Am I Fired Yet?

Some genius thought it would be a good idea to let me use the office label maker while organizing our equipment closet. Above is the result of a hard day's work. The real labels involve my name, but I think the edited photograph accurately portrays the general idea. I can't wait until when my boss comes in tomorrow (lord knows where he is today). Let's just say he'll be seeing stars ;-)

It's Too Hot for this BS

As I type, the weather in NYC is 94 degrees Fahrenheit (that's 34 Celsius for all the non-American readers out there) with a humidity level around 50%. Blerghhhhhh. So not fun. Especially when all your travel is done via public transportation and your own two hooves. 

Fun fact! Did you know you could buy nail polish, excuse me, hoof polish for horses?!? Now you do :)

To add to the frustrations inherent with this terrible weather, today I had the pleasure of inspecting a hoarder's apartment. My favorite! The air conditioning was not in use at the time of inspection. The resident expressed concern regarding mold growth inside her a/c unit. In response to my question as to when she stopped using the air conditioner, she responded, "Oh I haven't used the HVAC system [Heating, Ventilation, Air Conditioning] in the ten years I've lived here". 

Hold up! What?!?!????? It's true. Apparently she has not turned on her a/c unit once over the past ten summers, nor has she turned on the heat during NYC's chilly winters. 

Excuse me, ladies and gentlemen! Step right up! Let me please introduce the world's biggest, strangest, and craziest masochist! 

Allegedly she doesn't turn it on for fear of mold growth?...despite there never actually being a  known leak? IDK, no explanation for this one. Below is a sampling of today's inspection:

This is the "after" picture of the apartment after the resident had been forced to clean. I'm not kidding. Glad I wasn't there for the "before" photo.

The building's maintenance people had to flip her couch on its side in order to do some repair work back in 2009. They neglected to move the couch back afterwards, and I guess so did the resident! Maybe she liked that it opened up some floor space...

This is only a small sampling of her can/bottle collection

I thought these were wadded up tissues or cotton balls. I tried not to look too hard. But no. The building manager whispered to me afterward, "did you see all of those used panty liners??". WHAT DA FUCK?!???? ***shudderrrrr***

I don't think I'll feel clean until I bathe both myself and today's outfit in acid. 

Can somebody please tell me why it always seems to be that the people with the most, shall we say fringe lifestyles are the people most vehemently concerned about mold?

Photo credits: horsegroomingsupplies.com

A South Bronx Tale

Laws of Nature 101: Throwing a bunch of random strangers into a shared space will result in individuals selectively grouping themselves together, usually according to a social hierarchy.

Janis Ian knows what's up: "Where you sit in the cafeteria is crucial because you got everybody there. You got your Freshmen, ROTC Guys, Preps, JV Jocks, Asian Nerds, Cool Asians, Varsity Jocks, Unfriendly Black Hotties, Girls Who Eat Their Feelings, Girls Who Don't Eat Anything, Desperate Wannabes, Burnouts, Sexually Active Band Geeks, The Greatest People You Will Ever Meet, and The Worst. Beware of The Plastics."

In the office environment, every company has it's own A-list clique. I hope that it goes without saying that I am a member of my own office's most exclusive group. We're made up of four saucy ladies:

MG: Me. Dis bitch has got swag pumping out her ovaries. 

D: The "mother" of the group. She's lived her whole life bouncing around one NYC project to another. D knows EVERYTHING about everything so you better pay attention to her advice.

B: The Puerto Rican fashionista. She's super hot and always comes dressed to impress.

T: Hails from Africa. Her BFF is Nelson Mandela's step-daughter. Not joking. Lady is an amazing dancer and is my personal inspiration and definition of the word "diva".

I am very happy that my work rarely brings me to NYC's less savory neighborhoods such as the South Bronx or Brownsville. Whenever I do have to make an appearance in these sorts of neighborhoods, I like to schedule my appointments in the morning. According to D, "You won't run into any trouble in the morning because that's when all these wannabe thugs are sleeping". Nice thinking! I've found that Brownsville and the South Bronx can actually be quite charming and peaceful at 10:30 am. While I have been in plenty of inappropriate, creepy, potentially not-so-good situations, I am thankful that I've never personally been in one that was truly scary.

This isn't true for most inspectors, including T. T recently found herself waiting for a superintendent outside of a building in the South Bronx. I guess the super was taking his sweet time arriving at the site, because T was forced to listen to a rather uncomfortable conversation as she waited. 

A man and a woman on the stoop next door loudly, without trying to hide the content of their conversation, negotiated the sale of a firearm. The woman wanted to kill her deadbeat husband and the man asked her what she was looking for regarding the type of gun, price, model, etc. Midway through their conversation, the woman stopped the negotiation to compliment T on her purse. They then turned back to one another and continued discussing gun prices. After the pair had finished their business dealings the woman said, "Thanks man. Now Imma 'bout to go get me some breakfast at the liquor store". It was 9 am.

