Mazel tov? Mazel tov?

So, apparently I’m getting married.

♪ A blessing on their heads, mazel tov, mazel tov. ♬

Who knew? Did you know? Because I certainly didn’t. And here I thought I’d be the first to know. Or at least the second.

Such an assumption I made.

♪ To see Melina wed, mazel tov, mazel tov. ♬

Turns out, the teachers at school (and it’s a tiny little Hebrew day school in Brooklyn, if that explains anything) think I’m old, washed up, and pathetic at the ripe old age of 31. Well, they didn’t exactly say that to my face, but I got their point.

Which is this: They want there should be ♪ a canopy in store for me. ♬

They want my mother should have ♪ such a son in-law, like no-one ever saw. ♬

As for the boy(s) they have in mind: ♪ A worthy boy is he, from pious family. ♬

Oy. Vey iz mier.

I’ve known since last year that there’s been talk of making me a match.

♪ Well, somebody has to arrange the matches. Young people can’t decide these things themselves. ♬

And these potential matches might, for all I know, be direct descendants of Tzeitel and The Tailor Motel Kamzoil. I’d like to think that my friends and colleagues are well connected and want the best for me. If they haven’t given up.

But it wasn’t until this morning that I had the whole picture.

It all started when I got to school. Through no fault or effort of my own, a group of teachers in the hallway decided I looked (unusually) glamorous. Who knew a coat from the Old Navy clearance bin could work such wonders? (Me? Glamorous? No, it’s not just you. I could’ve been knocked over with a feather myself.) One of the teachers said we should leave school and go to Manhattan to “find me a cutie.”

I’ve got to interrupt this tale right here to inform you that while I appreciate the efforts, I have nothing to do with it. It’s not like I’ve been prancing around school doing this:

You see, I come from a long line of very strong, very independent, single people. Sure, I’d love to get married. But I’m also okay the way things are. So why my colleagues are going on and on about marrying me off, I can only guess.

Here are some highlights of the discussion that was going on behind my back (but right in front of my face):

1. “The girl [that'd be me, hi] goes to shul but she doesn’t go out.” (As you can imagine, this statement did wonders for my non hip and up-and-coming self image. It’s also not true. Let’s all take a moment to remember the glory that was Noah.)

2. “She really should look into online dating.” (Um. . . Yeah, I know I’m the computer teacher and have a reputation that involves a well publicized Internet addiction, but: A. How do you people know I haven’t? B. I write romance novels and chick lit. There’s nothing wrong with online dating, but for now I have hope that my personal story will be something else.)

3. “She has to stay away from Mrs. X and Mrs. Y, because their single daughters are her competition.” (To which I respond thusly: You people can’t be serious.)

This was followed by talk of which teachers have sons my age. A few do, but sadly (actually, to my relief), they’re taken.

But not to worry. These sons have friends, and friends of friends, who are probably hearing about the sad, pathetic old-maid-that-is-me as we speak.

If they haven’t heard about me already.

So, dear teacher friends and yentes, all I ask is this. I’m well aware of the reality that I have absolutely no say in this matter. My uncle has informed me that these things are “always decided by committee.”

But please keep this in mind:

♪ ♬ ♩Playing with matches

A girl can get burned

So,

Bring me no ring

Groom me no groom

Find me no find

Catch me no catch

Unless he’s a matchless match! ♬ ♫ ♩

Like I said. I’m fine with things the way they are. I mean that sincerely. But, I guess this scenario wouldn’t be so terrible either:

If the teachers succeed in their mission, I’ll invite you all to the wedding. That is, if they give me any advanced warning about it. I’m thinking they might get the new school rabbi to walk into class with a nice Jewish locksmith and a chuppah and perform the ceremony right in front of the SMARTBoard. (Kidding. Sort of.)

See you there!

Oh yeah. And a freezing Mel.

(Note: Formatting is off. I know that. Working on it.)

Okay, fine. Yeah, I’ll admit it. I recently experienced an unfortunate incident wherein I required the assistance of a locksmith.

Again.

Oh stop. Don’t mock. I had my keys. Both times. Okay?

So here’s what happened:

As we all know, I am in no way “hip and up-and-coming.” We’ve established this, am I wrong? Combine that with being exhausted from NaNoWriMo, December weather, and the fact that the beginning of the month has involved a lot of travel, and it makes no sense that I feel the need to go out on this Saturday night. In fact, I’ve planned to spend the day home, doing nothing except for breathe and maybe blink a few times. I’ve even skipped Shabbat services, or, as I confess to my mother later that day, I’ve “cut shul.”

Point is I’m tired (more than I usually am), and it’s cold.

But it’s also the second night of Hanukkah, and I’m in a mood (more than I usually am). One can’t live a life of work and sleep, right? And it’s the first night of the Sephardic Music Festival, and Galeet Dardashti is playing, and she has a new album coming out, and it just seems wrong for me to be home during such an event.

Besides, it’s only three subway stops away. No big deal, right?

Wrong.

