Lown down? No doubt. Because you were totally wondering, like, not at all. But, Internets, I’m going to tell you about it anyway. The Coulters have been living (read: sustaining life) on the 33rd floor of a high-rise apartment complex in Jersey City.
Jersey City, y’all.
For those of you Non Yorkers, Jersey City is kind of like Brooklyn but on the other side. The Jersey side. Also, it’s nothing like Brooklyn. And it’s not the place people-who-aren’t-celebrities with children go when they move to Jersey. It’s temporary purgatory.
Ok, that’s dramatic. The apartment is a totally furnished 1-bedroom of epic proportions for anywhere near nyc. It even has hardwoods peaking out from the 1992 craft deco hotel furnishings. Oh, and there’s an actual fake fichus tree and, no, Walter hasn’t peed up it yet. Technically, with the pretty view, the giant amount of space and the working DVD player, this would be a really sweet suite. But as Husband explained best, it smells like curry-flavored cigarettes. I mean, it wreaks of it. I say “wreaks” and not “reeks” because the smell actually wreaks havoc from the evil, evil vent in the bathroom. Stop it, vent. I hate you.
But it is only one train stop from my work, which means it’s always one train stop from a delicious snack and something fun to do. However, when the weather is cold or rainy or cold AND rainy (like it is today), it’s hard to set forth on-foot. Even if these rain boots are the best things to happen to me since stretch pants.
Which brings me to the only awesome thing about corporate housing besides the view:
Wait for it…
There is a mall just a stone’s throw (read: Corn Nut’s throw) away. If all the world’s a stage, then this mall is the musky alley behind life’s theater. BUT. They have food court snacks (Blimpie and Arbys and Popeyes oh my!) and a decent movie theater. Here’s a pic of me having fun in the JC:
Praise the Jersey Gods for all-american recreation!
And what’s another three days? Because Monday something very special happens. Something magic. Monday is the day we move to Manhattan.
"Whatever the reason, Bill’s new proclivity for PYTs seems to be working in his favor lately. One 30-year-old magazine editor who lives in a fashionable building in the West Village says that when he took his dog for a walk at around 7:45 a.m. on Election Day, he spotted Bill—in a tennis visor and sunglasses—emerging from his lobby. "He looked like he’d spent the night in the building," speculated the source. "Despite his getup, I recognized that adorable doughy jawline, and thought, ‘Hey, Bill Murray just banged my neighbor!’ It was totally a booty call." For weeks after the encounter, the source eyed up every attractive woman in his building, wondering if she was Bill’s latest conquest."
The Dude: Fuckin’ Quintana… that creep can roll, man. Walter Sobchak: Yeah, but he’s a pervert, Dude. The Dude: Yeah. Walter Sobchak: No, he’s a sex offender. With a record. He served 6 months in Chino for exposing himself to an eight year old. The Dude: Oh! Walter Sobchak: When he moved to Hollywood he had to go door to door to tell everyone he was a pederast. Donny: What’s a… pederast, Walter? Walter Sobchak: Shut the fuck up, Donny.
Things I won’t miss:
Thanks to Rhinestone and Noir for their deleting inspiration: being old fashioned IS cozier.
I’ve added three new additions to my Forever 21 family of clothes. Because…
A. I can’t really pull off heels anymore with all the walkin’. B. I’m no longer allowed to wear contacts. Which is a separate blog entry riddled with expletives which will include the letters F and U, ophthalmologist.
Cue the cute:
Hunter boots for when it rains. Or doesn’t rain.
Moscot “Vilda” glasses. My new she-specs and name of my imaginary baby french bulldog. Because Walter gets along with imaginary girl dogs better.
OMGLAMBSHOES. Lamb. Shoes. The very peace treaty that has ended a 27-year-old war waged between slip-ons and my feet. Plus, I rescued them from Century 21 for only 29 bones. White flag. I surrender.
And I’m not even making some weird, dark joke. This day rocks. And for all the wrong, stupid reasons but it does. And I don’t even care. I SAW MY VERY FIRST NYC CELEBRITY! She walked right past me right in my future neighborhood. Behold:
AmymotherfuckingPoehler. YAY! She was strolling her newborn baby (whose name is Archie Arnette which is tote cute) and talking to a woman who appeared to be her mom or something. Oh, and she had a sweet little knit cap on. So she looked more like this:
Somebody take my temperature because I have celeb fevuh. We will soon be neighbors in The Village and it’s awesome. I like to think we locked knowing comedic eyes, but she was probably just looking at her mom and complaining about breastfeeding or something.
Ok, I have to go sign up for a sketch comedy class now. Obsess, obsess, obsess.
Well, Internets, I’ve thrown myself and my family into the unknown. Into a city where we don’t know where to go, where North or South is or where to get a good cup of coffee. There are only a few things I know to be true so far, so I will share those with you. I have no doubt that more truths will present themselves.
-We left Seattle, flew here (Walter was a perfect travel companion), got here and now…we’re here. We’re not yet New Yorkers. We’re New Yorkish.
-I’ve started a “motherfucker” tally. I’ve heard a total of 15 MF’s (a few of them my own).
-Our corporate housing doorman’s name is Ruddy (pronounced Rudy like the doe-eyed football underdog). Every time we walk by he smiles and says “Hello Senor Cyrus, hello Hessica, hello Senor Walter.” And whenever we leave without the boy, he says, “Have a nice night. Walter is going to order a pepperoni pizza and watch TV now.” He’s the best.
-I’ve seen one roach and one teensy mouse. I still haven’t seen any rats, even though I’m constantly on critter patrol. Oh, and I saw a dead pigeon. Gross.
-When you don’t have any friends to hang out with, you do weird things. Like look for rats and roaches and dead things.
-In the NW, I’ve always been a huge supporter of taking a day off from showering every once in a while (read: every other day). Here, however, it’s not an option. You have to shower AT LEAST once a day. Maybe twice. NYC = dir-tay.
-I’ve been working for and on the weekend just like Loverboy.
-We looked at a 3 bedroom, well priced, pretty apartment on the same street that Carrie Bradshaw lived on in SATC. Alas, the rooms were all too small for a Queen bed—killed the za za zu.
-However, we think we found the perfect apartment. More on that once it’s official.
-Note: the perfect apartment in New York City isn’t ever really perfect*.
-My daily itinerary consists of this and this only: sleep, coffee, hang out with Husband and Walter, walk to train, work, work, work, walk to train and sprinkled in there are bouts of eating. The eating is the best part (other than Husband and dog). Both of us hope to write more about our snackventures.
-Life is moving hella fast and painstakingly slow at the same time. Two things I miss most are my friends and my frame of reference, man. Stay tuned.