Apt 45: The reality of Washington Heights

When I heard there was a reality show about Washington Heights, I began to search my papers to make sure I hadn't agreed to be filmed and was secretly recorded the two years I lived there -- because that would explain the level of drama I was forced to live with. I mean really, this living situation was devoid of producers and unpaid talent - MTV's dream production I would think.
So, when we examine the former against the rules of a reality show, this post will serve as a convincing proposal to either my house was bugged and an audition tape for the Washington Heights reality show, or I was lucky craigslist responder number 439 to reply to a cheap room in Manhattan's upper living quarters. Either way, I'm going to publish a series here -- a literary rival of reality show vs. real life. Now, the essential principle to create a successful reality show rests in the ability to create a situation that is bound to bring out the worst in others: Apt 45 on Saint Nicholas is a contender. And now, what will be the first episode:

Part 1: Real Life Hot Mess
It started out with a reply to an ideal craigslist post (if there is one):

Friendly girls looking for young professional female roommate -- own room, cheap rent, clean roommates!

It was summer in the city, I spent the last three months living off raviolis and take home meals in an apartment that was robbing me blind, sucks being naive and from Ohio. So, I'm at the end of my rope living in a summer sublet, I reply to this post and tell the girl I can come by with a check if all is as it turns out to be. As I walk in to visit this shotgun apartment one early summer morning ready and happy to meet my roommates, one is sleeping and one answers the door half naked, exclaiming how comfortable everyone is with each other! I peek into the kitchen to confirm the "clean" part of the posting ... it's borderline rotting with dirty dishes and scum (no really, actual scum). My host and tour guide tells me "and this is the kitchen, oh we were cooking last night no worries it's normally really clean."
The room is small, but what room isn't in NYC. It had a closet and would be my own. I continue to rationalize each red flag thinking: well even if no one seems to be going to work except for me surely they are doing something to pay rent here; and the kitchen can't always be like that I mean no one would want to live like that. In desperation and with hope for change I tell her I'll take it and will move in next week...
When I showed up tired from moving all day and a little nervous about what this next chapter would bring, I finally sit down after I finish unpacking at about 1 in the morning on a Thursday night. As I'm getting ready for bed my roommate comes home (the one that was sleeping when I initially stopped by)...
Without pleasantries she looks at me and says abhorrently, "ummm, you have a cat..??" You would have thought my cat marked his territory across her door, when instead he sat there per usual like a bump on a log. Hatred towards my cat was a strike... her attitude was a strike, her faint scent of hot mess was a strike ... within moments my dreams are crushed of a blossoming friendship with my roommate and instead it's replaced by a nightmare punctured with misplaced piercings a noticeable weave and a muffin top.
And so the drama began ...
We exchanged angry words as I declared she must turn down her music as some people needed to get up and work in the morning. I mean when my walls are shaking ... really ... really ... ?
She wanted me to keep my cat in my room, when I threw back at her that I was paying rent and he was part of the package she stood down ever so slightly (little did I know how poignant my sticking point was).
The mediating roommate and resident owner of the apartment finally comes home and attempts to make a deal between the two of us. I'll just say it was a short-lived truce.
Like any typical reality show, we've established the conflict at the beginning: a clash of two worlds with an infinite possibility of aggression, arguments and situations that could be scripted but in reality, are not. A girl from Ohio learning her way in the city sharing a space with a girl who's future will consist of living off the money she made agreeing to marry an illegal immigrant.

Stay tuned for more posts as you get to relive with me the best of the worst of my two years in Washington Heights.

Dear Ol' UVA...

I needed some time to compile my thoughts and comments from my recent Homecoming visit to UVa - so for those of you who were looking for it. Here it is.
Homecoming weekend at Uva... Driving down I-95 onto Alderman, guided by the giant V and two sabers inked into the road we entered a place we called home for four years. It felt as though we entered a bubble. It was a cultural capsule where it seemed nothing had changed and yet coming from out of town, there was a solemn cloud that followed us, a gentle reminder that this wasn't the real world. It's clear after being in the workplace for two years, UVa was a utopia. You don't really have to deal with adult issues, all of the rent/utilities/billing were spoon fed to you, none of your interactions were multi-level (i.e. work relationships), people can wear cowboy boots and dresses and it's more of a dress code than a fashion faux-pas; oh and singing the Good Ol' Song made everyone feel like one happy community. No wonder we feel duped...I'm not the only person that looked blankly at a fax machine or another esoteric office tool and thought: why didn't I take a class for this? That's what we need a "Real Life 101" that teaches you how to: deal with taxes, office politics, weird roommates, missing landlords, rental agreements, real crime that can't be solved with the honor code... and the list goes on.
I can't decide if the shielding of the real world from the current Wahoos is just an extension of their childhood or the set up for the first of many rude awakenings they will experience in adulthood. For example: at UVa you can feasibly, work, party, study, eat healthy, stay fit, and get enough sleep to do it all again the next day. Guess what? In the real world the routine is sacrificed for things that are considered survival tactics - eating whatever you can find, sleeping when you can, and working for food and shelter. When we were on the Range before the football game, you could still see the flicker of innocence in the eyes of the undergrads, an age of believing and where ignorance is bliss.
It was a great weekend, but returning to grounds and looking at versions of myself pre-real world, was bittersweet. On one hand UVa is now a place we can never go back to without bringing in bias, on the other hand it was a nice reset button to know that in a world that is constantly changing there are some consistencies.