Fast forward to later that evening, when I’m lost and freezing on a dark, disgusting, deserted block of Chinatown and unable to find a cab. Fast forward to me sitting on a tall chair at the 92nd Street Y in TriBeCa, sipping a coke, and, despite the effort I’ve made to doll myself up, realizing that one Saturday night out on the town does not a hip and up-and-coming person make. Fast forward to me leaving before the third act, seeing as I have Creature to get home to and a bed that’s feeling neglected, and then to me dealing with the Little Engine That Couldn’t (technically known as the Q). And finally, you get to me standing at the bottom of my stoop, feeling relieved to be home.

It’s midnight, the hour at which the non hip among us should vanish into thin air and/or turn into pumpkins. I get to the front door of my building, and put the key in the lock. I turn the doorknob.

Nothing happens.

I try again.

Now, we all know that I don’t have the best track record with keys and locks, and we know about “Classic Melissa Stories.” So, it’s only natural that I jump to the conclusion that I am a klutz. All the Brownstones around here look the same. It’s dark. Maybe I’m at the wrong house. I refuse to believe that I am experiencing deja vu.

We also know that when all else fails, I call my mother.

I’m still blaming myself, and feeling pathetic. My mother reminds me that this same lock was broken the week I moved in, and that it was fixed, but not replaced. She also tells me to go over to a family friend’s house and sleep on her couch. I refuse, and start a pointless monologue about not having any contact lens solution with me. Besides, Creature is alone.

I try the key again, not wanting to call my landlord who lives on the first floor of the Brownstone because it’s after midnight and I know she has H1N1. But there’s nothing else I can do, so I call. Her phone is off. I ring her bell. Her dogs bark, but she doesn’t answer. On top of everything else, I’m worried about her. I try buzzing a neighbor and prepare to apologize profusely, but the buzzer system doesn’t work. This is, after all, a New York City apartment building. Oh, and the light on the stoop isn’t working.

Next, I call my super. No dice.

The streets are almost deserted, except for a few dog-walkers who are looking at me like I’m a criminal, a psycho, a drunk or all of the above. I’m tempted to flag one down and ask them to try my key and prove that I’m an idiotic klutz. But now that it’s getting later, and colder, there’s nobody around.

And that’s when I snap out of my denial and realize what’s happening. It’s the middle of the night, and I’m completely alone on a December night in New York City. My dog is upstairs. I know he’s safe, but I don’t like this one bit.

I should call a locksmith, I think. But I’ve been there and done that. It’s expensive, and they’ll probably show up, open my door as if nothing were wrong, and charge me over a $100.

Then I have an idea. I live less than a block away from a fire station. It’s not just any fire station. It was one of the first to show up at the World Trade Center on September 11th. Knowing this, I feel horrible for even thinking that I could go bother them with something so minor. Instead, I walk around aimlessly looking for a restaurant or store that’s still open. But I find nothing.

I make a list of all the reasons it’s okay to bother the firefighters:

1. I’m a woman alone wandering aimlessly in the middle of the night with no place to go, in New York City.

2. I’m freezing.

3. If I had a cat, and said cat was stuck in a tree, aren’t these the people I’d call?  (Are they? I don’t know.)

4. If I can’t get in because the lock is actually broken, the people inside may not be able to get out. I, unfortunately, know from being locked in. If there were a fire. . . I can’t bring myself to finish the thought.

It’s the fourth reason that seals the deal. I go to the fire station. It’s all closed up. I walk away, then walk back. I find a door, and a bell. I ring the bell. Nobody answers, I start running away in shame. Then somebody answers.

I go back. Two firefighters are standing in the doorway, in FDNY t-shirts and boxers. I feel like the protagonist in a Kristan Higgins novel. A million scenarios for my next novel spin around in my head.

I explain the problem, emphasizing the “my neighbors probably can’t get out.” They close the door, get dressed, and come meet me on the street. They follow me up the block, with axes over their shoulders. All my romance writer scenarios crash and burn as I realize the firemen are not happy about this midnight chore.

I give them my key, absolutely convinced that they’ll open the door on the first try, I’ll blush from embarrassment, and run upstairs to my dog. That’d be Classic Mel, right? Oh yeah, and I plan to leave them a bottle of wine the next day.

However.

The door still doesn’t open. They go to my landlord’s apartment and lean on the bell. Again, the dogs bark but we don’t hear anybody get up. They offer to break the door down with their axes, but make it clear that these Brownstone doors are historic and my landlord most likely wouldn’t appreciate it.

They also make a comment about the lack of light and the broken buzzer system.

“It’s your choice,” they say.

I can’t let them do it. They leave me standing on the stoop.

I know these are important, busy firemen with better things to do. And dissing the FDNY seems sacrilegious. But they just leave me there, freezing on my stoop. They don’t even offer to help me call a locksmith or a police officer. I decide they’re so not getting wine.

Then, like a mirage, I see some hip and up-and-coming girls enter the garden apartment. I haven’t met them, so they don’t recognize me. I explain the problem and they say they can’t help. I understand that they don’t want to let me use their entrance, but I mentally make a list of other ways they could’ve helped.

