Pictures of Parking Meters, Tiny Barstools, and Kurt Vonnegut

On the cusp of each new year, when millions of Americans are poised to make well-intentioned, if unrealistic resolutions in an attempt to make their lives better, I make one promise to myself that I know I won't break.

I pledge to imbibe at least one alcoholic beverage every day during Christmas break. (One, two, seven...who's counting?)

Friday, December 21, 2012. I assumed finding a place to get trashed cheaply would be easy on my first day of vacation. Hey, it was the day the world was supposed to end; what difference would it make if a bar gave away its entire supply of alcohol? Repent for your sins, then commit a whole bunch more while under the influence.

Quite a while ago I had basically threatened Dave that if he didn't meet me in the city for drinks that night he may as well sign the divorce papers immediately. This year my drinking streak held extra special meaning, since I've started a new job in a public school in Bushwick that pretty much drives me to drink on any given weekday. The Knicks were playing the Bulls and I headed for the L train dressed in my (early) Christmas present, a Tyson Chandler jersey.

"Where do you want to watch the game?" he had asked.

"Anywhere with heat, beer, and Christmas lights," I had replied, without missing a beat.

We decided to meet near MoMA, thinking we could inject a little culture into our drunken stumbling, since the museum is free on Friday evenings. Apparently the entire population of New York City had the same idea, including the barrage of tourists that had decided to descend upon the city the weekend before Christmas. (Have I mentioned how much I love tourists? Yes, people who stop dead in their tracks to take pictures of parking meters are delightful.) The line stretched around the block.

"Screw modern art," I muttered, against everything I believe, but sensing the wait could really put a dent in our drinking time. "Let's hit the bar now." Dave, who had only agreed to the museum in the first place to placate me, was all too happy to oblige.

Now, I must admit a strange problem plagues me when walking around Manhattan. (Besides the tourists.) On days I walk around aimlessly, when I am not in a position to eat or drink, I will find dozens of cool-looking bars with sandwich boards on the sidewalk advertisting irresistible happy hours ("Omigod! It's Omegong for $4!" or "Whine over $3 Wine." C'mon! Who could pass that up?)

But when I'm actually looking for a good place to chill, it's like all the awesome bars in Manhattan were suddenly abducted, blindfolded, and transported over the Williamsburg Bridge. Maybe finding the perfect bar is like what people say about finding true love: stop actively looking, and when you least expect it, it'll find you.

And speaking of true love, trying to agree on a bar with your spouse will make you wonder how in the hell you ever got married in the first place. No matter how much you think you have in common (and Dave and I do, more so than most couples, I believe) trying to find common ground to satisfy your respective appetites will bring out the worst in you. My simple parameters of beer, heat, and Christmas lights exploded to include the sublime, and mostly, the ridiculous.

"That place has a girl bartender," I complained, peering into the ninety-second bar we passed. "I really would prefer a guy. Girls never give buybacks." We also argued over watering holes for appearing too cold, too hot, too empty, too crowded, too cheap, and too expensive. We were both behaving like freaking Goldilocks--but when would we find the barstool that was just right for both of us?

We had started out near MoMA which, for all you tourists out there, is on 53rd and 6th. We wound up on St. Mark's Place and 3rd before we found somewhere we could agree on: St. Mark's Ale House, one of the only sports bars in the East Village and one of Dave's favorites because of its proximity to Crif Dogs, and one of my faves because of its proximity to East Village Books, my mainstay for cheap editions of obscure Kurt Vonnegut novels.

So you'd think once inside, we'd be okay, right? Wrong. All the barstools were taken, so we were relegated to a table, and the barstools assigned to the tables were about six inches too short for the tables. "I can't eat wings like this! My chin is practically on the table," I bitched, after we had already ordered $4 Killians, another perk of the Ale House.

Exasperated, Dave threw up his hands. "Well, what do you want to do?"

I glanced over at the bar. "I think those guys are about to get up." I pride myself on being able to read the faces of last-callers. "Let's move to the bar. It'll be easier to see the game anyway." I stood behind the man in question as he guzzled the remainder of his Jack and coke. He slammed the glass down on the bar and, to my horror, took the bar coaster and placed it on top of his glass. "Sam!" he called to the bartender. "I'll be right back. Goin' out for a stogie."

