Soleless

Each day as I leave my apartment, I open up my front door with a somewhat nervous anticipation.  Much like Rapunzel gazing down from her tower wondering if today will be the day her prince will come, I too gaze down at my doormat and wonder if today will be the day that fucker brings my shoes back.  Yes friends, someone stole my shoes.  Someone stole my goddamn shoes.  I’m sorry, but I’m still livid about this.  And no joke, each day (as if not to scare my shoes away), I open up the door ever so slowly and peek through the small sliver I have created between the edge of the door and door jam.  I’m just so damn hopeful my shoes have fled their captor and tiptoed their way back to their rightful owner.  Sadly, each day I am continually disappointed.

What hurts even more is the fact this particular pair of shoes was my newest in the collection.  Having just bought them a few weeks ago, they barely had any wear on them, which no doubt made them all the more desirable to the shoe bandit.  My luck he’s probably a foot fetish kinda freak and my Diesels are already soiled.  Never the less, I continue to keep my eyes pointed down when I walk the halls in hopes of catching the asshole who has my shoes on.  I even have to fight the urge to run to the staircase when I hear the convicts in my building come and go.  But really, what would I say, “nice shoes,” or better yet, jump him and violently rip them of his feet only to find out his shoes were an exact replica of mine, only in size 9.  Lets face it, I don’t have that in me, but I am pretty pissed off.  I feel like my soul has been taken—oh wait, it has (get it???  Soul = sole). 

Stupid comedy aside, I do feel slightly violated.  I just don’t understand how people steal things.  As the adrenaline raged through my veins, and my stomach heavy with what felt like rocks, my immediate thought when I figured out they were gone from my doormat was “God, I hope someone is just teaching me a lesson” (more on this thought later).  My next thought was, “ I wonder if they needed them?”  For some reason this thought was slightly calming because in the scheme of things I don’t “need” this pair of shoes.  I’d be willing to give them to someone worthy of needing them, but sadly I’m pretty sure the culprit didn’t need these shoes because we have all left pretty ratty shoes out on the mat before and they were all still there the next day, like it or not.  Which takes me back to my first thought, “God, I hope someone is just teaching me a lesson.”

You see since winter has started, we have adopted a no-shoe policy for the house.  After our first few snowfalls, and freezes it became very apparent that shoes could no longer be worn from the street into the house because of the residual snow tracked in, but more importantly because of the salt that is tracked in.  We already have a problem with our floors being eternally dirty.  Even as I vacuum, I see the debris landing on the hardwood in my tracks; each particle waiting to be picked up by my bare feet.  And as much as I love my feet being the Swiffers of the household, especially right when I get out of the shower, we needed to do something to slow the floor rubbish---so keeping our shoes outside on the mat was the implemented. 

Now apparently this wasn’t such a good idea to someone else in the building because a few days after our new policy went into affect, I had heard some light thumping noises at the base of my front door.  They were just light enough for me to not give a shit.  But a few hours later when I opened the door I was surprised to see two pairs of shoes placed in such a fashion as to take up as little space as possible in the hall.  Mind you, our door is not in a major artery of the hallway.  In fact, I would call my portion of the hallway a cul-de-sac of sorts, set aside from the staircase, with only one other apartment across from us.  It’s for these reasons I find it funny our shoes were placed parallel against the door, heel upon toe, as if it were a four-car train in the station.

This continued a few more times because clearly I didn’t get the hint: my shoes were not welcome here!!!  Never the less, I found it amusing that someone would touch a strangers shoes and even configure them in such a meticulous manner.  It wasn’t until a pile of calf-high rain boots were stacked and puzzled together to create a child barricade that remained standing even without the support of the door that I started to get a little perturbed.  I mean really people, this is only going to last for a few months during winter, and the shoes are on our mat.  And while I realize those two square feet of prime real estate outside of my door were not factored into the lease, it is kind of an unwritten given.

