Last week I received a request to do a mold investigation upstate in Poughkeepsie, New York. The journey involved a two hour train ride on Metro North's Hudson Line. The expedition was breathtakingly beautiful and relaxing. It had been so long since I had left the concrete jungle of NYC and I thoroughly enjoyed the air's clean and refreshing scent. Unfortunately my mold inspection was quite the opposite. Thank god the apartment's resident wasn't home during my investigation - the entire place wreaked worse than a dumpster you'd find behind an Arby's on a 90 degree summer's day. Not sure I have any desire to meet the person who chooses to keep their house in such condition... Anywho, below are some photos taken along the way. Enjoy!
Couldn't have asked for a more gorge day!
Necessary bridge shot
This looks like a scene from the Lord of the Rings. I kept hoping to catch sight of a hobbit or two.
Andddddd this is the sticker I found on a banana I ate today
Yesterday I had a job that was bizarre from start to finish. I was asked to test an apartment in Tudor Village for Volatile Organic Compounds (VOCs). If you can believe this,the people who request VOC testing are even crazier than those I meet for mold testing. Residents demand this sort of test when they are certain that they smell some sort of chemical odor (of course I have yet to perform this test where anyone other than the resident could smell anything). The concerned tenants are convinced said odor is toxic and will kill them. In one case, I met a woman who described in great detail all the reasons she believed her neighbors were purposely trying to poison her. That's a whole other story to be shared at some point. Anyway, I have performed roughly twenty VOC tests during my career and have not once found anything of concern. This particularly investigation involves three separate tales of strange:
Zip up your space suit and buckle on that helmet, things are about to get weird
Tale of Strange Part I
VOC sampling involves large, awkward metal canisters. When I have to haul these puppies around the city, people always stare. The canisters are suspicious looking and give me some terrorist vibes. I hopped on the 1 train at 28th hauling this embarrassing equipment and an old woman grabs my attention. She asks me whether I'm pregnant and if I needed her seat. First of all, unless a woman is clearly about to pop, you do not ask if she is pregnant. No. Just no. Everybody knows (or should know) this question is a serious social faux pas. But more importantly, DO I LOOK PREGNANT?!?!? I do not consider myself as having a prego bod. I kickbox, zumba, and do pilates each at least once a week. Clearly I need to start going more often. Oh man, I just googled pregnant women and am starting to hyperventilate a little bit. They just are SO BIG! It looks really uncomfortable! Why is nature so cruel? Aghh!
The pregnancy question is an especially sore subject for me, because about a year ago I was also asked this two or three times within a span of a few weeks. I swear, I've worn the same pant size since seventh grade. I do not go around with a pained expression on my face and my hands supporting my lower back shouting, "where the hell are my pickles and ice cream?!?". I was doing my best to appear normal and not pregnant. My friend who shall be known as Denile Daboo tells me I have an awkward posture that may make people think I'm pregnant. Ugh, I know I have weak back muscles. I'm working on them, 'kay??
If I WAS pregnant, I promise I would not post photos of myself and my baby daddy like this
Or this
My response to the woman was, "Ummm... No. Or at least I hope not..." She defended her question with something like, "No, I'm serious. I always like to ask, just in case. Because, you know, a MAN would never ask. OR get up for you". Interesting. I consider myself a hardcore feminist but that was way extreme even for my standards! I'm guessing she must be some bra-burning, second wave feminist, although does this woman really ask every female on the subway if she's pregnant? I find that difficult to believe...
Here's an idea, let's castrate all the men! I'm serious. Never again would I be asked if I was pregnant!
Tale of Strange Part II After this exchange, I move further into the train car. A bunch of people had made eyes with me to silently laugh (or smize à la Tyra Banks) about the absurd situation. One of them leaned in and whispered to me, "You don't look pregnant. She must have noticed your glow". Our conversation continued on from there and was particularly interesting because this person was from Australia. Red Coats are a dime a dozen in this city, but I have rarely ever met an Australian. Pretty much everything I know about Australia can be summed up by Men At Work's "I Come from a Land Down Under":
My one burning question - do Australians really eat vegemite? Okay, my second burning question - what is vegemite??
