, and vehicles of various sizes waiting to depart. Different types of taxis (some private, some you share and hope it'll drop you off near where you need to be, and big-ass vans stuffed with people).

Alisa and I were headed to Cape Coast, which is located about 2 hours away from Accra. Therefore, we needed to take what I'm told is called a tro-tro, otherwise known as the aforementioned 'big-ass van.'

Basically these things are imported from Japan and can seat 21 people (not including the driver) so close together that you basically become one traveling 21-headed blob. The tro-tro does not take off until it is full, and if you have to wait 4 hours, you are waiting 4 hours.

We waited about an hour, during which locals pass by, carrying buckets of delicious street food and water on their heads that you can buy through the window. The water is not in bottles but in small plastic bag pillows that you bite the corner off of and suck. The water is fresh, cold, and delicious. I slammed about three, and then spent the subsequent 2-hour ride thinking about whether the next pothole meant peeing on the Ghanians and Alisa, and whether they would still like me if that happened.

Kids, when your mother tells you to pee before the three our movie, listen. Don't be an asshole.

We arrived in Cape Coast and arrived and this amazing little hippy place called the Baobob House. It's basically a vegetarian hotel, restaurant, and non-profit cultural school for kids. All the profits go to their various programs, and you can buy the art they make in the gift shop (You know what else you can buy? Two yards of fabric). Baobob House is located on a hillside overlooking the rocky part of the coast, not far from a castle where captured slaves were once held before being shipped off to the Americas (next time you catch your self regurgitating a sentence that starts with "this country was founded on," Wikipedia these castles and put a sock in it).

That night at dinner I ate somekind of spicy vegetable and tofu stir fry that I've been thinking about ever since. We then headed to this really cute outdoor bar/hut thing that was located right on the beach. Alisa introduced me to a fellow Peace Corps. volunteer named David, who was sharply dressed for a white person (the rest of us are just sort of sweating in our flowy clothes and headbands while the impeccably clean and mostly sweat-free Ghanians are often very well dressed). David and parked himself at a table with three young Danish volunteers, so we joined in. One of the volunteers had her mother there for the week, making us two of the likely 5 total white people in Ghana that were not volunteering in some capacity. We drank room temperature champagne and switched to beer when we discovered what a terrible idea that was. We also had breakfast with the Danes the next day as well as they were fellow Baobobians (you heard me).

I really like Cape Coast. It has some of the bustle of Accra along with the charm of a coastal town. About 15 minutes away, however, I would discover the best part of my vacation yet: The Stumble Inn, and the two days of subsequent hard-core vacationing that would accompany it. I'll get to that later.

Ghana - A Tale of Two Yards of Fabric Pt. 1

You know, I've sort of been a groupie my whole adult life, and I'm okay with that. For about 10 minutes in college I was a fraternity groupie, a useless endeavor that I quickly replaced by becoming what Penny Lane from Almost Famous aptly titled, "a band-aid." Several years and some hellacious heartbreaks later, I proudly became a business groupie, an activity which still keeps me regularly occupied and my heart rate a little on the high side.

It's not that I have a desire to live my life as a follower. You people know me better than that. It's that absorbing myself in groups whose lifestyle defines them in one way or another has allowed me to adopt here and there the parts that suit me. I can identify the Greek alphabet, discuss The Beatles, and name my favorite wine. I choose not to play beer pong, go 'on tour,' or vote Republican. You get the idea.

Anyway, this week I added a new section to this sad little resume I've created: Peace Corps Groupie.

About 2 years ago, my best friend Alisa and I (along with my sister), had become a little restless and decided it was time for a change. Krista and I seized a very odd opportunity and up and moved to Manhattan. Alisa stayed behind to complete her Peace Corps application, a process which eventually led to her current residence in the Western Region of Ghana. I knew I would have no choice but to experience any part of this that I could.

My flight left late last Friday. Armed with a bucket full of pills and an immune system full of every modern vaccine known to humankind, I tossed a magic Xanax down the hatch, and left my weary, hurricane-battered adopted city behind.