As winter wore on, I started to hate my cul-de-sac neighbor.  Even though I thought he was nice before, I started to resent his quite protests to our shoes.  He didn’t seem like the type to care about shoes, but then again his girlfriend did just move in, and judging by their fights, she sounded slightly prudish.

It wasn’t until a few more shoe-jenga creations were made that a show down was to be had.  I opened the door and there they stood, the anti-shoeists locking their door as they prepared to leave.  My heart suddenly pounding at the thought of the oncoming confrontation, and yet I remained confidant in the face, arrogant even.  I stood my ground and waited for eye contact.  As soon as a connection was made, I slowly gazed down at the art form known as Shoe-Creation, and just as rehearsed, raised my head with a quite intensity.  The left eyebrow cocked as if saying, “You think this is funny?”  To my horror I was greeted with pleasant smiles and an introduction to the girlfriend, whom I had yet to meet.  They never even looked at the shoes, but they did look at me inquisitively, which made me question why I still had my eyebrow in the raised position.

Because of this nice exchange, I was forced to believe my cul-de-sac neighbors were not the shoe artists.  I later concluded Chazo must have been moving our shoes against the door so he could mop, but that too made no sense because he didn’t move the mat, and I’m pretty sure he doesn’t mop over the mats.  Long story short… whomever the shoe artists were, I was hoping they were also the ones now trying to teach me a lesson because of my past insolence of not taking my shoes into the apartment.  I don’t think it’s that crazy of a thought process; its something my mom would do---hell she’d throw them out for good measure.

Truth be told, my stolen shoes were bought at a Nordstrom’s Rack at a discount, and I could really only wear the shoes for about an hour before my knee would start to hurt.  The left shoe actually caused my foot to over-pronate, which in turn caused my knee to compensate for the misaligned foot, which probably would eventually screw with the hip, back and neck.  Oh, but they just looked so damn good with ALL of my jeans.

Four days later, my shoes still have not been returned to me, but to end this on a positive note, I hope the criminal is blessed with a slipped disk caused by the over-pronating left shoe, or at the very least black toe nails from shoving his size 12’s into my 11.5 Diesels.

Winter Wonderland

Winter wonderland my ass!!! 

But let me explain myself… I left the city to spend the holidays with family and friends in California.  While I was away the city was hit with a huge blizzard that covered the city in snow.  Apparently this storm had really done a number because it crippled the busses, shut down some subways, and even forced drivers to abandon their cars in the middle of streets (which eventually caused a nightmare for the snow plows).   Air travel was a mess with people stranded in airports for days on end.  And of course, nobody was happy.

Now knowing all this in California, I was still jealous I wasn’t in city to experience it.  I know it would have been miserable, but I wanted to be able to bitch about it like every other New Yorker.  God knows I love to bitch, and this seemed to be the thing to bitch about to close out 2010.  I wanted to be that guy on the news saying “Dammit Bloomberg, plow my street… I see that your street has been plowed---why don’t you send your plow over to 109^th!!!!”  But I was in a comfortable climate with friends and family so I had nothing to bitch about for a few days.

A couple days later with no delays and a smooth flight, I landed at JFK on the 30^th with Justin in tow.  Which, for those of you who want an update, has been very smooth.  Despite one little spat as soon as we landed (that lasted with 8 hours of silence), it has been quite nice to have him around.  Plus he has nestled into the apartment with very little disruption.   I will keep you updated on that saga in the future, now back to the snow.  From the airport, we ended up talking a cab (in silence).  All of the streets were very drivable, but there was still a great deal of snow that remained on the sidewalks blocking in parked cars.  Some of the snow banks reached as high as the roofs of cars.  Just another reason why having a car in NYC would be miserable.

Later that evening, when talks and negotiations began again Kevin, Justin, and I eventually found ourselves at the top of Central Park playing in untouched snow.  My god it was so beautiful… and that was the last time it was beautiful.

It seemed like gremlins, or I guess I could just call them New Yorkers, had come out overnight and ruined the pristine snow.  Then next day had revealed just how ugly snow can get.

