Subway Sightings: Where There's Always an (un)Willing Audience

Fun facts time! The New York City MTA includes:

• 468 Stations
• 21 Subway Lines + 3 Shuttle Trains
• 6,311 Individual Subway Cars (the number per subway train varies depending on the line)

As I'm sure you all are eager for more fascinating subway facts, have fun clicking HERE!

Any New Yorker can attest that the MTA is an integral part of our lives - I personally spend at least two hours a day riding the subway. And that's if I don't have any scheduled mold jobs. This  leads us to today's blog post which is dedicated to #3 on Buzzfeed's most recent NYC-themed viral article, "23 Signs You've Been Living in New York City Too Long": the subway performers. 

Thank god there is an unwritten rule for subway performers, "performers", peddlers, and beggars to lay off the harassment during the daily rush hour commute (it's way too crowded for that shit anyway). Non-rush hour daytime and evening trips are a whole other story. You are guaranteed at least one interruption per ride, usually more. Mind you, this is in addition to all of the performers in the subway stations themselves. Union Square for example is consistently host to at least three separate but simultaneous shows. 468 stations, 21 subway lines, and 6,311 cars certainly provide ample opportunity for hustling the masses. 

I've cried on the subway and I've vomited (twice) on the subway. I've also witnessed pretty much anything and everything on the subway - banjo, rap, cello, saw, bucket, magic, recorder, and Motown a capella performances to name a few - ranging from horrible to incredible. After recent events, I can now add to my list that I've been kissed by a (possibly homeless) stranger on the subway.

Last week, while riding the 2 train downtown from Harlem, a man seated on an amp graced my subway car with an extra long performance (its duration was approximately six stops) on his electric guitar. He was a rather lively man, receiving more than the standard amount of attention from an unusually receptive crowd. After several songs, the singer specifically singled me out and dedicated his own modified version of The Temptations' "My Girl" to "white girl in the grey coat". Lyrics went a little something like this:

I've got sunshine on the 2 train.
When it's cold outside I've got the month of May.
I guess you'd say
What can make me feel this way?
My white girl (white girl, white girl)
Talkin' 'bout my college educated white girl with the grey coat and pony tail...

Then he added in a bit of free style about me. I randomly remember something involving Jamaicans... Anyway, his next song was prefaced with, "If anybody can guess who sings this song, I'mma gonna kiss that white girl over there". Guess what, somebody correctly named the song's artist. And guess what else, he was not kidding. I quickly slapped my hands over my face as the man approached. I was shaking my head and saying no, no, that's okay, you really don't have to do this... Butttt, he did. Thankfully it was just the quickest and lightest of pecks on the back of my hand. Fortunately he seemed relatively clean and un-diseased, but regardless, I took a long, steaming shower the second I got home. 

I've just got all the luck

I will now leave you with another Buzzfeed article that is equally true of la vie quotidienne in this one of a kind crazy city, "48 Things You'll Only See in New York City". 

Photo credits: Pokemon

Appurtenances

Appurtenance |əˈpərtn-əns|
noun (usu. appurtenances)
An accessory or other item associated with a particular activity or style of living: all the appurtenances of luxurious travel.
ORIGIN Middle English: from Old French apertenance, based on late Latin appertinere ‘belong to’ (see appertain).

A teal crushed velvet scrunchie is an excellent appurtenance to jazz up any outfit

Why did I just post the definition of "appurtenance" (other than to, you know, contribute to expanding society's vocabulary via a beloved reminiscence of the Word of the Day from third grade English class. Now, go use it in a sentence!)? Anyway, I was recently assigned to do a mold inspection of a building in downtown Manhattan in the midst of a large legal battle. My company had been given several documents outlining various problems with the property. Along with a lot of other bizarre terms and out of place references, the building owner had used the word "appurtenances" instead of "accessories" in one of the documents to describe a component of the building. I love a good two-dollar word as much as the next person, but something in the documents was throwing me off. People frequently ask me if I've ever seen any "really scary mold" situations. My response is always that the mold is never the scary part, it's the people. The use of the word "appurtenance" should have told me that this whole situation was only going to go downhill from there. 

The job was at an absolutely disgusting building, but came with an even more disgusting property manager. I can barely even go into the details because they're just too stupid, so I'll stick to the highlights reel. That day it was pouring, the weather and the streets were a mess. I arrived to the site twenty minutes late (which in my book doesn't even count as late) but from the way the guy reacted, you'd think I had showed up four hours late, drunk, and missing half my equipment. 

If only.

He showed me around the building for a half hour or so and repeatedly said things like, "I don't want to tell you how to do your job, but...", "I've been in this business a long time, so I know what I'm talking about", and "I've never seen a girl at a job site before". Okay Mr. Genius of the Universe, if you're so smart and perfect and prompt, oh, and a man, why don't you do the mold test yourself? You seem to clearly know what you're talking about. Obviously as a girl, it's much too complicated for me. *Eye. Roll.*

The building manager had set up an appointment with other people at the same time as my investigation. So of course as soon as they arrived, I was completely ignored so the real men could finally get down to business. Thank the lord! I could finally do my job in peace!

I normally don't wear a respirator on the job, most places I go are in very good shape. Unfortunately this building was so disgusting that I seriously considered burning my outfit afterward.

Technically the building had been a "family friendly" pizzeria. At least according to a sign that had been left behind

But apparently, the third floor had also been home to a secret brothel

If only the building manager had kept all his "tips" to himself!