Left with no other choice, I open the Google app on my phone and look for a local locksmith. I’m good at this, you may remember. After a few tries to places that are closed, I reach some guy named Roger, who seems annoyed with me and wants to know who’s going to pay. He says he’ll send a guy out in half an hour and that I have to go to an ATM and get $160 in cash.

Which is what I do. The fact that I’m all alone in an ATM vestibule after 1 a.m. with a light shining on me so the whole world can see that I’m withdrawing money is not lost on me. I go back to my stoop with a wallet full of cash, and wait. At least I know I’m not imagining this. I try my landlord and super again just in case I can prevent the locksmith from having to ruin the lock. The super finally calls back, and gives his blessing for the lock destruction.

My phone rings again. It’s my new friend and savior Roger. He informs me that Noah is on his way.

Noah? Huh. Possible “Nice Jewish Guy?” I wonder. You never know. I wait for Noah, plotting another novel wherein the hero is a locksmith and the heroine is. . . I don’t know. Freezing? Tired? Edgy?

Noah finally arrives. He’s a sweetheart with the sexiest Brooklyn accent ever, and my age, but unfortunately not my type. Although I do realize that with my luck, marrying a locksmith might not be such a bad idea. Apparently, he was sitting in front of the T.V. with a beer and about to go to bed when Roger informed him that there was a girl stranded on her stoop and he was afraid I’d freeze.

G-d bless Roger. And G-d bless Noah for not getting a D.U.I.

There’s no light, but he has a flashlight he can attach to his head. He tries to pick the lock, and he explains that this happens all the time. That doesn’t make me feel any better. Neither does his comment that this is the worst he’s seen, or his confirmation that the door can’t open from the other side. Then he needs to break out the drill.

Sorry neighbors, I think. Creature’s about to howl his brains out.

Then the door opens. Noah lets me through so I can run up the stairs and get the dog. I open the door to my apartment, thrilled and a bit surprised that it opens without incident, and get Creature.

Noah takes one look at the cocker spaniel in front of him and is clearly shocked that such a small, adorable thing could make such a racket. But the two men hit it off so well I’m tempted to send Creature home with him.

A few minutes after that, I climb into bed. Not that I could fall asleep, but at least I’m warm.

The lessons from all this?

When in doubt, just call the locksmith. If they destroy the lock, who cares. If you’re living in an old New York building, the lock is probably a hundred years past its prime. Time to let it go.

More importantly — there’s something to be said for staying home. I still love Galeet Dardashti, but I love her most when I’m watching her on YouTube (thank you http://shemspeed.com), from the comfort of my bedroom.

Note:

My first locksmith story was so much fun to write. It’s my favorite post to date. Even though I was trapped inside, it didn’t feel quite as dangerous. It was funny. I hope to tell the story at a Moth story slam someday. Based on that, I was looking forward to writing the sequel. The thing is, I’m having trouble finding the humor in this story. My mother was upset for days. She wants me to own a place so I can have control over things like locks and lights. When I told this story to another teacher at work who has a daughter my age, she said that if it had been her daughter, she would have been beside herself.

There’s a new lock on the front door now, and the landlord has paid me back for the locksmith and promised to get an electrician to fix the lights. I’m grateful that I’m fine, and my neighbors are fine, and that it wasn’t snowing or even colder than it was.

Meanwhile, I’m off to JDate. It’s enough already. It’s time to start looking for an eligible Jewish locksmith.

A Classic Melissa Story: For Your Enjoyment

Remember when I was locked in my apartment and I made a crack about “Classic Melissa Stories?” Well, my friend Maren got on Facebook today and referred to me as Cannon Ball. And Kim was curious as to why (she’s a writer and therefore it’s her job to inquire about such things), so I promised to tell the story here.

Hope you’re ready.

Before I get started, there are a few things you’ve got to know.

As I mentioned, I’ve got this friend Maren. I’ve known her so long I was actually a guest at her first birthday party. And I get to call her Mollie, cause I’m that special. She’s family. In fact, her whole family is my family.

Although you wouldn’t know that to look at us. She’s tall, blond and Nordic. Which I am not, in spite of my thing for Sweden. She’s also very sweet, which is another thing I am not. (True story: My uncle, this one right here, once asked, “Mollie is so sweet and you’re such a bitch. How are you two friends?” I thanked him for the compliment and told him I often wondered the same thing. I then proceeded to send him this video.)

Another difference: Mollie and the members of her family love to ski (told you, Nordic). And for some reason, when I was a kid, they used to drag me along with them. I’m telling you, these people are saints.

I don’t have the best track record when it comes to traveling with them. There was the time at the zoo I fell off the stepping stones into a small lake. And there was the time I got sick in the back seat of their Volvo after a trip to an amusement park. Mollie’s father Rick had a gym bag in the trunk of his car, and on more than one occasion had to dress me in one of his extra t-shirts. Yet, these people continued to include me on their family outings.

Including their ski trips.

