The one in which Rachel does the walk of shame (but not THAT walk of shame)

It started the way these things always do. With bites. Multiple ones, mapping an imaginary line down the body.

When my roommate Bri told me a collage of itchy splotches had cropped up on her petite frame, I did what any good New Yorker does: I clammed up. Told no one. I even started taking calls from my work lobby – fearful that zealous cubicle mates would overhear my drawn out conversations with the Tony the exterminator and Jack, “Papa Gullo,” my semi-deaf landlord.

There’s a reason a Google search for “bedbugs social stigma” generates over 12,800 results (including one LA Weekly blog post titled “Bedbugs Finally Outnumber Hipsters in New York City”). Bedbugs in the home get you on the fast track to becoming a social pariah. It outperforms drugs, divorces and other salacious bits of gossip. And drives open, unguarded people, like me, to secrecy (cue the eerie soundtrack).

Bedbugs may just be the 2010 post-“Signs” version of an alien invasion (substitute the crop circles for bug bites). It becomes about survival – only in this case, survival of the social kind. Soon, you realize one thing. What goes on underneath your mattress is strictly between you and your landlord.

So what’s a girl to do?

After the initial shock wore off (I may have gone through all 7 stages of grief within 30 seconds flat), I did what any new lessee does: call the landlord. But Jack was not so obliging. He insisted my roommates and I were responsible. The bedbug(s) had to come in on someone's back, right?

Still reeling in disbelief, I called Tony the exterminator and set up an appointment. In the meantime, my roommates and I madly scoured the web, searching for any information on tenant rights (for more info, go here). I continued to harass Jack -- even calling him on the eve of a family wake. And I continued to keep it a secret.

Finally, B-Day rolled around. At 8:30 AM sharp, I got the call and ran downstairs. That's when I met Tony & Harry, two mealy looking specimens in overalls, who clomped up the stairs into my life.

I led them to the back room. They flip-flopped the mattresses, whipped out insanely small lasers, and "oohed" and "ahhh'd" as they scrutinized our sheets. It was a strangely intimate scene. I almost died when Tony cried out, "there's a piece of their vomit!" Any social aspirations drew their last breath.

But then it got better. In this case, better meant no rust-colored blood spots on our mattresses. Better as in no bedbugs. Not a single one. Anywhere.

Six hours later, I'm still not sure what to make of the ordeal. Was it was a fake out? A freak out? Are the bedbugs regrouping before one last, final invasion? Maybe Bri's bites were caused by mosquitoes. Maybe she just has sensitive skin.

For now, I don't really care to find out. I'm too relieved. I can talk loudly again in my cubicle. I can lay in my bed without thinking of dot-sized bloodsuckers waiting to pounce. I can walk with my head held high.

At least for now.

The one in which Rachel says “No more to handing out my number to strangers"

Here’s the thing: I can be naive.

Attending college in Salem, Oregon – what I like to call the civic armpit of the Northwest – probably didn’t do much for teaching me the social mores of fast-paced city dating. Where a conversation (either in real time, real life, or real whatever) leads to a whirlwind of flirtatious texts (and boy do I appreciate a good texter), drawn out email conversations at 2:00 AM and inevitable Facebook stalking. And then, like all the gusty sighs that preceded it, it loses wind, or momentum, or something, and it ends just like that.

All this to say, Salem-style relationships were different. Slower. More inbred. People there are not quick to ask you for your number. (And for the record: getting asked by the at large homeless community, product of budget cuts at state-run mental hospitals, does not count).

So maybe my naiveté was not wholly my fault. In my defense, I had no one to explain the significance, or lack thereof, of a “can I get your number?”

I remember the first guy who asked me for my number in New York. I’d been here two weeks, was still looking for work, and when attending a work party of a friend, inevitably gravitated toward another recent college grad. After talking to “Joe” (fake name not used to protect “Joe,” but simply because I can’t actually remember his name) for a good hour or two, we parted ways. Him – with my number in his iPhone. Me – with my feelings lifted after regaling him with all my job interview sob stories.

