THE BEGINNING…
DATE: 05.05.10 TIME: 13:13 PM



Well helllooooo there. Here we are. I should have been doing this months ago….. but I promise I will have you all caught up in no time.

I am currently 25 1/2 weeks pregnant with our first child - a little GIRL! It was a tough road getting to this point, and I’ve battled with my own inner demons on whether or not I should share with the world my infertility battle. So yeah, all you bitches who were asking me “when are YOU going to have a baby?” should be ashamed of yourselves! DOH! My husband (Charlie) and I have decided that we are PREGNANT and we are not going to focus on the past, but rather we are going to focus on the future. And the future is we are having a sweet little baby girl in three months! Yeaaaahhhhhhh!!!!

My experience being pregnant in New York City has been quite an interesting one already. My mom and Charlie enjoy hearing my stories each day about my commute to and from work. Whether or not I was offered a seat on the bus or train. What were people’s reactions to me. Whether or not the person was annoyed at offering their seat. And WHO offered their sacred seat for me, a pregnant woman, to sit.

The first time someone offered me their seat, I was exactly 15 weeks pregnant. I had a teeny belly at this point, and honestly, if you didn’t know me, you probably would have thought I just had a bit of extra bloat from brunch. I was wearing a pair of black leggings, a fitted gray cotton turtleneck, a leather jacket and a pair of boots. A black woman, probably in her 40’s or so, offered me a seat on the bus on a Sunday afternoon. Charlie was with me. I thought it would be easy-peazy from then on! Wow was I wrong!

Listen, I’m not going to complain (or maybe I will a little), but rather, I think each day is a new experience but it is pretty ridiculous that sometimes people look directly at me and directly at my 6-months-pregnant belly and go on reading their books or magazines. The best is when people close their eyes to act like they are taking a nap! Yes, people really do that!

So here I am!

I love writing, but I slack off sometimes (most of the time!) on my other blog: http://www.thingsivelearnedthisweek.blogspot.com

I’m hoping I can keep up with this one! Enjoy! Oh, and FYI, I love comments! xo.

It is now the middle of August and it has not yet hit 90 degrees this summer. And in my opinion, this has been the BEST SUMMER EVERRRRRR because I am usually always warm. I mean, obviously, in the winter when there is snow falling from the sky, I'm not walking outside in my little sundresses and flipflops. But as far back as I can remember, I was always the one fanning myself and screaming for my mom and dad to "HURRY UP and PUT ON THE AC!" in the car. It was only as I got older and started doing research on redheads that I learned I, as a redhead, RETAIN HEAT! Aren't I lucky?

Today will be the first 90 degree day that New York City has seen this summer.

So please - would someone tell me why I saw some idiot at West 4th Street this morning wearing a skirt with some big ass cowboy boots? (pic of the offender) I mean, come on! Did she really wake up in her sauna of an apartment this morning and think today was the best day to look like she is going to ride a horse?

I haven't seen my husband since this morning when I left for work - but how much does anyone want to bet that when I see him tonight, he will come through our front door wearing jeans? And a woman I work with just went out for lunch and when she returned to our office, she called out "Man, it's HOT out there!" Then WHY are you wearing a cardigan sweater? REALLY!?

I honestly built my entire outfit around today's heatwave. Cotton cotton cotton! Cotton dress. Cotton tank top. Cotton underwear! The body needs to breathe, people. And while you're at it... please don't forget deodorant! (I was this close to telling....)

*DISCLAIMER: I wrote this while riding on an Amtrak train. I had worked all day and then boarded a 4 hour train to go visit my best friend who just had a baby. I was anxious to get there, and extremely reved up because the guy behind me would not get off his cell phone...... the language might quite possibly be the worst language I have ever used in a blog..... this is a warning.....

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Why are people so fucking rude?

I mean, really?

Do we need to start taking cell phone etiquette classes in high school? I believe this should be a prerequisite to graduate. Like, you can’t fucking take college classes until you pass an etiquette test in cell phone usage. You know, like those math and english tests you have to take to get placed in college level courses? THOSE are the test these people should be taking.