Deflated, I returned to my lilliputian stool, four-buck Killians, and loving husband. "Good going, Eagle Eye," he greeted me. "Just sit the hell down." I obliged, albeit sulkily. Our wings arrived shortly thereafter (which sucked anyway--I will forever refer to them as the One Napkin Wonders)   and soon enough, I found something else to complain about. Every time the door opened, a huge gust of cold air seeped in.

"It's freakin' December!" I carried on. "Why do they have to have that outside door open?"

"Oh God," Dave moaned. "Here we go. We'll, there's no room at the bar. What do you want to do?"

I checked my phone for the time. "It's a quarter after seven. The game hasn't started yet. I say we just bail. There's a sports bar down the block here that I've been wanting to try anyway. Let's just get the check and go there."

We did just that, and three minutes later we were at Bull McCabe's. You know what I said before about how all the good Manhattan bars must have been kidnapped and taken to Brooklyn? Well, Bull McCabe's looked like it was picked up from Bay Ridge by a crane and dropped right in the middle of the East Village, right down to the cheesy Christmas lights strung onto the cheap wood paneling and unpretentious fifty-ish Irish male bartender, who immediately informed us upon inquiry that "the Knicks game will be all over the bar" as soon as it started.

Bull McCabe's boasted no kitchen, an electronic dart board, and good-natured, if intoxicated, patrons who commended our Knicks affinity despite their embarrassing loss to Chicago that night.

"Well," Dave sighed. "It might not be fancy. But it does have Christmas lights. And beer. And it's hot as hell in here."

"True." Bull McCabe's had found us when we least expected it. I surveyed the scene at our new digs, positive we would return sometime soon. I then looked at Dave, who must really love me, proven especially by tonight's escapades, if I didn't already know it.

Because, at the end of the day, there aren't many people who would schlep around the city with you, bypassing all the drafty doors, stingy female bartenders, shitty wings, and deceptive barflies, making sure you don't settle for something that's not just right.

Plus, on the way home, I scored a gently used copy of Hocus Pocus, while Dave scored the Redneck, a bacon-wrapped chili cheese dog.

Needless to say, we both went home happy.

Dixie Cups, Chinese Profanities, and Fresh Produce from Bushwick

Admit it: you've been duped by a Groupon.

Who hasn't fallen victim to that enticing deal that seems to speak directly to you, promising an incredible time at a low, low price? Only when you arrive at the advertised location, it's not even close to what you believe you were promised.

Then you remind yourself that this place is advertising on Groupon for a reason--it's a struggling business. I mean, you'll never see a Peter Luger's Groupon.

Well, dear reader, I officially joined the ranks of Dupon'd last night when I took my friend Lauren to Drink & Draw at The Living Gallery in Bushwick, conveniently located a few blocks away from her house and a great little Venezuelan place called Guacuco, which proved to be even more convenient later on in the evening.

The first misrepresentation on the Groupon was that it listed the gallery's location as Williamsburg. (On what planet do Flushing Avenue and Knickerbocker Street intersect in Williamsburg? But I digress). Here is what the Groupon stated about Drink & Draw, "in a nutshell":

"Sketchers indulge in provided beer, wine & snacks while drawing live models & grooving to DJ music or ever-changing line-up of bands"

The Groupon cost $15 (claiming to be a $40 value), which included admission, art materials, and an "inexhaustible supply" of beer and wine for two. I had been looking for an excuse to get back into art for awhile now, and an unlimited supply of beer and wine seemed like the perfect one. The fact that it was located in Lauren's neighborhood made her my requisite partner in crime, despite her protests of, "But Liz! You know I don't draw!"

I met her in front of the gallery, part of a large space that no was no doubt an abandoned factory six months ago. Other businesses were connected via a long hallway, including a coffee shop, a yarn store, and vegetable stand that promised fresh produce from Bushwick (go figure). It was like a weird little underground Brooklyn world where everyone knew each other and looked at outsiders (ahem, us) with caution, if not disdain.

"Okay," I said to Lauren, scoping out the space with trepidation. "I'm not really sure what to expect, so I'm just warning you....this is probably going to be weird."

"Liz," she acknowledged. "It's you. I was totally expecting weird."

