Farewell, 3T

It feels like just yesterday, I spent my first night alone in 3T. I slept on the couch with the tv on, as I was not used to being on my own, not used to the sighs and grunts of the Surview Tower (a.k.a Shitview) . Sheba and Gus stayed under the bed for three days I wept out of fear, anger, and an overall feeling of emptiness. I knew that I would be okay, that at 29, I was getting a chance to live on my own. My mess would be my mess. I didn’t have to cook for anyone or tiptoe around someone who was sleeping in. There would be no surprises when I opened the door. The rational me knew these were all positives, but the super emotional, in desperate need of a Marlboro Light, gin and tonic and most definitely an SSRI me, could never have imagined that I would be packing of the life I have made for myself here, first alone, then with a husband, and now as a family with a daughter
REWIND—HOW DID I END UP IN A 7 FLOOR BUILDING CALLED THE SHITVIEW?
My marriage was over. I had to make a move. I had to grow a set, so I did. It wasn’t easy. I feel like I basically reinvented myself in a summer—a single season. My ex and I clearly had no hope and we had to move out of the house we rented. Someone (shot not) had wanted a dog despite the landlord’s request of no dogs allowed. The lease was up. The marriage was up. What to do? After a few starts and stops that included my friends traipsing around Nassau County looking at rentals, I reluctantly contacted Diane Blum, a D list celeb realtor in Long Beach known for her short skirts and general monopoly on the few remaining old balls rental buildings in town. After lunch at Nagahama (READ: spicy crunchy hand roll and A LOT of cold SAKI) with my good friend Lynda, I signed about 58 pieces of paper and handed over money I had saved in case this exact situation were to arise. I will not admit to being psychic regarding this matter. Let’s just say if I didn’t see this coming, you might think I was blind and stupid. I convinced my ex to help me move and hang window treatments (he kind of owed me). He stayed with me while cable was installed. But, night fell, as it always does, and it was time to put on my big girl panties (I hate that word- panties) and act like an adult.
Marriage and divorce doesn’t make you an adult. In my opinion, getting through your first night alone in your new apartment after never being on your own, without begging your ex to come back or calling your parents crying, makes you an adult. The next day, the sun rose as it always does, and I gave myself a pat on my back. As the new girl on the third floor, I made friends with a guy named Ralph and another named Andrew. Small world…Andrew was my personal trainer years back and had lived with his ex in 3t, my new home. Gross fact…he informed me that he and his ex had sex in every room of 3t, my new home. Good thing I’m OCD when it comes to cleaning. Thanks to my sister, she introduced me to Wendy, also divorced and living on the fifth floor. The two of us clicked right away and I thank God for having had her in my life at that time. She was exactly what I needed. No one else I knew was going through what I was. I felt that no one could really understand how I felt..empty, a failure…With Wendy, I could talk it out or cry it out. Usually we did this with drinks and a lot of VERY loud laughing through the halls of the Shitview.
I believe that here, in apartment 3t, I grew up. I became a more confident woman. I was supporting myself. I was relying on myself. And you know what? Despite how bad I felt, I cannot deny that I was simultaneously feeling damn good. One day I walked out of the door of 3t married (on paper), a few days later I walked in divorced. One day I walked out of the door of 3t single, a few days later I walked in married. One night I walked out the door with a tiny heart beating under mine, a few days later, I walked back in as a mother.
WHY IS IT CALLED THE SHITVIEW?
Now the Shitview is called that for a reason. This building is old and rundown. Layers of paint on the walls tell the tales of tenants past. The parents of a friend of mine lived here when they were first married. My friend just turned 34. A colleague of mine used to live here. When I describe my building as the ugliest one on the boardwalk, people know it right away. Old is not necessarily bad, just bad when weatherproofing at the ocean hasn’t been done properly or possibly ever. Old is not necessarily bad, just bad when the woodwork that meets the floor isn’t meeting the floor and I could pass notes under it to the neighbor next door. Old is not necessarily bad, just bad when you have to vacuum your wall. And don’t let anyone ever tell you that their building hasn’t any water bugs (a fancy term for fucking roach). My building just has ones that are bigger than your fist. (Fortunately, not in 3t). This building will at some point be leveled and turned into a co-op or condemned by the department of health. Either way, it is old and failing. It needs help. Despite this, I feel a little sad that I am leaving. I have literally outgrown this place. Thankfully, I haven’t outgrown it in the manner in which I can only be covered in a sheet, have to be hosed off when it is time to bathe and then be fork-lifted out after a wall is removed because I am too big to exit through the door. Of course if that were true, the news would be here and people would be outside posting pics of me on Facebook.
I began my time in 3t with just two cats. I had ample closet space. I leave here with two cats, a husband and a baby. My closets now resembles a scene from a movie where someone stuffs things in and shuts the door in one instance, CUT TO NEXT SCENE, and then the door is opened by an unsuspecting character and everything topples out. This is my life.. neat freak, OCD, pushed over the edge. Tonight, while comforting a crabby baby, I began to cry. I looked into her eyes and thought how I could never in a million years imagine that I would be packed up and ready to go, about to embark on a new phase of life with my family; a husband who loves me despite my quirks (bitchiness) and a beautiful daughter who I can only hope takes life by the horns and gets everything she wants out of it. Life is by no means perfect, and people who tell you that theirs is, in my opinion, have something to hide. But, an imperfect situation has led me to this place and to this time.
And tomorrow, I shall bid farewell to 3t—the place where my broken heart mended.

