How Do You Deal With a Mooch in NYC?

... Hopefully, better than I am.

The Scenario
The Mooch moved to New York City from Arizona in the last week of December in 2008. The Mooch shares a full-size bed with my roommate, who has been a close friend of hers since high school. The Mooch does not allow my roommate's own dog sit on or sleep in my roommate's own bed in the apartment for which The Mooch does NOT share equal financial responsibility. The Mooch's best friend lives in Harlem, but - regarding location - our Hell's Kitchen apartment is more convenient for The Mooch. The Mooch still lives with us (note the date of this blog post).

The Error
The direct fault I carry in this situation was believing that the best friend of The Mooch - and mutual friend of ours - was completely out of line for initially wanting to charge The Mooch $600/month to share the mutual friend's $1200-studio in Harlem. I wrongfully thought that the mutual friend was trying to take advantage of The Mooch's unstable relocation situation and wanted to profit from having The Mooch stay with her. In all actuality, the mutual friend was fairly requesting upfront that The Mooch assume equal financial responsibility for the space they would have shared. She was well within her rights - as both a New Yorker and as a friend.

However, my roommate and I - initially and foolishly finding it harsh to charge The Mooch immediately upon her arrival in the city (even though millions of other NYC transplants begin paying outrageous amounts for a roof over their heads the moment they change their zip code) - offered to let The Mooch stay in our Midtown apartment under the following conditions:
1) She could stay with us as long as she needed.
2) She could sleep in my roommate's bed (with my roommate) regularly; she and her boyfriend could sleep on my couch whenever he wanted to stay over; she and her boyfriend could use my room whenever I was out of town as long as they washed the sheets before I returned.
3) She should start contributing financially as soon as she could.

Number 3 was where we went wrong. The Mooch moved in the last week of December in 2008. By May 2009, she had still been unable to secure full-time employment, yet refused to consider waitressing, retail or other gigs not befitting "a recent college graduate." By June 2009, she had been living with us rent-free for five months.

Things I Now Know Since The Mooch Moved in Six Months Ago
1) After one month - or even just two weeks of staying in our $2500-month, 600-square foot, two-bedroom apartment in Midtown - The Mooch was no longer a guest; she was living with us.
2) Once she began forwarding her mail and listing our address on West 51st Street as her own - The Mooch was no longer a guest; she was living with us.
3) Once I began overhearing her tell friends on the phone, "I'm back at my apartment now," - The Mooch was no longer a guest; she was living with us.
4) Once she began asking me and my roommate if her out-of-town friends could stay at our apartment during their NYC visit - The Mooch was no longer a guest; she was living with us.
5) Once The Mooch stopped allowing my roommate's own dog into my roommate's own bed - The Mooch was no longer a guest; she was living with us.
6) I should not have assumed that The Mooch would have a personal sense of self-accountability for the space she shared with us.
7) I should not have assumed that this said self-accountability would compel The Mooch to feel responsible for contributing to the rent within 1-2 months (maybe even three, tops).
8) I should have been clear on my expectations instead of assuming that The Mooch had the same sense of personal responsibility that I have (e.g. when I slept on an air mattress for three months in the living room of my best friend's $1000-South Bronx, two-bedroom apartment, I contributed $200/month toward their rent, bringing their equal portions to $400/month each, and I took it upon myself to keep toilet paper, paper towels and other "communal items" fully stocked over the three months I stayed there).
9) The Mooch once tried to pretend that she didn't know we were out of trash bags, even though someone had emptied the trash can half way to make more room instead of buying more trash bags (and my roommate told me that she had not touched the trash). The Mooch also often acted like she didn't have to buy more toilet paper because she bought the "last round". She'd rather substitute travel tissue paper, napkins and paper towels while waiting for me or my roommate to get the next round of TP, which always made me want to scream, "Dude! You live here rent free! We shouldn't be taking turns buying the toilet paper; you should always buy it!" But I didn't.
10) My roommate and I are enabling The Mooch to have no sense of urgency to find permanent, full-time employment, to have no need to pick up a second part-time job after finally obtaining a full-time job with a low salary in late-May, and to take a week of unpaid leave from said low-salary employment to go on vacation with her boyfriend to Aruba in June. Rather than help her develop into a proud, independent New Yorker, we allow her to spend her money frivolously instead of paying a fair portion of the rent. Meanwhile my roommate and I continue to make careful decisions and sacrifices in order to sustain our lives in New York City. We are enabling The Mooch to do things that most middle- and lower-income people cannot do when they first relocate to New York City.
11) The Mooch moved in with my roommate and I just six months after we began our $2500-month lease on West 51st Street. Just like the mutual friend in Harlem was within her rights to expect rent immediately from The Mooch upon her relocation from Arizona, we would have been within our rights to ask her to split our $3000-broker fee three ways and divide the monthly rent fairly between us. If we had known that The Mooch was going to end up staying over half a year (not to mention the $5000-security deposit and first and last month's rent that my roommate and I paid up front), we would have expected an equal contribution.
12) I was wrong for denigrating the mutual friend for wanting to charge The Mooch half the rent on her $1200-Harlem studio.
13) I am a coward for blogging about this instead of telling The Mooch how I really feel.