Sure I know dogs gotta pee, and I understand that pee will stain the snow a pretty yellow, but just because there is snow on the ground doesn’t give you the right not to pick up the shit too.  It seems like dog owners across the city have decided to preserve their puppies precious pooh by letting it freeze and then slowly break down as the snow melts.  Let me tell you it doesn’t stay in its tight compact tubular form that we all recognize.  The pooh eventually spreads out to an area large enough to reach my sole if I’m not looking.

And as gross as that is, I have been introduced to a phenomenon that is much more horrid---snow vomit.  Yes, snow vomit!  Just down the street, by the local bar I saw it for the first time.  And not that I examined it for any length of time, but I couldn’t help but notice it looked as if the drunk fool had first stamped his footprint into the snow then puked into the bowl-esk depression to keep it contained.  But who would go to that much trouble especially when they were drunk?  It was until Justin had pointed it out that I realized it was the heat from the actual vomit that had melted the snow on contact, which created the bowl like shape.  The vomit has since frozen, and now everyday I walk to the subway I get to see this somewhat fossilized moment of someone’s bad night.

In addition to the beauty of bodily byproducts, the snow banks are quickly on their way to being completely black, and every car and bus in the city is a dingy mess.  So much so, that some bus advertisements are unrecognizable.  And to top it off, trash is piling up.  Trash services have been suspended as the trash trucks were converted into plows.  So now on my street, the areas that once contained snow, now have piles of garbage up to my chest that line the length of the sidewalk.  Apparently the thought process is garbage is better to look at than snow???  I’m not sure, chicken bones, tampons, and old TV sets make good competition for pooh, pee and snow vomit.

Either way, I’m glad I’m here to experience it.  I just hope next time I’m here for the actual storm so I can bitch about that too.

Thanksgiving In The City

I have to say this last week has been all kinds of wonderful; my parents and brother arrived early in the week and I have been able to spend some much needed family time with them.  I knew how much I missed them, but I didn’t realize how much I missed the individual moments we share.  Moments like my brother making us cry with laughter with one of his observational comments.  Watching my dad beam with joy as he crop dusts an entire subway car, then as he sees the collateral damage he has inflicted on his family, suddenly bursts into uncontrollable laughter.  Or my personal favorite--catching my mom doing something she knows she shouldn’t be doing and seeing her turn into a little girl who got caught.  As I write this down, I’m realizing the Hartman’s are just a bunch of kids… I think I like that; maybe that’s why we are so close.  Because of that closeness, I could imagine this Thanksgiving being very lonely without them, but fortunately they came to the city to celebrate my first Day of Turkey.

I suppose this years Thanksgiving actually started Wednesday evening.  My mom wanted to see the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade balloons being blown up.  This is apparently a thing to do, although I had never heard of it, I was willing to try.  Well, so was all of New York.  My brother, mom and I rode an over stuffed subway to the staging area of the parade where we were greeted by hundreds, if not thousands of people, shuffling their feet (as one could not take a full step), in an area that spanned 4 blocks by 1 block.  The balloons were being blown up on multiple streets, and to keep some sense of order we were only allowed to walk in one direction in a giant square. 

Now my mom has a cane because of a knee surgery, but I can tell you my mom doesn’t see the cane as an instrument to help take pressure off the knee, but rather as a tool that is used to point at objects, and more importantly, a pass to get away with shit she shouldn’t get away with.  As she jockeyed with other spectators to get prime position for pictures of Spiderman, The Pillsbury Dough Boy, and others she would delicately cut people off and then offer the cane as an excuse.  Sometime the excuse was offered apologetically, other times helplessly; it all depended on the person the excuse was being offered to---I’m telling you she’s good.  Little kids were no match for my mom; she had carefully crafted and executed a plan that was unstoppable---the cane!!!

We had only made it down one of the blocks before we decided to cut out.  The crowds were really getting too intense and that one block itself had taken about an hour.  Maybe next year I will plan it out better and be more prepared.  But, even though it was overcrowded, I had a great time; it was nice to see my mom’s excitement.  She really does get like a little kid as her face lights up with wonderment…its one of the things I enjoy most about her.