Should you talk on a cell phone while waiting for that airplane to leave the gate and on to the runway?

Should you talk on a cell phone in a restaurant?

Should you talk on a cell phone when that Q train is above ground and crossing over the Manhattan Bridge?

Should you talk so fucking loud that the entire Amtrak train car can hear your ENTIRE LIFE STORY?

Is it ok to talk on a cell phone on an Amtrak train, airplane, subway train, city bus, in a restaurant if you are able to keep your talking down?

The answer is NO. NO NO NO!

I don’t give a shit if you’ve wiped your ass today or what you’ve eaten for breakfast. I don’t. And I’m sure my husband and all the fucking strangers on that train or plane or bus don’t want to hear it either.

Get the fuck off the phone assholes. Have some common sense.

I was just sitting here at my MacBook minding my own business. I had just reorganized my desk and threw a bunch of junk away because we are getting ready to move next week. Charlie was downstairs going over some freelance stuff with our neighbor. And all of a sudden, while surfing the internet, I heard my cat make a chirping noise. The noise she makes when she sees a squirrel or a bird on our fire escape and she wants to kill it. Except it’s 11 o’clock at night and she isn’t looking out the back window on our fire escape. I turn around and there it was. CRAWLING UP OUR COUCH!!!!!

Possibly the biggest one I’ve ever seen in our apartment. Although Charlie swears that every cockroach in our apartment is big and I say that “it’s the biggest one I’ve ever seen” every single time I see one. Now, you know how most people are scared and freeze? Not me. I don’t give a shit. Everything went flying and there I was, as many times before, running down the stairs in our pre-war brownstone (third floor walkup). Only this time, I was wearing pajama pants I had to hold up and a tank top that was way too big with NO BRA and NO UNDERWEAR! And there I was screaming “CHARLIE!! CHARLIE!!!” all the way down the stairs.

I am not happy about this one. The only relief I am getting from this exact one is the fact that we are closing on a two-bedroom apartment tomorrow morning and my four and a half year battle with these fucking things in my apartment will be coming to an end next week. It’s a reminder to me that although I love this apartment, I will not miss the creatures I see in it. I will not miss breaking out in hives and hyperventilating at the bottom of our stairs (and I’ve seen them there also!). I will not miss the sore throat I get the morning after seeing one because I screamed so loud that my neighbors down the street can hear me!

Again, a big THANK YOU to my amazing cats for being hunters. Bidge for originally finding this one, Charlie for having the courage to come up here blinded by how big it really was (remember, he was downstairs when I came running down to get him!), and Sneetch for once again being my soul-mate animal and grabbing it IN HIS MOUTH and bringing it to the bathroom for Charlie to kill it.

I bought a pair of jeans at the Gap today for $10. Now, in anyone’s case, this would be a fabulous deal. But in my case, it’s even more of a deal because I’m one of those girls in New York City that feels it’s necessary to spend more than $100 on a pair of jeans. Oh yeah, “seven jeans, true religion… I say no, but they keep givin’.” But the truth of the matter is- the only person who is givin’ is me and my checkbook.

I used to think that buying a pair of jeans at the Levi’s store for $40 was a big purchase. I’ve always been the one to look for deals on clothing, and believe me when I tell you…. the jeans I’m buying at Bloomindales are being bought on the clearance rack. I’m getting last season’s Citizen’s. And I don’t care what you say… Last season’s jeans are a bargain!

So I saw the 1969 Gap jeans on the clearance rack, and they were cute, so I decided “hey, why not?” And as I stood in the dressing room, I realized…. Holy shit. I think they might actually fit BETTER than the jeans I’m purchasing at Saks for $100!!! I think I’m being robbed!

I figure this: today, I’m $90 richer and I still look fabulous.

I was THIS close to telling a woman today on the subway that she needed some deodorant. In all honesty, I seriously almost told her to put her arm down from holding the bar above the train’s seats. It was THAT bad.

I was standing there up against one of the doors when she approached me. Her armpit could not have been any closer to my nose - I felt I was a prisoner with no where to go.