Maybe she was, but there was no way she or I could have predicted just how weird things were about to get. We entered the gallery, which was already populated by three or four hipsters talking animatedly with each other, most likely about veggie burgers, bicycles, and geometrically-shaped glasses. I felt like it was the National Geographic channel and I was infringing on their mating space.

"Hello!" called a spaced-out voice. A pasty-white, lace-and-leather clad woman with hair the color of cotton candy approached us. "Are you joining us for Drink & Draw?"

Before I could back out, she spotted my Groupon and grabbed it. "Cool. We're going to start in about ten minutes. Have a seat anywhere. Materials are on the table, and wine is over there. We're going to have some live music, too." My gaze instinctively followed her gesture toward the wine table. Lauren and I gave each other a knowing look and made a beeline for the wine. We were definitely going to need it.

The wine table was comprised of about six dixie cups, the kind you use to rinse your mouth out after brushing your teeth. Each cup was about a third full of red wine. A handmade sign behind the cups read, "TWO DRINKS PER PERSON."

This was what they considered an "inexhaustible supply" of drinks? Two-thirds of a dixie cup of boxed Merlot? And there wasn't even any beer to speak of. The first verb in the title of the event was
"drink," wasn't it?

Never ones to look a gift horse in the mouth, we took our pittance of wine back to our seats and sipped it. Verrrry slowly.

A few minutes later, Lace and Leather stood up. "Welcome everyone, to the Living Gallery. We're going to start off today with some music from our first model. You can draw him while he plays." A pale, skinny, bearded guy with a greasy ponytail who looked liked the farthest thing from a model sat down in the middle of the floor. In his right hand he held a guitar. In his left hand he held a bone.

Yes, a bone. As in, what you find in a chicken wing. Only much, much bigger.

Greasy Ponytail began "playing" the guitar by rubbing the bone against the guitar strings, emitting a twanging that sounded like a cross between a sitar and a cat being mangled by a Magic Bullet. Everyone else picked up their materials and began to work meticulously. The room fell silent except for the "music."

I couldn't even look at Lauren, because if I did there was no way I'd be able to suppress my laughter. I briefly wondered how militant Lace and Leather would be about the two-drink maximum, since my ration was already long gone. I picked up a pad and a piece of charcoal and began a rudimentary sketch of Greasy Ponytail. Hey, when in Rome.

I hated my first sketch, and not at all because Lauren pointed out that it looked like this old man who used to yell Chinese profanities at us when we worked at the library together, where we first met. (That actually made me laugh. Hard.)  I pretty much hadn't drawn anything since high school, and was totally out of the swing of things.

I tried another one, and this time I focused on the guitar. I figured if Lace and Leather looked over my shoulder and wanted to know why I wasn't sketching the model, I could just say the shape of the guitar reminded me of a voluptuous Boticelli figure.

My guitar looked considerably better than my sketch of Greasy Ponytail; I was always better at sketching things rather than people. Then I moved on to Greasy Ponytail's hands, and then his arms. Rather than sketch freehand, I hearkened back to my high-school art class days, where I was taught to see the basic shapes in objects first, then sketch around them. My guitar was way disproportionate to Ponytail's hands, but it was a start.

Eventually I gave up on Ponytail and sketched the plant on the table next to me. It came out okay. But more important than the finished product was the fact that I was thrilled to have dipped my toe back into the art world, chicken bones and pink hair notwithstanding.

After I finished my plant I stepped out to wash the charcoal off my hands. When I returned another pink-haired chick (not Lace and Leather) was posing topless. Greasy Ponytail's concert was presumably over. This seemed like a good time to leave. I said I wanted to dip my toe back into the art world, not dive in headfirst. We headed around the corner to Guacuco, where we promptly filled up on the libations we were denied at Drink & Draw.

I don't think I'll be returning to The Living Gallery anytime soon, but my $15 Groupon, despite its blatant false advertising, was worth it because it helped me regain my passion for art. A trip to A.C. Moore to pick up a sketch pad seems more likely in the near future.

Art is in my blood. No bones about it.

Jonas Brothers Doppelgangers, Beer Bellies, & the Book Rules

What's the easiest way to avoid losing a fortune in Atlantic City?

Blog, of course.