Leading up to actual Thanksgiving Day, the big debate (at least in my mind) was what the hell are we gonna eat???  God knows fitting a full sheet of cookies into my oven is asking too much, let alone a turkey.  We kinda decided to make reservations at some sort of restaurant, but I felt slightly uneasy about that.  All of the menus I had looked at were over priced, and the food just wasn’t our style.  We aren’t fancy eaters so I don’t think any of us would have been content after the meal---just full.  I had to sit and think about what I like about Thanksgiving and make that happen.  Well it finally occurred to me that my favorite part about Thanksgiving was the leftover sandwich.  I mean the meal itself is okay, but the sandwich a few hours later is where the real joy of Thanksgiving is.  Knowing this, I decided to go straight to the happiness and make Thanksgiving sandwiches.  Problem solved—Thanksgiving saved.

An hour before the parents arrived at the apartment on Thursday I started to warm the homemade meal (including all the fixings) lovingly prepared by Trader Joe’s.

Soon after, I answered the phone to a slightly frantic mother who was quietly yelling, “Get your ass down here now and open the door before your father and I get shot.”  What she actually said was, “ Hunny, please just come down stairs and get us.”  But I could hear what she really meant by her tone so I jumped up.  When I got down stairs and outside, I could see what had caused my mom such great concern… I’ll call them neighbors; she’ll call them thugs.  People in the neighborhood (neighbors) decide its okay to blast their parked car stereos and gather around them as if it’s an outdoor club.  Well because they were at my stoop my mom and dad decided to walk away from the danger after being dropped of by the taxi.  I couldn’t find them at first, but eventually found them across the street awaiting their private escort who would ensure them safe passage through the gang.

They made it upstairs safely, and when they entered the apartment we had officially reached maximum occupancy for the room-5.  Any more people could warrant a visit from the fire marshal.  We shuffled around the apartment and gave them the grand tour.  I think they liked it, but I was more than sure they were grateful they didn’t have to endure the conditions for more than an evening. 

We then transformed the living room into the grand dining room.  This is accomplished by un-stacking the two cubed coffee tables and placing them in front of the couch.  This creates a formal dining space with dimensions of 2 feet by 4 feet.  But don’t think we can sit on all sides of this massive table—the room isn’t wide enough.  So desk chairs are brought in from the other rooms and placed some distance from the table.  Welcome to New York City.

One by one we made our sandwiches.  Sourdough toast with a healthy coating of mayo, topped with a thin layer of mashed potatoes, two spoonfuls of stuffing smashed on the potatoes, freshly carved turkey nestled on top, a drizzle of gravy, and a dollop of cranberry sauce before another mayo slathered slice of toast gets placed as the crown.  I don’t know why all Thanksgivings aren’t like this.  We all enjoyed our cozy meal much more than any fancy meal we could have bought.

After dinner, Kevin, my mom, and I walked to Central Park and strolled around in the rain by the reservoir, while my brother and dad took advantage of the couch and the football game.   When we got back it was apparent that both of them had fallen asleep, thus proving football is not that entertaining.  After pumpkin pie was served, we pulled up some favorite YouTube clips and laughed at people.

First Thanksgiving in NYC—success.

It wasn’t until late Friday night that I realized I hadn’t once thought about what I was thankful for.  I guess the opportunity had been lost in the business of the holiday itself.  So… among many things, I am grateful I get to call these wonderful people my family.  I love you guys.

Higher Highs, Lower Lows

Oh what a friend can do for the soul.  It’s no secret I have a wonderful set of friends; the problem is most of them are three thousand miles away.  And while Skype and other social mediums have made moving away from them infinitely more bearable, it just doesn’t replace the simple warmth of an embrace or the smile two people can exchange not with their mouths, but in the depth of their eyes.