And then there was the other shoe ...

I've confessed my secrets about being a nervous nellie and someone who is perpetually nervous or anxious. I even subtly mentioned about the checklist I run through when I leave my house or work every day. Keys? Check. Wallet? Check. Sanity ... eh? While, these nuances might be unique to double d, I've discovered a trend that many my age + can relate to...the idea of 'waiting on the other shoe to drop'.
Growing up has made me realize several things (too many to count) but most certainly I've come to the conclusion that in this transition period the elder call "the twenties" you live each moment as your last or in some situations become too scared to move because you are waiting for the other shoe. So many things about getting older is a perpetual waiting game, "will I get the job", "will I find my perfect apartment", "will I fall in love"? The essence of this waiting game is knowing there is something on the other side, and for you crazy dramatics it probably isn't half bad, but the point is when do you realize the shoe has fallen.
Not that I realize a shoe of mine has fallen, but I have come to find out that waiting is no way to live and we all do it. Trust me, I'm not going to end this post with "what's meant to be will be" because I hate that saying or "everything happens for a reason" -- someone come up with a better answer please. It's almost like, the shoe that drops is the one you were looking for anyway so you might as well put it on and keep on walking.
When you're older you have a better sense of being and the other shoe isn't about to drop. In fact the shoe has probably fallen, you've lost it, gave up, and found another pair of shoes that weren't suspended in mid-air.
But, I'm not at that age yet and I won't tell you my anxiety is any less realizing that this mentality will only last me another 7 years (or so). All I know is right now, I'm OK with not knowing and just living. I have two shoes on and if another one falls out the sky, I'm going to look around to see who it belongs to. 

Reality ... really embarassing

I had a rough week. Innocently, walking out of the subway a bird pooped on my hand, this was the first in a sequence of unfortunate events. Anyone that says a bird pooping on you is good luck, has never had bird poop on them. The day proceeded to go down the proverbial crapper and I went to sleep hoping and praying for a better day. The good thing about a bad day is, tomorrow is bound to be better. I have found one sure way to bring up your spirits: the cure? Indulging in reality shows! I love watching random strangers make poor life choices to make me feel better.  I watch people duke it out on the jersey shore over a can of self-tanner or  people burying themselves in trash (which they became emotionally tied to). But, there are two shows I can't bear to watch: Teen Mom and Bad Girls Club. Teen Mom, the title is self explanatory on its ridiculousness so I'll dive into the other nonsensical entertainment show: Bad Girls...

This show is appalling, but on a small scale the relationships can be seen in real life. In the "bad girls" house you can harass a girl by throwing anything at her: milk, water, vodka, beer, BLEACH! All because you didn't like the way she looked at you -- it's fine, because there are producers to intervene when things get out of hand. It's sad because the dramatized (unnecessary) fights that happen are just hyperbolic versions of female relationships.  Take for example the ever popular "I don't like her, because I just don't"... I'm sure there are women that can admit to this or have been subject to such reasoning. However, since we live in the real world, women have to resort to subtle and snide ways to humiliate each other. This discrete battle royal is almost worse than television prompted drama because social decency doesn't allow you to retaliate, so you hold in that anger plotting for your moment to make a dig. 
I'll be the first to admit I'm not up to date on my women studies, but I'm pretty sure part of the movement was for women to band together and stop bringing each other down. In principle it's great, I'm all for it, but in practice it doesn't happen that easily. There are so many different elements that divide female relationships and yet, some things about women are predictable across the board.
As an example, the historical need to over-preform just to be on par with your male counterparts. (And sorry Black women -- you will need to over achieve in regards to your male counterparts as well as your racially opposite sisters.) I'm not going to pretend this will ever be any different or that our predictability and differences will harmonize into a real life sisterhood, but I would like to note the following:
1. Women (of all races) tend to live their life in hopes of making a permanent mark on history. Stop trying to write history, what has happened is unchanging, you have a better chance of changing the future.
2.We don't live in a scripted reality, and be thankful, we haven't been forced into a real life "bad girls club". We still have common decency and social norms that prohibit bleach from being thrown.
Oh, and a kind and smart woman told me number 3: "bird poop comes off easily"!