Something about summer in New York makes the stinky people come out of their caves. What I forget is that these people are probably stinky year-round, but the winter’s extremely low temperatures force people to wear coats that cover the stench. But in the summer, it’s a free-for-all. These people are wearing tank-tops with no place for their stink to hide. I seriously want to ask them: Did you take a shower this morning?!?

As for the woman - Target is ONE stop from where I get let off. As I stepped off the train to walk home, all I could do is hope she was getting off at the next station.

As many stray cats as there are in New York City, you would think it would be easy to just go to a shelter and pick out a cat. This is what you would think, right? Don’t be fooled.

To adopt a homeless cat in Manhattan, you have to go through screening like you’re being hired for the CIA. It’s amazing to me because a person can honestly pick up a cat off the street faster than they can adopt one from a shelter. And at a shelter, you have to actually PAY for the cat! You might as well pick them up off the streets!

The kitty we found in a trash can in Bed-Stuy last year was driving us absolutely crazy, so we decided to get her a friend so we could be driven crazy by two cats. Good idea, huh? After months of looking on Petfinder.com, we decided it would be best to go to the Humane Society.

Reputable shelter = healthy homeless cat.

It took us weeks to get our kitty. First, we had to fill out an application. They needed references! And they actually called them! Second, we went through questioning. Is your cat declawed? How long have you had him/her? Where did you find him/her? How many cats have you had in your lifetime? And the questions went on. When we finally picked one out at the Humane Society, they said there was a waiting period to make sure we wanted the cat!

I think these shelters get attached to the cats and they don’t want them to be adopted. And I think I really may be on to something here. It’s sad because some of these cats have probably never seen or even remember what it looks like outside. All they know are cages. But I’m serious; each cat we looked at had a story as to why it couldn’t be adopted. “That one bites.” Duh, it’s a cat!

I was the perfect candidate for adopting a cat from a shelter. There was no way they could turn me down. I’ve had four cats in my lifetime; two of them I picked up off the streets. My fiancé on the other hand, has only had the cat we found last year in the trash.

After the waiting period was complete, I called to reiterate to the woman at the shelter that, yes, we WANTED the cat! To which she replied to me, “We are concerned as to whether or not your fiancé was excited about the cat.”

ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME??? GIVE ME THE DAMN CAT!

Like I said, it’s easier to pick a cat up off the street. But I’m happy we stuck by our decision because now we have a healthy happy cat… and it’s not homeless anymore.

Last night as Charlie and I were walking home from Applebee’s, out of the corner of my eye, I see a big THING running full-force towards us. Running across the street of Dekalb Avenue, is a pit-bull… and let me mention that there was no owner in sight.

Most people would be in panic if they saw a pit-bull running towards them, but as a child I learned that dogs can smell fear. And believe me when I tell you, I don’t think I’ve ever been afraid of any animal. Of course, I’ve never been face to face with a wildcat…. but I swear I may be one of those people in the jungles of Africa saying “Here kitty-kitty.”

This pit-bull sighting is something you’d only see in New York. Maybe it’s because there is an abundance of these animals in Brooklyn, but I can’t see myself in Virginia Beach walking down the street and coming face to face with this kind of dog with no owner. As a matter of fact, I don’t know that I’ve ever seen a pit-bull in my parent’s neighborhood in my entire life.

So there I am pulling out the cell phone calling someone to come pick up this poor lost dog that is running crazy on busy streets of Brooklyn. My first instinct is to call 911… in my eyes, this is an emergency! But Charlie gets me to call 311, which is the phone number New Yorkers call for “not-so-emergencies” emergency.

Please note that it’s 9:30 at night on a Friday.

A dispatcher answers and tells me that she can’t help me, and that animal control is closed for the weekend. So my options are either taking the animal to my apartment until Monday or bringing it to a shelter. So obviously, I couldn’t take the dog to my apartment… my cat would have probably gone into shock and fallen dead to the ground if she saw a big dog in her place of living. So the only REAL option is finding a shelter. But guess what? The shelter is closed.

And before I know it, after 15 minutes of keeping this dog’s attention, the dog is gone. Just as fast as he came into our sight, he’s gone just as fast. And this morning, I’m sitting here thinking of where he is, where his owners are, and hoping that that poor puppy is safe somewhere.