Now, you’ve got to understand that I’ve got a problem with heights and going down hills. I fall more often than President Ford. So skiing? Not a talent. Ice-skating, I love, cause it’s flat. I’ve even got my own skates. Jumping off a fishing boat into the Mediterranean and snorkeling? Count me in! But being at the top of a hill and looking down makes me dizzy and disoriented. (Another true story: On my first hike in Israel, on our way down a mountain, my hot classmate from Argentina had to take hold of both of my hands to help me keep my balance. So you see, there are times vertigo can pay off.)

But back to the story, and the point.

So I was on a ski trip with Mollie and Family. I was in fourth grade. They suggested that I wait while they went down a hill to take care of some lift ticket business. But I was ten, and got bored after a while, and the hill didn’t seem that steep, so I went for it.

According to Robinson Family Mythology, people were way impressed. Off I went, at full speed, with my poles in the air. I must have looked like a professional ski jumper.

But there were two itsy-bitsy details that gave me away as a fraudulent skier.

I didn’t have a clue what to do with my poles. And I had no idea how to stop.

Also according to mythology, I was chanting, “RickRickRickRick” as if there was some way he’d be able to save me.

Just to put it out there, these are all details Rick feels compelled to share with company whenever I’m around.

Anyway, I clearly survived, or I wouldn’t be here telling you this story now. But I did fall. Flat on my back. And I scratched my hand with one of the polls.

And that, the story goes, is how I earned the name Cannon Ball.

The End.

Oh, wait. I lied. Not the end. I’m only sharing this next part because if I don’t, you know Rick will. Another time (and yes, there was another time. I know. Hard to believe, right? Told you, these people are saints.) we were skiing, there was a lift like this. I was afraid to get off, so I was pulled into the air, and I left the people behind me sort of stuck.

Not my proudest moment.

Well, there you have it.

Obviously, I love and adore you all, or I wouldn’t have shared this.

Love,

Cannon Ball

P.S. Yes, I’m from California. Please don’t ask if we have snow there. I promise you, we do.

The Music of Yom Kippur

Yesterday, a colleague asked me if I was ready for Yom Kippur.

It’s a hard question. In some ways, Yom Kippur is one of the easier holidays. As in, there’s no cooking or cleaning like on other holidays. Practically, all I really have to do to prepare is make sure I’ve got my non-leather shoes ready,and make sure I’ve got food around for before and after the fast. And there’s Tashlich, which I did yesterday afternoon, in a beautiful spot in Prospect Park.

But mentally, it’s another story. As you may have noticed from my lack of recent blog posts and my sparse and kvetchy tweets and Facebook updates (and probably the unusually serious tone of this post), I’ve been exhausted and busy with work.

Which makes it kind of hard to feel ready for the most intense day of the Jewish calendar. But, I am in fact excited.

Excited may seem like the wrong word when it comes to a day of fasting and sitting (well, mostly standing) in shul, atoning for sins and wondering out loud who will be inscribed in the book of life.

But trust me, I’m excited. It all started on a Friday night about two weeks ago, in the middle of services, when the cantor sang one of the Shabbat prayers to a High Holiday melody. It completely made my week. It’s true. You can even ask the rabbi, who saw the look on my face and smiled at me.

Selichot, a service that happens at midnight the Saturday before Rosh Hashanah, and which I describe as “about an hour of “High Holidays Greatest Hits,” makes me even more excited. Plus, I love watching the Torahs being dressed in white.

So, I thought I’d share some of my favorite melodies with you.

Yom Kippur services begin with Kol Nidre. This is a Moroccan version I hadn’t heard until my mother sent me this link. (Here’s a traditional Ashkenazi version.) It’s beautiful:

This is my all time favorite High Holiday piyut (liturgical poem or song):

Here’s Avinu Malkeinu, probably the most famous of the High Holiday prayers:

Towards the end of Yom Kippur, during the Neila service, as congregants are standing in the pews, exhausted and hungry (and in my case, suffering from a severe  lack of caffeine headache), the prayers begin focusing on the closing/locking of gates. It’s basically the last chance to ask for forgiveness. There are many different melodies, but here’s one of my favorites:

Here are some more forgiveness hymns, sung by Yoel Ben-Simhon:

And here’s a whole collection of High Holiday music, in case you’d like to hear more. And here’s a video of the the shofar and an explanation of the four shofar blasts.

To those of you observing Yom Kippur, Gmar Chatimah Tovah and tzom kal

Sweden, here I come!

Hi People.

So. Last time we talked, I was all wrapped up in the last day of school and I’d dealt with an unfortunate incident wherein I got locked in my apartment.

Good times.

Anyway, a lot has happened since then. Like huge writing conferences and moving from Manhattan to Brooklyn. I was going to tell you about both, but right now I care about neither.

Why?

Because I’m too upset about this:

See, I find this completely unacceptable. I did not grow up with weather like this. At all. Before I moved to New York, the only humidity I’d ever felt was at Butterfly World. July and August meant fog, aka “natural air conditioning.” If we had a heat wave, at least it was dry. A simple ceiling fan was enough to get us through.

In the S.F. Bay Area, we get rain. But we have a rainy season, which is winter. Yeah, we deal with a few months of being cold and soggy, but at least we’re not hot. And we can breathe.