Upon realizing that we would both, for the first time in history, have off on the same weekday, Dave and I immediately booked a (free) room at the new-and-improved (and fabulous) Golden Nugget Hotel and Casino in beautiful Atlantic City, New Jersey. Yes, that's right; pretty much the only vacation we could afford this year is where half a tank of gas will take us. (Which is not too far, by the way.)

And if you read my Vegas blog, you know that he enjoys playing poker and I do not. I mean, I could totally kick his ass at the blackjack table, but I just don't touch poker. My poker face is about as subtle as a freight train.

So I would rather chill out with an $11 glass of Pinot Grigio listening to Jonas brother doppelgangers belt out the best hits of the eighties, nineties, and today on acoustic guitars and bongo drums. Life is good. For now. Until I meet back up with Dave and find out how much he lost.

Time away from the hubby has given me a chance to do one of my favorite things: people-watch, followed by a healthy dose of judging and mocking.

If you walk around casinos enough, you begin to see the same types of people. By now you know that my blog is reliable for an arbitrary-number list; basically I start listing things until I'm tired of blogging or simply can't think of anything anymore.

Without further ado, I present to you:

The Top (to be numbered later) Casino Stereotypes

1. The Past-Her-Prime Cocktail Waitress

I hope no one's reading this over my shoulder. Because if they are, I don't have a shot in hell of getting a drink for the rest of the night.

I digress. Atlantic City is, for all intents and purposes, the Land Where Fashion Stands Still. The gift shops have featured the same fur coats for as long as I've been coming here, and in that span I've never seen anyone actually buy one. The cocktail waitresses appear to be wearing the same outfits they wore twenty or thirty years ago, despite the fact that their faces (and other body parts, I may add) have visibly aged. If they really want to gear the Golden Nugget towards a younger crowd, they'd better start hiring their staff as such. Just sayin'.

2. The All-or-Nothing Chainsmoker

These people wear buffet-stained stretch pants and model their haircuts after the grandparents on 16 and Pregnant, yet they are sitting at high-stakes slot machines smoking cigarettes like it's the eve of the rapture. They are living, breathing chicken-or-the-egg conundrums: are they poor because they gamble, or gambling because they're poor? Doesn't matter; if they lose all their money, I'm sure they know how to catch and kill dinner on the side of the Garden State Parkway on the way home.

3. The High-Roller Button-Down Shirt Guy

You know this guy, especially if you frequent generically-named Irish gastropubs in midtown Manhattan. He attended a four-year college upstate despite the fact that he returned with a beer belly and little memory of his freshman and sophomore years. Now he works in the Financial District (for the time being, until his department gets eliminated due to economic downturn) and lives in Jersey City. He's down in Atlantic City to party!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! It's his best buddy's 23rd birthday after all, and what better way to celebrate than blowing Mom and Dad's money on roulette and Asian hookers? However, if you're a single girl there with your friends, beware; he may have his eye on you if he's looking to save money on the hooker tonight.

4. The What-the-Hell-Are-They-Doing-Here Family

You nearly whip out your cell phone to call ACS on these people. Not only do they drag their kids to the kid-unfriendly Atlantic City, but they keep them out at all hours of the night. I know they give out free rooms and everything, but what is there for children to do in AC in April? You can't go to the beach or boardwalk. The pool's not even open. How about you save up all the money you waste gambling and take the kids to Great Adventure?

5. The Barely-Clad Jailbait Who Don't Know Shit About Gambling

The last time we came to the Golden Nugget, I was sitting at the dollar blackjack table when a bachelorette party joined the table. Mind you, I use the term "bachelorette party" very loosely because, by the looks of them they needed parental consent to get out of gym class, let alone get married. And you know the aforementioned Asian hookers? My guess is these girls took fashion tips from them.

So they sat down and started playing, and you know what? They were actually quite charming. I passed my admittedly novice knowledge of blackjack on to them (the book rules, basically) and wished the girl in the tiara the best of luck on her marriage. I wondered if her tiara was the same one she had worn for her eighth birthday a few years ago. I commended them for sitting at the dollar blackjack table, which is actually a great place to learn the game.

So here's my update: the Jonas bros are playing George Michael covers (to which I am unabashedly singing along), Dave has informed me that he's breaking even so far (whew), and I'm on my second large glass of Pinot.