Judgment Day

You’ve all heard it; the sound of bloody murder. You’ve all judged. I know I have. You’re eyes dart about the store, airport, or any multitude of places with human thoroughfare. There---over near the fresh produce in the supermarket. There---in line at the Gap. There—on the boardwalk. What do you see? A mother and a screaming child. In your mind you wonder why she can’t shut that ki

d up, or, she should just give him some candy or buy that toy. How wrong we are, people, to think like this. I learned my lesson yesterday.
What should have been an afternoon of slight leisure turned into a series of events that made up a shit show. The plan was to walk all 4.4 miles of the boardwalk. This walk would combine female bonding with exercise and upper body tanning. An hour and a half later than the originally scheduled liaison, I had finally made it onto the boardwalk. Accompanying me was a friend and her daughter, a potential sister in law and her friend and my B.F.F/Reason for Living, Emily. This little estrogen-laden group is strolling and talking and suddenly my “chatty”, raspberry blowing munchkin has a mood swing that turned the weather from sunny and bright to dark and dismal.
Emily was going to stay home with Josh, but ended up coming with me due to a change in his plans. I did not instruct Josh to include the diaper bag or a bottle with its accoutrements (Mother of the Year) nor did he have the foresight to pack it anyway (men). There went any quick fix to the potential problem (dirty dipes, empty belly).
In all honesty, it was too early for Em to eat and she had not had such a solid nap, but being an infant and being the daughter of Queen Moody, anything was possible. After only walking for about 20 minutes, I knew I had to turn around for home. Crying, crying, crying….all the way home. As we exited the boardwalk, Emily immediately calmed down and returned to her “chatty”, raspberry blowing munchkin self. None of what happens next is at all exciting. But what happened during the six minute walk that seemed like my perception of a climb up Mt. Kilimanjaro changed my judgmental way of thinking and gave my former judgmental self a good tsk tsk and a talking to. While Emily was at the height of her freak out (I think she was just sweaty or simply acting like a baby, go figure), a tall, shirtless man between the ages of 23 and 30 stared at me with an accusatory glare that insinuated I had either:
a. just kicked the crap out of my child
b. chose to ignore her crying
c. was more interested in tanning
I usually look away if someone is staring at me in a way that makes me feel creepy, but he had just crossed a line. I recall hearing that in order to teach a dog who is boss, you hold their stare until they look away. In my effort to make the Dog Whisperer proud (we are all animals), I did just that. I locked eyes with this dude. He held my gaze. As we passed, I turned my head and continued to hold his gaze. He did the same. This was happening in a matter of seconds, all to the tune of Mass Hysteria blaring from a stroller. At this point, another man approaches and starts to dirty look me too!!! “ENOUGH!!!” a voice screamed in my head. Suddenly, I hear myself saying, “BABIES CRY!!!!!! STOP STARING AT ME IN JUDGEMENT!!!!!” Guy number two then started laughing, which I interpreted as a reality check for him, as he was thinking I was just an insensitive bitch who didn’t care about her child.
For the record, I did take Em out of the stroller a couple of times and naturally, she ceased her lung exercises, but she did not have a hat and I didn’t want her little keppy getting burned. I hate admitting this, but it was somewhat difficult to maneuver a stroller one handed while holding a 17 pounder at the same time. I am still working on that move.
I would like to take this time to apologize to any woman I deeply sighed at as I expressed my disgust towards them for not doing something to try and shut their kid up. I wasn’t a mother then. I misunderstood.

NOTE: While the picture is from when Em was about 46 seconds old, she still has that face when she cries. She has also reverted back to implementing a shriek intermittently between her usual cries that she had when she was in the hospital after she was born.