In the Bay Area, we don’t deal with disgusting, overheated Subway platforms, or hot, wet air that traps dirt and grime. Summer doesn’t mean feeling like you’re the freaking lint trap in a working dryer.

And yes, the Bay Area branch of my family does in fact think I’m an idiot for moving here.

Especially since they’re the ones who decided to flee New York in the first place. Wise people. . .

Which brings me to my plan to move to Lund, Sweden.

Okay, I know. You’ve been listening to me bitch and moan about the whole moving thing for a while now. (Sorry, and thanks for listening. You are simply the best.)

I even made this claim on Facebook:

Ok, so here’s the deal. I’m moving from one small place to another. It’s not going well. So I won’t be moving again. Ever. And if I’m married someday and have 10 kids, it’ll be cramped. But we’ll just have to deal with it. I’m thinking bunk beds. Anybody have a problem with that? No? Good.

I lied.

I’ve rethought the situation, and changed my mind. Turning into a puddle will do that to a person.

So why Lund, you might want to know.

Well, here’s the thing. Ten years ago, I spent a year in Jerusalem. Which is where I first learned the definition of hot. For the first few months I lived there (July, August and September), I lived in an unspeakably uninhabitable dorm suite with two Canadians, one Japanese woman and a large variety of unmentionable bugs. Jerusalem, being a desert and all, is hot and dusty. And Jerusalem is. . . shall we say. . . chaotic?

A few months into my year abroad, I landed in Copenhagen, still feeling hot and dusty. As I got off the plane, I felt cool air coming in from outside. The airport sparkled with cleanliness. People were civil.

The angels sang.

Then I got on a boat headed for Lund, a cute city where people are so civilized, and lucky them, don’t know from hot and humid. It was clean and orderly. The memory of their pristine busses, with the screens that tell you where you are, still makes me weep.

And it was blessedly cool.

See?

So there. Go Sweden!

Signed,

Mel, who has turned into a puddle. Been nice knowing you.

P.S. No, I do not, at this moment, care about what their winters must be like. Right now, freezing = good.

P.P.S. As I stated earlier, the Swedes seem to be a civil people. So it’s possible that my personality, sparkling though it may be, might not be appreciated in Sweden the way it is in New York. Thoughts?

P.P.P. S. Notice that the weather report for the Lund area states that it is 67 degrees. Not only that, it actually “feels like” 67 degrees. They don’t add degrees the way we do in New York. Go figure.

Oh yeah. And two dead bodies. 

This really wasn’t something I was expecting to tweet on the last day of school (or ever): 

“Having an unfortunate incident wherein I can’t open my front door. Locksmith on the way. Pizza guy for whom I couldn’t open door is pissed.”

Let’s rewind a bit, shall we?

It’s the last day of school. I’m on three hours of sleep, thanks to the eighth grade graduation and a messed up train schedule. I’ve had more work than I can handle. I haven’t been feeling well and have barely eaten in two days. The end of the year is emotional.

Blah, blah, blah.

This usually nice, Jewish girl is such a wreck she’s ready to start calling on Greek Orthodox saints and kissing icons. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. It’s just not something that I, being a Nice Jewish Girl and all, personally do. 

(Although my friend Diane says that if I ever want to convert, she’ll provide the kiddie pool for my baptism and make a video of the ceremony. Now that’s a friend.)

Well, I confess that the words “Ag, Panagia Mou” have escaped my lips more than a few times and I am thisclose to crossing myself frantically and perhaps lighting a candle or two. 

Again, not that there’s anything wrong with that. But I digress. Just trying to set the scene. 

So I leave school, all teary and emotional, and get on the Subway. I make a plan. Pizza and a Buffy marathon.

Yes, as we know, Chez Mel is party central. 

Party plans are looking good. Favorite pajama bottoms and Yankees t-shirt? Check. Glasses instead of contacts? Check. Pizza? On its way. I fire up Hulu, and wait.

Pizza Guy finally arrives. 

And that’s when the afore mentioned “unfortunate incident” begins. 

You see, New York apartments, it’s been said, are basically columns of dust held up by 125 years worth of paint. And my apartment, well. . . in spite of the nice neighborhood, leaves a lot to be desired.

My front door won’t open. At all.

Now, I’d like to believe that Pizza Guy wants to be helpful. I really do. Except for his English? Not so hot. . .

He pulls. I pull. He pushes. I push. 

Nothing. Nada. Zilch. 

I even take a screwdriver and take the doorknob off. (And feel quite handy, if you don’t mind me saying so.)

He asks for my keys. I pass them under the door. (Don’t yell at me. I know that’s unsafe, but I know this guy. I order from this place all the time. And let’s face it. It wasn’t like I believed the door was actually going to open.)

I end up paying him under the door, which is actually a lot less illegal than it sounds. He takes the money. Unfortunately, he also takes my pizza. And my change. At least he returns my keys.

I call my landlord. Press “2″ for emergency. I get a recording telling me to call the emergency number in the lobby. 

And therein, we find our problem, as the lobby, as you can imagine, is on the other side of my front door. Luckily, the super’s number is in my phone.

Or not.