In the last two months, I forgot what that connection was like.  I’ve walked around this crowded city never alone, yet still lonely.  I know people here, I like people here, but I’m missing those who know what I’m thinking.  Those who know what tricks I have up my sleeve before I even think to use them.  Those people who I don’t mind when they laugh with me or at me, as long as I get to see them smile.

Don’t get me wrong, things are good here, but as I was talking to Shauna (someone I see far too little of) we discussed the City’s ability to play with emotions.  The best way to describe it is… the highs are higher, but the lows are even lower.  When something good happens to you, you feel like you have 8 million of your closest friends to share it with.  But when you’re just the slightest bit down, the city kicks you in the face.

Think about it; if you have a down turn in a relationship, you don’t necessarily want to be around happy couples.  If you just lost your job, you don’t want to celebrate someone else’s promotion.  This doesn’t mean you’re mad at the fortunate ones, it just means you want some time to wallow –alone.  Not gonna happen in New York my friend; remember I said, “lonely, but not alone”… never alone.  Subways are filled with loving couples stealing kisses.  Restaurants have their seats reserved with people celebrating success.  And bars are overflowing with friends laughing the day’s events away.  Everywhere you look will send you into a deeper pit than you ever intended on descending.

Thankfully, yesterday marked the start of The Great Friend Migration of 2010.  Over the next few days, Kev and I have 8 friends coming into town to see us and celebrate Halloween in the city.  First to arrive was Geoff and Breezer, who are actually going to be houseguests for two of the nights they are in town.  Last night I was so anxious to see them, I walked to the subway stop to greet them.  When I found them, I got my embrace, and I got my deep smile.  It wasn’t until that moment that I realized I had been missing a close connection.  How can a friend make you feel better than you are?  I’m not quite sure, but I think it happened just when I needed it to.  We spent the night catching up, eating greasy Chinese delivery, and sightseeing.  But, most importantly laughing.  Sometimes laughing when nothing was said because our bonds exceeded the confinements of language.

I spent last night sharing my joy with 8 million of my closest friends.  Friendship is a powerful bond.  I can only hope I return the joy others give to me.

Dumb Ass... Use The Rail

Last night I washed a load of whites.  Not really a big deal, but since my whites were cleaned yesterday, today I was allowed to put on my white thermal top to wear to Starbucks.  It didn’t look like it was too cold out so all I would need was the white thermal top, paired with my light gray jeans, and of course white shoes to tie it all together.   Gathering my laptop, audition folder, and side bag I left the house with a certain enthusiasm; a spring in my step if you will. Well that spring, sprung right out seconds later when I found myself flat on my ass in the middle of the sidewalk. 

You see Chazo (pronounced Chah-zo), one of Mickey’s henchmen, is in charge of keeping my building up to standards.  Up to standards includes mopping all the hallways, stairways, sidewalk, and stoop.  Now when I opened the door of my apartment, the strong smell of bleach alerted me to Chazo’s presence.  Knowing Chazo had recently been through with the mop meant caution was in order.  I even grabbed the rail as I descended down the flight of stairs to get to the first floor.  Safe on the first floor, I continued to spring through the bleach soaked hallway towards the doors that lead outside.  I made it through both doors almost arrogantly with a confidence that exudes… “I know how to walk.”  But it was the stoop that got me.

I decided to conquer the recently sprayed and mopped stoop with no help from the rail at all; rails are for old people.  My god it’s only a stoop.  Just four little steps that have decades of paint on them.  Decades of regular (I would say high gloss) paint, no “non-skid” paint here, just good ole high gloss paint that has created a wonderfully smooth surface---for a stoop.

My right foot led the way.  I went from threshold to sidewalk in record time.  Luckily time slows for the individual who is going through embarrassment.  In this nanosecond I felt my right foot touch the top stair then ever so gracefully rise into the air to reach my left foot (which was already in the air because it had confidence in the right foots ability to stay on the ground).  I remember thinking, “Shit, this isn’t good.”  Next, my ass decided to land on the top stair.  I believe its thought process was… hell if the feet aren’t gonna be grounded, I guess I should.  So good at being grounded was my ass that it decided to be the one part of my body that hit every single stair on the way down.  My arms flailed, my legs kicked, but my rump held steady.