Things The Mooch Does Not Know That We Know
1) The Mooch, who relocated from Arizona, is using my roommate and I to live closer to her boyfriend, who lives with his parents in Long Island. She doesn't want to contribute financially to our current living situation because she wants to save money while waiting for him to be ready to move into an apartment with her. So she is using us to be closer to him and foster their relationship until he is ready for cohabitation.
2) When The Mooch goes shopping with another mutual friend, that mutual friend reports back that The Mooch throws away her receipts, shopping bags and boxes and hides her new purchases in a large purse or tote bag because she doesn't want my roommate and I to know she has been shopping.
3) After searching craigslist job postings for about 20 minutes a day, she walked leisurely around the city throughout most of the spring months, with Starbucks coffee in hand, accompanied by the same mutual friend mentioned in #2 - instead of visiting more temp agencies, going door to door with her resume, and looking for jobs (however, she knows that we know not to even ask her to consider the food service industry even though we live in the heart of Hell's Kitchen and mere steps from the plethora of restaurants on Ninth Avenue).
4) The Mooch bought her boyfriend a $350-camera for his recent birthday, but led us to believe that she could only afford to bake him a cake.
5) The Mooch had just learned of her boyfriend's disloyal indiscretions a few weeks prior to his birthday - thus proving that she'd rather buy her cheating boyfriend a present than pay rent to her more-than-generous friends.
6) We were willing to do more for The Mooch than her own family was willing (case in point: her own brother and his new wife live on the Upper East Side and would not have allowed her to crash with them for half a year, rent-free).
7) The Mooch doesn't want to live in New York City. She wants to be a merry, little housewife, and her current boyfriend is the best - and maybe only - shot she'll ever have at achieving her marital, baby-making dreams.*
8) People who really want to succeed in New York City are willing to wait tables or fold T-shirts in a GAP or do whatever it takes to be self-sufficient. She is not one of those people. She shamelessly continues to take advantage of a generous living situation despite the fact that I am making it clear that she has worn out her welcome.

To be fair, The Mooch is relatively easy to live with. She is clean, she didn't often leave her stuff all over the apartment (though I often tidy up after her), and she is generally friendly. However, I initially became irritated when my roommate expressed her frustration to me regarding The Mooch's response to a possible receptionist position at the engineering firm where my roommate is an executive assistant: "I didn't move to New York City to be a receptionist." And I further lost my patience with our living arrangement when we asked The Mooch to begin paying $300/month on June 1 and she replied that she would rather pay $200.

