Update 3/29 7:15 AM: Interestingly, this blog post has proved to be very popular among my 8 readers. Why? Is it the topical subjects, my sense of humor, or the inclusion of the hater hatemail comment? Inquiring minds want to know!
Also–Seinfeld gets props for making me want to move to New York City. The show really captures the weirdness of this place. I’d catch the re-runs sometimes as a teenager and think, “That’s the city for me!”
And here I am. I escaped!
Here, gentle reader, I will tell you something that is very Seinfeld-esque NYC about my apartment: it’s a hundred years old, and Jacob Riis was probably here to take photos of the fourteen Italian kids who once slept on the floor and worked all day to make silk flowers.
The wooden floors of this place are not even. It took me a little while to catch onto this fact after I moved in. I knew something was off, but I couldn’t identify it. I figured it out when I noticed that the water level in my big aquarium was uneven (I had to jack up the stand on metal coasters to prevent a water leak from uneven distribution of pressure). If I sit in my computer desk chair very still, and raise my feet off the floor, my chair starts to roll.
Ah–this will be another topic for my Things I Don’t Understand about New Yorkers series: bizarreo apartments. For some reason, a lot of them are constructed strangely. My kitchen has nonfunctioning drawers. I have seen apartments without closets. I have seen apartments with a bathtub in the kitchen. Apartments where the front door opened up into the bedroom.
My own apartment actually has a huge amount of space for what I pay for it–like, it has a functional living room in which I can entertain guests, and the bathroom is practically spa-like for Manhattan poor-person standards. But it has trade-offs: my living room has NO WINDOWS. ZERO WINDOWS.
Good thing I’m not claustrophobic!
I put my birds in my bedroom sometimes so that they can see sunshine and sky. That denied inheritance of theirs. They must ache for it. They are emotional creatures (but not like mammals). My shy little Parrot wants me to watch her all the time. When I leave, she calls for me.
* * *
Remember that episode of Seinfeld in which Seinfeld was dating an otherwise attractive woman who had masculine hands…? Seinfeld was in reruns by the time I grew old enough to appreciate it, but when I caught that episode, I thought it was hilarious.
Okay, I found the link to the video on YouTube (God bless you, YouTube!), but “embedding has been disabled” for some absurd reason–doubtless something to do with money and bourgeois property rights…please click here to watch the scene on their site….
Here is another scene from the same episode. While not as good, it summarizes Seinfeld’s “girlfriend manhands” dilemma:
Okay, so–perhaps you are wondering: What the hell does any of this have to do with anything, Margo?
Well, I’ll tell you what!
Last night I get an email from some dude who wants to purchase my worn-out ballet flats. What a fascinating life I lead!
Because shoe fetish does not fall into the “torture and profound mental distress” categories, I think: Okay, whatever, Mr. Shoe Wackadoodle!
Seriously, though–he wants my old shoes, he can have em! Hopefully, this will be a lucrative and rewarding activity for both of us!
I write back, outlining the deal and asking whether he’d prefer my black flats or my red flats.
Black flats! He immediately responds. His email is ecstatic. May I have a pic?
Okay. A reasonable request, and it behooves me to take ten minutes out of my day to take a few photos, wash them, and send em his way. I’m estimating that the odds that he is a time-waster are 50/50.
Here is one of the SIX personal, candid snaps I took of my feet in the black ballet flats (FYI, I remember buying these shoes at a store called “Shoeforia” in Hoboken, New Jersey. That was a pretty awesome store–I got a nice pair of caramel suede Italian flats there on clearance, and an awesome pair of Camper boots that I ended up losing in a hotel room on the Upper East Side. Oh, hotel rooms I have known!). This is the photo which caused all the trouble:
Yeah yeah, I know my heel could use a little attention from the Ped-Egg and some vasaline. I’ll get to it today, I assure you. But whatever–still a nice thing to send photos, right? Dude said he liked high arches! I have high arches! High arches for days!
The man writes back and says that he is alarmed because I have “masculine hands.”
I have to tell you, I was stunned. Nobody has ever said that to me before. I get compliments on my hands, actually. If I put in the work to wear fingernail polish, they’d really be pretty (alas, I usually can’t be bothered–for some reason, wearing fingernail polish makes me feel silly and infantile. It’s special-occasion only. And don’t even get me started on the phenomenon of fake nails!).
I wrote back: “Wow! For real? But I actually have weak, small hands! They don’t even wrap around a can of diet coke! Want a pic of me holding a coke can? I assure you, I was born xx-chromosome female.”
For whatever reason, I was actually defensive about defending my femininity and my weak little female hands from this random stranger off the internet. Why? Why? It’s only just occurred to me now, as I type this, that he could have been setting me up.
That’s it! Today I am going to the nail salon and I am going to get long, fake, airbrushed Fritoe talons that rattle the keyboard when I type and I am going to wear cubic zirconia cocktail rings and nobody will ever think that I have man hands again! My nails will look like this:
Man hands no more…!