You know you SO wish you were me!

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.