Now laid out on the sidewalk, in a puddle of water, that contained all the dirt from the now clean stoop-- I had time to evaluate.  Not paralyzed, nothing broken (except my pride), I started to look around to see who witnessed this spectacle.  Immediately a car drove by and the driver saw the look of horror on my face.  Then I made eye contact with an old lady about 20 feet away.  The look on her face was slightly confusing.  On one hand, I felt she was looking at me and thinking, “dumb-ass…should have used the rail.”  But then her look also could have meant, “Been there… hope his hip is alright.”  I guess I should just be happy she didn’t offer me her cane.

I got up and realized my very white outfit was now very dirty.  I could have gone up stairs and changed but I wasn’t about to risk going up the stoop.  I wore my dirty white outfit for the rest of the day and took pride in my tumble down the stoop.

Dumb ass…use the rail.

Good Bye Belly Lint... Hello Chilled Towels

God knows I love to exercise at the gym, but in the past few years, I have to say it's been getting less and less appealing.  The gym I had in California was a well known gym with many locations.  When I first started, it was rather nice, but then they started to build a few super premium gyms and in the process, they let their others go to shit.

I mean really... why was it hard to find a working treadmill that didn't have gum in the cup holder.  When your water bottle and towel have to compete for space with gum, hair, and probably belly button lint as well, you get a little grossed out.  Sure you can blame the guests and call them pigs, but I kind of look at it like this... when I go into a gas station bathroom and there is shit on the toilet seat, I don't worry about cleaning up the piss I left behind.  However, if it was clean in the first place, I would have done my job to keep it clean by wiping up my urine spillage.  Or at the very least, if I pissed on the seat, I would have strategically, with my foot, lifted the seat into the upright position as to appear to not be the one who actually pissed on the seat to those patrons using the bathroom after me.  

Oh and don't even think about using the locker room restrooms to take a dump; it is far too dirty to drop a bomb in there.  I couldn't possibly subject my poop to that sort of torture.  And then there’s the showers; when you take a shower only to feel dirtier than you were right after the workout (but now with a slight tickle of athletes foot and jock itch), you know something is wrong. 

Though these were my general workout conditions, I knew I was moving to New York so I stuck it out with them rather than deal with a new membership.  When I got to New York, I knew I wanted to go with a higher end gym that I had tried out before, but logic made me try out a more economical gym that was closer to the apartment.  This economical gym was exactly what I expected; slightly trashy, over crowded, and lacking any ambiance or style.  But, I was there to workout, not hangout so none if that mattered.  Yep... none of that mattered until I went back to the high-end gym for another free trial.

My god what a difference money makes. Clean showers, in which one (being me) can walk around sandal-less with no chance of catching the foot or the jock itch.  So clean, so stylish, plus designer products from Kiehl's to use at leisure, as well as complimentary (if complimentary means only paying the extra hundred bucks in monthly dues) mouth wash, hairspray, hair gel, deodorant razors, cotton swabs and more.  One could feasibly save on rent and forgo the apartment bathroom and just use the gym's amenities.

Past the locker room, the equipment is all state of the art, or at least that’s what I’m told.  All I know is they all work very smoothly and are gum/ belly button lint free.  I'm almost appalled at myself for having the audacity to sweat in facility such as this.  It really is dreadful, but at least they have staff to wipe up after me if I miss a spot.

The studio rooms are all immaculate, which means I won't be blowing some chicks hair wad away from my hands as I'm in Downward Dog.  Each mat is cleaned and sanitized so I don't have to worry about getting ringworm, or having to schlepp around my mat throughout the city.  In addition, there are designated studios for various classes, which means I no longer have to splash in sweat puddles left behind from the 9 o'clock spin class during my 10 o'clock yoga class.