Somehow, in the whole syncing process that I have yet to understand, my iPhone has deleted a bunch of contacts. 

At this point, I’m thinking of forgoing the Greek Orthodoxy dream and becoming Amish, as they don’t have iPhones. At least as far as I know.

I’m proud to say that I then proceed to do what any mature thirty-one year old would do. I call my mother at work. Do I care that she lives 3,000 miles away? Not so much.

And then I get onto Twitter. Hey, can you blame me for for wanting company? (Hi Tweeps!) I get the sympathy I need. Or rather, people laughing at my plight, which is the next best thing. And hey, I even have the fabulous Tori Carrington, creator of all things Sofie, cheering me on. How cool is that? 

Where was I? Oh, yeah, I’m still locked in. Mom and Tweeps, supportive as they’ve been, have yet to rescue me. So, I turn to Google. I enter “locksmith” and my zip code.

I dial the first number that comes up. Locksmith gets all worked up. “You can’t get out?” he askes. I realize he’s more upset than I am. I also realize he’s Isareli.

He’s just gotten home, but turns out “home” is just a few blocks away from me.

A few minutes later, I hear my name being shouted through my front door. I realize then that some total stranger, presumably with experience in the Isareli army, is picking my lock. I can’t even see him.

But at least I know that if he murders me, my tweets and my in Internet history will lead the cops right to him. 

A few minutes after that, he shouts my name again. “Melissa!” He then says, “This lock is broken.” (I’d let you know how I wanted to reply to that, but I prefer to keep this blog G rated. You never know.)

“I know,” I tell him. 

“I’m going to have to saw it.”

Lovely.

This brings us to my next two tweets:

“Did you know that some dogs don’t care for locksmiths who saw off doorknobs? Just saying…”

“And y’all know how flipping LOUD some dogs are…..”

The sawing is successful, and the door opens. Locksmith barges in and finds me, in my afore mentioned Buffy watching, pizza eating attire, holding a convulsing tricolor cocker spaniel who’s trying, but failing, to show his teeth. He checks out my obnoxious purple fingernails (hey, it was a graduation gift to my 8th graders, long story). 

Poor Locksmith, a sweet guy in his 60’s, is drenched in sweat and manages to look more war torn than I do. There are doorknob guts and tools all over my doormat, 

Pizza Guy chooses this  very moment to come back with the pizza. But not my change.

I feel like I’m staring in a pilot for some cheesy new sitcom. 

Anyway, while Locksmith finishes up whatever it is he has to do, he tells me about how he used to live above my laundromat, before it was a laundromat. 

Then he tells me about the two dead bodies he once found in front of the restaurant on my corner. “The neighborhood is much better now,” he assures me, before explaining how proud he was to be the one who called the police.

He also tells me about the tricolor cocker spaniel he once bought at Macy’s. Somehow, I like this story better, especially since he gives me tips about cleaning the fur on cocker spaniel ears with a mixture of vinegar and water.

Imagine the amusement of Israeli Locksmith when he finds out that my tricolor cocker spaniel’s name is Hamudi (cutie, in Hebrew). He gives Hamudi several commands in Hebrew, which Hamudi follows beautifully, thus giving his mother nachas and many opportunities to kvell.

Locksmith announces that he’s not even going to check my ID because he believes the apartment is mine (as if I’d break into an apartment, put on pajamas, lock myself in – and then order pizza). Eventually, he leaves. “Lehitraot!” I call after him. He compliments my Hebrew pronunciation. 

I’m left with a hole in my front door. But I repair it like the capable, single woman I am. I even think my handiwork is prettier than the original dead as a doornail doorknob. It’s kind of like the way I once fixed a broken USB cable with a hammer and a bunch of girlie stuff. 

I’m happy to report that I now have a shiny, new doorknob. It rocks. Too bad I’m moving in two weeks and won’t be able to enjoy it for years to come. 

How sad is it that more than one person has commented that this is “such a Melissa story?” Do I even want to know what a “Melissa story” is? I think not.

By the way, Locksmith was disgusted at the poor quality of the lock AND how poorly it was installed. Which brings us back to the subject of New York apartments and landlords.

So here’s another story for you. (Thanks Karen, for reminding me about this!)

Let’s talk.

Hello Rain. Hello Monday. Thanks for coming. We simply MUST have a chat.

So. Who’d like to go first? Rain? Okay, have a seat, make yourself comfy. 

~

Water is a good thing. That, I am down with. I grew up watching Sesame Street:

But here’s the thing. A little moderation never hurt anybody. Don’t you ever take a break? Dumb question: Doesn’t the sky ever run out of you? 

I’m way, way past the point of singing cute little nursery rhymes that politely suggest that your relocation might be appreciated. 

Now, it’s personal.

This morning, I woke up to the sound of rain pounding the life out of my air conditioner. The dog sat up, tilted his head, and growled at the window. I don’t blame him.

Poor guy hasn’t had a chance to sniff around the dog run in days. And in my household, when Doggie ain’t happy, ain’t nobody happy. Got it?