To continue fairly noting the occurrence of events, The Mooch did end up taking the receptionist position at the end of May 2009, but not without some strong encouragement from my roommate. And The Mooch did begin paying $300/month on June 1 after I made it clear that it was not negotiable. But to be completely blunt, I don't know how The Mooch failed her NY teacher's licensing exams this month when she has supposedly been studying for the last six months - sans the responsibilities and long hours associated with full-time, or even part-time, employment. Maybe she should have spent less time walking leisurely around the city with Starbucks coffee.

I don't know what to do even though I know what I need to do. But even though she has it in her heart to completely take advantage of our generosity - and potentially permanently tarnish her close friendship with my roommate - I don't have the heart to tell her that I think she's a puerile, manipulative, indolent sloth - to put it lightly.

Help!

Dear Abby ... [sigh]

*No offense to current baby-makers; I totally want to be a baby-maker one day, but I refuse to use my current so-called friends in order to achieve my eventual, long-term dream of family life. Or step on my friends for any other reason, for that matter.

"Things I Love" Thursdays - City Lights

I love the view of the Time Warner Center from my bedroom window less than ten blocks away. I lay in bed at night and stare at the high rise lights until I fall asleep. It makes me feel like such a New Yorker within my exposed brick walls, looking through the bars of my fire escape.

Often, as I lay there, I notice random lights turn on and off in various buildings. Sometimes I spy a shadow passing by windows and I'm curious about the hundreds - and thousands - of separate lives living around me in the skyscrapers of Midtown. It's one way to humble yourself and make your own problems seem a little less significant. That - or look at images of outer space from the Hubble Telescope.

And often, as I lay there, I notice lights continually going on and off in the Hearst Magazine Building. It's home to the offices of popular monthly periodicals, such as Cosmopolitan, Good Housekeeping, O Magazine, Seventeen and Redbook ... and I think it's haunted. I'm sure there is a logical - perhaps environmentally friendly - reason why entire floors of lights turn off and then turn back on seconds - or minutes - later. Sometimes it's a single room of lights. Other times it's the row of a whole floor. And even more dramatically, several floors will go dark before relighting. Perhaps it's a nighttime electrical glitch, but it makes my evening wind-down more exciting to believe that it's haunted.

I imagine myself going to the doorman one day - a tall, intimidating and bald man perhaps similar to the hero in "The Shining" - and asking probing questions regarding the nighttime electrical activity of the building. And then the stereotypical response of a person of color warning the curious White (or half White, in my case) person to stop investigating paranormal activities that ultimately lead them to horrific ends: "If I were you, I'd stopping asking about those blinking lights."

If you work for Con Edison and know the reason, please don't email me. I like my (il)logic better.

A Year Ago Today: Real Estate LOL - No Bathtub in the Bathroom
Two Years Ago Today:
1300-Mile Walk of Shame
Phone Photo Ops - M.I.A. in the MIA

Remembering New York Firsts

Looking back on posts from two years ago, I realized that even though I love living in Hell's Kitchen ... sometimes I miss my Harlem studio. I guess you'll always miss your firsts ...

A Year Ago Today: Colleague Convo - News Travels Fast
Two Years Ago Today: Phone Photo Op - Apt To Be Cont'd

Phone Photo Ops - New Roommie

I don't like dogs.*
But I like my roommate.
My roommate likes dogs.
So now we have a dog.





The dog doesn't seem to care that I don't like her.

*To rephrase, it's not that I don't like dogs. My sentiments toward dogs are somewhat parallel to my feelings about children. I like kids that I can return to the parents when I'm tired of them.

A Year Ago Today: High Caloric Weekend
Two Years Ago Today:
Hoboken Saint Patrick's Day
Phone Photo Ops - St. Patty's Day in NJ
Phone Photo Op - Walking to the PATH

The Official-Unofficial Inauguration Party

Making responsible choices - like not flying back to D.C. yesterday after work on the 7:55pm JetBlue flight for a post-inauguration gala party hosted by Jeffery Wright, to which my best friend was invited, and fly back today - SUCK.