I know I can’t save them all, but I really wish I could.

Can someone explain to me why the women in New York who are my age have two-carat diamond rings on their finger? I am completely unimpressed. I mean, who are these girls marrying?

Everywhere I look, I see women in their mid-twenties wearing rings that I’d be afraid to wear. I have insurance on my half-carat diamond. I remember when I called up USAA to buy insurance for my engagement ring… and when they asked me the weight of my diamond, I replied: “.49.” And I’m completely cool with that. In fact, I told Charlie that I want quality over quantity and that’s exactly what I got.

[[I have to add in that my ring is GORGEOUS. Not even a two carat diamond can top my ring. My fiancé designed my ring and the diamond is flawless. It seriously couldn’t be a more clear or colorless diamond.]]

I don’t ever want to be wearing something bigger than what my Mom has. Which isn’t going to be hard for me to accomplish, because let’s face it… my Mom could be known as Mrs. T with all her jewelry. And it doesn’t hurt that my dad has the Dr. in front of his name. My mom got her big diamond after 30 years of marriage and she calls it “the Honker.” I’m assuming that needs no explanation.

But I’m back to the same question: What is it with these girls wearing these huge diamonds? What are they trying to prove? That their fiancé loves them more? I don’t think so.

These women need to stop flaunting it around like it means something, because it doesn’t. Besides, having a ring like that means you’re probably more likely to get mugged. And the truth of the matter is, and I don’t mean to stereotype…. but I feel the bigger the diamond, the more likely it is that your husband will cheat. Haven’t you people read Bergdorf Blondes?

So hold on to that diamond, baby… soon, it will be paying your alimony.

PS. And no, I’m not bitter. It’s just the dead-honest truth.

I saw the most unbelievable thing on the subway this afternoon. As I was standing on the train, I watched an elderly woman, probably 85 years old - stand up from her seat to offer it to a young pregnant woman. What was amazing to me was that no one else sitting on the train noticed the pregnant woman and her protruding belly. This of course, isn’t true.

At least once a week, I see a pregnant woman on the subway – STANDING. The people sitting look directly at the woman and go on sitting in their seat, reading or doing whatever they are doing. There have been times where I’ve actually told a man to get up out of his seat. Didn’t he see there was a pregnant woman standing right in front of him? Of course he did.

Did he not care? Obviously, he didn’t.

One time, I watched as a teenager hurdled her way across the train to sit in a seat that just opened. Not watching what she was doing – a pregnant woman was slowly going to the seat and the teenager hit the pregnant woman’s belly. Are these people not thinking? Is it really detrimental to sit on the train?

Most of the time, I stand on the train. Of course, I like to sit once in a while (who doesn’t?). But I feel I’m always the one to stand up for a woman who is over the age of 50. I’ve even given my seat to a man who looked like he’s worked on a construction site all day. Kids under a certain age should always be sitting on the train and the mother should be sitting next to them. I LOOK for pregnant women. This is just how it should be.

From now on, I’ve decided to be an advocate for pregnant women sitting on subways. And believe me when I say….. I’ll let you know if I feel you should get up.

A couple of weeks ago while shopping at the market in Union Square, the strangest thing happened to me. There I was, minding my own business, talking to my mom on the phone (while buying a gingersnap homemade cookie), when a man walked up to me and handed me a business card from LUCKY Magazine. I was about to blow him off. I mean, come on dude! I’m on the phone with my mom! But as I held the phone to my ear, semi-listening to my mom talk about something she finds interesting, I realized that this man thought I was cute.

Next thing I know, I’m on the subway to Times Square going to the Conde Nast Building to get polaroid’s taken at LUCKY FUCKING MAGAZINE from the bookings editor!

They told me I’d probably get a call within the next few days so that I can come back into their snobby-ass building (yes, SNOBBY!) and take more pictures! Those girls from the office that I saw in the elevator must have known I had on an Old Navy corduroy blazer and not a Prada one while they looked me up and down. Yeah, bitch… the shoes are from MARSHALL’S!! But I didn’t give a shit! I was going to be in LUCKY Magazine!