Big surprise, “Joe” never called. Not so big surprise, I still hadn’t caught on to the complete lack of follow up inherent in a good-natured “can I get your number?”

So I kept on handing it out to any guy I met. The way I handed it out – despite my pretensions of privacy (epitomized by my “private” settings on Facebook) – you’d think I was into guerrilla marketing or self-promotion or selling some type of service. That, or just plain dumb.

The cycle continued. And like a law of nature, it always followed the same mold: chat with cute guy, cute guy asks for number, I act all easy-breezy and give it out – all the while feeling a rosy glow of “this is what New York is about…meeting random, cute people in a Serendipity-inspired fashion.” Cute guy never calls.

So finally this week, I’m saying “enough.” No more. After handing it out for the umpteenth time (and please note that this is not a vanity blog post…I just have zero capacity for saying no to even the very weirdest, most odd characters who you should NEVER give your number to), I’m calling it quits.

Ask me for my number, and all you’ll get from now on is my email address.

So here’s to a year of email spam.

Cigarettes, Sauerkraut, and Death

This coming Halloween will mark one year of me living where I live now. There's three of us, three rooms. The guy on the lease and I obviously haven't changed. But the third roommate has changed about five times since I moved in. One of those darling roommates was written about in Pooky. Besides her we had a lady live here for about two weeks and then left saying it was too wet here, a yuppyish fella who I thought was okay but then he and the other guy living here started fighting or something, a guy on parole who didn't do all his community service so he had to go back to jail, and now we're on our fifth who pees with the door open and uses my baking sheets to dry his shorts in the oven. So the guy on the lease, for privacy issues, we'll just call "Rawburt." He's the one that always give these people the third room. He's asked me about it before but I'm never there when the people stop by so he just says "They seem to be fine." He basically gives the room to the first person who responds to the craigslist ad. 

And speaking of Rawburt, he doesn't do anything. Not really. The very first thing I think of or picture in my mind when I think of Rawburt is him in the living room on his recliner watching his flat screen television. All the time. That's it. And he orders pizzas. I've seen him eat bowls of sauerkraut. He gets work sometimes from…wherever, but the third roommate and I pay more than him, even though he definitely has the largest room. So we basically pay him. I didn't find this out until six or seven months after I moved in. He's kind of clean, but I feel like he's getting less so. 

So what's the deal? I mean, why am I still here? Why haven't I moved out? Well, for one, I kind of have a lot of stuff, and no car, so it's hard to move. Secondly, it's pretty cheap where I live, the cheapest around probably. And the place isn't cramped or anything, so it's relatively a good deal. And I have bothered Rawburt about the unfair rent payments but…I don't know…he comes up with dumb reasons, and like I said, it's the cheapest around. And I'm only here until may or june. As long as I stay in my room...

But who knows. I have a pretty good job now (yeah. suckway fired me) so I'm making a bit more. I could just very well pay slightly more for a better place. But in the end I'm so ridiculous, it'd be so hard to find some random people that would be great to live with. I don't have any friends that are needing roommates right now.

Oh well. 

TO-DO LIST

Well, it's been quite some time since I've posted. Not out of lack of misery, but out of lack of energy to relive it. I figure I'll ease into the blogger's life with a list. You see, I am a nanny. Which is, in itself, great. Sort of like having fake kids you get to leave every day between four and five pm and see again in the morning at seven am. But sometimes, this nanny thing I'm in turns into an exercise in humiliation. And cheap labor. Before certain confrotational talks took place, I had somehow evolved into nanny-housekeeper-errand-runner-cook.

Here is a list of tasks I received during the first month of nannyship:

-- clean the fish tanks (yes, tankS)

-- buy three containers of Greek Yogurt (typically on the list once a week)

-- vacuum and steam the floors

-- clean, peel, dice potatoes; chop onions; put in pot on stove

-- find "reasonable but classy cookies - maybe the Italian ones at the Market, or...?"