This person seemed rather interesting and we made plans to reconvene Friday night. WHICH THIS NAMELESS INDIVIDUAL FLAKED OUT ON (yeah, I'm calling you out :p).
Tale of Strange Part III
Finally, I arrive at the job site. The apartment's resident is Italian. Very Italian. As in a flirty old man with rather limited English skills.
He was what I imagine Chef Boyardee to be like, just minus a couple of teeth
Despite his lack of English skills, this man was quite a talker. At one point he says something that I don't quite understand and I just nod and smile in response. Then he goes to the fridge and I hear him say "arancia" (orange in italian). I got all excited thinking that he was about to serve me that San Pellegrino knock-off of Orangina. He steps away from the fridge with a bottle of Tropicana.
HEY! I'm eating for two here and my raging hormones require aranciata! STAT!
So even though I did not particularly want a glass of orange juice, I was stuck drinking it. While sipping, or I guess gulping–the man tells me to, "Slow down! Relax! You Americans do everything too fast!"–he then proceeds to discuss Italy's relationship with orange juice. Allegedly, the world's best oranges are grown in Sicily, although it is rare to find real orange juice in Italy. If you do find it, the juice is very expensive. According to him, the Italian mafia owns all of the country's orange groves. Whenever anybody attempts to produce orange juice, the mafia quickly "teaches" them to find a new line of business. And now you know. #Learning! Should I have been honored by his gift of such a delicacy?
Tale of Strange Epilogue: Appreciate the little things in life while you can. Like orange juice. Because you never know when the mob is gonna ruin it for everybody.
Photo credits: pregnantchicken.com, DC Comics: Strange Adventures, phem.or, Men at Work, Chef Boyardee, San Pelligrino, The Simpsons
New Yorkers come across all sorts of people when riding the subway. Most are normal and keep to themselves or give a quick smile. Unfortunately subway passengers are sometimes forced to deal with a bit of commentary that we'd rather not hear. Frequently people take it upon themselves to proselytize the "word of God". Jesus loves you! You are all sinners! The devil is a homosexual! One man seemed obsessed with the word "butts". WOMEN: YOU NEED TO COVER UP THE BUTTS. MEN: YOU NEED TO STOP STARING AT THE BUTTS. BUTTS BUTTS BUTTS. Ugh. Obviously somebody has some serious hangups regarding the booty region.
I guess that man could not be trusted!
Announcements unrelated to religion or the standard requests for food/money are much less common on the subway. One of the most unusual rants I've been exposed to falls within this miscellaneous category. The speaker was an attractive young woman dressed in stylish clothing. We were on the 4 train, although she could easily pass for your average L train rider. Nothing too weird about her. At least until she started talking. This woman informed us all that she makes body parts. Body parts. If I understood correctly, she makes them of people and for people. It was difficult to determine whether it was a good thing or a bad thing to be her subject matter/inspiration. Sometimes she referred to the body parts in a spiritual way, "those who are enlightened, don't need to ask what it fucking means to 'make body parts'. Our souls have communicated and they already just know". Sometimes she spoke of them as some sort of voodoo curse, "I make body parts for fucking whoever does me wrong!". I think she liked the word "fuck".
Is this what she meant? Because I'd love her to make me some body parts lollipops come Halloween.
Or maybe she was thinking more along the lines of this. Do you think she knows Inside Out Boy? I bet he likes body parts too.
I loved the reactions of my fellow passengers. The girl next to me laughed, "Why did I just spend money going to the movies when I'm getting all this entertainment for free!". I especially liked one guy who got off at my stop, "It's poetry, man. Poetry". I thought that was a beautiful way to think about the situation. I mean it's better than what I was thinking. I was worried she'd whip out a knife and start demonstrating how she makes her body parts!
Yup, it's that time of year again. The act of cramming that last bite of pumpkin pie down America's throat to conclude yet another uncomfortably bloating Thanksgiving meal signifies one thing — it's Christmas time bitches! That means Christmas sweaters, Christmas cookies, Christmas decorations, and especially Christmas music in your face, everywhere, at all times.