Of course, for the next three days, I paraded around my apartment thinking I was a goddess. I thought I was so hot that I kept telling my cat that I was cuter than her! It isn’t every day that I get some guy coming up to me telling me they might be interested in having me be some kind of model in their magazine. I always knew I was cute, but not THAT cute!

But I wasn’t so LUCKY afterall.

I never got the call. And all I could say to make myself feel better was “I’m just not photogenic! The bookings editor probably didn’t think I took good pictures!” But as I started at myself in the mirror this morning wearing my Old Navy Blazer, I thought to myself….

“I paid $29 for it! Who cares if it isn’t Prada?”

There is something about wearing heels that makes me feel so powerful.

I’m the kind of person who is happiest in a pair of FLAT flip-flops. I get sad around October because I know my flip-flop days are coming to a close because it’s starting to get cold. I hang on to those last days, praying it will get warmer – when I know it’s not going to.

A few days ago, I went out to meet some friends in midtown. I bought some new black heels that day and I was more-than-excited to wear them. This past summer, Charlie and I came up with this method of me wearing heels. He wears a messenger bag with my flip-flops in it, while I wear my heels. If my feet start to hurt, the heels get taken off and Charlie just opens his bag and gives me my comfortable shoes. It’s the greatest thing EVER.

Except when Charlie decides he doesn’t want to carry my flats one night.

This happened this past weekend, but I was stuck on wearing my new black heels. And they only got me to – three blocks. THREE BLOCKS before I was limping and making faces. I wasn’t even halfway to the subway station IN OUR NEIGHBORHOOD! I thought Charlie would run back three blocks to our apartment and come back wearing his bag just so I had piece-of-mind. But he didn’t. He told me I had to change my shoes. And I was pissed!

Today, I decided to wear a pair of heeled boots to work. I looked in the mirror this morning and told Charlie that I knew I looked good. And I knew for sure I did. Without even having to look at Charlie’s face, I knew what he was thinking.

So there I was at 8:55am coming out of the station on 48th Street and 6th Ave, running late, as usual. Something about the way I walk in heels gets people’s attention. And I swear I could feel people staring at me while I walked. In my mind I was thinking, “Yeah, people think I’m hot.” But I knew that at home, there was one guy thinking… “I know she’s in pain.”

And it wasn’t even 9am.

I get this panicked feeling when I drive into New York City after being gone from the chaos all weekend. It’s nice to drive down the Jersey Turnpike to the Holland Tunnel and see the skyline. And even though I have to drive down Canal Street to get to the Manhattan Bridge, to cross-over to Brooklyn, the panic doesn’t begin until I park the car on the street and I’m walking up to our apartment.

And I know the reason for the panic.

The sounds in New York never stop. All a person can hear in my neighborhood is the sound of honking, alarms and music blaring from a person’s car window. Not to mention, the loud buses driving on Myrtle Avenue. And we can’t forget that I live next door to a fire station – so I hear the sound of fire trucks screaming through my window at all hours of the day. During the summer, there are people shouting and ice cream trucks singing. There are dogs barking. Always dogs barking. The barking never stops. At night, I sometimes here a bug making a noise and I swear it’s a cockroach. (Charlie says I’m paranoid.)

And I have to admit: Sometimes I like it. Sometimes I don’t.

There is no other place in the world I’d rather be right now than in New York City. But sometimes I just want it to be quiet and I know that I can’t have that here. There are always people on the streets. Always the same sounds heard over and over again.

The only quiet I get during the day is in the morning when I’m in the shower. I listen to the water coming down and it’s so nice not to hear everything that’s going on outside our windows.

After I finish getting ready to start my day and I walk down my stoop to the sidewalk – It’s quiet outside for the only time during the day. I look to the left, down the street, and I see the Empire State Building and I think to myself: I live in New York City. I live in the best place in the world.

But sometimes the sounds are enough to drive you mad.

“Ok, so this is when I cross the line!”

This is what Charlie said to me while we were at the grocery store tonight. And you will never believe it when I tell you the reason for his saying this.