Our plan was for me to return to New York this morning on a 6 o'clock flight out of Dulles. Just in time for me to drag myself into the office in yesterday's little black dress. The only obstacle that stood in our way was car service to the airport directly from the party at 4am. Car service companies were either completely booked, charging $200+ from Georgetown to the surrounding airports or requiring three-hour minimum reservations. And on-call taxi companies were expecting to run on two-hour-plus delays. All options that diminished the welcome surprise of a fairly inexpensive, last-minute, round trip airfare.

Since I had already afforded myself the entire three-day weekend for a last-second trip to D.C. and enjoyed the adrenaline rush of spontaneity on my race to JFK a few days earlier, my best friend and I agreed that a mature, 29-year old, with a middle-class income and upper-class rent, would opt not to return to D.C. less than 24 hours after leaving. I reminded myself to be grateful for the recent inaugural opportunities of which I had been able to take advantage and decided not to pout.

While alleviating the final wisps of disappointment with a bottle of Two Buck Chuck, my roommate and I discussed our New York City Inauguration options: pricey socialite, celebrity and charity balls, neighborhood bar presidential specials, our living room ... And that's when we - and our empty bottles of Two Buck Chuck - devised a most excellent plan. We would have an Official-Unofficial Inauguration Ball in our Hell's Kitchen apartment. We would dress up in evening gowns. We would pop cheap champagne. We'd serve light hor'devours from Food Emporium. We'd watch Barack and Michelle dance their first dance as First Man and First Woman from our own four-floor walk-up. It was brilliant. Never mind the weeks of PR surrounding Obama's Neighborhood Ball, where the use of interactive technology including text messaging and webcasting, would link together attendees at other neighborhood balls across the country. Our idea was incredible. We invited Neighbor Dave. He happened to have a tux. It was like kismet.

Our plan was to dance and drink in our apartment until we were brave enough to venture into the bar downstairs in our formal evening attire. Instead we danced and drank until we fell asleep.

The country awoke this morning in a world where a Black family is making the White House a home. And I woke up remembering that I'm not 19 anymore ... but it sure is a great year to be 29.

Photos to be posted.

A Year Ago Today: The London Post
Two Years Ago Today: Juilliard Sunday Football

Phone Photo Op - Close Quarters

Our neighbors rarely remember, take into account, or care that our living room being positioned directly opposite their bedroom means that we can see them.


A Year Ago Today: No post
Two Years Ago Today: Saturday Night Lights

50 Best TV Comedies Ever

And more than two were set in New York City. But not so hilarious is the fact that Monica and Rachel's apartment was considered swanky and unaffordable. In observing my own living conditions, it is depressing to realize that an upgrade to Monica and Rachel's cohabitation arrangement is still out of my price range.

The fact that Monica and Rachel lived in a swanky New York apartment they could never have afforded in the real world didn't diminish how much we loved the 'Friends'-ship of the Central Perk gang, the Ross-Rachel romance and our favorite TV wiseacre, Chandler Bing.

A show about nothing? Nah, it was about everything in the lives of four self-involved New Yorkers. Not that there's anything wrong with that, because no one but Jerry, Elaine, George and Kramer -- and show co-creator Larry David -- could have turned minutiae into nine seasons of comedic brilliance.
Read More

A Year Ago Today: Corporate Restructure Hits Home
Two Years Ago Today: That Time of the Mes

Lazy Saturday Afternoons

There is something comforting about being able to hear my neighbor taking a shower through our living room window. Though I don't know that he ... or she ... really classifies as a neighbor since he ... or she ... lives in the adjacent building, and we share neither hallways nor downstairs door keys, but simply windows into a narrow alley. But we must commonly recognize the sounds of living on the fifth floor - the drip of an air conditioner, pigeons on the roof, the male opera singer who lives a floor below us.

I'm not sure if our faceless living-room-window neighbors are both "hes" or "shes" because we can only see the lower halves of their bodies through their half-curtained bedroom windows and sometimes we see a male and sometimes we see a female. We are only certain that it's a roommate situation, and one bedroom - for sure - is that of a girl.

