You Want to be Popular, Don't You??

It can be so hard to stick out from the crowd and stay on top of the newest, hottest trends. Lucky for you, Adventures of the Mold Girl is so on trend right now! Simply by liking The Adventures of the Mold Girl's Facebook page will show the world how truly cool you are with only the slightest amount of effort. 

The Facebook page will keep you up to date on all of the most recent Mold Girl postings. There, you can also find extra commentary and other content. Woohoo!

And remember, there is absolutely nothing more important than being popular. At least except for making sure the rest of the world knows it too.

"Thank you. By the way, do you know what existential means? Because today someone told me my writing was existential, so I thought I should coordinate, you know, with wardrobe." - Quinn Morgendorffer

Quinn is the ultimate humanitarian

Photo credits: Daria

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

Party Animals

The past couple weeks I have gone out drinking expecting nothing out of the ordinary, just your average mix of hipsters, bros, hipster bros, basic boring-os, and a sprinkling of normal people, but have ended up finding myself boozing alongside the most bizarre company.

Last weekend I went to a bar called Lucky Dog in Williamsburg. I assumed "Lucky Dog" was just a name. You know, I don't go to The Slaughtered Lamb thinking that I will find myself surrounded by actual lamb carcasses or The Wolf and Deer expecting to see the circle of life unfold before my eyes. Lucky for all things cute in the world, Lucky Dog isn't all talk and really does live up to its name. I have no idea how this is legal, but apparently Lucky Dog is a pet friendly drinking establishment. If I'm not mistaken, I believe they also serve food there too... The place was packed full not only with people, but with man's best friend as well. I was so jealous of my companion, who just so happened to be sitting next to an obese pug.  The dog was swagged out in a stylish little sweater and sat on a bar stool with his paws on the counter like he owned the place. He was even served a free shot of beer! Having witnessed this scene, I can now die a happy person.

Did anybody card this animal? He doesn't look 21 to me. The things looks will get you, I guess!

 Continuing on this animal theme, yesterday I found myself at a small dive bar in the East Village called Manitoba's. I don't really understand why, but I guess somebody who was friends with the bar tenders was trying to raise funds for some charity, so the bar tenders were going around asking patrons if they'd like to purchase a button for two dollars. The guy next to me whips out A LIVE CRUSTACEAN OUT OF NOWHERE and tries to barter it for a button. Do not ask me where on his person the man kept the aquatic animal, because I still am not sure. Just my luck to get stuck next to the lobster instead of the pug!

This isn't quite what I saw crawling around the bar, but it's as close as it's going to get. I legitimately have no idea what to even google. 

I was a bit bitter that the bar didn't at least bust out Under the Sea. That would have made the slightly disturbing scene more tolerable.

Photo credits: http://www.bsos.umd.edu

Spring has Sprung

Check out these gorgeous views of blossoming trees and distant Manhattan taken from the seventeenth floor of a Fort Greene apartment building. Now go out and enjoy this beautiful weather! :)

Hey D, Just Another Day on the Job

I have a friend and former coworker who shall be known as D. D is a tattooed and burly Russian from outer Brooklyn. At first glance he can seem a tad scary. And second glance too. Third glance is when his big fluffy heart is finally revealed. D has a handful of years on me, and likes to act as my pseudo big brother - I'm told constantly that I'm not "professional" or that something isn't "safe" or "don't do that". He can be kind of a Debbie Downer. But boy certainly has a knack for witty banter. I love all of our heated discussions which somehow end up on the topic of feminism without fail. I particularly enjoy my ability to exasperate him, although to be honest, he probably exasperates me more. 

I always imagined D as a Paul Bunyan type - like Pauly B, D frequently sports a plaid shirt, and isn't lacking in the body hair department either. I'm sure he also wouldn't embarrass himself too badly in a duel against Dracula. 

D loves to give advice. As one of my many therapists, his trademark counsel is as follows:

"MG, I want you to stare at the mirror and give yourself a good, hard look in the eyes. Now repeat this mantra until it finally works, 'shut the fuck up'."

So thaaat's all I need to do. Thanks, Doctor D.