Parking Spot 15

I am a rule follower. My husband, not so much. After years of putting it off, I purchased a parking spot in my apartment building’s garage. For $150 a month, I have decreased my stress level, saved money on gas, and no longer have to stalk innocent people walking to their cars.
Living in Long Beach, a town that hugs the Atlantic Ocean year-round, is a unique experience. A virtual ghost town in the winter and an overpopulated hot spot in the summer, parking is one of the town’s biggest issues. Other issues that I personally believe rival this one are the corrupt police and carefree bikers that ride through town with a death wish. I live in the eastern part of Long Beach. It tends to be more residential and removed from the heart of town. Because of my absolute location, parking is cut throat not just among the residents which include a return of Snow birds and seasonal renters, but amongst the people who have the nerve to come to the beach, especially during the weekends. There have been times when I have driven around for an hour in search of a spot that required me to change into hiking boots so I could ease the trek back to my apartment, as Havainas are not exactly the most sensible hiking shoes. SO RIDICULOUS.
The weekends seemed to be the major thorn in my side; I was a hostage in my own town, unable to go the gym or do any number or mundane errands for fear that I would never find a parking spot if I left. It was time to take the plunge and I am still not over how much less frustrated I could have been all of these years if I would have just had the damn parking spot all along.

So now, imagine how my husband must feel when he is circling the neighborhood for a place to park. Two weeks ago, he had had it. So, he parked in Parking Spot 15. I told him not to, as he had parked in someone’s spot before and had a giant orange sticker on his car warning of a future towing and an impound. The best part of that story was when I went down to move his car and the owner of the spot was down there too, ripping me a new one. Good times. About a month ago, my super, Johnny, calls me asking if I knew who was parked in the (at the time) vacant spot next to mine. “Oh—maybe Josh. I told him not to park there. Is there a problem?” Of course, a new resident was about to move in and Johnny, ever so helpful, was showing he or she where their spot would be. Talk about being a good neighbor—there was a silver Honda Accord with a banged up bumper already in the spot that this person had started paying rent on. Let’s call this strike two. Now, getting back to Spot 15. The following day, I see that I have a missed call from Johnny. I call him back and the building manager answers, referring to me as Mrs. Shapiro and not Ms. Wasserman as my lease reads. Hmmm…I wonder how he knew that…So, he asks: “Was your husband parked in the garage last night?”
Me: Yes, but I told him not to.
Building Manager (with creepy, ringlet ponytail): Well, the tenant who owns the spot was very upset.
Me: I am sure. My husband never listens to me. I am not sure if you listen to the women in your life, but clearly, Mr. Shapiro does not.
Building Manager: If this happens again, your husband’s car will be towed and impounded.
Me: Okay—that is fair. It is not his spot. I apologize.

How did this guy know my married name? I then recalled filling out paperwork that included the license plate info of any cars that would possibly park in spot 14 (mine) and who they were registered to—me… Lisa Shapiro.

The day after this, I receive one of those annoying “Sorry we missed you” postcards from the mail carrier in my door. And no, there is no way the guy was sorry—he won’t even make eye contact with anyone and farts like a beast every time our paths cross in the lobby. Any time I get a notice that a registered
letter is waiting for me, I immediately think it is the IRS. They are hot for us (my husband, me by default).

As usual, the post office has a long ass line and they cannot locate the letter. When they finally find it, the return address is “Parking Spot 15” with the address of my building. No name, no apartment number. Written in improper letter format with HORRIFIC grammar, is a letter explaining how this person, lives in the city full time and the one day he or she was coming here to meet with a contractor, they could not park in their spot. As a result, they drove around for an hour looking for parking. I, Ms. Shapiro, was warned that my vehicle would be towed and impounded if it happened again, as it was their right to park in their spot.

I totally agree. But, I was PISSED!!!! Here is why:

1. The car is registered to me, but I did not park there. I hate taking the blame for something I did not do.
2. On a weekday morning, no matter what the season, there is ample parking. This person did not drive around for an hour.
3. Their grammar was horrific and therefore, I cannot take them seriously. If you are going to bring out the big guns, use the grammar check device on the computer.

4. My husband did park in this person’s spot—100% wrong. The verbal warning from the building manager was enough. Did I mention they placed a nasty note in Josh’s windshield (well earned). Did they think that by sending me a letter that cost $15 overnight and certify, I would be shaking in my boots? For all intense purposes, Josh was wrong, but I do not believe parking in someone’s spot renders a certified threat of punishment. A bit over the top, even for me.