Most utterly painful Christmas song ever? Survey says: Wham's "Last Christmas"
For those of you unfamiliar with NYC winters, you many wonder how New Yorkers obtain Christmas trees given that nobody owns a car and there certainly are no magical sleigh rides to Santa's Christmas tree forest. One must purchase their Christmas tree at a stand found at various street corners throughout the city. Last year I saw so many tree stands on the Upper West Side, that I counted one every two to four blocks. Redic. Anyway, this is the case only if you live in Manhattan. In other boroughs, residents are not so lucky. The tree lots are much fewer and farther between.
Christmas tree shopping, aka the annual arboreal mass murder frenzy
On the subway today it was quite hilarious to see that one family decided to purchase and haul their Christmas tree from Chelsea all the way to Crown Heights. Did I mention that this very robust and bushy tree was seven feet tall? After witnessing this, let me tell you this is no easy feat! The family was so adorable. Everybody on the train came over to comment. The dad was clearly mortified with all the attention while the mom and daughter were lapping up the compliments. *Note to all the menz out there: follow this guy's example and keep your ladies happy!*
One woman could not get over this train-traveling tree. She was so blown away that she laughed hysterically for approximately ten straight minutes. Apparently she really, really, REALLY loves Christmas and even had to take a picture as documentation. This woman indicated the shopping bag in her hand and mentioned that she had just purchased decorations for her own tree. As she was leaving the train, she goes over to the family and generously hands over her bag of ornaments. This is why I love New York. Whoever thinks we're all a bunch of jerks obviously doesn't know this town!
And what happened then? Well in New York they say, that this random act of kindness made our hearts grow three sizes that day!
Despite how mortified I am to admit this (I am a serious anti-belieber, and for that matter not too keen on Mariah Carey either) I will leave you with one of my absolute favorite Christmas songs. Feel free to judge. Happy challah-days everyone :)
Let's count, how many times can Mariah Carey sing over the shoulder in order to flaunt her aging ass in 4 min. 14 sec.?
I love the shuttle train between Time Square and Grand Central Station. It's the only train that the MTA allows to be completely decked out with advertising. Normally I don't particularly enjoy the usual advertising assault on my eyes (calling Dr. Zizmor!!), but I gotta hand it to marketers, they always do an awesome job with the S train. Like Katy Perry, I love a good theme!
Wearing a Simpsons dress while making a guest appearance on the Simpsons? GENIUS
While riding the S train last week, I saw that the shuttle was seriously classed up to look like a Victorian-style home library. Note the fancy wood paneling, the plethora of collector's edition hard cover books, and the squashy armchairs that replace the usual drab subway seats. I have no idea what this was supposed to advertise, but who cares?
The armchairs were not as comfortable as the cushion decals made them appear...
Ever since I was first exposed to Disney's Beauty and the Beast, it has been a life goal of mine to have my own personal library. Preferably one with secret passageways à la Clue (the game AND the movie).
I don't actually read, I just want people to think I'm smart
Maybe I should move to DC and become Capitol Hill's favorite madame . I bet SHE has a library!
Sadly a mold inspector's salary does not pay quite well enough to afford a library, real or fake. Once I saw a homeless man on the subway spouting off hilarious jokes about the D train being his "home". When deboarding the subway car, he told us all to clean up after ourselves because he was expecting some new guests. Maybe he was onto something... Maybe my dreams of "owning" a "library" are within reach! Look out S train, here comes the Mold Girl equipped with a shopping cart and a blatant disregard for personal space and indoor voices!
Oh and ps, I love Clue the game, Clue the movie, and heck, I also love Clueless, so much that I once dragged my family to see Cluessical, the Clue musical. It didn't quite live up to my standards for all things Clue...
Yup, this exists. And yup, it's as bad as you'd expect it to be.
Photo credits: Disney, Beauty and the Beast, Katy Perry, The Simpsons, Clue, Clue the Musical
Literally. No words. I've now seen this guy twice during my midday travels. He performs a surprisingly impressive magic routine on a moving subway without uttering a word. His act even involves a LIVE rabbit and bird! I feel bad for the animals, but I'd be lying if I said I wasn't mesmerized by his routine (and his sexi bod, obvi). Check it out for yourself.