Are we ready for the ink blot tests yet?

As a Russian Jew from Brooklyn, D grew up surrounded by a lot of girls who could arguably be called JAPs. He has a hard time understanding the difference between a JAP, aka a Jewish American Princess, and a young, awesome, smart, hilarious female Jew with a great sense of style and some standards. I personally do not use the term "JAP", I prefer the more general phrase Basic Bitch. No, I do not call my father "daddy". No, I do not require at a minimum of two hours to get ready in the morning. No, my parents do not support me. No, I do not go gallivanting around the local mall decked out in Ugg boots, a Louis Vuitton handbag, a revealing Abercrombie & Fitch top, and a matching Tiffany's necklace, bracelet, earrings combo set. 

Imagine this scenario, just brown hair

There, that's better - it's Gretchen Wiener!

To put the whole JAP thing to rest once and for all, I will demonstrate a situation that I recently found myself in -  a situation where no Basic Bitch would EVER step foot. Last week a management company informed me before an inspection that I would be investigating a hoarder situation. I hate hoarders, they're gross and creepy, but it's usually not too big of a deal. Been there, done that, nothing I haven't seen before. Upon arrival at the site, a building maintenance worker says to me, "You know the deal with this apartment, right?". I said I was aware that it was a hoarding situation and he responded, "It's a bit more than that. You'll see". Coooooooooolllll.

Apparently the story is this: an old man had been living in the studio apartment for the past fifty years. In addition to the hoarding problem, he never cleaned the place. Not once. The building management had to forcibly remove the resident so that maintenance workers could remove the piles and piles of clothing and other items that had covered every free inch of space.

Horrifyingly, but not unexpectantly, the workers discovered an insect infestation in the bed. An exterminator was called in, and the exterminator provided a list of every type of insect he had found living in the apartment. The list could fill the pages of a novel. Underneath the bed had at one point been a throw rug. The throw rug today? It was 100 percent eaten and decomposed by insects. No joke. The carpet is now pure dust.This was probably the most disgusting apartment I've ever been in. And that truly is saying something. In your face, D?

The emptied studio apartment

How does a random part of your wall get THIS dirty??

I am not fucking kidding, this massive pile of a sawdust looking material was ONCE A CARPET. This is what a 50 year long insect infestation looks like.

Classy fabric wallpaper looking not so classy now.

The kitchen. Let's hope this wouldn't count as a "C" on NYC's controversial restaurant grading system.

The fridge. No words.

And the Grand Finale

Photo credits: http://wingedboar.net, Blitzcadet, Daria, Barbie, Mean Girls

The Magic Touch

A while ago I performed a mold inspection at the home of what I suppose you could call a D-list celebrity, who's job title includes the word "magic". Guess what the person does for a living, I'll even be generous and give you two chances: 

Unfortunately you'd be incorrect guessing Channing Tatum back during his Chippendale days :-/

That's more like it, a magician!

I am rarely given an apartment resident's name prior to an inspection, but for whatever reason I was provided with a name on this particular occasion. I had thought nothing of it given that the name is rather common, although it became quite evident upon arrival that I was indeed inside the home of the famous-ish magician himself. He was not present at the time of inspection, but his foreign model baby momma who looked younger than me was. 
The classiest part of the apartment was a large epic oil painting of the magician hanging upside down from some telephone wires with New York's skyscrapers far below in the distance. The painting pictured him calmly struggling inside of a buckled straightjacket while four scary devils creeped along the wires towards him. It was fabulous. If only I had asked for the artist's name so that I could commission a similarly epic Mold Girl painting. I have the perfect spot to hang it! *le sigh* If only.

I had wanted to image search "epic devil oil paintings" for this picture, but I was afraid of all the creepy things I'd find. So here's what I came up with after googling "magician art": The Magician by Alexandre Evariste Fragonard. #Culture

And now I will wrap up this post with a song that I was introduced to in 1999 by the soundtrack to Sabrina the Teenage Witch. Enjoy.