$22 plus a $5 tip for the lovely George (at least I think that's what his nametag says). Still less than I would have lost out on the floor.

You know at heart I'm a cheapskate/New York girl.

The list tops off at five.

Suspended Reality, Transponsters, and Manolo Blahniks

Everything I need to know about living in New York City I learned from Friends.

If that were true, I'd be working as a waitress and living in a spacious two-bedroom apartment in the West Village.

Oh, and I'd have a monkey.

When the groundbreaking series--which is still one of my favorite shows, by the way--premiered, I was a mere 12, way too young to truly comprehend the suckiness of making financial ends meet in this great city. Since I didn't know any better, I figured that's what life must really be like as a twenty-something in New York, and I couldn't wait to be one.

Except in reality, only rich people live in the West Village unless you're cramming into a studio apartment with five roommates. And the only cute fuzzy creature frolicking around my apartment is the uninvited Mickey.

So I'm here to cut the harnesses on suspended reality so that other kiddies don't make the same mistake I did.

With that, in no particular order, I give you:

The Most Unrealistic New York Sitcoms Ever

1. Friends

It boggles the mind how six single young adults whose collective resume includes waitress, unemployed actor, freelance massage therapist, and off-the-books caterer can afford ginormous Manhattan apartments with money left over for coffee. Hell, a cup of coffee in Manhattan is pretty damn close to a month's rent itself.

Besides the obvious apartment situation, another thing that always bugged me about this show was how the characters found new, more fulfilling jobs almost instantly after deciding they weren't being challenged enough in their current fields.

Rachel complains to Monica that she can't stand being a waitress anymore, and bam! Mark from Bloomingdale's overhears her and helps her get an interview. The fact that she likes to go shopping apparently is qualification enough for her to land her dream job in fashion merchandising. Chandler wakes up one day and decides he hates his job as a "transponster" or whatever the hell he does, and quits. Supportive wife Monica applauds him for it.

That always happens in real life, right?

Try it. Go out to dinner with a friend and bitch about your crappy job. (You know you're going to anyway). Watch how quickly a stranger pops up out of nowhere and offers you a new one. Or, go home and tell your spouse you quit your job for no apparent reason.

Let me know what happens, if you don't get killed first.

2. What I Like About You

Okay, I know I'm not the only one who watches the reruns of this show on ABC Family. And since you do too, you're probably also estimating that Holly and Val's monstrous duplex complete with balcony should cost about $9,000 a month in rent.

There are also subtleties that only a New Yorker would notice and be bothered by. Like the episode where Holly is supposed to attend an interview at Columbia (which she would have no shot of getting into in real life anyhow, since she's always cutting class) but she would rather hang out in Coney Island with Vince. Tina tells her she'd better leave because her interview starts in 45 minutes.

Did the writers of that show have any idea how long it would take to ride the train from Coney Island to Columbia University? With a stop in the East Village to change into interview clothes?

A lot more than 45 minutes, that's for sure.

In another episode the gang is seen eating takeout from Chili's. Ahem. There is no Chili's in Manhattan.

And how the hell did Holly get into Stuyvesant?

3.  2 Broke Girls

Granted, I have only seen one episode, but it was enough to annoy me. I had high expectations, since I love Kat Dennings. But the implausible and yet cliched premise turned me off immediately. For the blissfully uninitiated, I'll fill you in: Former rich girl Caroline is forced   to--gasp!--get a job when her family loses their fortune. She waltzes into the Williamsburg diner where poor girl Max works and immediately lands a job.

Wake-Up Call #1: In today's crappy economy, you need upwards of three years experience in food service and several references just to land a waitress job, especially in hipster W'Burg. Sometimes they even ask for a head shot.

After predictably overcoming their superficial differences, the two girls realize they both share the same dream of opening a cupcake business and decide to start saving money towards it.

Wake-Up Call #2: Rich girls don't have dreams about opening their own businesses because they never had to worry about making money.

The newly minted BFFs come to the realization that if they each make $1,000 a week, they can save up to $8,000 a month and have enough to meet their goal of $250,000 in two years.

Wake-Up Call #3: A waitress making a grand a week? Putting your entire check in savings? Forget New York; this isn't realistic anywhere.