AND, here is the main reason I was pissed:

5. This person, knowing my name and address, including my apartment number (FYI—if you ever decide to visit, my former married name is on listed on the building registry), did not have the balls to sign their name on the letter. SERIOUSLY a WIMPY move.

My mature response, prior to writing this very mature blog rant, was to write my own counter attack on a ripped piece of paper and in large black marker. Why a marker? A parent once told my friend that her use of a Sharpie while grading made her appear scary and mean. Yes—true story---markers are scary, especially when used by teachers in schools. But really, it was the only writing implement I could find and in an effort to channel my irritation at my husband and the post office for taking so damn long, I wrote a note to Wimpy Parking Spot Owner 15. I felt much better after. Then, I threw it out. After all, this person knows where I live.

So much for following the rules.

The Long Gone Boxers

I miss you.

My Swollen Heart

I will make this short and sweet...

A few weeks ago, I had an echocardiogram. DON'T PANIC. I am fine. My doctor (the illustrius Dr. Halper of RVC) probably saw an opportunity to milk my health insurance and issued it as a preventative measure. I wonder if the sonographer saw how swollen with love my heart is...

I am so overcome by the love I feel for my daughter that it overwhelms me to the point where I could cry.

Her smile is the brightest light

Watching her discover the world is beyond fascinating.

Four months. B.E. (Before Em), four months seemed like an eternity. Now, it is a mere blink of the eye.

I have only been a mother for seventeen weeks; a member of an exclusive club of women who have been privy to a secret I am so gratful to finally be in on.

I finally know the meaning of true love.

It's So Hard to Say Goodbye

As full as my closet and drawers are, I generally find myself reaching for the same favorite pieces of clothing. This even applies to undergarments and makeup! About a year ago, I was cleaning out my underwear and sock drawer, only to discover that I had socks older than my middle school students. In fact, they were from middle school. You probably assume they were threadbare, but no, apparently I was unhealthfully hording socks from a time in my life where my feet were the smallest part of me. I wonder what a therapist would say about that…I also discovered some underwear that had not been worn in years. Perhaps some of you might remember patterned, satiny undies with thin elastic on the sides? I believe what was symbolic of these was my transition from a cotton, pastel, Warner’s wearing girl to a sexy-ish satin wearing young woman. Alas, I decided it was time to stop being ridiculous and throw out these remnants that I clearly would never wear again. Ordinarily, I donate my old/too tight clothes, but I had to draw the line somewhere.
Last night, I donned a favorite pair of boxer shorts to bed. They were from the Gap, circa 1989/1990. Predominantly red with plaid in green, blue, yellow and purple, they were originally intended for a man. Some of you might remember that at one time, it was acceptable for a girl to wear men’s underwear as outerwear. During my beach bum days at Malibu , I would wear the old school Hanes over my bathing suit; white with a blue or green diamond pattern of some sort and butt sag like I dropped a mega deuce. Soon, however, the Gap began to make boxer-like shorts for women and this former fat girl (a little fat right now—I just had a baby!) was all over that elasticized goodness like white on rice. I had two favorite pairs, both hunter green, with stripes. While on a trip to the Hamptons with my friend Erika, we went into a t-shirt store and I bought a white t that said “West-Hampton Beach Lacrosse” in hunter green writing and a pair of crossed lacrosse sticks in the center. Of course, it matched perfectly with both pairs of hunter green pseudo boxers. I could now rotate that shirt with my hunter green pocket t and white v-neck!!
But then, I began a new romance. One day at the Gap (I would DIE if the Gap ever went out of business), still obsessed with boxers, I stumbled upon a two for twenty deal on men’s “lingerie”. A pair of navy boxers with yellow, green, white and red stripes and the illustrious red plaid pair were soon placed in the blue and white plastic bag and faster than you could so go, two new outfits were born. Of course, I wore both with a white v-neck and pocket t. I am not quite sure what happened to the navy pair, but I know they are long gone. So last night, while I was laying in bed picking the red plaid boxers out of my nether-regions, I came to a decision. It was time to get rid of the boxers. Back and forth I debated this in my head. In fact, I am still debating taking them out of the garbage when I get home later today. They are ripped and worn. They are loose enough that at times, they slide down my hips so I have to roll the top. They are the first thing I tried on after I came from delivering Emily and the first that fit. They have been with me through high school, college, break-ups, divorce, good times and bad. They are the ultimate pair of boxers, once an outfit I wore in public, and now my former, favorite pj bottoms. They are no more. In fact, I cannot even bring myself to render these boxers as a rag for cleaning.
R.I.P red, plaid boxers. Thank you for being there for me during the best of times and the worst of times.