#MoreCulture

Photo credits: Magic Mike, Fun Factory Parties

With Desperation Comes Innovation

The price of real estate in New York is horrifyingly expensive. I have a minor meltdown every time I check my bank statements and realize the percentage of my income spent on rent. At least once a month I threaten to leave NYC, until I remember that the rest of America is way lamer (please feel free to be offended). Although still I sometimes claim with pride, Screw it! I want to be one of those 25 year olds still living with their parents.

Damn, beaten to the punch

So I don't want to start anything here (or do I? Vive la révolution?), but I can theoretically imagine that my following insight will remind readers of the realities of how the uber wealthy live, and has the potential to contribute to a social uprising or two. Ugh, sometimes being so influential is exhausting! 

I've mentioned in previous posts that I frequently visit the homes of the One Percent, or at least the Five Percent. In a city where a single square foot of space is a precious commodity, these apartments are always gloriously spacious and airy, and so big that it's easy to get lost (the architecture of these old Upper East Side and Upper West Side apartments is enchantingly bizarre - lots of long, twisting labyrinthine hallways). 

Okay, I get it, you're loaded. Good for you, you have an incredible apartment. Although here is the part that really gets me - many of these apartments are just one of many properties owned by the resident and are only used a couple of weeks of the year. I was in a place that recently sold for 18.5 MILLION dollars. The super said that the previous owners only spent about a week or two there a year. That statement is enough to send me on a murder-suicide rampage (hello ever watchful authorities, that was a joke). But anyway, a stroke of brilliance hit me, do any of these people need house sitters for the, you know, fifty weeks of the year they're off living somewhere else?? I was raised by a certified neat freak and have had the perfectionistic ways of home maintenance drilled into me. Plus, I know how to handle any sort of unexpected leak situation! If that doesn't qualify me to be the next House Sitter of the Year, I don't know what would. Mold Girl is now accepting any and all house sitting inquiries :)

Upper East Side - Playground of the rich and powerful. Will they accept me as the next Dan Humphrey??

To paraphrase the Cheshire Cat, it doesn't really matter which way I go, they're all mad here. Mad rich at least. 

Photo credits: Brooklynmadestore's Etsy shop, Gossip Girl, someecards, Alice in Wonderland, hagalfarm.blogspot.com

Hey You Look Familiar... Part Deux

This is a continuation of a previous post, if you have not read the original Hey You Look Familiar, now is a perfect time!

Okay, done? Great!

As previously mentioned, I find it more than a bit disconcerting as to how often I'm told that I remind random strangers of someone they know. This goes for both regular people and celebrities. Just wondering, does this happen frequently to anyone else? I mean I know I'm a total babe, but I wouldn't say that I've achieved a hawtness level equivalent to a combination of eleven (and counting) gorgeous celebrities...yet. :P Kidding, geesh! I'm not that conceited. I generally consider my looks as equivalent to not requiring a paper bag as a "face accessory". And I've never come across someone in which I think to myself, "Damn, I just found my sister from another mister!", especially when it comes to celebrities. But if we've learned anything from Who Wants to Be a Millionaire, it's that you should always trust public opinion. So here's a thought - what's the money like for celebrity impersonators? High end faux trust fund baby escorts? Paper bag face accessory models?


Anywho, here's part deux of my celebrity doppelganger list:
My BAMF Doppelganger:  

Hilary Swank - I kickbox and zumba, pretty much same thing as Million Dollar Baby, no?

My "Can you repeat the name?", "I'm sorry, what was that?", and "Okay, one more time" Doppelganger: 

Ally Sheedy aka the weird chick in The Breakfast Club

My We-have-the-Same-Haircut Doppelganger:

Alexa Chung - yeah girl, I feel you, my hair's always a hot mess too

 My Ginger Doppelganger:

Amy Adams

And last but not least, my YOU ARE TOTALLY PERSONALITY TWINS AND YOU LOOK LIKE HER TOO Doppelganger:

