my good night's sleep's keeping me up nights

Mere weeks ago, my life changed for the better. Napoleon & Pedro moved out. That's right, the man & I somehow managed to outlive the uber-loud hipsters. I even helped hold doors open for them, 'cause that's just who I am.

The following week, NYC's Access-A-Ride drivers went on strike. What could that possibly mean for me? Well, as some of you know, across the street from our apartment is an adult day-care center, which I lovingly refer to as "the tard farm." (Letters of hate may be sent directly to me. I don't care. I'm not censoring myself & you know I'm not a hatah. It just sounds funny.) Every weekday morning, beginning as early as 6-ish, buses line up to drop people off for the day. Now, apparently, none of the bus companies, including the Access-A-Ride people, have ever heard of walkie-talkies or cell phones. So every morning when the buses pull up across the street, they announce their arrival by laying on their horns, repeating as many times as necessary. They just don't stop. Ever.

All of a sudden, I found myself without nighttime/early morning disturbances -- well, except for the cat, but he's another story entirely. He still gets up between 5:30 & 7:30 to eat, drink & go potty, but now, I'm able to go back to sleep after filling his bowl & turning on his water & nightlight.

The honking has stopped, or at least it's not happening at the crack of shut-the-hell-up anymore. And with Napoleon & the President gone, there's no more door creaking & slamming next to our bedroom in the middle of the night. No more obscene-hours-new-album-cranking.

It's like heaven.

But the silence has shattered. The landlord & his mistress have begun fixing the place up for the next potential tenant, which wouldn't be nearly so loud without their toddler in tow. God only knows what they're doing across the hall for the 4+ hours they're here everyday, but it's driving me nuts. The love-child runs up & down the railroad, just like our cat does, only he weighs at least 20 pounds more than the kitty & runs on his heels. Oh & he's not our cat, who's adorable some of the time he does these laps. When he's not pounding his way up & down the apartment, he's wailing. Have I mentioned our walls are paper-thin?



Then a couple of days ago, a chill made its way up my spine when I mentioned to the man, "Man, I hope he's not getting it ready for them to move in. I don't think I can take living next door to a toddler. Since I brought that terror up, I haven't been able to sleep. I lie down and bolt back upright, sweating & shaking with the fear of the possible menace that is my landlord's love-toddler, throwing temper tantrums in such close proximity. I mean, I can't even take a few hours of that. What would I do if that's what I came home to everyday? If every night were filled with terrible twos? There are reasons we don't have children, people, and this is one of them. We're selfish for wanting a relaxing, quiet space.

So, now I beg of you. We need good, respectful, infant- & toddler-free tenants to move in next door. He's using a broker for the situation & asking a butt-load for Greenpoint, but I'm begging. If you or someone you love is looking for a fabulous new apartment, won't you please? Won't you please? Please, won't you be my neighbor?

in the flesh(wound)

It was cold in the Slipper Room when the Dewey Decimal Mistress, Rosie & I walked in from the freezing rahttp://www.blogger.com/img/gl.link.gifin outside. Renowned burlesque dancer Jo "Boobs" met us at the door and gave us the run-down of all the rules. "Use just the one bathroom with the candles in it. Feel free to have some cookies and water, just keep track of your cup, 'cause I don't have enough for seconds. If anyone comes in, tell 'em we're closed for a private event."

Not exactly what I was expecting, walking into my first burlesque class. I don't know what I should've expected, but it was certainly more romantic and sexy than that. As the other ladies in the class trickled in through the front door, my cohorts and I shed our many layers and changed into dancing shoes to prepare for the shakefest that lay ahead.

Soon after Jo Boobs' intern showed up (I know, we were thinking the same thing, "just how does one become a burlesque intern?"), we moved to the stage area to begin the class. Jo took her position onstage, with us standing in the mosh area, anxiously awaiting instruction and the unexpected. She had us all choose from her collection of boas, long gloves and fringe to pin around our waists, then began walking us through a routine. First we learned the boa-drop, then the glove peel, the bump-n-grind and the shimmy, along with classic stances and the value of a quality bounce.

Before we could go on in the routine, it was bra time. Jo had several in one of her bags o' tricks, in case anyone wasn't in one of her own fancy numbers. Since I'd just gotten a sparkly new one the day before, I didn't have to dip into the communal bag. And in case stripping to bras in a roomful of strange women wasn't enough of a step for some of us, it was time to pick our pasties. Tassel-up. Jo and her intern had made these babies just for our class.

I can assure you that the procedure for applying pasties is not a sexy one -- even when applied by a burlesque intern. It was terrifying, actually. "Am I doing this wrong?" "What if it unsticks at the worst possible moment?" "Shouldn't my nipple be much less inverted at this particular moment and temperature?" But once everything was applied, the music resumed, along with the instruction. The final two moves in the routine? The bra-drop and tassel-twirling. Every possible direction and combination of directions.