But it is a comfort nonetheless to hear their lives happening next door.

A Year Ago Today: "Things I Love" Thursdays - Dinner Parties
Two Years Ago Today: 300 Million Headline

My First Encounter with the FDNY

While Natasha and I were watching this week's NetFlix pick, a "reminder of why we should just continue ordering in" set off our First Alert Carbon Monoxide Detector, which - up until this evening - we had thought was a smoke alarm. And which - up until this evening - we had not realized we did not have.

In any case, after 20 minutes of silencing the alarm - only to have it continue to go off every few minutes, sliding different parts of it in and out, calling my dad for advice, opening all the windows, and running the air conditioner full blast, we decided to call the FDNY to our rescue.

Unfortunately, our Manhattan Yellowpages phonebook referred us from "Fire Department" to "Emergency" to "Medical Services" with no listing for the fire department that we pass everyday walking down 8th Avenue. And none of the numbers we found on Google.com seemed to be getting us through to anyone of authority. So after much debate over whether I should dial 911 without a raging fire, a severed leg or a carving knife embedded in my neck, I pressed 9-1-1 into my cell phone, gulped and hit Send.

911 Operator: 9-1-1. What's your location?
Me: [Address eradicated]
911 Operator: You're between Eighth and Ninth Avenues?
Me: Yes.
911 Operator: Thank you. What's your emergency?
Me: [in my head: oye, it's not really an emergency per se] I'm actually trying to call a fire department in our neighborhood to ask someone to check our carbon monoxide alarm.
911 Operator: Ok. You have to connect to the fire department through 9-1-1. I'll patch you through.
Me: Thank you.

Fire Department Dispatch: New York Fire Department
Me: Hi, I'm calling because our carbon monoxide detector has been going off for awhile even though we have ventilated our apartment.
Fire Department Dispatch: No problem. We can definitely help you with that. What's your location?
Me: [Address eradicated]
Fire Department Dispatch: And you're between which avenues?
Me: Eighth and Ninth.
Fire Department Dispatch: We'll send someone right over.
Me: Thank you.

I walked back out to the living room, where Natasha was still poking and proding our molested carbon monoxide detector, which was continuing to warn us to "Move to Fresh Air". Then we waited, assuming that a small fire fighter pick-up truck with a few axes and a step ladder on the back was going to show up at some point. Instead, within minutes, we heard wailing sirens and saw flashing red lights dancing on our bedroom walls.

"Oh my God," Natasha said. "That's for us."

"No, it's not!" I exclaimed as we raced to my bedroom window and saw this (two fire trucks and about a dozen first responders):


Seconds later, four fire fighters in full gear, complete with hard hats, fire-retardant coats, oxygen tanks and axes had hiked to our fifth floor apartment and sauntered into our living room, where Natasha was peering at them from the couch, and I was leaning against the kitchen counter eating a bowl of rice. As I lamented over the fact that they had just climbed four flights of stairs in heavy gear, I couldn't help but wonder if we should feign carbon monoxide disorientation and dizziness to at least make the whole embarrassing scene look like a real emergency.

In a prompt and professional manner, they took carbon monoxide readings in our rooms, reset our carbon monoxide detector and taught us how to use it. And with a tip of their hats, they were off into the night to save the Manhattanites with real emergencies.

As I watched the taillights of the fire trucks disappear, I heard Natasha call from the living room, "Well ... and now back to our regularly scheduled programming."

Thank you, FDNY!

A Year Ago Today: No post
Two Years Ago Today: No post

Friday [Un-]Funnies

If only my roommate and I could find a microwave small enough to fit in our kitchen.

A coworker emailed me a link to this today and said we should try it in the office. After watching the online video of popcorn kernels seemingly being popped by cellular electromagnetic radiation, I was overcome by the euphoria of having freshly popped popcorn at home with the roomie.

Unfortunately, Snopes.com killed my dreams of consuming cellular-radiated popcorn in my Hell's Kitchen apartment sans microwave: http://www.snopes.com/science/cookegg.asp

And that is not funny.