Doesn't the title include the word "broke"? If fifty grand a year is considered broke, then I guess I'm shattered beyond repair.

I'm not saying these shows aren't entertaining. Hey, the reason why we watch TV is to escape reality. And I have to say, they're more realistic than the so-called "reality" genre.

As for me, I'll take Sex and the City, where Carrie meets a new handsome, witty man around every corner she turns in her thousand-dollar Manolo Blahniks.

Now that's realism.

Lex Luthor, Subtle Sandwich Mind Games, and Tough-to-Grasp Black Olives

Superman has Lex Luthor. Ketchup has mustard. (Sure they're rivals. They compete for the affections of the lovely Hot Dog.)

And Dave and I have Surly Asian Subway Sandwich Guy.

Our weekly trips to Subway are tainted by the anxiety of wondering what SASSG is going to do when we get there. He knows our usual time is Wednesday around 8:30, after I return home from class and don't feel like cooking dinner (not that I ever do).

It all started almost two years ago, when we first moved into our apartment. Hey, close proximity to a Subway location is one of the reasons why we chose this place. Fast food that isn't terrible for you? Sign me up.

On our first visit, SASSG greeted us with a smile. "Welcome to Subway. How may I help you?"

"Two foot longs, please. An Italian BMT on white and an oven-roasted chicken breast on wheat."

"Comin' right up." SASSG proceeded to serve up the two sandwiches, made to order, complete with extra jalapenos on the chicken, my usual request.

Now, you all know that being an El-cheapo is in my nature. (I prefer to call it thrifty.) So you wouldn't think I'd walk into a national food chain without my coupons in tow, would you? I whipped out my coupon and frequent buyer card as if from a holster and presented them SASSG at the register.

The coupon was good for half off a regular-priced sub. Note, dear reader, that despite the ubiquitous "Five-Dollar Foot Long" commercials that bombard us on a daily basis, a "regular-priced sub" is not a five-dollar foot long. It refers to any subs that are not sold for an Abe Lincoln. Both our subs happened to be fivers that month.

 Had I known this information, I could have avoided conflict with my soon-to-be nemesis.

He took my coupon, scanned it, and charged us around eight bucks for the two subs. I handed over the money and grabbed the sandwiches. Just as I spun around on my heel to head for the door I heard, "You can pay the rest next time."

I spun back around. "What?"

"You can owe me the rest next time you come in."

"What are you talking about?"
"That coupon isn't good on five-dollar foot longs. But I'll let it slide this time. Next time you can pay the rest."

Now I don't consider myself a confrontational human being. I will speak up, if necessary, but this time I couldn't speak up even if I wanted to. I was too stunned to say anything. If the coupon was no good, why didn't he just tell me? What's this business about owing him "next time"?

As we walked out the door, speechless, I slowly realized that my mistake was not failing to speak up, but rather trying to comprehend the motives of my nemesis in the first place. And it would become all too clear in our subsequent visits that SASSG was engaging us in Subtle Subway Sandwich Mind Games.

And he was winning.

On our next visit I ordered a buffalo chicken. After all, variety is the spice of life, right?

Not according to SASSG. "That's not a five-dollar foot long."

I blinked. "Okay."

"You still want it?"

"Umm...yes."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeees."

SASSG shrugged. "Okay, then." He looked at me as if, along with my onions and banana peppers, I had just ordered poison on my sandwich.

Dave looked at me and mouthed, "What's with this guy?" Again I was too stunned to answer. I was just hoping he wouldn't mention the money we "owed" him when we got to the register. Fortunately, he didn't.

Given the fact that we had no plans to abandon our weekly jaunt--no one stands between me and my jalapeno buffalo chicken--I decided that the next time SASSG messed with us, I was going to let him have it. What could he do? The sandwiches are made right in front of our faces, and there's no chance for him to flavor them with bodily fluids, a la Waiting.

On our next visit, I stepped up and ordered my usual. "Buffalo chicken on whole wheat, please." SASSG grabbed a loaf of wheat bread, threw it into the toaster and flipped the switch. "I don't want it toasted."

"Ugggh." He pulled the bread out. "Well, this is no good now."

"I don't care. I don't want it toasted. You didn't ask me. Why would you just assume? That was your mistake."