Last week, when I arrived at the broker to sign my lease, I was dripping so much they had to send me to the bathroom with a roll of paper towels. My umbrella, you ask? Useless when tested against your power. Although the guys selling them outside the subway station were making a fortune. Pardon the question, but are you perhaps in cahoots with these people? 

Sometimes, I like you. A lot. Who doesn’t enjoy a rainy day at home, curled up under a blanket. But one can’t stay home all the time. Some of us have to work. Some of us have a commute.

At this point, it’s ark building time.

If my students have even one more day of indoor recess, I’m going to make YOU teach them after lunch. Capice?

I know, I know. There are plenty of places that are desperate for rain. But here’s a thought. Why don’t you pick one of those places and go there? I’ll even hang a map on my wall and throw a dart if that might be of help to you.

Have you been on Twitter of Facebook? Have you not heard the tales of mold and webbed feet? 

BTW, there is still mold growing in the corner of my living room ceiling. That’s what happens when you come inside, uninvited. Even vampires have the decency to wait for an invitation before they come inside. 

Lastly. What’s with the whole teaming up with Monday thing about? What did I ever do to you? 

~

Now Monday. Let’s cut right to the chase. 

Nobody likes you. Everybody hates you. Go eat worms. 

Were you on Twitter and/or Facebook this morning? In case you missed it, here’s a recap: Monday = Day Of Suckitude. 

Okay, it’s not necessarily your fault that you have to follow the weekend. Somebody has to be in that unfortunate position. Problem is, you seem to enjoy it more than necessary.

People despise you so much they’re driven write songs about the pain:

Your general ickyness is so toxic it even seeps into Sunday. And you know how I feel about Sunday.

Was it not bad enough that I was up at 5:30 this morning? I was actually running ahead of schedule and feeling rather pleased with myself. And then the dog puked his guts out all over my living room floor and my MetroCard went AWOL.

Apparently, even that wasn’t enough. You just had to team up with Rain so I’d trip avoiding a puddle and spill coffee all over my shirt. A shirt I just washed. And you know how I feel about laundry.

So I arrived at work wet. And covered in coffee. Then later in the day, I had an unfortunate incident wherein a seventh grader got tomato sauce on my already ruined shirt. 

I truly believe that statistically speaking, these things are less likely to occur on your average Tuesday or Thursday. (No, you most certainly should NOT be proud of that.)

No offense, but would it not behoove you to have some better PR? You’re stuck with the whole first day of the workweek thing, but you could help the situation by, I don’t know, maybe giving everybody a free latte or drink of their choice on their way to work, or sending the UPS guy to people’s door with boxes of wine. Just a thought.

~

Well Rain and Monday. I hope you’ve found this conversation as fruitful as I have. 

I leave you with this parting gift, written just for the two of you, the happy couple:

Well, maybe not so much. . .

It’s come to my attention that there are people in this world who hear about my little life here in Manhattan and actually have a bit of envy.

Well, I am a young(ish) single girl living in the city. I’ll give you that.

Honored though I may be by such cases of envy, it’s time to take a moment to get real.

So I present to you, my lovely readers, a few little gems about my life in Manhattan, so you can decide for yourselves if you still want to pull a Freaky Friday.

Let’s start with the apartment, shall we? It’s itsy-bitsy, teeny-weenie. My bedroom is about two inches bigger than my actual bed. The place has an uneven floor. Dog toys roll from the front door to the window. My bed tilts a bit to the left. There is a spot in the corner of my ceiling that has water damage that keeps coming back. My blow dryer lives next to my desk. Not because I’m messy (which I am) but because there are no outlets in my bathroom.

True story: The other morning, I had an unfortunate situation wherein I was brushing my teeth and an unmentionable bug (I refuse to utter or type the “r” or “m” words within the four walls of my apartment, it gives the vermin ideas) crawled up and out of the sink drain.

Not only do I have to hike up three flights of stairs to get to this fine hovel, but for the pleasure of living here, I pay an amount of rent that would cause your eyes to pop out of your head and your jaw to drop all the way to the floor and shatter.

Moving on to my love life. I always have a date for Saturday night. You’re probably thinking, “Cool! Way to go Mel.” Only the dates are with my dog. And more often than not, they’re for Motzei Shabbos laundry.

See? I meant it when I told you I was neither hip nor up-and-coming.

But back to laundry. Yeah. Why not discuss that too.

When it comes to laundry, I have two options.

Option 1: I haul the laundry down the stairs to the basement. If the one washing machine is free, I have to go all Buffy and kick it until it works (but that’s just between you and me, okay? What my landlord doesn’t know won’t hurt him). Meanwhile, my dog is howling because my basement, as some of you know, is haunted. There be creepy-crawlies down there. Some alive. Some, sadly, not so much alive. And then there are the noises. I do believe that my basement leads to a Hellmouth, just like Sunnydale.

Option 2: Schlep laundry to laundromat. It’s not such a bad laundromat, luckily. Unless it’s crowded. Or the schlep there involves dealing with snow, sleet, or anything else mailmen vow to put up with. And if it’s crowded on a Saturday night, it makes me happy. Why? Because it means I’m not the only loser. Problem is, going there causes me to start singing songs from Dr. Horrible.