After two hours, yours truly became a first-level tassel master -- like a D&D geek, but with my own real girl's boobs. I tell ya, it could be months, maybe years, maybe never, before I actually perform burlesque in public, but the boost of adrenaline I got from that class is enough to make me go back for another fix. I don't know why I hadn't done it sooner.

good morning, crazy

I know, I know, it's been a while, but it's not like I haven't been thinking about you. I've got so much to tell you, actually -- not that I had a Bahamavention & will regale you with tales of the tropics like the Dewey Decimal Mistress, but I've seen some action. And I've had some major triumphs (we'll need a few posts to catch up on all of it, my pretties). And I promise I'll catch up on all your blogs this week too.

But first, let's cover the crazy guy on the L train this morning.

I had to make a run to the city at the crack of 10:30 to hand off the RightRides dispatch bag to the next dispatcher, who's at NYU. So I get on the 8th Avenue-bound L at Lorimer/Metropolitan & take one of the plethora of seats, near the middle pole in the bench. Along with the usual suspects who get on at Bedford, hipster couple & hipster guy, boards a young, scruffy-looking guy with an enormous, jam-packed hiker's backpack. He sits directly in front of me, while hipster couple & guy flank him on either side.

As he begins to dig in his backpack, I notice his pants are stained, from hip to toe. Looks like mud. Maybe paint. Or worse, old blood. From out of the bag he pulls a hefty all-in-one-tool, that sports pliers, a screwdriver, scissors & several sizes of knife blades. Then he dips back in to the backpack & pulls out a brand new box cutter, still in it's packaging.

The couple is at least acting somewhat oblivious to his tool brandishing, doing a crossword or that infernal sudoku, but the eyes of the guy to his left keep getting wider & darting from tool to tool to me & anyone on my side of the train who also may be seeing this odd display. And oh, boy, did I see it & register my concern using eye contact with hipster guy.

Scruffy guy decides that just pulling the new box cutter out of his bag isn't enough. He opens up a small knife blade on the multipurpose tool and cuts open the packaging, returning the blade to its locked position. Then he lifts the screwdriver piece & proceeds to unscrew the box cutter & load the first blade into place, carefully, running his fingers along it, to either test its sharpness or its straightness.

Our eyes grow wider & dart even faster. Hipster guy looks at the box cutter, loaded & ready, then to me, then back to Scruffy & back to me, while me eyes pace the triangle of Scruffy's face, the box cutter & hipster guy. There was no emotion on Scruffy's face, which in my head, as worst case scenario, said, "He's ready to give in & obey the voices."

Naturally, I began to play out the scene in my head & start an internal dialog of my step-by-step reactions. "What if he does what I think he's gonna do & lunges toward hipster guy, to plunge the box cutter into his neck or gut? What do I do?" "Well, I have my boots on, so, of course, I'll kick him in the head." "Right leg or left?" "Umm, right. Planting my left leg firmly & maybe grabbing the pole next to me for added stability. Oh & if I have to defend myself, I'll use the clipboard in the dispatch bag as a shield." "Yeah & what if he lunges at the couple first?" "Fuck 'em, they're useless.... Nah, I'd do the same thing, but maybe try to use the clipboard to shield the girl." "Still right leg?" "Yeah, it's stronger & more used to the kicking motion. Plus I balance really well on my left leg." "And what if he gets up & lunges toward you?" "Never gonna happen." "It could." Alright, well, in the unlikely event he lunges for me, I'll use the clipboard to block while I try to move & position myself to either kick the box cutter out of his hand or kick him in the head."

But then, between 1st & 3rd Avenues, he put the box cutter away.

And then he pulled out a large pair of hedge-clippers, and began running his fingers over the two blades, again, as if testing the sharpness. My eyes quickly flick to hipster guy's, which are now saucers, blinking back & forth, between my eyes & the clippers.

Internally again, "Well, now what the hell's he gonna do?" "I don't know! Don't talk to me right now, I'm trying to think. How are we gonna get out of this?"

But as soon as I figured out that the clipboard could still be a decent shield & it'd be easier to kick the clippers out of his grip than go for his face, he'd opened his backpack o' creepy tools and put them back.

As soon as we pulled into Union Square, hipster guy was out the doors. He didn't bother to hang around to see if Scruffy was getting off with him or staying on to begin his bloodbath. He didn't even bother to look my way again for one last, knowing, "Good luck." He just tucked tail & ran. Maybe a little wetter.

Of course, I don't blame him. But I sat calmly & watched as Scruffy gathered his backpack up & sauntered off the train, probably to go terrorize some other innocent onlookers. And I finally unclenched my ass cheeks on the F train, somewhere between 6th Avenue & West 4th.