You. Cannot. Make. This. Stuff. Up

Photo credits: Mean Girls

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

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

Jews Gone Wild

Today I saw something that I never thought I would see. Never even imagined. Shit got real. Really real. 

In New York, it's not uncommon to come across a van full of Orthodox Jews spreading the good word about how awesome it is to be a Jew. I love when it's Hanukkah and they hand out free menorahs and doughnuts. I've seen the Mitzvah Mobile, or "Jew Canoe" as we say in my family, on more than several occasions over the years, especially since I've lived in two of Brooklyn's heavily Hassidic neighborhoods. 

Ask you annnyythinggg? Yeah, you're prob gonna regret that by the end of our conversation...

This is how us Jews keep it pimpin'

I've never seen more than a single mitzvah mobile at a time. Until today. This afternoon I was making my way back to the office, and legit saw about thirty vans and trailer trucks speeding up Sixth Avenue all adorned with this banner:

When I say speeding, I mean speeding. We're talking about the vans not even bothering to stop for red lights. They refused to close ranks for reds as they blasted celebratory Jewish music at top volume. Come on people, Moshiach is here! There's no time for red lights!! 

I was personally almost run over when attempting to legally cross the street (for once I wasn't even jaywalking) before I realized what was going on. I thought their message of "just add in goodness and kindness" was a tad ironic given that the group almost committed several hit-and-runs. To add to this madness,  five or six cop cars were following the unsanctioned parade, sirens wailing and all, trying to stop this major traffic violation. The Jewish crusaders weren't having it. They kept on going. Obviously if Moshiach is more important than red lights, he's most certainly more important than the measly popo! Duh!

Please enjoy this educational video. It's informational and highly entertaining!

JOIN THE MOVEMENT! CLICK HERE! WOOHOO!! 

(If anyone's wondering, I'm Jewish, so this post is 100% A-Okay and anything I say can't be considered racist, so there.  :p)

Photo credits: greetmoshiach.com

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

What a Strange, Strange Day

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

Subway Sightings: Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes

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!

Photo credits: Spirit Halloween , Nickelodeon: Inside Out Boy, someecards, laughingsquid.com

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

Mold Girl McBeal Part I

Hey guys, guess what! On Tuesday I received a letter alerting me that I had been served. Normally when hearing "yeah bitch, you've just been SERVED!", I think oh shit, somebody's surprise attacking me with divorce papers! Luckily for me, I'm not married. Suckers.

So apparently this mandatory summonings was to testify as an expert witness for a mold inspection I had done back in March. A tenant was suing her landlord and I was required for the defense. Apparently the lawyer thought there was no need to call and ask me to serve as a witness. The lawyer bypassed this considerate step and just served me out of the blue to appear at a court date three days later. Thanks! Here are the first few lines of the letter:

GREETING:
WE COMMAND YOU
...

I love how they can't send me "greetings" as in plural. Only one "greeting" can be spared. Um, rude much? And who doesn't respond well when somebody starts a letter with "WE COMMAND YOU"?? Always makes me feel like extending a helping hand!

Personal slights aside, under normal circumstances my wardrobe barely passes for work appropriate. For example, Thursday's outfit involved these babies:

My excuse was that the metallic gold Rainbow Brite theme allows me to mold inspect faster

Just another day's standard work uniform. Multicolor stars included.

For court I thought I'd make an effort to look slightly more profesh to ensure that nobody would dare mess with me. Clearly I'm an expert in all things mold, but I needed to look as though I could be even the President's personal mold inspector [insert whatever dirty comment just popped into your head here]. Obvious choice for wardrobe inspiration? No hesitation — Ally McBeal. 

Dis bitch mean biznazz

Check it:

Unfortunately my own skirt suit with a waist high slit was at the cleaners. Had to make do with this über conservative getup.

Court was not quite as exciting as TV would suggest. I got there at 2 o'clock and sat around until 4:10 when court adjourns for the day. Apparently the judge didn't have time to hear me speak and I must appear again to give testimony on a future date. Très exciting right? I didn't realize witnesses weren't even allowed into the courtroom. Ugh, SUCH a waste of an outfit!  *SMH* 

I won't have another chance to have my day in court until early October. When asking my supervisor about the expert witness experience, he told me to be prepared "to be eaten alive" and "you'll probably cry". Cool, can't wait. At least by then I'll hopefully have my standard court suit with the waist-high slit ready. Stay tuned for part deux... 

Photo credits: Reebok, Rainbow Brite, Ally McBeal