First few things you notice when you land in Africa: 1) it's HOT and humid. Duh. 2) Ghanians use some strange smelling industrial cleaners 3) Holy shit, I'm a ghost.

Believe you me, you are never so aware of the transcluscency of your own skin than when you are the extreme minority. Africans have truly beautiful, flawless color to their skin and it sort of makes you look at your own and wonder if something in your epidermal system just failed to operate as planned.

Alisa, decked out in a flowy skirt, headscarf and an amazing pair of locally-made Jerusalem Cruisers (think about it) met me right outside of baggage claim and led me to a row of very colorful taxis. Those of you who know Alisa, will appreciate when I tell you she is like a whole different race. Anyway, she began negotiating with the cab driver when I first noticed the most extraordinary thing: Alisa was rocking a HARDCORE African accent. She was speaking mostly English, it was just that I couldn't really understand it. Turns out when you speak to Ghanians, you kind of need to adopt their dialect and use of words or the resulting confusion will cause great agony for all involved. English is the official language of Ghana, but they also speak Twi and some other local languages depending on the region.

Now while I come from a background where there is no sense using 1 word when 10 will do, Ghanians speak and understand English in a very direct manner. They also don't waste time with the use of questions as a form of politeness. If you want something, no need to ask if you "may" have it. You say "please bring me a fork."

"Stop doing that," "I don't want that," "You go away now."

Apparently none of these are rude, though I left the use of the last one for Alisa. Some kids were pestering our group.

The first night we stayed in a place called "Comfort's Inn." (No relation). Alisa had pre negotiated the rate at 50 cedis a night ($25. Yea!) The next day we discovered that it was actually 80 cedis. I didn't mind, it was a nice place, but Alisa was pissed. She had a point too. The Peace Corps website referred the place for its volunteers passing through the capitol at 50, a number which was confirmed by Alisa via telephone. Apparently the website was outdated and the guy just agreed with whatever Alisa said because he couldn't properly understand her. I'm told this happens alot. Alisa and her agressive African accent raised all holy hell and got the price down to seventy. Frankly it was worth my 10 cedis just to watch the show.

"Sister. Sister. No. You do not understand. The man told me 50. I would not stay here if this was not the price. It pains me to pay more. Even 70 pains me!"

Now, a cab driver or a market salesperson might jack the price a cedi or two for white people because the figure they can afford it. However Ghanians aren't shady people at all. Even after Alisa laid 30 minutes of smack down (seriously, I wish I had gotten it on tape), we could clearly see this was an epic case of miscommunication. The only crime committed here was the tendency of some to say yes to something when they really don't have a damn clue what is going on.

That first night was great. It was just Alisa and I and a couple of Ghanian acquaintances. She brought me a real African dress that a tailor in her village made. I'm going to wear it to work and freak everybody out. We drank Ghanian beer (called Club, which I've come to understand is in a never ending advertisement battle with Star), ate tilapia and banku with our hands (Alisa dove right in, I had to wait for it to cool, like, 39 degrees), and bought some shit we didn't need from street vendors.

The adventure, and my real Peace Corps groupie status, wouldn't really kick in until the next day when we headed to the coast, and met up with several other volunteers. It would be here that I would learn about water sachets and plantain chips and mosquito nets. I've learned why white people standing while they wait makes Ghanians nervous, and how religion plays an extraordinarily large part in the naming of local businesses (as evident by the Jesus is Lord Tire Shop and the Give It All To God Altel Wireless Mobile Phone Store). Most important of all, I have learned that you cannot overstate the importance nor the incalculable uses for two yards of fabric.

To be continued...

(Seriously, how lame is 'to be continued?' I'm sorry. You get the idea though. Blog's not over).

10 Things I Would Have Done Differently for Hurricane Sandy

I remember when I first heard Sandy's name. I was sitting at work mindlessly poking around Yahoo. There she was, staring at me from the middle of the Atlantic Ocean courtesy of one of those space cameras that I maintain the CIA uses to spy on me, like in Men in Black. They called it a Frankenstorm...whatever the hell that means. I don't know. All I remember was being pissed that it was going to be cold. Bring on the rain, tidal waves, whatever. Just not the cold.

