So, life-changing decisions have been made. I have decided, after much self-analysis, as well as much analysis of my bank account, to move back to California. The last few weeks have taught me that New York, as lovely and amazing as it is, might be the place for me anymore. When I was here for school, I had things to do every day, I had money to spend, and I was busy enough to keep my mind occupied. However, being here for school and being here desperately trying to find a job and a place to live gives one a very different lens from which to view this place. What I need, in Maurice's words, is a place to "regroup". And what better place to regroup than home, with my family?
I am actually beginning to get terribly excited about the whole affair. Being able to be back home, with my close friends and family, as well as the possibility of finding a job in the Bay Area, is amazing. It has always been my determination to move to Berkeley at some point, perhaps this is my chance-- just much earlier than I expected. But, life is full of unexpected surprises and opportunities.
Beyond even the possibility of work in San Francisco, I am happy to be able to be home for awhile to help out my mom. I know she has been missing her children immensely, and I think that having me nearby will help her depression a lot. She told me on the phone yesterday that she feels I am someone who truly understand both her and her situation, and that she is very excited to have me home. I was touched, but I have to be careful to walk the fine line of supporting her while not taking on too much of the burden. I can't live her life for her, and neither can I completely subsume my life into hers.
However, the excitement grows. I feel no regret in leaving New York, only a mild sort of nostalgia. Any real regret that I could feel is overshadowed by an excitement about returning to the state that I love, that state that shaped me and made me who I am. Where else can I fit in better than where I was born and raised? Where else but the sunny valleys and beaches can I be who I was meant to be? So, instead of a fabulous New Yorker, I will be a crazy, tattooed, funny, tan, sweet, laid back Californian. Onto a new adventure!
Saturday, August 22, 2009
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Sometimes the Big Apple has a worm in it
I think I just visited what is officially the worst apartment in the entire city of New York.
Okay, maybe I should back up a bit. It has been while since my last post, which was of course full of my ridiculous female squealings as per my new nephew. Ten days and several thousand miles later, I am back in the Big City. I arrived back in the land of public urination and inflated rents last Monday, and made my way to my good friend Chelsea's house, which she had graciously offered to let me stay in for as long as I needed to. She lives in a lovely and upcoming part of Brooklyn called Fort Greene, a place that is sort of like Manhattan's Upper East Side in suburb form. Spacious one-family brownstones and tree lined streets, where young parents push strollers that cost more than my last rent payment.
I admit without shame my envy of Chelsea. I am openly jealous of her fantastic apartment, her great job, her ability to travel every weekend, her boyfr-- okay, well maybe not her boyfriend. A pleasant enough man, even if he couldn't find a personality with a flashlight and a GPS. But he adores her, and that is worth some serious envy. I would desperately love to live in this neighborhood, but the possibility shrinks with every day that passes. As I mentioned, this is a pretty expensive neighborhood. And, as I am currently jobless, with $120 thousand in debt and $97 to my name, being able to afford rents out here seems high unlikely.
Speaking of jobs, in the last ten days I have applied for over 15 jobs. Last Wednesday, I applied for and was accepted to a position at Planned Parenthood. At first I was terribly excited to be working for a non-profit, especially one whose work I so admire. However, withing 4 hours of my first day I had quit. This was not the kind of work I had imagined-- political work, work that would help women to take control over their own bodies. Instead, it was door to door soliciting. Oh, no, excuse me, canvassing. That is what they like to call it, perhaps to make themselves feel better for bothering people during dinner. I realized after an hour that I wanted to punch my supervisor in the face after she had refused to take no as an answer, and had in fact caused a woman to be late for an appointment rather than let her go without a donation. I do believe in the message and services of PP, however, I refuse to have my job performance based on how proficient I am at annoying people enough that they give me money to shut me up. I left after telling them exactly how I felt about it, and left feeling both righteous and depressed. So now jobs are back to square one.
The apartment hunt seems to be going just as badly. I am attempting to find a room (even a room in a place shared by several people) for less than an arm, leg, and my firstborn child. Chelsea has been helpful in assisting me, sending me ads for places that she has found and letting her friends now that I am looking. Due to this I have an interview tomorrow at an apartment that, while it sounds fantastic, is somewhat above my intended payment range, especially due to the lack of employment. So, in an attempt to keep my costs low, I have also lowered my expectations. However, not low enough to forgive the apartment that I was introduced to today. I would like you, reader, to close your eyes and imagine what I am about to show you. Let it be a warning to all of you who would consider moving to New York City with less than a million dollars in your stock portfolio.