-- teach the five-year-old how to tell time (I taught her jazz hands, we're still working on time)

-- teach the two-year-old how to put his toys away (I taught him to say "Cowabunga!")

-- scrub showers (this words must be typed and read: pubic hairs)

-- windex windows of fingerprints

-- reorganize Madi's hair supply drawer (I did this)

-- tidy up Madi's pajama bins (I didn't do this)

-- do the laundry (they wear things once, then throw them in the laundry bin)

-- mail this box of severed body parts ("for his spook box!) to Grandpa in California

But I manned up and grew a pair and drew the line. Now I have time to take the kids to the beach and snuggle on the couch and speak to them in accents. There are still moments of misery. Like Aiden peeing on my sweater. Like Madi screaming that she will blow up my head and run over me and ohimakehersoangry and shehatesme! Like getting Madi to do math homework. But the misery comes along with dimples and introducing a new generation to LCD Soundsystem and The Beatles and Arcade Fire and The B-52s.

(I can never remember the font we're using on this crazy thing called blog. Someone make sure this follows protocol for me, will you?)

The one in which Rachel plays hobbit to Liv Tyler’s Arwen

I’ve always been tall. Always loomed above my 5 ‘ 3”-ish counterparts. Then again, I’ve never spent any time around the preternaturally tall species known as models. Until this week.

On a whim, I accepted a one night gig as a hostess at a new restaurant opening in the Meatpacking district (oo la la). My responsibilities? Smile and manage the improvised coat room as guests arrived.

When I showed up for instructions – slightly harried after rushing down from work – I soon realized I was missing what every other girl in the room was glowingly parading. A pair of, ahem, breasts. Besides sporting the prerequisite pouty lips, kohl-lined eyes and rail thin bodies, the waitresses were exhibiting far more plentiful bosoms. Bushwick never felt so far away. Or more flat-chested.

I fluffed up my hair (if only to make up for the lack of “fluffage” elsewhere), tugged at my skirt, and took up residence behind the receptionist table at the door. That’s when all the beautiful, tall people started to arrive. Emphasis on tall.

With New York Fashion Week underway, the stylish set from G-Star had descended upon the restaurant for a post-show dinner. Cameras flashed, “OMG! How are you?’s echoed throughout, and denim-heavy looks dominated (G-Star Raw is primarily a denim line).

I watched all of this from my “servants’ quarters” – passing comments, and judgment, with my fellow hostess, another beautiful, albeit busty, Greek girl.

“I wonder who he’s with?” we wondered.

“Who’s that?” I asked, realizing I needed to brush up on my D-list celebrities.

Then I saw Liv Tyler. From my spot near the front door, I watched her walk from the “red carpet” (more like cement walkway), past the front desk into the crowd.

And here’s my confession: I have never been a LOTR nerd (though I now write the acronym in this post), but in that moment when Liv Tyler appeared, I positively felt like a hobbit. And not of the dreamy, Elijah-Wood variety. The glamour of other leggy, denim-clad women in their 30s paled next to the elfin princess herself (so much for not geeking out).

She glowed, she serenely smiled. She chatted and worked that room like a pro. I took mental notes. And then staggered home to sleep before heading to my day job.

When the manager asked me if I wanted to host again, I said yes. Party #2, hosted by Fuse, the cable music channel, featured a similar crowd. Same chesty cocktail girls. Same bevy of leggy models. Same boozy men who take full advantage of the open bar.

This time, however, our receptionist corner doubled as a DJ booth. The night progressed in somewhat chaotic fashion. The ceiling sprouted a leak. Crystal crunched underfoot after several champagne glasses fell. I sneaked a bite of a hors d'œuvre after standing on my feet for 5 hours. In heels, of course.

All the while the party grew. As I swayed next to the DJ, outright danced, and mopped up the water from the continual ceiling drip, I practiced what I’d learned from the night before and smiled serenely. Liv style.