Caroline, aka Beth Behrs, from Two Broke Girls

I'd say that at least six people have told me that I behave *exactly* like Caroline from Two Broke Girls, minus the whole I-used-to-be-a-trust-fund-baby thing (I wish!). Since hearing these comments, it was my duty to myself as well as my plethora of doppelgangers to give the show a whirl. I watched a handful of episodes from season one, and while I do think the show has its moment, it unfortunately seems a bit dated to me - Two Broke Girls is like a mix of old school slapstick comedy and a severely nineties sitcom (not to mention it's actually called 2 Broke Girls, not Two Broke Girls, but I refuse to use a number as a title). The show is clever, but also relies on a lot of tired clichés and stereotypes. Although to be fair, I'd say my own humor probably could sometimes be described as recycled and tired (hopefully minus the whole racism thing, HELLO Han Lee!). So I guess my point is, I do see some similarities between myself and Caroline, and that I think to enjoy Two Broke Girls, you need to pretend that you're watching a theater piece written by some old college friend who liked Family Guy a little bit too much and just appreciate the effort.

I will admit that Caroline and I both have similar bubbly and enthusiastic personalities and share an I-don't-have-a-sense-of-dignity approach to life. Additionally, I think that Caroline is the first girl I'd call if I needed a rat situation handled!

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 

Hot Dog Friday

Today a colleague of mine decided that it would be "Hot Dog Friday". To my own demise, I didn't read her email sent earlier this week regarding the no-occasion occasion. I had assumed Hot Dog Friday wouldn't be a big deal. I thought we'd have just straight up hot dogs for lunch, not a full blown party or anything. Wrong-o. People went all out with bringing in dishes. We had basically every kind of hot dog/burger combo imaginable - regular hot dogs, veggie dogs, spicy chicken sausages, burgers, veggie burgers, turkey burgers, soylent green burgers (kidding!). Burgers and dogs galore. And this is an office of roughly 15 people. Don't ask me how, but all meat and meat substitutes were consumed by the end of the day. When it comes to eating, we go hard.

Additionally, the sister of my Hot-Dog-Friday-inventor coworker is a professional baker (check her out!!  Fun Cakes & More). She's been temping at my company the past few weeks (unfortunately the cake biz gets slow this time of year). Anyway, so she brought in a SHITTON of baked goods for this shindig. And her stuff is no joke - you just can't not eat it. I've sampled her wares on several occasions and I can tell you that it's way too good to resist. 

As I type this, I feel pretty disgusting. I won't even tell you how much sugar I consumed today because I'm not in the mood for your virtual judgmental stare. But ugh, now I really need to go to a GOOP-inspired, anorexic rich bitch  "wellness retreat" or something. But hey, calories don't count on a holiday, amirite?! Happy Hot Dog Friday y'all!!

Tres leches cupcakes - gurlfren' is KNOWN for these babies

Passion fruit, raspberry, and dulce de leche cupcakes

Cake pops! And funky glasses that I was told were purchased specifically with yours truly in mind :)

Best part? Now my skull can do an outfit change!

Those old pink shutter glasses were *so* Kanye circa 2009

Photo credits: www.seriouseats.com, Crif Dogs 

Werk it Out - Boogie Down Bronx Edition

I'm just gonna throw it out there. The Bronx is crazy. Even crazier than Queens. And let me tell you, Queens is pretty crazy (what genius thought it'd be a good idea to name streets "64th Road", "64th Street", and "64th Drive", all of which are located in completely different areas? I know Queens is a big borough, but come on, we can be more creative than that). Despite the confusing nature of Queens, the Bronx is still weirder. It's so different than all the other boroughs. NYC is a typical urban city - it's like, you know, flat. The Bronx on the other hand is a mountain. Actually scratch that, it's the Infinite Staircase described by Justin Norton in my favorite book, The Phantom Tollbooth. 

“Whether or not you find your own way, you're bound to find some way. If you happen to find my way, please return it, as it was lost years ago. I imagine by now it's quite rusty.”

Everywhere you go there are staircases and staircases, and then more staircases. If you weren't familiar with the area and looked at a map, you'd think, "Oh! It should be easy to drive from Point A to Point B, all you have to do is take this short little road!" But no, this "short little road" is, you guessed it, a staircase. Below you are looking at a legitimate portion of West 238th Street: 

This shot had to be taken very quickly - I was starting to get strange looks for photographing a nondescript cement staircase...

