The ship that didn’t sink

Why is it that rain makes for the best Instagrams? (Williamsburg Bridge, December 2012)

Why is it that rain makes for the best Instagrams? (Williamsburg Bridge, December 2012)

Hey guys, guess what!?

I’m still living in New York. After six months, I figured it was safe to post on here again and brag. I mean, I don’t want to say, “Haw haw! I made it!” because the phrase “making it” is pretty tacky (unless you’re talking about getting laid, then you’re just classy and/or vintage) but I just wanted to say… I told you so?

Remember when I first posted about this last May, and someone commented with the charming toast, “You’re in for a real surprise!”?

I guess my surprise was that… I wasn’t surprised. At all. I was surprised by my lack of surprise, if anything. New York City just seems so… ugh, so me. But whatever, like I said, I’m not going to toot my own horn. Point is, I’ve got a few little eggs of knowledge and wisdom!

“Three Months” as a success marker.
Within my first week of being here, I was at a bar with my friend and we needed some fresh air (although it was mid-August so the fresh air was more like wet hot midnight air, but that’s just my bitterness about humidity talking) and met a couple girls outside who decided to chat my friend up for a cigarette. After the run of the mill, “Where are you from? How long have you lived here?” questions, they were quite surprised when we divulged the truth. Just a week?! You’ll be lucky if you make it three months! Shade alert! It wasn’t an unkind judgment, she later apologized, just that three months is supposed to be a major achievement. I guess her logic was that the money you’ve saved up before moving here is generally gone by then, so you either make it or you have no choice but to get out. Three months, she told us. Well, those certainly flew right on by, didn’t they? Toot, toot!

People actually are from New York City.
It’s kind of annoying when people say that no one is actually from New York City and that everyone just moves there. It’s true to a large extent, but some of the coolest people I know are actually born and raised in the city. Including the little kid I saw on a leash the other day. He was intense.

I will find a drag scene no matter where I go.
I feel like this almost qualifies as a personal problem. Within my first two weeks of living here, I had already obtained this cute little drag posse. I don’t know how it happened. I wore my fabulously studded heels out one night to a gay bar and boom, there I was… mauled. Maybe it’s the red lipstick? Or the fringe? I don’t know, but it happens every damn place I move. I swear I’ve got a tattoo in ink that’s visible only to a Queen’s long-lashed eyes that says, “Look here, honey, I’m who you were looking for.” And I’m so into it. As an aside, the term “fag hag” is and has always been appalling. Just because “your gay boyfriend” uses it, doesn’t mean you should! Ew! Tacky! (Another aside, here is a photo of my friend wearing my few-years-back Halloween costume randomly one evening in my bedroom. He wore it better than I did! Not fair.)

I have the cutest and best apartment ever.
No, seriously. It’s a duplex. My walls are painted seafoam green. I have photos of Sigur Rós and ads of Cole Mohr in Marc by Marc Jacobs FW 2008 (look it up!) plastered atop said paint. The rest of the house defines boho chic and I say “house” because it’s actually a duplex. And my rent is the same as any California apartment. So… I’m not going anywhere.

It’s really difficult to experience NYC culture.
Ah, good ol’ New York City work ethic, where the only holidays are Christmas, Thanksgiving and New Years Day; standard working hours are 9am to 7pm; and standard commuting hours are 30 to 45 minutes each way. Not that I’m complaining, because I still adore taking the subway as much as I possibly can (being from a place that has practically no public transit), but… by the time I’m off work, all of the museums and touristy things are closed, and pretty much the last thing any Brooklyner wants to do on the weekend is go back into the city, so, admittedly, I haven’t experienced many of those things. Everyone always asks me, “Can you see the Statue of Liberty from your work? How close to your apartment is Times Square? Have you gone to New Jersey yet? Seen the Jersey Shore? How many times a week do you go to the Met?” Uh, guys…

Anyway, I’ve been listening to The Cranberries all day, so pardon my sentiments. I imagine any seasoned New Yorker reading this is probably stifling a laugh and shaking his or her head, but give me a minute to reflect, and pardon my nubility. And also my bragging. Because I had a pretty bad day at work (I say “work” because I got a job in Soho a month after moving here. One more boast!) and I could use a little self-peptalk.

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