The one in which Rachel gets kicked off a Chinatown bus

Disclaimers can be dangerous things. I know. But let me preface this whole story by stating that I have never been a rebel rouser. Ever. For good or bad, I have always been of the sniveling, people-pleasing, Neville Longbottom-esque variety. Having my credit card rejected at the grocery store register reduces me to a quivering, blushing mess.

So what went down on Saturday, September 4th, on board the Chinatown Express line -- direction Washington, D.C. -- was unnatural. And shocking.

It all started when our lumbering, non-Wifi bus (which I'm still bitter about) pulled into a Baltimore rest stop. My ever-active roommate, Bri, decided to get off the bus for a couple minutes to stretch her legs. And why not? At a previous rest stop in Philadelphia's Chinatown (this bus ride was to feature a comprehensive tour of all East Coast Chinatowns), we had been subjected to a 25-minute-long rest stop, while bus travelers scampered to the nearest Chinese restaurant bathroom only to find a wizened, Asian woman fiercely scrubbing her raw fish in the bathroom sink.

So Bri got off the bus.

That's when I heard a suspicious rumbling and noticed the bus was moving. Away from the dilapidated Holiday Inn (which happened to have no electricity at the moment). And away from Bri.

As I processed the fact that the bus driver "wasn't just repositioning the bus," I clumsily shuffled to the front of the bus to kindly ask the driver to briefly stop the bus. And there I met my great surprise. In very loud terms (for all the other 50+ travelers to hear), he told me he was not going to stop. Even for one 22 year-old girl's bladder. I had to get off the bus or leave my friend behind. Sans her cellphone, wallet, iTouch -- in essence, her lifeblood.

I stumbled back to collect our bags, and, with all 50+ eyes still on me, got off the bus. On to a highway in the middle of nowhere. The last thing I heard before the bus doors slapped behind me was the unintelligible ramblings of the bus driver who continued to berate me. May his conscience keep him up at night.

I dragged our bags across the highway, found Bri, watched Bri's eyes widen, watched Bri begin to hyperventilate (just kidding Bri!). And then my survivor tendencies kicked into gear. We harassed several gap-toothed middle-aged women at the darkened Holiday Inn until they told us that "naw, you cain't buy bus tickets here." We befriended an excitable Asian man/self-appointed Chinatown bus liaison/guardian angel in disguise who directed us to a grassy patch where we could wait for the next bus. We watched in horror as a three-legged dog crossed the busy highway and made his way to us (I was sure I was about to witness a bloody tragedy). I even peed in a dark bathroom (there was still no electricity).

Within fifteen minutes, another Chinatown bus showed up. After high-fiving our smiley bus tour liaison friend, we hopped on. It was like we had never gotten off. Same stale smell. Same bedraggled mix of young adults and senior citizens dozing -- or trying to. Still no Wifi.

And, apparently, we still haven't learned our Chinatown lesson. I sit here writing this after just missing our return bus to New York.

One thing is sure though. I won't be getting off anytime soon to "stretch my legs."

You can't have one without the other.

Well, I guess I lied. This post will not be about any real roommates, or roommates at all. In fact, it's only about a room. A great room. An old room. Mine. Well, it became mine. Originally, it was mine and my brother's. But then he left for college, and even though I was just a year behind him, I continued to live at home because I went to college in my hometown. Many people don't do much with their rooms. It's a place to sleep in, possibly to work or study in, to store clothes and other various belongings in, to change or get dressed in, and I guess to, on certain rare occasions, to actually hang out in. That last one was always (and still is) the main purpose of my room. Even when my brother and I shared it, it was already quite different than rooms occupied by other boys our age. We actually put real art on our walls. We had this great stereo. We had model cars placed neatly on the top shelf (for display as opposed to play). We had a small growing collection of books and cds here and there. But the main thing, the real thing that made our room so much different than the rest was our lighting. We didn't just use the overhead light fixture coming out of the center of our ceiling. We used lamps. And not just one desk lamp or bed lamp, but both, and closet lamps, and corner lamps, and window lamps and whatever lamps. Lamps galore. And we also had twinkle lights or string lights or whatever they're called. Also, on the ceiling were hundreds of glow-in-the-dark star stickers. When my brother and I were very young, we got this mammoth package of these things and we put them all over our ceiling, with real constellations and everything. When we turned off the lights at nighttime, because there were so many, it was like we were in a sort of planeterium. I was beginning to really notice this stuff as I got older and I loved all of it.