Note the grading and height of the staircase. There are not one, not two, not three, but FOUR separate stair sections. I don't know how the locals do that every day, especially those who are a little up-there in years. I feel like some sort of sneaker commercial or amateur free running video must have been shot here. Or else needs to be shot here. I'm imagining something along the lines of this...

Or this...

So, who's inspired? Any DIY dare devils out there? I'll volunteer to be your camera(wo)man!

Photo credits: The Phantom Tollbooth

No Sex and the City

I have a coworker. We will call him Silent Bob. Hey Bob!

*crickets*

Why is my coworker Silent Bob? Well, in the roughly 18 months that he has been employed with my company, below is a complete list of everything we know about Silent Bob:

• He served in the military
• He is a snappy dresser - he has the best sweater collection of any heterosexual man I know
• He has a girlfriend, and the pair went to the Caribbean that one time
• He LOVES the New York Knicks - the Knicks homepage is the only non-work related website we've ever seen him waste company time on. Also, one time he shot me a death stare when I mentioned a desire to catch a Brooklyn Nets game...
• We used to be desk buddies although my coordinates on the office map have since changed. I was informed that he does not miss me. 

That's it. Boy does not talk.

...At least until recently. I have no idea how, but I have personally broken Silent Bob. In the past month, I've had at least four (albeit short) conversations with Silent Bob, some of which he even started! At my own expense, our new budding relationship has taught me another personal fact about my quiet comrade - SB has quite the sarcastic sense of humor.

My office employs a number of rather fashionable ladies. I care about and enjoy fashion, although for me, practicality, comfort, and my own personal bizarre tastes are usually prioritized over style. I evoke descriptions akin to "hot mess shit show" rather than "put together" or "au courant". I am a walk-aholic and therefore sneakers play an important part in my life. Silent Bob had shamed me for wearing holes into my everyday pair of sneaks. I consulted a couple of coworkers during a recent quest to find a new pair. To our surprise, Silent Bob joined the conversation on his own accord. I had always thought Asics  were now and forever classically cool. Apparently not - "they were cool... like three years ago". *Okay, now I can never wear a certain pair of shoes to the office ever again!* While showing off various potential options to my colleagues, SB makes a statement regarding a pair of shoes, "Yeah, you can't work those". Okay, well, umm, thank you for the honesty? (Side note! I did end up getting new sneakers! Two pairs to be precise - and Silent Bob was appalled at how they became "dirtier in two weeks than the pair he's had for five years". 

MG's sneaker collection - stains and dirt and all! Excuse me SB, sorry I don't oxiclean my laces and obsessively Mr. Clean Magic Erase the soles like you.

I will admit that I do have a small obsession with one aspect of fashion - lingerie. All of my female friends are well aware than I could moonlight as a sales rep for one of my favorite companies, True & Co. Periodically I order items from the website. As every New Yorker in a non-doorman building knows, you must have all packages delivered to your office if you ever want to actually, you know, receive them. Today I accepted such a package from True & Co and was immediately asked about its contents by Silent Bob. After informing him that it probably wouldn't interest his fashion senses, he quickly and correctly guessed the purchase. All my ladiez and I quickly retreated to a corner of the office to quietly ogle the lacy prettiness. At one point Silent Bob ambles on over and asks, "Come on MG, who you got to impress?"
My response: "...ummmm, me?"

SB's face

My second response: "...ummmm, I'm optimistic?"

SB again

My third response: "Okay, fine! Nobody!"
SB: "Exactly."

Ouch, Silent Bob. Well I guess that's one way to keep me grounded.

Despite the fact that there's nobody except for yours truly to appreciate any of my new acquisitions, I guess I can seek the infinite wisdom of Carrie Bradshaw when NYC and a lackluster social life gets a girl down:

Designer shoes

Carrie may favor Manolo Blahniks, but I recently picked myself up a pair of Prabal Gurungs from Barney's. Okay, fine. Just kidding, they're from Target. You happy, Silent Bob?? Damn, why you always gotta bring me down like that?!

Eat your heart out SB

Photo credits: Clerks, Sex and the City, Tyra