Afternoon Snack

Is this what they mean in AA when they talk about replacement addiction? Sobriety's not going to be much of a concern when I'm in a diabetic coma.

What I Have to Look Forward to Now That I'm Sober - Volume 1

1) Actually remembering to floss on Friday and Saturday nights. Actually remembering to brush my teeth on Friday and Saturday nights. Baby steps, people.

2) Never using Facebook’s ‘poke’ function again.

3) Watching Saturday Night Live, live. (Still not sure if this is actually a good thing.)

4) Never revisiting this scenario:

I am walking to the subway Monday morning when I notice a strange lump in the left pant leg of my skinny jeans. I reach down and touch it. It is soft. I immediately remember that I wore said jeans Saturday night – the same night I emptied out the $200 I had in my emergency savings account at a karaoke bar in the Lower East Side. In a matter of seconds, it all becomes very clear: I neglected to remove my jeans and my panties individually Saturday night and instead pulled them off in unison, allowing my ultra-sexy red silk thong grey cotton briefs to be lost in the denim abyss.

The skinny jean, tapered by design, effectively trapped the panties in the left leg. My overtired and undercaffeinated self put on the jeans, failing to notice the balled-up undergarment protruding from my left pant leg until the 6 train I take to work has pulled into the station. I must then choose one of two unfortunate scenarios: 1) Go home and remove the panties and arrive late for work, or 2) Continue on to work, and (even if no one takes notice and inquires about the bulge in my pant leg), I still must remove Saturday’s panties and carry them around in my purse for the rest of the day.

Has this ever happened to you? Are you thinking of unsubscribing from this blog?

It's Barely Noon

..and we've already made it to second base. It appears we've got ourselves a situation!

Deep Fried Butter #1

See this little chickadee? Cute as hell, right? This is my precious friend, Sarah, who for the past year has lived in the Hamptons working as a high-school nutrition teacher and organic gardener. (I hope I got the hyphenation correct on high-school nutrition teacher? I don’t want anyone to think she was stoned to the bone teaching those kiddies or cultivating anything other than organic carrots in that little garden of hers!) Anywho, perhaps you read about her here?

Not too long ago I received a text message from her asking one simple question: What do you think is the most important thing in life?

My first reaction was to worry. Had those utterly Dickensian conditions out East finally sent her over the edge? That place can really wear a person down – what with its gilded streetlights and manicured hedgerows and all. One weekend out there and I couldn’t wait to get back to my death-trap in the city.

As it turns out, she had sent the same question to a number of people in her address book – mostly close friends – and what resulted was a small-scale social experiment of sorts on adolescents’ attitudes on life. Most spoke of the value of personal relationships, others of passion, acts of goodwill and one ‘I don’t know, I’m trying to get drunk…’

These were Sarah's thoughts about it:

It is nice to check in with the people you surround yourself with and see how they are currently viewing their world and if it is in accordance with your own current viewpoint. And it gives you a chance connect with your friends on something more than just "Dude I was wasted last night," or "Listen to how shitty my day at work was....

I thought this was sweet and interesting, thank you Sarah for sharing! Love you.

Dry

Life update: My doctor has ordered me to stop drinking immediately. Stay tuned as I blog about attempting to get sober in what is quite possibly the most difficult city to do just that.

A Lesson in Compromise

If you’ve ever lived in Manhattan then you know that apartment-hunting rarely takes place without some form of compromise. If it’s spacious and affordable, it’s probably in Washington Heights. If it’s in the West Village and within your price range, then it’s probably so small you can sit on the toilet and fry an egg at the same time.

My first place in Manhattan was a windowless, basement apartment directly across the street from one of the borough’s few remaining housing projects. Sure, in a neighborhood like this it’s in your best interest to move with a degree of briskness from the subway stop to your front door, but this arrangement afforded a person with my level of physical inactivity more exercise than I would have ever gotten out of my New York Sports Clubs membership.

With no natural light, it was impossible to determine if I’d woken up in the middle of the night or halfway through the next day. Ideal for any alcohol enthusiast, it was perpetually nighttime within the confines of the basement, and thus acceptable to hit the juice at any hour. It was not the most uplifting of digs, but spacious by New York standards and just the kind of place you’d like to find yourself should a nuclear situation arise!

So this summer when we found our three-bedroom Gramercy Park ‘recession special’, with its high ceilings and pre-War charm, we assumed the six-floor walk-up to be our big compromise. Eighty steps up is a pain in the ass, but it won’t kill you. The broker joked about how fit we would all become living here, but what it really did was coach us to plan ahead: buying your cigarettes in cartons and your wine in jugs is not indulgent when the consequence of running dry threatens such an exertion of energy.

We moved in early August, but it was just a few weeks ago that I discovered where the real compromise lies. What this grainy iPhone photo captures is our Building Safety Information card. The word ‘safety’ really should be omitted all together, seeing as the document reads like a list of what’s going to fail us in the event that shit really does go down:

Year of Construction: 1920

Type of Construction: Combustible

Sprinkler System: NO

Fire Alarm: NO

Public Address System: NO

If you happen to walk by and see our building ablaze, don't bother calling my cell phone. By the time we get wind of it, we’ll be trapped up here, scampering wildly across our polished cherry floors toward a window, or perhaps hunkered down in our kitchen (it has a dishwasher!) awaiting rescue.*

*Mom, if you read this, please don't panic and call me. There’s a fire escape off of Marni’s bedroom, though the structural soundness of it remains questionable.