He made a nasty face and threw out the semi-toasted loaf. He heaved a big sigh and grabbed another. He gritted his teeth and asked me, "What would you like on it?"

I proceeded to load up my sandwich with my usual fixings, including the tough-to-grasp black olives. You should know that I hate olives, and I picked every single one of them off at home.

To this day, SASSG continues to be a malevolent presence in our life. Or at least he tries. He's good for a sideways glance or a snide comment here and there, but I think he knows he's met his match. I actually sort of look forward to our encounters with him because I choose to find him entertaining rather than intimidating.

The entertainment factor is largely due to the fact that Dave invented a nickname for him involving the words "foot long" and a euphemism for the male genitalia.

I'll leave the rest to your imagination.

Hopefully by now you're humming the "Five-Dollar Foot Long" song.

White Picket Fences, $5 Tik-Toks, and 3 AM Fung-Shui

I know people always say the grass is greener on the other side, but it is my firm belief that the grass is definitely greener on the other side of the white picket fence. By that I mean that, after two years, I'm sick of living in an apartment building. I WANT A HOUSE ALREADY!

Unfortunately, our financial circumstances do not allow us to buy a house at this time. Hence, we are stuck in an apartment for the time being. And I know that in these tough economic times, we should feel lucky to have jobs and a roof over our heads.

But that doesn't mean that I can't still bitch and moan. At this moment, I am sitting at the bar in Pizzeria Uno's with my laptop on borrowed Wifi and a glass of $4.99 Tik-Tok chardonnay. That alone should make you feel sorry for me. You will find out why I am here in just a few moments, depending on how fast a reader you are.

Without further ado, I present to you:

       The Top Five Reasons Why Living in an Apartment Building Royally Blows

1. The Shower

You know the Katy Perry song "Hot 'N Cold"? Well, I truly believe it was written not about a fickle lover but about an apartment building shower head. Katy must have had some doozies in her day before she hit it big. She knows what I'm talking about.

You turn on the water. You wait about thirteen hours for it to heat up to a bearable temperature. You step in, thinking, "Finally, a warm, relaxing shower after a long day at work." You enjoy it for exactly two seconds when suddenly......YOWZERS!!!!! It feels like you just stepped through the seventh gate of hell. Even the Bible says that the devil takes the form of a snake, and what's more snake-like than a shower head?

At one point it got so bad that I heard Dave wrestling with the devil himself behind the shower curtain, pleading, "Why can't you just be normal?!"

2. The Predetermined Cable Provider

Okay, you've read this far, so now you deserve to know the truth. After the NBA strike that truncated the season, Dave and I, and possibly Carmelo Anthony's mother, are the only people left in the country that have any interest in watching the Knicks. After the strike ended and the NBA decided to stop screwing the fans, MSG and Time Warner Cable seemed to pick up where the NBA left off. More billion-dollar corporations that don't give a rat's behind about the common fan. But I digress.

Guess who does have MSG? That's right, you sly dog. Pizzeria Uno's. And it's right across the street. And they have cheap, decent wine. And $5 20-ounce Killian's. And free Wifi. Okay, that's too many sentences that begin with "and." My students would be disappointed. But my point is, before all you hipsters out there  scorn corporate conglomerate food chains, know the facts.

But all those five-buck drinks do add up. Viewing Knicks games is still costing us money. And it's easy to blame MSG, but my landlord is more accessible. So I'll blame her.

3. Inattentive "Handy"-Men

Stressful showers and missed Knicks losses (yeah, there have been a lot of them) are small potatoes compared to the time Dave and I woke up in a waterbed. The people above us must have lost a battle with their shower head and we got the brunt of it. The last thing you want to be woken up by is your spouse asking you, "Honey, why is the bed wet?" There's really no good answer to that question.

So we told Sammy the super--by the way, I don't know what genius came up with that title--whose initial solution was to tell us, "Maybe it'll just go away on its own."  Spoiler alert--it didn't. Time heals all wounds, but not all leaks. After three weeks of chasing Sammy, he came up with a slightly better solution. Use the packaging tape we had lying around the house from our moving days to patch it up. For the time being, it's holding, but if they give us shit about our security deposit when we do finally move, I'm not having it.

