So, on December 31st, 2008, my cross-country movers delivered my things from Los Angeles to my new home, located on the most despised place on earth --Wall Street. Baby steps.
In any event, I swapped my 1200 square foot loft in LA’s Financial District for a shoebox “loft” in NYCs Financial District (FiDi). That’s right, I’m living down the street from NYSE, near Bernie Madoff’s empty office, and more importantly, walking distance to Tribeca.
That’s the fairytale.
But, since relocating to NYC a mere month ago, I may need to schedule an appointment with Dr. Corbin to eradicate the effects of true city life.
This is my story.
CITY “ETIQUETTE”
I loved, and still love my deceased grandfather (Pop-Pop) with all my heart. Amongst being the only man whom I ever loved, he was also a well-respected lawyer, president of The Ohio State Bar Association, and a judge. He was also my first introduction to a vile act that has scarred my psyche until this day. Pop-Pop was a chronic expectorator.
Now, flash forward to 2009 and I am living in the land of expectorators—New York City.
A long time ago, I remembered reading that “back in the day”, spitting was illegal in New York City because it was blamed for the spread of tuberculosis. Apparently, the laws have been spit upon.
During frequent visits to the most amazing city stateside, I would dodge the spit of men that seemed to be flying in slow motion toward the ground. I even remember a couple of guys coming to my aid and yelling at a guy to be careful of where he discharged his phlegm.
But now, having moved here in the winter, the spitting has become more visual. In the creative speak of my friend Brian, “We should call the spit “spitzbergs” because they are frozen … ala icebergs.” I couldn't have said it better!
What really has me spitting mad is that “women” have now gotten in on the act. Yes, women.
In fact, the other day, as I was walking out of the grocery store, glowing over the fact that it was my first trip to a NYC grocery, a young “woman” decided that the thick fluid in the back of her throat needed to be expelled before she headed in to buy her groceries. The sound, the act, and the end result was beyond disgusting. Her act was so mind blowing that I curtly had to say, “REALLY? REALLY?!”
I was so taken aback that I asked three policemen what the laws were about the act in question. To my frozen surprise (partly because it was freezing outside), one of the “gentlemen” said, “WHAT? Youz got a problem with someone gettin’ rid of spit when youz got fairies running around LA?!”
Even though I was speechless, my mother would say that this is another instance when I should have kept my mouth shut. But, why should I when others were clearly opening and expelling from theirs?!
Honestly.
SINGLE IN THE CITY
One of the reasons I moved from Los Angeles is because I decided that after almost 10 years, it was time to start dating before school children started poking me with sticks and chanting, “Spinster Sammi! Spinster Sammi!” It’s bad enough that adults still chant,” Sam I am green eggs and ham.”
So, as soon as I unpacked my computer, I decided to sign up on all of the best on- line dating sites: Nerve, Yahoo, Cupid, and I revisited JDate. Yes, JDate … my dear friend Dina once said I needed to date “her people”.
Anyway, as 4 weeks have gone by, I realized that either someone altered my profile, or at worst, it had been surreptitiously deleted as time after time, the emails I received from all of the sites have been: “We have 0 matches for you” … “Have you thought about adding a different picture?” … ”You should think about dating in Siberia”.
To add to the Ruskie invite, I recently met the few Wall Streeters left in my neighborhood, who invited me to the land of reality. In their beer and Jameson soaked vocabulary, they jovially said, “ If you came to NY to meet normal guys, you’ve come to the wrong place.” Good times.
To say the least, I’m keeping hope alive.
NYC EXCURSIONS
Much like the millions of other human lemmings, I too went to D.C. to engage in the historical moment of witnessing Obama being sworn in as the first black president.
Sure, I expected to be a part of human flesh gridlock, long lines, freezing weather, and probably like other women, I thought maybe I would meet my knight in shining armor. Hey, if it weren’t so damn crowded, I could have picked him out in the crowd. In hindsight, maybe he was one of those men who traded his armor for a full-length fur that I saw so many men wearing.
Anyway, after parting ways from my travel companions, I rented a car, attended the inauguration solo, and left solo. And, when I finally ditched the strange woman who attached herself to me in the human gridlock, I found my way to the train and decided to take a nap. That’s where the pleasant memories end.
Upon reaching the platform at the train station, and feeling quite rested, I saw the hordes of people surrounding the escalator in the distance. It was like millions of ants on top of an anthill. No one was moving and everyone was fighting for space.
So, once again, I made like a lemming and followed the more resourceful ants and decided to run up an escalator that was going down.
Donned in my swing coat, my fur headband, camera strapped across my body, and my “oh so stylish” snow boots, I made like the spry high school cheerleader / former track “star” I once was, and headed for the escalator that was coming down.
Unlike my days of jumping hurdles, jumping escalator stairs was far different. Hurdles fall when your foot hits them. Escalator stairs going down (when you’re running up) don’t wait for your foot to touch them … they just flatten due to modern mechanics.
At any rate, while running neck-and-neck with the other lemmings, up the downward metal stairs, I got to the top and fell.
Then, as I was being dragged back down, and seeing feet flying by me, I got up and made a second attempt. But, because I thought that a man breezing past me was offering me assistance, I reached for his arm, he kept going, and I fell again. I like to believe that it was an honest mistake.
Finally, I got up once again, jumped to the safe zone, and when I got to the subway’s “promised land” (the landing), I bent over, caught my breath, and looked around to make sure no one saw my acrobatics. Unfortunately, I had an audience, and no one was applauding. But, from an older woman who had just enjoyed the show, I did get, “Baby, are you okay? You fell hard … twice.” I promptly replied, “Yes.”
Trying to act like I was a pro and had performed that stunt on Jackass, I walked as straight as I could to my car (that I parked almost a mile away), amidst tears, while feeling fluid dripping down my leg. Yes, it was the red stuff from within.
To end re-living this nightmare, all I have to say is that putting Purell hand sanitizer on an open wound is not a wise thing. In addition, to add more stings to my wounds, my sister called me “escalator road kill”.
Again, good times.
FEBRUARY 1st
At the end of 31 days I became a 1st time aunt. Meet Daisy Elizabeth.
Sammi In The City …