Last but not least, let’s discuss the whole transportation situation.

See, I thought the trains and I, after much deliberating, had come to an agreement wherein (can you tell that’s my new favorite word?) I fork over half my salary for a MetroCard and the trains actually, you know, get me from Point A to Point B.

I was mistaken.

Here. Let me give you a for instance:

Last Tuesday, at an ungodly hour that would, in an ideal world, be a time when only infants and maybe the occasional gym fanatic would be awake, I found myself on the subway platform patiently waiting for the B train. It finally came. It chugged along.

“I think you can, I think you can,” I encouraged it.

Well. Turns out that it in fact could not. Or would not. Either way, I was screwed. Not to mention late for work.

At Penn Station, of all places, I had to run, up and down stairs, to the Q. Like it’s cousin, the afore mentioned B, it couldn’t really either. And it was going local.

I’d discuss the whole unfortunate weather situation too, but quite frankly, it’s just makes me too sad. But you can read about it here, in my first ever blog post. (Yes, it’s my blog’s first birthday!)

Now. Do you still wish you were me? Or are you wondering what is wrong with me that I put up with such nonsense?

I admit. The year I had to spend away from New York City was the worst year of my life. The minute I was able to, I was on a plane coming right back here.

Why would I do such a thing? Well, let’s save that for another blog post.

Love ya, mean it!

Mel

P.S. I didn’t get into the whole noise issue. Let’s just say I’m convinced that “Don’t Honk” sign (which, incidentally, is right outside my bedroom window) is only there for comic relief.

P.P.S. To make up for all the kvetching, here’s a little laundry music for you.

This post has been brought to you by the letters B and Q, and by the number 1.

By the wonderful Mike Birbiglia

As you may know, I’ve got a bit of an obsession with the This American Life podcast. Sadly, it’s the only motivation I have to wake up at the crap of dawn on Mondays and spend over an hour on the train.

In other words, I listen to it as soon as it’s up on iTunes.

Months ago, one of the “acts” was done by a comedian telling a story about sleepwalking. I still remember where I was when I heard it. I had just come off the Subway at 81st and Central Park West and was on my way to pick up the dog at the groomer.

Usually, I don’t walk down the street with my earbuds. But in this case, I was too involved to even think about turning off the iPod, or to worry about the fact that I was walking down the street laughing. 

And then Ira Glass announced that they’d borrowed this segment from something called the Moth, and that the comedian was Mike Birbiglia. 

Fast forward a few months to when The Moth is another obsession, to the point that I’m a member and now go to story slams. 

And let’s not forget my Twitter obsession and the fact that I follow all things relating to TAL, The Moth, PRI or Mike Birbiglia.

Which is how I ended up here this afternoon:

So apparently Mike Birbiglia gets an email alert ever time somebody mentions him on a blog, and apparently there have been one or two mean bloggers. Which is a shame. 

Why?

Because Mike Birbiglia is one of the most talented storytellers I have ever heard. His choice of words, his timing, and his expressions are priceless. Even his request that we turn off our cell phones had the audience cracking up. And he’s funny without even trying!

I don’t think that I, or the people next to me, stopped laughing the entire time.  

As a special treat, here’s the TAL/Moth segment I mentioned earlier. Listen to it. I promise, you won’t regret it.

Enjoy!

P.S. Mike, on the off chance you’re reading this, I’m so sorry you had train woes today. Someday, the MTA will realize that people actually do use trains on Sundays. Sigh. . .

Oy. Like a hole in the head I need such a thing. . . 

Seriously, People. Blogging three days in a row? And after the oh-so-icky week I had, I was supposed to be watching all the saved shows on my DVR. Not writing. I’m two weeks behind on Castle. Two weeks! 

Thanks Karen.

So we’re supposed to post our goals. Karen, Jennerosity, Jenifer, Davina, Kerryn and Kim already have. Me, I wasn’t ready. I needed a preamble/chance to whine/chance to procrastinate, which you can have the pleasure of reading here.

Oh wait, pardon me, I forgot. According to Kim, I do not whine. I kvetch. Also according to Kim, we’re having a Wine Awareness Month. I’ll keep you posted on that.

I work best when not focusing on one thing at a time. I need to put my writing into separate pieces of a virtual bento box, with no two sections being the same.

It’s like when I go out for Greek food. I order ten plates of meze and no main course.

Wow Melina, way to ramble.

So fine. You want goals? I’ll give you goals.

Project 1:

Finish entering final edits into my electronic copy of Daphna in the Rough.

Replace the three scenes I deleted from Daphna in the Rough.

Project 2:

Redo my collage and discovery exercises for Polly. I recently took this fabulous course, and I’m loving the whole Photoshop collage thing.

Add 15,000 words to Polly. I feel ready for this now. I wrote the ending during NaNo, but the last act is still missing. I had jury duty last week, which gave me tons of ideas for making sure my villain will continue to be up to no good.

Project 3:

Finish working out the GMC for my Evi book.

How’s that? Are you satisfied? 

Signed,

Mel, who will now proceed to go to Central Park and crawl under a rock.