Now if all this wasn't enough to turn me, let me tell you what did turn me... Cold Eucalyptus Towels.  At the end of every workout, I drag my sweaty ass over to the towel fridge---yep, a fridge dedicated to the storage of towels, soaked in water touched with the essence of eucalyptus, and chilled to 39 degrees fahrenheit.  Heaven!   As stupid and self-indulgent as this may sound, it was the reason that sent me over the edge.  Sign me up baby; I want the chilled towels.  Plus they supply all of your towels for everything else like bathing, swimming, and sweating, which makes a difference when you are carrying these extra items throughout the city in a backpack.  Especially after a workout when they are all wet and ripe.

No I didn't get a job as a membership salesman as you might be thinking, but I did sign up for a membership and I plan on getting my money's worth.  Hell, I might even stop in when I’m not working out—did I mention the Cold Eucalyptus Towels???

Bed Bugs... The New Herpes

No, really... don't let the bed bugs bite.  In New York right now it is no joke.  Bed bugs have become an epidemic that isn't going away.  I first saw a poster for bed bug awareness last year in Times Square on a massive billboard.  I remember it very clearly because it was a huge picture of a magnified bed bug.  It was also the first time I thought, "Wait, they really exist...it's not just a cute saying parents tell kids before sleep?"

With a little research, I learned this insect is about the size of an apple seed and not the size of the 14-story building as I saw in Times Square.  They like beds because the can hideout all day in the fibers then sneak their way up when they sense your body heat at night.  And this is when they strike, when you are in bed, asleep and of no threat to them.  They aren't stupid like mosquitoes, they suck your blood when there is minimum risk of you slapping at them.  What's most disturbing is they can live for up to a year without feeding on your tasty hemoglobin.  This makes them basically indestructible without actually throwing out the mattress, burning the sheets and praying they didn't get into your closets or even worse, your couch too.

So bad has this situation become that it seems people are treating it as the new herpes.  Once you've got it--you've got it.  The stigma stays with you for the rest of your days.  Just the other night, I heard my over boisterous neighbors on the street yelling out (yelling is their form of communication, it’s a funny language pattern---talking seems to be out of the question), "guuuurrrl... You got beeeeed bugz, haaaaa haaaa bitch!!!"  Oh and to clarify, this young lady was laughing at, not with, the girl who had been infected.  I felt bad for that scarlet lettered harlet.

Not wanting to be scarlet lettered ourselves, one night Kev and I actually turned around and went back home as we were heading towards a movie theatre to see Eat, Pray, Love.  Sure it may sounds like we are overreacting (we often feed off of each others weaknesses, and can easily become agoraphobic if we are allowed to spin out of control), but if you take in account businesses such as AMC, Hollister, and even Bill Clinton's office have been shut down for days because of infestation, it becomes a real threat.  One, I don't want bed bugs, but even more so, I don't want to sleep on/with the chemical pesticides that are used to kill the bed bugs.  I don't trust the solution enough to risk the problem.

It's gotten to the point where I don't want my fibrous clothes like wool, touching other people fibrous clothes for fear of hitchhikers.  Imagine my fears as I go on background calls and am forced to hang my stuff up on racks with other people’s clothes. I told you extras were humdingers... you know 90% of them have been infected with the new herpes and I don't want that percentage going up with me.  

To add to my fear, just this morning as I was walking to the subway station on my street, there was a couch and a mattress on the curb with "BED BUGS" loudly written on both with red marker.  Red means danger!!!  Had I known this breeding ground was there, I would have taken a different street.  Or, at the very least I would have inconspicuously changed the side of street I was on as if I saw a gang ahead.  You can never be too safe; I don't know how far they can jump... do you?

I wish I could end this blog entry with a happy ending such as, "And then they all died... The End."  But unfortunately, I'm gonna have to leave with, "Be afraid, be very afraid!!!"  And don't be surprised if you come over my house and I make you do a Dustin Hoffman type scrub down from Outbreak before entering.