Photo credits: Moulin Rouge, Futurama, riverfronttimes.com, The Simpsons

PSA: Death to the Fist Bump

Being in the construction/real estate/environmental biz, I work along side a number of field technicians, a position held most commonly by men. It's been an interesting experience adjusting to Bro Culture, although I probably force them to adjust to me more than anything - let's just say there are a lot of conversations focused on the importance of crafternoons, brunch, and color blocking. Anyway, I have two male coworkers that are near and dear to my heart, although I've come to realize that they both have a problem. A fist bump problem. The first has been referenced on several occasions and virtually goes by Porkchop. The other has also helped me with several projects and will therefore be known as Pork Chop II.

Porkchop I

Pork Chop II

I'd say approximately six to eight times a day, both Porkchop I and Pork Chop II will come over to my desk and silently stand there with an expectant fist hanging in the air waiting for me to complete the pound and subsequent pound explosion. Sometimes Pork Chop II will mix it up and throw in an, "MG! What's Gucci?!". I've told them that the pounds have got to stop. I need put my foot (my fist?) down - they're totally devaluing the power of the pound. Alas, my complaints have gone unheeded. The battle of the bump reached a pinnacle last week when I announced in an exasperated, tragically carrying tone that, if they like pounding so much, they should just pound each other. #OhGodNotAnotherMeetingWithHR  

And side note, because I love learning and sharing knowledge, check out what I found! A piece of hard-hitting journalism from Time Magazine: A Brief History of the Fist Bump. Can't wait to show Porkchop I and Pork Chop II this post Monday morning :)

Photo credits: Doug, skinnytaste.com 

#Learning

Apparently mold growth wasn't the only life form that copiously spawned and has since proliferated as a result of Hurricane Sandy

About Time

Finally! After almost two years as a mold inspector, I've finally visited the home of what I'd call a true "crazy cat lady". 

I aspire to be a combination of Eleanor Abernathy and Captain Horatio McCallister one day

The story is actually rather tragic, the woman is the soul heir to a multi-billion dollar fortune and I guess suffers from some sort of mental disorder. I googled her family – apparently her grandfather (?) gained notoriety during his life as an archetypal representation of a Robber Baron. He has been ranked as one of America's top ten richest men of all time as well as one of America's worst CEOs of all time. Sheesh! What a legacy. Okay history lesson over, back on track. The apartment owner was not present at the time of inspection, although her love of cats most certainly was. The apartment was a bit scary, I felt like I needed to burn my clothes afterwards, but below is a sampling of some of her fabulous knickknacks: 

"Mr. Whiskers, Butterscotch, Katy Purry! Let's get your party bonnets on in time for afternoon tea!"

An avid lover of all animals – no h8 for the dogz out there

Lipstick? Check. Push-up bra? Check. Cat hair? Check. Okay, let's go tear this town up.

Um....

Photo credits: The Simpsons

Going Up?

Okay, so I haven't met any overly enthusiastic floor-counting Transylvanians per se, but it is uncanny how realistic the rest of this video clip is. No joke, EVERYONE in the superintendent/doorman/elevator operator/handyman biz is Albanian. And if they're not Albanian, they're Romanian. Pretty much all the same thing, right (I know a certain Albanian, excuse me, a Montenegrin,  who would stroke out if she heard that statement, but I'm gonna leave it)? At least they all end in -ania. To this day, I have not met an Albanian or Romanian (or Transylvanian) who didn't love to talk. ...And talk, and talk. I have shot the shit with more than one -anian superintendent for at least a solid half hour after a job  was finished. One guy learned I am Jewish, and subsequently recommended about five different documentaries about Albanians + Jews + the Holocaust. Another lamented with me over how much we both hate artificial chemicals and ingredients. A third shared with me his passion for antiques. It goes on...You get the drift, they are certainly an enthusiastic bunch!

Especially for blood :)

Photo credits: Sesame Street, Dracula

Spooky, Scary

Many of you may ask, what could possibly be scarier than a Werewolf Bar Mitzvah? Admittedly not much. Although recently I came across an article that could give such a thing a run for it's money. As I hope you all know, severe weather storms have become increasingly common with recent climate change. According to *science*, the incidence of injury due to FLESH EATING FUNGI is on the rise. A common, usually harmless soil fungus known as Apophysomyces (do NOT google images of this) turns flesh eating and deadly when given the chance to enter the body through an open wound. A wound obtained and contaminated thanks to blunt force trauma in a tornado for instance. Oy vey!

Remember kids, a flesh-eating fungi is not a fun guy to have at your bar mitzvah. Stay safe in those storms people!

Ugh, I'm terrible.

Photo Credits: 30 Rock

Insane in the Membrane

Pop quiz: what island hosted an infamous insane asylum as well as a penitentiary facility, was formerly known as Welfare Island, and provided inspiration for various creepy films and books? 

That island would be Roosevelt, of course

In the terrible aftermath of Hurricane Sandy, I've been inundated with requests to inspect buildings that were flooded during the sea surges. I was excited to learn I'd be doing one such investigation at Roosevelt Island. I had heard tell of its historical nut hut and was eager to see the place (let's not kid ourselves, I also wanted an excuse to ride the tram!). Little did I know that not only was I going to the island that once was home to the famous loony bin, I was investigating THE loony bin itself! 

Dreams do come true!

Today only a portion of the insane asylum remains after time and a serious fire took their tolls. This portion is a gorgeously restored circular/geometric building, complete with spiral staircases called "the Octagon". Apparently it used to be the reception area of the crazy home. Now it's a combination of residential apartments, office spaces, and a preschool. Not gonna lie, kind of a letdown. Let's hope that they're crraaazzzyyyy apartments and office spaces and that the ghosts of tortured souls roam the preschool halls. 

THE OCTAGON

THE OCTAGON PLAQUE

And one of the approximately 20 photos I took on the ~5 minute tram ride. I guess I was a tad overeager. 

Photo credits: Roosevelt Island Tram, Who Framed Roger Rabbit