C U Next Tuesday

Talk about a Tuesday.

I’ll call it a cunt if you will, because that’s when I’d prefer to see it next, if at all ever again.

This morning I woke before 8am. And though this was nothing new to me as a creature that requires little sleep, it was for a good and indeed uncommon reason. I drove into the City yesterday (Monday) and had parked the car on Pineapple Street, less than a block from where I reside. It was perfect. Only thing was, I had to move it before 8am because Tuesday’s street cleaning day for the welcoming fruit street. And so I moved it, in time no less. I drove around the block a few times and then went further down Pineapple Street, more towards the Promenade and found a most perfect spot; or so I fucking thought.

Stephanie was in the city for the night and we had a lovely uptown day planned: The Metropolitan Museum, Central Park Perusing, and an Upper West Side Lunch. We did all three. We had a lovely time at the Met, except for the haggard bitches—four of them—who shushed me as I walked into the new Greek and Roman Court. They had no right or reason to shush me. I was explaining to Stephanie that the floors in the Court are exactly like the ones in the Pantheon in Rome: beautiful red and green marble inlaid in circle and square patters, settling only on sand—no grout. Clearly, this is a facet of the room one might take note of. Not these old witches. They were on the outskirts of their massively tacky tour group and seemed to be a bit perturbed because god for bid, their batteries was dying in their hearing aides and were closer to my voice than that of the guide’s. And I know I’m loud, but I do have museum edict. I glared at them as though I was invisible; and frankly, I was—I had sunglasses on.

But I digress.

After strolling throughout the new Court and then onto the Barcelona exhibit, with Gaudi and Dali, we decided it would be best if we walked west. And it just so happened today was just stunning. Across the park we went, perusing about through strollers and nannies, elementary school kids and dogs, making our way to the West side. We ate at a lovely little French Bistro, Citron Bistro on 83rd and Columbus. The crêpe was TDF (to die for).

After dropping Stephanie off at Penn Station for her ride home, downtown I went, back to the Heights. I had a bit of work to do and had not seen my neighbor, Devon, in a week and we magically didn’t cross paths the night before, so I needed to see her as well. And the things about that is, when we get together, it brings trouble more often than not. And today, today was no exception.

You’ll recall that I had my mom’s car in the city and had moved it further down Pineapple that morning into what I thought was a perfect parking place. Dev and I wanted to go for a ride to pick up some stuff, so we headed down the street to jump in the car. As we walked down Pineapple, with the sun shining down on us as the perfect City day passed, I recognized cars I had seen in the morning and knew I was close. Suddenly, I was stopped.

The car was, well, ummm, how do you say it—missing? Not where I remember it? Not where I parked it? Yeah, that works. It was only then I realized the problem.

Once I picked my jaw up off the ground, stopped running my hands through my hair, and stopped my “oh my gods,” I noticed that the typically bright yellow paint that boarders a “No Parking Zone” was once evident and indeed, noticeable. But now it was barely visible. I had to really strain to notice it, let alone be prevented from parking there by it. Upon further investigation, I realized why the spot was a no parking spot. As with many of the Height’s homes, they are majestic and massive, and the one I happened to park in front of was no exception. And of course, with a house such as it, there must be a drive way, right? Right, indeed. And I was parked directly in front of it. Fuck. There was a large, tall fence, one would think was fencing in a yard. But of course not. This fuck had to fence his fucking driveway and make it an inconvenience for those who don’t have a 56 figure salary.

So there I was. Stunned and shocked by what just occurred; I got on the phone immediately. 311 is a godsend for New Yorker’s and it was my first time using it. Cheers to its simplicity and usefulness, I got exactly what I needed right away and was on course for getting my (mom’s) car back. Eh.

After speaking with the 311 rep, she transferred me to one of the many offices the city has. They then transferred me to the Police Department’s Impound office or something. Thankfully, once I spoke with them, I found the car. It was at the Brooklyn Navy Yard, a mere 15 minute walk from where we were.

As always, walks through new places are exciting in a city with 8.3 million people, and once again, this was no exception. Up York Street we went, through DUMBO and into quite the sketchy neighborhood. But it was day time. Anyway, we finally made it to Navy and Sands Streets where we came upon the Yard.

I was once again fucking shocked. The condition of this place was horrid. Facades falling down, dirty, just horrific conditions for a place that tows cars and charges an exorbitant amount for getting them back. Anyway, in we went to a DMV like place that was sticky and icky. Thankfully, the gentleman behind the window was so much nicer than he needed to be. I’m not saying he was a delight, but just way more pleasant that most in his type of position.

After he looked up where the car was, I handed over my license. From there, I was sent to the driver who took me to my car where I had to get the up-to-date insurance car. Thankfully, I knew that would not be an issue. However, what scared me more was that my license I left with the nice man behind the counter (not curtain) expired on my birthday this year and I haven’t gotten it renewed!!!

I grabbed the insurance card and back in the escort car I got. Back into the sticky icky place I went with hopes of getting an OK so we could be on our way. Thankfully, I did and was back into the escort car, after they took a big chunk of my money, and into my car I got. I picked up Devon who was chatting it up with one of the lady gate guards. She was wearing her Tribeca Film T-shirt that we both have; it says “I got action at Tribeca Film.” I’m not going to lie, it’s a pretty fucking sweet T. Anyway, they reminisced and whatevered, but what the fuck, I still had to pay full price to get my car back.

Regardless, there we were and off we went…only about an hour later, probably more.

It didn’t end there. Little did we realize it was getting close to rush hour and our trek to the island would be retarded by traffic. And so it was. After running, well, driving really, up and down, over and back, we returned to the Height’s and I garaged the car on Love Lane.

We jumped on the 2/3 to head to dinner in Chelsea, well, South Chelsea boarding the West Village. We got out of the subway and were abruptly stopped by what looked to be an unfolding police scene. The 14th and 13th street region on 7th avenue was blocked off and there were police and medics all around. We just couldn’t figure out what the fuck was going on, but we wanted to. We walked down and across, with hopes of catching a better view. We didn’t. But more and more people were now looking up. So we did too. But no one jumped. Damn…still 8.3 million.

Anyway, we had a delicious dinner with drinks that were far too weak for their price and headed back home to finish our work we should have done weeks before. But of course, we’re seniors and procrastination is not atypical.

We have a class together and our final paper’s due. We were just taking our time with it. Of course, to our fucking luck, as we got off the train and headed to the elevators in the Clark Street stop, there he was, the fucking professor whose paper we were putting off doing. Talk about fucking awkward. I tried to hide behind my bright orange glasses as long as possible (even though he knows my look well) and breath takenly whispered to Devon, “Holy fuck, look who’s here?” She did, made eye contact, and did the right thing: she looked down as if it wasn’t her who had just caught the eye of our professor. Fuck. Shit. Damnit.

So we got on the elevator, laughing out loud, enjoying the moment regardless. He seemed to laugh at it as well, even calling it out as an awkward moment. Not only were we in the elevator, but we also had been caught in the act of doing something other than our papers…awkward, ironic, annoying…karma. Whatever. My car got towed—ha.

So there it is, my Tuesday in one fuck of a nutshell.


You might consider noting what I took from today:

1. Non-New Yorker Old Ladies in tour groups are total bitches when you hinder their hearing ability with other pertinent facts.

2. I still hate having a car in the city, no matter what.

3. Procrastination is still like masturbation; in the end, you’re only fucking yourself.

Cheers and cunt.