Well, like I said, my brother eventually moved out and I stayed in the room for a good, I don't know, five more years I guess. Something like that. And during those years, I went to town. I was constantly covering the walls with all sorts of neat things--postcards, posters, photographs, things that normally don't go on walls like towels or linens, etc. I even painted an outline of a dinosaur on the wall. I took out the bright bulbs in the ceiling light fixture so there was never that real bright central light again. It was certainly not dim, not at all. I had plenty of lights all over the place that helped accentuate every nook and crannie in the room. I had a reading chair--this great golden easy chair I found at a thrift store for only fifteen bucks. I had a loveseat-sized couch that I got for free cos someone was getting rid of it. I had this old desk that my aunt gave to me when she moved. My bed, for most of the time, was a bunk bed that my brother and I had had since forever. I stayed on the bottom for a long time, but then, to help with space, I took out the lower bunk and moved my couch in place of it, so it was below the top bunk. This was all near the end. I had a turntable and receiver and speakers and my record collection was getting bigger and bigger. I even had a cassette deck and plenty of tapes to play. I had a goldfish in a small aquarium with a little castle in it. My small library was getting to be just that--a small library, literally. And the stars were still there of course, but I had eventually obtained two blacklights, so I could "charge" up the stars and make them glow even brighter than any incandesent light ever could. And this was all in my average sized room at the end of the hall.

There are many reasons someone might "go through all this" to have such room. They could simply be one of those people who love interior design and refuse to have their living quarters be a place where they can only do the things I mentioned early on in this post--the essentials. Or they could be a bit compulsive and can't help themselves--everything has to be in a certain place and look a certain way and it has to change and so on and so forth. Possibly they could have plenty of friends who also have awesome rooms and they're all doing it because it's a trend and they want to be cool. Or maybe they love to entertain, and they view their room as a gallery of sorts when people come to visit. For me, it was some of these things and more. I always viewed my room as place where my friends and I could come hang out and sit in the couch or the golden chair and play a record and just enjoy ourselves. I also a viewed it a sort of museum or, yes, even a gallery. I'm certainly not saying I had any fantastic relics or artifacts in there. No, it was all just my pictures and mail all over the walls, all very personal in fact. But nonetheless, it was quite curious still, to see and look at so much stuff all over the place. And that's what I loved most about it.

                    ~                        ~                    ~                     ~                     ~                   ~

That room is no longer. The physical room still exists but it certainly does not look like it once did. A year ago, I moved out because I transfered to a different school somewhere else. Immediately, my parents wanted to rent it out. So that meant I had to basically strip the room clean. It was very odd taking down every single thing. There are two closets in the room, one for my brother and I. I was told I could still use one of them to store things in. I used my brother's. My closet was gutted. After I left, I found out my parents had painted the room and filled in all the holes in the walls. I expected the holes, but they painted over all the stars on the ceiling and also my dinosaur. The dinosaur, sure I guess it could have gone. I was thinking maybe whoever the new tennant would be could simply put a small poster over it, no big deal. But the stars, I mean, it's kind of dark you know. I'm not one to shy away from poetic imagery and when I found they were painted over, I thought of the light or something leaving that room forever. Nothing left. Not even some silly stars on the ceiling. I'm not mad at my folks or anything. I was at first, but to them, it was simply a room to make some money off of since I was leaving. That's fine. I know I'm in the minority when it comes to rooms. To most people, rooms are just places to stay, and nothing more. They're four walls, maybe a window, a bed, a closet, a small desk perhaps, one door. But to me, a room is so much more. So very much more.