We walk into Associated Supermarket to pick up a few of our staples- just some things to get us through the next 5 days since we’re going home for a long weekend. You know, the essentials…. yogurt, milk, juice…. Um, pineapple juice for my vodka.

Let me first say that we never go to Associated anymore. Not since we’ve found out about the high-all-mighty thing called “Fresh Direct.” No more lugging groceries when we can order that shit from the internet and they DELIVER DIRECTLY TO YOUR APARTMENT FOR AN ADDITIONAL $4.99!!! Who can beat that? Seriously.

So the first thing Charlie does when we walk in to Associated is go to the ATM. I stand there looking at him, “Why do you need to go to the ATM? I’ll buy what we need!” Charlie shrugs me off, “No. No. I just need a little cash.”

So I proceed to make my way to the produce (never know when you might spot a good apple somewhere in that place!). And that’s when it all went down.

Charlie informs me that the ATM in our neighborhood grocery store is now in Spanish. No English. No choice of Spanish OR English. It’s just in SPANISH! Um… hello! Is it me, or do we live IN AMERICA?? Doesn’t anyone find this a little offensive that the ATM in a supermarket with the zip code of 11205 (which means THE UNITED STATES!) has Spanish as its primary language?

I asked Charlie if he needed help (because you know me – I’m soooooo fluent in the language of Spanish) and he said to me… “NO, I will not get money from an ATM with Spanish as its language! We live in AMERICA! This is fucking ridiculous!”

So this what I have to say: “Ningún uso de la ATM para mí!”

And if you English speakers don’t know what that means…. You better learn Spanish because soon enough…. We won’t know what anyone in this whole fucking country is saying.

I will not buy a $4.51 coffee at Starbucks.

People in New York City are obsessed with Starbucks. They are on every freaking corner. Everywhere you turn, someone is holding a Starbucks cup of coffee. I think people who really think that Starbucks is good, is a complete idiot. There’s a conspiracy that I need to make people aware of.

I went on an errand today while at work, and as I was walking out the door, one of the partners in my firm asked me to go pick him up a Grande Mocha Double Chip Frapaccino from Starbucks. (Whatever the fuck that is- and I still don’t know because I ended up getting the wrong drink- but that’s beside the point.) I actually had to write the shit down because the name was so long that I couldn’t remember it.

And then I came up with this idea. No wonder why these drinks cost $4.51! They cost so much because they have to pay those workers at Starbucks to sit there behind the cash register and listen to annoying, stupid customers say THAT LONG-ASS COFFEE NAME!

And that puts me on another tangent. That’s why the lines at Starbucks are so long! It’s not because the coffee is even good! It’s not because a million people want to drink it. It’s because the names of the coffees are SO FREAKING LONG that each person has to spend at least 3 minutes talking to the person taking your order!

It’s all a conspiracy.

They make the names of the coffees so long because they want the lines to be long. THAT’S IT!

If they make the names of the coffee long, it means people are ordering longer – which means long lines form and then people walking by are thinking: “MAN! This shit must be good! Look at the line!”

It’s bullshit. Don’t buy into it. It really ISN’T good!

As I had a hold of that cold drink in my hand, I thought to myself… “Bring me back to Virginia Beach.…..

…..Give me a medium regular coffee from 7-11.”

And you don’t even have to say anything. You can serve yourself! And it’s only…..

$1.18.

For a person to belong in Brooklyn, they must have a pit-bull. And I belong in Brooklyn.

I have a pit-cat. As in, pit bull… but a cat. And her name is Bidge.

We found Bidge almost four months ago in the trash can of our former ghetto neighborhood. We were coming back from a delightful Thai food dinner in the rain when we heard the most blood-curdling screeching from across the street. Charlie pulled me over across the street, and there we find a kitty in the garbage…. Hence the name, Bidge. GAR-BIDGE. And she’s our baby. But she does the craziest things. Things a cat really shouldn’t do.

She attacks people’s feet. Sometimes I have to run from her. She barely weighs 5 pounds and I scream as she runs after me.

She waits for us by the door and meows when she sees us.