I left work on Friday and never pondered that I wasn't going to be back at work on Monday. At that point, my only Sandy-related concern was that my Hunger Games Halloween costume might need a jacket.

Saturday night I went out (in costume, which was a big hit. Chubby cheeks + brown hair = Katniss). This lead to Sunday, which was largely spent in bed watching terrible Netflix and silently praying for my headache to go away (it didn't). Krista was flying back from Los Angeles, and shortly before she boarded she sent a text demanding that I go buy food and supplies.

This leads me to the first thing I screwed up on.

1) BUY FOOD AND SUPPLIES IN A TIMELY MANNER, AND THINK ABOUT WHAT YOU WILL NEED: I left the apartment at 6pm. Duane Reade (it’s like Walgreens), the grocery store, etc. were all closed. I was still half-wearing my costume from the night before, so the irony of me foraging for food before what became an apocolyptic storm is not lost on me. I ended up finding an Italian restaurant and a small bodega that were still open. 20 minutes later I headed home with 2 bottles of Champagne, 4 plates of baked ziti, some Pirates Booty, and a few Power Bars. Instead I should have gotten 17-18 bottles of champagne, a truck-load of Booty, enough Nyquil to knock me out for 3 days, flashlights and candles, and travel sized versions of every toiletry known to man. Seriously folks, 9 times out of 10 the storm will end up being nothing. But every now and then, it’s as bad as they say and for those times, you must be prepared.

Krista came home, so we polished off the champagne, inhaled the dry food, made a few smart-ass "look at me I'm bored" Facebook posts and headed to bed. Work was cancelled in the morning.

Building management turned on one elevator late the next day, so we were able to get more supplies. Really though, all we managed to get was more alcohol. I’d like to use this opportunity to explain that the constant boozy theme here is not as sad as you might think. Trust me, when you are trapped in your home, forbidden to leave, a good stiff cocktail is a damn life raft.

2) DRINK LESS ALCOHOL: Yea, you are bored. Boredom is the most arguably unbearable part of natural disaster entrapments. One time, I was in Indiana staying with a friend and his family when the whole town was suddenly ordered to their basements for a tornado warning. This traditional, midwestern family had an actual sportsbar in their basement and the night quickly went from polite introductions to a variety of screaming drinking games. Sitcoms figured it out years ago, which is why all of them have at least one "locked-in" episode. People drink when they are trapped. Thing is, you really should watch it. There is nothing worse than being hungover, realizing you have less water than you should, and then being told by the fire dept. that the tap water isn't safe. You know what happens when you’re hungover and still trapped? You will consume so many damn carbs that it will actually change your chemical makeup. Seriously folks, I'm like a swollen sea-creature. I could survive a nuclear winter.

That night we headed down to the third floor of our apartment where the lounge was. The power had just gone off and fifty or so fellow tenants decided to really make a party out of it. The storm was incredibly loud and the water was almost to the streetlights. There were cars floating down the street. I ended up sitting in a hallway with a boy I met inside talking about movies and work and life. About 10 minutes in, the emergency lights went off and we were in total darkness. I can't remember what he looks like and I never gave him my number, but I hope I see him again.

The next morning I woke up to find the power still not on. The water receded, and we could see people outside, assessing the damage. We hiked down 26 flights and headed to our friend Sara's. It was freezing cold. Before the storm, when I was hunting/gathering for food, I was reasonably warm in just a short sleeve shirt. Sandy took with her the last of the muggy warmth leftover from summer. I grabbed two days worth of clothes, and a heavy jacket was not among the things I took.

3) IF YOU LEAVE YOUR HOME, CHECK THE DAMN WEATHER AND PACK ENOUGH FOR A WEEK: Really folks. I've been cold for a week.

The CodEd guy outside my building told me that the power was out in all of lower Manhattan. From 35th street on down. I didn't really realize how remarkable this was until the sun was going down and I witnessed the entire skyline dark. I live near the World Trade Center and Wall Street. All of it was entirely black. We took a cab uptown later that night and I will never forget the part where we crossed into uptown and you could clearly see the line of separation, if you will. We were trying to find a hotel, but everything as far as Philadelphia was booked solid. We even heard that there were two-star dumps in Queens charging $800 a night. Jerks.