A Year Ago Today: No post
Two Years Ago Today: Crossroads of the World

Two Years Down; A Lifetime to Go

Today marks my first two years living in New York City. But that anniversary is secondary. Five years ago today. And the 3rd has fallen on a Sunday again. At this exact moment five years ago, that darkness did not yet exist for me. In another 12-13 more hours, his father would be calling to tell me that he was dead.

I'm still creating coincidences and searching for that connection, which logic tells me does not exist. But as August 3, 2008, drew closer, I was helping plan a baby shower for Mayra, and Natasha invited me to attend a Yankees game - a first for both of us - made even more special by the location of our seats.

Natasha and I spent the three days before Friday's game, bouncing around our apartment, giddy about the idea of sitting in the first row behind home plate for our first-ever Yankees game - and one of the last to ever be played in The House that Ruth Built. We giggled continuously and said corny things sporadically, like "Home plate, baby!" while passing each other in the kitchen. One evening, I walked in the apartment and called out, "Is there a home plate ticket holder in the house?"

And as Mayra's baby shower approached, I became increasingly busier with last minute preparations and shopping for gifts on her registry. Ra and I met at the Toys "R" Us in Times Square after work one evening and wandered aimlessly in the babies section. Sifting through the endless options of bottles, diapers, teethers and care kits was overwhelming, to say the least. I highly recommend it as an effective form of birth control. As we were exiting the store with our purchases (including a large, boxed high chair), Ra - slightly frustrated by the complicated shopping spree - mentioned that we should probably catch a taxi to my apartment. I replied that we probably wouldn't be able to catch a cab in Midtown at that hour, to which she exclaimed in horror, "Oh no! What are we going to do?"

I looked back at the genuine expression of repulsion on her face, her body hunched by the weight of Toys "R" Us shopping bags, and we both died laughing. Unable to catch an available taxi from 44th and Broadway, we ended up taking our first pedicab ride.

Mayra and Melvin's baby shower was a traditional Dominican shower, which included a lot of friends, food, music, dancing and alcohol. I ran around Midtown on Saturday morning, trying to find some of the last things I had forgotten to purchase for her shower games. And then there was the commute from Midtown to 111th Street in Queens, the set-up for the party, and Melvin's reassurance that we had plenty of time because Dominicans are never punctual. But what about all of the invited Americans, Ecuadorians, Puerto Ricans, and those who bubble in "other", I wondered? So many things to keep my mind occupied. And of course, I found more moments to add to my memory montage when Mayra was in the middle of opening her gifts and suddenly began to cry. We all knew it was partially her eighth-month hormones, but we also knew how overpowering it can be to feel so incredibly loved. As Melvin laughed and began to console her, his own eyes welled up and a few tears spilled over.

And this evening, Natasha and I are painting our living room and kitchen. Spiced Butternut and Autumn Orange while we order Thai take-out and sip Pinot Noir. It's the combination of the big and little things, after all, that make life go on.

A Year Ago Today: One Year At A Time
Two Years Ago Today: Temperaturely Speaking ...

Two Weeks Down, More Boxes to Go

Portions of a recent email from CityWendy sum up my first two weeks as a Hell's Kitchen resident:

"How are you liking Hell's Kitchen? Aren't there more great restaurants in a 4 block radius of our apartments than you've seen in the whole city? It's ridiculous. No wonder I've gone up a dress size since I moved here!! ... Hope you're getting settled in. It's been 9 months since I moved, and I'm still fixing things up the way I want them! Moving is a process..."

It's as if there is always more to unpack, throw out, buy or fix when moving, and I have gone way over what I had originally budgeted for this 5.19-mile move from Harlem. And all of the great places to eat and drink on every corner and in between are not helping!

But no regrets!

Things I Love" Thursdays - The Clip-Clop Sound

Even though I do not condone the treatment of New York City's carriage horses, I love the sound of their horseshoes ringing on the pavement as they pass below my apartment window returning from Central Park each night.