Bidge LIKES water! She dips her feet in the bathtub when there is water in it.

Get this! Bidge plays fetch. YES. She catches after things and brings them back to you

And I think to myself, “Is this what NYC stray cats do? Do they learn this from the pit-bulls walking around on the street?”

All I know is that I have a really cute cat. It might have nothing to do with Brooklyn. And it might have nothing to do with pit-bulls. But I like to think I own a tough cat.

Beats having a pit-bull.

Does anyone understand how fucking hot it is in the subway stations in New York City?

If you don’t live in New York City and you don’t understand… let me try to explain. It’s so fucking hot that I have to keep saying “fucking hot” to get my point across.

When I make my first step out on to the sidewalk at 8:10 am every morning, it’s nice. It’s brisk. It’s almost a little chilly. But I know that all I have to do is walk those eight blocks to the station and I will be a little warm and toasty. And I can do it everyday, but nothing prepares me for the heat I will feel once I walk down to the hole in the ground.

I don’t even know why I attempt to put on makeup in the morning because by the time I get down those stairs, my makeup has already melted off. And all I wear is mascara! The hair is a whole ‘nother story. Curly = Frizzy, and it can’t be tamed.

And I’m fully convinced that people do not go to the gym in New York City during the summer. I know this because all you have to do is walk down the stairs into the sauna to burn off those extra calories you took in at lunch. Take it from me, EAT that candy bar. Go ahead eat those few extra chips.

It’s amazing. I sit there waiting for the train at 5pm completely exhausted and I pray for a train to come through. ANY train. I don’t even care if it’s mine! If the wrong train comes, it’s fine. It brings in a breeze as it passes by, and sometimes if I’m close enough to the train when the door opens, I can feel a gust of the cold air.

I’m almost ashamed to say this, but today I almost stole one of those fold-up fans from an old lady. I was just sitting there watching her fanning herself while everyone else was sweltering. It was almost like she had this smile on her face like she knew something we all didn’t. I wanted to look at her and say, “You’re going to hell.” But then I remember… we’re already there!

Each day I watch the subway conductor drive the train into the station. Sometimes I swear I can see horns and a pointy red whip of a tail. I want to blame him. I want to tell him it’s his fault for causing the heat in the station. But I know all he’ll say to me is….

“Don’t worry, soon you’ll be complaining it’s too fucking cold.”

There are some HOT Jewish guys in New York City.

I knew even before I moved here, that I was moving into a large Jewish population. But growing up, I always looked at Jewish men as being boring and, sorry to say, not too attractive. Coming from Virginia Beach, the only attractive Jewish men I saw were my brother and my dad. But I’m telling you… these past couple of weeks, I have seen some fine looking Jewish men walking down the 5th Avenue sporting a yarmulke on their kepies.

I can just hear my dad now…. “I knew she’d come around!”

But seriously, I’m thinking to myself… where are they coming from?!? They are everywhere. Is it because it’s summer? They come out when it’s warm outside? They hibernate when it’s cold?

I think my eyes are more open to spotting these men because I work in a law office surrounded by Jewish men who cover their little heads everyday.

Last week, I was told by an attorney in my office that one of the paralegals from our office in Israel was going to come by this week to help me learn some things. I walk in to my office this morning and this paralegal was not a woman… it was, you guessed it, a fine looking Jewish man! And the word “fine” isn’t cutting it here. I couldn’t freaking believe how gorgeous this guy was!

So I sit at my desk and write an email to my office manager saying: “WHY COULDN’T YOU ALL WARN ME THAT HE WAS HOT! I’ve told you of my run-in with these good looking Jewish guys” To which her reply was: “He’s taken and SO ARE YOU, MISSY!”

I sit there at my computer with him next to me. And he’s dressed all nice and his hair is done well. And his cell phone rings. Of course he answers it. I hear him whispering in the phone: “awww… baby. Blahblahblah.” I sit there thinking… “Can’t he get off the phone with is girlfriend? I mean, shit! We’re trying to do work here!” And just as I’m about to get a little too aggravated, he hangs up the phone, looks at me and says: “My boyfriend drives me crazy!”