4) TELL YOUR LOVED ONES THAT THEY MAY NOT HEAR FROM YOU, TURN OFF YOUR PHONES: We lost our cell phone signals for 48 hours and we were trapped in our building for awhile. Also, when your phone shows "searching..." instead of the usual 3 or 4 bars or signal strength, this means that it is actively looking for a signal, which means your battery will drain in a matter of hours.

You know the weirdest thing about being involved in a big thing that's on the news? You don't get to see it on the news. Seriously. I never got to see the live coverage for the day after reports of the initial damage. Even when I finally wandered uptown 36 hours later and charged my phone, the only things I saw were a few Yahoo pages and some Facebook status updates. By the time I actually saw a TV, it was days later. By then, the news was tailored to people that had already been watching the whole time. They really should have a thing where you can search for initial reports (actually they probably do, I'm just not that good at Google when it doesn't involve stalking people).

5) ITS OKAY TO CRY: This is a big one. My sister actually called me out on this today (Sunday, one week after the storm). She says I've been "weepy" since it happened. Thing is, she didn't say I've been crying. That's because I haven't been. I can't. There's nothing wrong really. There's just about 37 things that are almost wrong. My house is uninhabitable, my office is closed indefinitely, I've been spending my days wandering around trying to find electrical outlets/information/ways to pass the time, and I slept on a couch for 5 nights straight. I was cold, I didn't have enough clothes, and I was constantly under the impression that the power would be turned on "tomorrow," which was a goal post that moved farther and farther away the closer I got to it. Alas, I didn't actually lose anything and alot of people have it much worse than me. I figured disaster victims are people you see on the news, not me. However, what I should have realized was that it is okay to feel a little sad that you can't go home for awhile and lay in your bed with your you-smelling linens and your pictures of your family surrounding you. Allowing yourself to admit that such a predicament sucks ass is 90% of what is preventing you from dealing with it in the first place. So turn up the female alt-rock and have yourself a good cry. You earned it. Then suck it up, figure it out, and help someone next to you figure it out as well.

6) ITS OKAY TO YELL AT PEOPLE: Well, not everyone. But it’s okay to yell at people sometimes. For the most part, New Yorkers were incredibly sympathetic and went out of their way to be kind to us. Those on the north end could tell us wanderers a mile away. We were carrying a lot, huddling around outlets like they were spittin' out Vicodins (sadly, they weren't), and our hair was tied up in tight little buns on top of our heads, a quick-fix for those without hot water or hair products. However, there are two groups of people whom I harbor a particular displeasure with at this time: upper-east-side-lifelong-New-York-old-women, and CodEd workers/building maintenance people. Regarding the women, some of them were absolute hags. Wealthy and not-wealthy, these obnoxiously-accented prunes were just appalled that their usual deli/bodega/coffee shop was more populous than usual. Bitching to eachother and what not...no idea what had just occurred mere miles away. As for ConEd, this just has to do with the lack of communication. I know these things sometimes don't have clear answers, but these guys couldn't even tell me if I was looking at hours or decades. A simple "ma'am we can't tell you until we assess the salt water damage, which could take awhile" would be fine. Instead, I got blank stares and shrugs, as though they didn't even know why they were out there. Perhaps it was for the free hard hats. Meanwhile, our building management has been sending us emails every few days, moving that damn goal post. I'm currently looking at a month.

The other night I met a couple of fascist right-wingers. These guys bitched about Bloomberg for 4 hours because he endorsed Obama, cancelled the marathon that they had apparently spent countless hours of their unhappy marriages training for, and believed in global warming, which was obviously voodoo. They went into a tirade about how the relief effort was dismal, despite the fact that none were affected in the slightest bit. At no point did they even notice the girl with the tell-tale bun sitting right in front of them.

6) APPLY FOR FEMA FUNDS RIGHT AWAY: They make it easy to do. And you can "re-up" as you need to. It's a week later and now the money is going to take a little longer. Living in a hotel is expensive. Also, remember that Romney wanted to CUT FEMA AND THEN HE LIED AND SAID HE DIDN'T. He also invented the very Obamacare he now promises to repeal, but nevermind that. Seriously. I cannot for the life of me figure out why this guy wants to be the President. I digress.

