Sunday, August 26, 2012

We're Not in Manhattan Anymore... Part One

Hi Friends, this is a long one so I'm splitting it up into two parts! For part two, click here!

Make fun of me all you want but let's get one thing clear. I do not drive. Yes, I have a driver's license. But no, to my boss's dismay, I refuse to drive for work. Here's why:
1. I have not driven since I moved to New York City which is over five years ago.
2. I never was a super confident driver to begin with. I have what you'd call an "anxious" personality and I get nervous when I'm not familiar with my surroundings.
3. Give me a break, driving in the tri-state area is a whole other animal than driving almost anywhere else in the US. It'd be scary enough to drive here with a companion for moral/emotional/directional support, but attempting it alone? No. Just no. As my dad likes to say, "There's only one rule to driving in NYC: point and go".
4. As any of my friends from high school can attest to, driving with me is always an...adventure. I guess there's always the adrenaline thrill of not knowing if you'll ever reach your destination, or even if you'll be alive by the end of the night. Any and all attempts at highway driving result in me getting lost, pulling off at some random ramp and parking somewhere, crying hysterically to my dad on the phone, and him directing me how to get home while he remains on the phone the entire time.*
5. Trust me, you do not want me sharing the road with you.
*Give me SOME credit, this was in the days before everybody had GPS. OKAY?!?
Dionne and Cher understand my struggle:
"Hey! You try driving in platforms!"
Because of this, I HATE going on the odd job that takes me outside of Manhattan/Brooklyn/Queens/The Bronx because it usually involves twelve transfers between various subways, trains, and buses and then I still have to make the client pick me up at the bus station. Never a good day.

On one particular occasion I was forced to go inspect the home of a 85+ year old woman in Long Island. This was at the start of my career as a mold inspector and I was nervous about traveling to the job. I didn't have any spare thoughts for the job itself...Who would have known that the traveling would be the most fun part of my day?

Back story: the large six-bedroom home was built by the lady's late husband. The pair had  two sons, now in their 40s, that are no longer living there (thank God!). As these things go,  the house had fallen into disrepair over the years and had experienced several leaks. I was hired by the older son, we'll call him Tweedledee, to inspect the ENTIRE home for mold because his mother was sick. The second son, Tweedledum, refers to himself as an African art dealer. 
Imagine these two, but up the creep factor and minimize the happiness level
Allegedly TDum's storage space for his "art" was being repaired, and he was temporarily storing his wooden African statues in his mother's home. I'm not trying to offend anyone here, I love the African section of the Metropolitan Museum of Art as much as the next person, but if you treat any sort of art like shit, it ceases being art and turns into shit. Period.

Fast forward three years and the "art" was still at the mother's house. It was easy to realize that the point of this investigation was to settle a dispute between TDee and TDum on whether or not the art needed to go...

Photo Credits: Alice in Wonderland, Clueless

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