"Things I Love" Thursdays are inspired by "I Love New York" (BNY, February 14, 2007).

"Things I Love" Thursdays - My New Hell's Kitchen Address

I love that Natasha and I can see the sign for Radio City Music Hall from our front stoop ... that Times Square is just around the corner, but you don't know it's there unless you walk to Broadway ... that within a three-block radius of our front door there are Afghan, American, Caribbean, Chinese, Cuban, Greek, Irish, Italian, Japanese, Mexican, and Thai restaurants (and Restaurant Row is just a few blocks away) ... that we're within a short distance of a post office, grocery stores, drug stores, salons, barber shops and cleaners (although we discovered that we do have a washer and dryer in the basement) ... that I am a 15-minute walk from work, which takes me east through the Theater District, passed Rockefeller Center, south through the Diamond District and ends at Bryant Park.

There are already things I miss about Harlem, but the landscape and the dynamic of the city have transformed since I moved to Hell’s Kitchen. I no longer spend the majority of my personal and professional commutes below ground. It’s a new Manhattan that I will get to know all over again, and I love that just by moving a few miles to another neighborhood, you can meet an entirely different New York.

"Things I Love" Thursdays are inspired by "I Love New York" (BNY, February 14, 2007).

First Heat Wave of '08

Natasha and I bought a new air conditioner from P.C. Richards yesterday as the heat wave was settling into New York. With the help of our new neighbor David, a graphics designer, we installed it in the window of our living room, since it's central to the entire apartment and the only view is directly into the bedroom of a highly sexually active couple, who don't shut their blinds.

Natasha and I have joked about inviting our girlfriends over and ordering take-out for our neighbors' peep show, like Carrie and company did in an episode of "Sex and the City". And now our neighbors will have a view of Natasha and me standing in sweaty bras in front of the A/C, not that they need further inspiration.

I haven't lived in an apartment with air conditioning in two years (here's why). A $100 discount on a 10,000 BTU unit, a $10 cab ride home and half a batch of cookies for David's assistance later, I am reveling in a truly a historic achievement. And it was just in time. Grade schools across the city were closed today because of the heat.

Phone Photo Op - First Monday Morning

Looking over the fire escape from my bedroom window, I awoke to a beautiful Midtown Manhattan sky on the first Monday in my new apartment.

Phone Photo Op - The First Supper

From last night:
Our first meal in our new apartment a la Mayra, who went grocery shopping, ascended four flights of stairs and christened our stove ... at almost seven months pregnant.


Followed by my first Margarita at Blockheads, featuring $3 Margarita specials and free chips and salsa, a block from our new apartment.

Signing a Midtown Apartment Lease = Kia Rio Paid-In-Full + $1500 in Gas Cards

While packing up my small Harlem studio, it occurred to me that - between the two of us - Natasha and I paid up front more than the entire value of a basic Kia Rio to move into our new apartment.

But as I begin unpacking in Midtown, it feels good to be home in Hell's Kitchen.

Phone Photo Op - The Box Commute

How New Yorkers carry moving boxes home from work. I can't wait to live walking distance (or a cheap cab ride) from the office.

See my crafty handles made of duct tape?

Almost 30, Flirty and Thriving

I am all packed. Just passing time while I finish the last load of laundry in my old apartment building in Harlem before I move into my new apartment in Hell's Kitchen. In about an hour, I will pick up my keys to a vacant Midtown residence that I will soon be calling home.

Mayra came by my office yesterday to help me carry recycled, flattened boxes from our mailroom. We ordered my last delivery from our favorite Mexican restaurant Picante and she helped me pack and tape boxes until almost midnight.

Earlier yesterday evening, she stood outside of my white cubicle and peered into the glass office behind me, where my boss sat in her ergonomic chair looking out at an unobstructed view of the Empire State Building while hosting a conference call.

"Boy," Mayra said. "Your office is so 13 Going on 30."

And I'm almost there.