7) BUY ASPIRIN: Walking up 26 flights of stairs, carrying a suitcase down said stairs, sleeping on a couch in an apartment where the smoke detector right above your head beeps and screams "low battery" every 30 seconds on the dot because the power is out, wine headaches, self-loathing aches, etc. It all wears on you. Have pain relievers handy.

8) REMEMBER HOW TO DO YOUR JOB: It’s been a week. I totally forgot. I don't even have an office right now. What I do have are 9 billion emails and no idea what needs to be tackled first.

9) GET THE HELL OUT OF TOWN!!! Seriously. I should have left in the first place.

10) LAUGH: This isn't really one I would do differently, but I would do more of it. Krista and I littered Facebook with narcissistic, cynical status updates about the various white-girl problems we encountered along the way, for no other reason but to laugh. Friends bantered back, shared their good wishes, and offered assistance. I will say, when your signal is down and all you have are the emails and comments that have already loaded, those well wishes are all there is to read. And sitting there in the dark, I read them over and over again, laughing every time. It reminded me that even though I felt a little lost, there were alot of people I knew that were rooting for us. So who was I to succumb to self loathing? This really is an adventure. I will come out the other end appreciating what I have more than ever. I saw more of New York on foot this week then I had for the two years prior. I tried new restaurants, found new bars, and even showered at my boss’s house. I got a pedicure with a foot/calf massage that nearly caused me to pass out from pain because I was so sore from descending 26 flights of stairs. I met a nice boy in a dark hallway.

Thank you all.

It's just a Movie: Titanic Edition

(...otherwise known as "B-tch, Scoot Over, You're Hogging the Floating Door")

Let's get one thing out of the way. You totally love Titanic. I know, I know. Late 90s Leo mania was annoying (a phenomenion I was partly responsible for), its a long-ass movie, and the sappiness left you with several cavities and a lingering sense of cynicism that only booze and losing your virginity could help you forget. The fact that Leo went on to be a total badass only furthers the general assumption that Titanic was a load of horseshit. Meanwhile Kate Winslet has risen to such prominence that she could plunge a toilet on-screen and probably win, and deserve, an Oscar for it.

But hear me out.

While not without it's flaws, I still think its totally awesome. The movie left people with a lesser-but-no-less-real sense of discomfort and awe that the tragedy itself had on society in 1912. How could this have happened? Why weren't there enough lifeboats? Did they really lock people down below?!

At 27 I sat there, same as I did when I was 13, thinking, "If I couldn't get on a lifeboat, what would I do in order to survive?" (I've decided I'd have grabbed a door and paddled away on my tummy like a surfer).

As for the gooey love story, well...it is what it is. I guess I liked the fact that something was going on to distract you from what you knew was going to happen, so when Victor Garber and his bad Irish accent announced that the "ship will sink, in an hour or so," you too felt the weight of the realization.

J. Bruce Ismay having his mindhole blown

The girl in me cries for the people who were so scared and cold while the little boy in me thinks its badass when the ship CRACKS IN HALF. I only wish they'd have gotten a wide shot of that scene.

So here we are, April 2012. Almost 100 years ago today, the survivors arrived via Carpathia about 400 feet away from where I am sitting at this very moment. What better way for James Cameron to commemorate the occasion than by milking the money cow and re-releasing the movie in 3D.

Yes indeed. Giant propellers and Kate Winslet's boobies popping right out of the screen.

It was an Easter event that Krista and I were not about to deny ourselves. There we sat, with 3D glasses and a comically large bucket full of Diet Coke (we've become our mother).

Ladies, start your crying engines...

Yea so, remember when the film starts rolling and they show that old-ass footage and then there's that lady with the beautiful voice humming? Let me tell you something kids, seeing that in a theater will bring you right back. Oh what a night, late December back in '97. 8th grade, braces, 32AA. I heard a girl sitting beneath me about that age whisper, "Oh that sounds so pretty!" I realized: she'd never seen this. With the arrival of DVD players and the general burnout of the rest of us, it totally made sense that her parents never bought her a copy of Titanic. I had a vicarious front row seat to my own adolescence.