Imagine if you will a street in Brooklyn. The street itself is potholed and has weeds growing up in the cracks. On each side of the street stand several abandoned lots, factories, and what appears to be the temporary camp of several homeless persons. Look down at the slip of paper in your hand with the address, stare at the street, and realize with growing horror that the abandoned looking warehouse is, in fact, the address that you seek. Recoil in horror. Recoil again, this time with a muffled scream, as a rat the size of a small Labrador runs across the street. Realize with growing terror that not only is this a rodent infested crack den, it is a rodent infested crack den that costs $650 a month. Rethink your life decisions, and fight back tears. Now, gather the rest of your dignity, and haul ass. Drown memory of apartment with beer. Repeat.
Good lord. I should have listened to my guidance counselor and gone to business school.
Okay, maybe I should back up a bit. It has been while since my last post, which was of course full of my ridiculous female squealings as per my new nephew. Ten days and several thousand miles later, I am back in the Big City. I arrived back in the land of public urination and inflated rents last Monday, and made my way to my good friend Chelsea's house, which she had graciously offered to let me stay in for as long as I needed to. She lives in a lovely and upcoming part of Brooklyn called Fort Greene, a place that is sort of like Manhattan's Upper East Side in suburb form. Spacious one-family brownstones and tree lined streets, where young parents push strollers that cost more than my last rent payment.
I admit without shame my envy of Chelsea. I am openly jealous of her fantastic apartment, her great job, her ability to travel every weekend, her boyfr-- okay, well maybe not her boyfriend. A pleasant enough man, even if he couldn't find a personality with a flashlight and a GPS. But he adores her, and that is worth some serious envy. I would desperately love to live in this neighborhood, but the possibility shrinks with every day that passes. As I mentioned, this is a pretty expensive neighborhood. And, as I am currently jobless, with $120 thousand in debt and $97 to my name, being able to afford rents out here seems high unlikely.
Speaking of jobs, in the last ten days I have applied for over 15 jobs. Last Wednesday, I applied for and was accepted to a position at Planned Parenthood. At first I was terribly excited to be working for a non-profit, especially one whose work I so admire. However, withing 4 hours of my first day I had quit. This was not the kind of work I had imagined-- political work, work that would help women to take control over their own bodies. Instead, it was door to door soliciting. Oh, no, excuse me, canvassing. That is what they like to call it, perhaps to make themselves feel better for bothering people during dinner. I realized after an hour that I wanted to punch my supervisor in the face after she had refused to take no as an answer, and had in fact caused a woman to be late for an appointment rather than let her go without a donation. I do believe in the message and services of PP, however, I refuse to have my job performance based on how proficient I am at annoying people enough that they give me money to shut me up. I left after telling them exactly how I felt about it, and left feeling both righteous and depressed. So now jobs are back to square one.
The apartment hunt seems to be going just as badly. I am attempting to find a room (even a room in a place shared by several people) for less than an arm, leg, and my firstborn child. Chelsea has been helpful in assisting me, sending me ads for places that she has found and letting her friends now that I am looking. Due to this I have an interview tomorrow at an apartment that, while it sounds fantastic, is somewhat above my intended payment range, especially due to the lack of employment. So, in an attempt to keep my costs low, I have also lowered my expectations. However, not low enough to forgive the apartment that I was introduced to today. I would like you, reader, to close your eyes and imagine what I am about to show you. Let it be a warning to all of you who would consider moving to New York City with less than a million dollars in your stock portfolio.
Imagine if you will a street in Brooklyn. The street itself is potholed and has weeds growing up in the cracks. On each side of the street stand several abandoned lots, factories, and what appears to be the temporary camp of several homeless persons. Look down at the slip of paper in your hand with the address, stare at the street, and realize with growing horror that the abandoned looking warehouse is, in fact, the address that you seek. Recoil in horror. Recoil again, this time with a muffled scream, as a rat the size of a small Labrador runs across the street. Realize with growing terror that not only is this a rodent infested crack den, it is a rodent infested crack den that costs $650 a month. Rethink your life decisions, and fight back tears. Now, gather the rest of your dignity, and haul ass. Drown memory of apartment with beer. Repeat.
Good lord. I should have listened to my guidance counselor and gone to business school.
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