4. The Rent Never Comes Out

Our landlord, no joke, owns like three-quarters of Bay Ridge. In short form, she's a rich bitch. So I don't understand why the Donald Trump of Brooklyn can't hire some decent CPAs that make sure our rent check gets cashed within a reasonable amount of time. Our rent is due on the first of the month. It is rare if it comes out of our account before the fifteenth. We have considered telling her we have to suddenly move out of the country in order to get out of our lease, but we're too afraid that the next apartment we rent will belong to her too.

5. The Noise Upstairs

Our illustrious upstairs neighbors have been the source of our chagrin in more ways than one. There's the aforementioned leak, which I really can't blame them for since humans are basically powerless against forces of evil. But their other offenses are certainly preventable. They seem to enjoy walking heavily in high-heeled boots and moving furniture often, especially at odd hours of the night. I have yet to meet these people, but apparently they are the kind of folk who enjoy fung-shui at 3:00 in the morning. My only conclusion? They must be of the dreaded hipster variety. They're the only kind of people who would be awake in the wee hours for lack of anything better to do in the morning.

I'm waiting for all you homeowners out there to tell me, "Wait unitl you have a mortgage to pay." Or, "An inattentive handyman is better than no handyman at all." Because I totally disagree. A mortgage is better than rent, hands down, because your money is actually going towards something rather than down the toilet. And I'll take the work of my husband's hands over "super" Sammy any day.

Maybe I should have tipped him at Christmas. Sigh. There's always next year.

Free (and HUGE) Glasses of Wine, Kidneys, and Archaic Neanderthal Grunts

The other night I had dinner at my parents' house. I have sung the praises of dinner at the folks' house before, something you don't truly appreciate until you move out come to the realization that they were right all along, you do have to pay for food, and money doesn't grow on trees (the horror).

So I'm minding my own business, eating my (free) dinner and on my second (free and HUGE) glass of wine when, according to my father, a tragedy occured.

I mmm-hmmmed him.

Let me explain.

He asked me to pass the bread. I did. He said, "Thank you." I said, "Mmm-hmm."

"She gave me the mmm-hmm," he said to my mother with disgust. She responded with a knowing chuckle.

"What are you talking about?" I asked.

"And she doesn't even know she did it!" he sighed. "It happens all the time nowadays. Someone holds the door for you, you say thank you, they say mmm-hmmm. What ever happened to 'You're welcome'? Is it so much trouble?"

"Oh. Sorry," I mumbled. Apparently this topic was something my dad, a recent retiree, had had the opportunity to mull over quite a bit. A few minutes later I passed a napkin to my mother and made sure to overemphasize my "YOU'RE WELCOME" after her "thank you", lest I be subjected to another one of my dad's rants that includes the word "nowadays."

Of course my dad was kidding; my manners as a grown woman are far from their concern now. But as I got to thinking about his point, I realized that there was some truth to it.

We accept tons of inadequate substitutions for the words you're welcome: don't mention it, no problem, sure, and of course, the dreaded mmm-hmm, technically not even a word but more of an archaic grunt suitable for Neanderthals.

How did all this start? Well, maybe it's like when Jerry Seinfeld said the magnitude of the favor you need is proportionate to the pause you take after asking the question, "Can you do me a favor?" Small pause, small favor. "Can you hand me that pencil?" Big pause..... big favor. "Can you watch my kids for the weekend?"

So maybe the mmm-hmms are okay as long as they're only in response to small favors like door-holding and pencil-passing. But what happens when they make their way over to the big ones, the life-changing events?

KEN: "Sam, buddy, you're a lifesaver. Thanks for donating your left kidney to me. I wouldn't be alive today if it wasn't for you." Breaks down in (very manly) tears.

SAM: Mmm-hmm. Continues reading newspaper.

And what about the in-between things, like when a waiter brings you your food? Of course you're going to say "thank you." And I've definitely gotten the "mmm-hmm" from them before. And now that I think about it, it does kind of irk me. Want to address me like a caveman? Maybe I'll tip like one.

So thanks to Dad, I'm trying to eradicate mmm-hmm from my vocabulary. Sometimes I'll catch myself doing it and quickly correct myself.

Even for door-holding and pencil-passing.

But for beer passing? That very big favor deserves a hearty "thank you." And an even heartier "you're welcome."