Oy Vey!

But the truth of the matter is, I am in love with a man who’s a goy and although my family has accepted the fact, I know there will always be this thing in the back of their minds that I will find a nice Jewish man.

And today I’ve finally come to the conclusion of why I’m not with a Jewish man:

All hot Jewish men are gay.

(Charlie: please understand that when I write this, you are my world. And even though these Jewish men are hot… they will never be as hot as you.)

(Dad: get Charlie a yarmulke!)

It’s amazing how hot it can get in New York in just one week. I swear that I was wearing a light jacket outside here last week before heading home to the ever-so-humid Virginia Beach. This morning on my way to work, I found myself wearing capris, a tank top and – you guessed it… flip-flops!

And here it goes:

If you listen to only one thing I tell you, this is it!

A person can not wear flip-flops in New York City. Trust me on this one. Don’t think: “Oh, I can do it. These flip-flops are just so cute. My feet are just so cute. I’ll be just fine.” Because the truth of the matter is: You won’t be fine. Your feet WON’T be FINE! I learned this today when squeezing on to the 6 train on 51st Street and Lexington heading uptown. This morning while getting ready for work, I thought, “It’s Saturday. It’s 9:15am. My feet will be fine because the trains won’t be crowded!”

My toes have been painted now for a month. I thought it would only be right to show them off to the crazy people on the subway. Why not? But people didn’t care about my polished pink toes. And THEY SURE AS HELL DIDN’T CARE ABOUT MY FEET. All that happened was chipped toenail polish, stubbed toes and a lot of “Oh, I’m sorry” this morning while standing shoulder to shoulder on my 6 train. Each time the train jilted, people went moving, and my poor feet were abused.

The trains usually aren’t crowded on a Saturday morning because most people in New York aren’t going to work. But I failed to realize that it’s May and there are those early-morning tourists that annoy the shit out of me with their stupid subway maps and their “tour books.” Blah blah blah. It’s all calm on the train when all of a sudden I hear: “THAT WAS OUR STOP!!! WE MISSED OUR STOP!!” Then out of nowhere, my feet…. my nice comfortable feet… my feet that were enjoying being in the open air… my feet that were free from the constraints of closed-toe sneakers… SMASHED. Isn’t anyone here FROM here? Fucking tourists!

Since I’ve moved here, my feet have been through absolute hell. I seriously don’t know why they are still getting me from point A to point B. First the cockroach killers, now the flip-flops!?!

What does a girl have to do to get a decent pair of shoes in New York?

There is nothing that touches me more than seeing a blind person making his way in New York City.

Last week, I heard a man singing on my subway car while I was reading my magazine and I thought it was just one-of-those bums who are always singing on the train for change. When I looked over, I saw that it was a blind man standing in the middle of the subway car - singing. How did he even know he was standing directly in the middle of the subway car so that everyone could hear him?

About once a week, a see a blind person on a train alone with their walking sticks and I can’t help but think to myself, “How do they do it?” I couldn’t imagine being blind at all living in any city in the United States – let alone being a blind person in New York City.

But some people aren’t as fortunate as others.

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve missed my stop on the train because I was too busy reading my magazine to realize where I was. When I walk in areas I’ve never walked in before, there are times I have to make U-turns because I’ve walked down the wrong street. And I see these people with walking sticks and wonder “Do they ever get lost? Do they ever miss their stop?”

People are always in a rush here in New York. There is always someone running to catch a train. There is always someone running across the street before that red hand starts blinking telling pedestrians they need to stop walking or a car is going to run them over. How does a blind person know when that light is going to change?

They might run out of time to catch their train. Or run out of time to cross the street. How do they know where the door is to the subway car or where to cross at a cross-walk?

What amazes me most is that these people never ask to sit down on the train. They never ask for help getting up stairs. They never ask what street they are walking on or what subway stop they are at. They never ask for help from anyone.

And why is that? Do they have too much pride to ask for help? Do they REALLY know where they are going? Or do they just take their time, slow down, take deep breaths and just make the best of their days?

I just thank God everyday that I have eyes to see with.