As the movie took off, however, I began to notice some glaring problems.

1) Really, Jack and Rose? Y'all loved eachother that much? After 3 days. Let's say Jack survived. What the hell were they going to do with eachother? Instead, Rose survives the disaster and goes off to make babies and grandbabies and clay pots. But NO. Nothing she did in 83 years of subsequent livin' lived up. Remember the end where she returns to the ship and Leo is waiting for her at the clock? (I cry every time, but that's not the point) If I was her husband, waiting in the sweet hereafter only to find out she went back to some dude she spent 3 days on a cruise ship with back in '12, I'd kick her ass straight to hell.

Jack sportin' the 3rd class threads in the afterlife. Apparently there are social classes in Titanic Heaven as well...

2) Hey, how much do you wanna bet that this guy kills himself 3 days later?

"It just never crossed my mind that someone else might have grabbed the necklace..."

3) Remember this guy? It's Billy Zane's bitch. Yea he totally died because he spent 2 hours lollygagging around chasing Jack and Rose with, like, no reason for doing so.



4) Wow. Kathy Bates just happened to have a perfectly tailored suit for Leo, chillin' in her stateroom. You know it had to be that way, but man. Hey, and two thumbs up for Leo wearing it to the crazy Irish party down below! I'm sure Kathy Bates was stoked to have it returned to her smelling like beer, cigarettes and b.o.

"Thanks for the suit Molly. Might want to give it a quick hose down..."

Yeah and these last two literally make me want to jump up and slash the screen in protest:

5) Rose. Scoot your white ass over. SCOOT OVER!!! Are you kidding me? I've been watching these two circus animals run from top to bottom of the damn ship for the past 90 minutes. He's locked below. She's on the lifeboat. She's off the lifeboat. Billy Zane's got a gun. Irish people pissed off and locked in steerage. Hangin' on the rails while people are flying off in all directions. All so they could survive together. Then, when its almost over, the make exactly ONE try at getting on the floating door together.

Look at this! Jack, Rose, and a guy who looks suspiciously like James Cameron ALL on the wooden door.

Really? After all that? Leo, how about you go over to the other side and distribute the weight. Or Kate, maybe scoot down so Leo can pull his upper body out of the water. Something. Figure it out. Lay on top of eachother if you must. Y'all managed to bump uglies in the back of a Model T and yet this is unmanageable?

7) Last one. This one is a doozy, and I know you've all thought about it too. Rose, the reason you died at the end and are doomed to spend an eternity on a ship with a bunch of people you totally don't even know is because you are selfish and dumb and you threw the diamond in the water at the end. They should publicly slap your corpse in the face.

Let us examine:

Bill Paxton said it's worth more than the Hope Diamond. Let's just say for inflation's sake that the stupid Heart of the Ocean was worth $200m in 1997. Which is conservative.

Hope Diamond

And that old raisin THREW IT IN THE WATER. Thing is, that damn thing didn't have a shit thing to do with Jack (except that he drew her bare-ass wearing it). It's just a gaudy monstrosity her dick of an ex-fiancee gave her. I get that she didn't want to live off of it, but jeez. Bequeath it to your family. Your granddaughter who takes care of your old ass. $200 million is like, 15 generations of trust funds and college educations. Hell, DONATE IT to charity! Buy computers for schools! Give it to James Cameron and have him make a movie called 'Titanic!' (Don't over think that one). I can't believe she threw it in the water. She should have thrown herself in the water. Too harsh? Too harsh.

Okay I'm getting bored. So in conclusion, I would like to give a shout-out to a few of the supporting characters in the film.

Here's to you Tommy Ryan. It is to have angels fly out of my sister's arse that she'll get next to the likes of you but, hey, a gal can dream.

Ahh, the coal guys. Shovin' coal in the fire. Hello boys.


Any finally, this clown. For perhaps the greatest t-shirt in the history of the world.
"...and then her whole ass is sticking up in the air!"