I knew I had to get my apartment on the market by the end of January at the latest for it to sell in a reasonable timeframe and at the price I wanted. But I was only the owner and couldn’t fire the contractor as he had too much of my money.

You’ll get it back in the sale
No I won’t. Listen to me.

But of course he didn’t. It was all about his needs and his wishes. I should have never tried to do him a favor for I might suffer dire consequences.

My 6 by 12 windowed marble bath has the wrong kind of marble. It’s not Carrera so what good is it? The huge reglazed tub isn’t a modern soaking tub so…? Oh the kitchen problems–they will truly haunt me.

I have only myself to be angry at am so I am. I knew I had to get on the market by January but who am I? Only somebody who saw what was going on and didn’t act quickly enough.

I’m angry at people who treated their homes as if they were a cash machine. Not talking about the people who got sucked into teaser mortgages but the people who thought the party would never end.

There are so many of them and we waste time feeling sorry for them? If you can’t afford it, don’t buy it. Simple. I hate to feel like a Republican on this and I do understand why the bail outs have to include people who weren’t acting responsibly.

But I was. And I’m paying for their partying like it was 99. The New York real estate blog delights in the fact that apartment inventory for sale is at an all time high. The other night I was reading it and realized exactly why I hate it and why I’m leaving New York. People don’t look at things in terms of people anymore but in terms of figures. If it can’t be quantified it’s meaningless.

They have no respect for the history of New York. No knowledge of New York’s social history. Had to Google rent control and rent stabilization. Didn’t know why it began. Youth is no excuse.

I could and have written long research papers on how modern New York came to be. I was so tempted to ask if they knew who Lewis Mumford, Jane Jacobs or Robert Moses even was. But I never comment on large blogs, and am not about to begin.

They didn’t understand the history of the Bronx–how Mose’s Cross Bronx Expressway cut it in half and White people with some money moved to Riverdale; White people without money moved to Coop City which had been a great amusement park, Freedomland, for a few years. They didn’t know parts of the South Bronx have become more surburban than bona fide surburbs.

They, not all of course, thought rent controlled apartments and stabilized ones are government subsidized. Not even the rent stabilization board is a government agency but why let facts get in the way?

Many new condos and rentals are truly government subsidized as they get tax abatements. The same person thought rent controlled and rent stabilized meant projects when it just means the rent is controlled or stabilized. The program began after World War Two to keep the middle class in the city. It’s far from perfect. I wouldn’t believe in it but nothing has taken its place.

Most people I know who are stabilized make between 40K and 100something. Have no real savings outside a 401K, are in “the helping professions,” exec assistants, paralegals, or in the arts. They have no savings not because they spend money wildly but because Manhattan is truly horribly expensive

But it’s a great city and these people are part of the reason why. I lived in a stabilized apartment for sixteen years. The first year the lease was in my father’s name as I had been irresponsible. The next year it was changed to my name and my name only. My boyfriend Zachary wanted his name added. Not even when we were truly in love would I do that. My best friend didn’t add her husband’s name when she was married–which was fortunate as he almost sued to get the apartment. It’s not the stuff of myths that people get divorced and divide the bedroom with markers.

My building had a great landlord. He sold it and the new owners tried to evict as many people as they could. They did evict both my neighbors. They sent me an eviction letter claiming that the lease was in my father’s name. It wasn’t but even had it been I had been paying the rent for the entire twelve or thirteen years I lived there and was obviously the tenant. No way could they evict me.

They could make my life hell and they did. This is an article about more modern day hell

I had five major floods they refused to take care of. They imported cheap prostitutes to live in one apartment next to me and drug dealers in the other. Whoever wanted to could sleep in the lobby and vestibule. This was during crack days and I was the first person in the building to leave in the morning.

I could have waited for them to buy me out. But I grew scared so I left. I sent the management letter a certified letter saying I was breaking the lease a few months early. They sent it back, and had the frigging nerve to call my elderly mother and tell her I moved without a return address or phone number. That was of course absurd and she told them so.

I should have bought that year–91. I could have a bought a large two bedroom dirt cheap but I didn’t want to profit off peoples misery as the housing market was down almost as much as it could be.

I used to believe in karma. I’m not sure that I do anymore. I want my apartment to sell and soon. I don’t need the realtors to tell me about their other apartments that are moving. What does that do for me?

And I hate this weekend. I have neither a mother nor a child. Am I supposed to retreat for the weekend?

The Town of North Myrtle will be 40 tomorrow. They’re having a concert with The Beach Boys without Brian but with Dean of Jan & Dean. If they do Mother’s Day things, somebody might have to ball me from jail.

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First please read me in The New York Social Diary.

It was a bright and windy day. I was wearing two or three year old MBT sandals with sport socks for the fashionable nerd lowest part of the body look; Gloria Vanderbilt jeans–we go back to the 70’s, just washed and looked pressed; a pumpkin spandex and cotton Talbot’s tee. I was also wearing a jean jacket though I know they’re so yesterday and Kate Spade sunglasses. I was carrying two insulated nylon bags as food shopping was involved. Though many of my friends make fun of my love of MBT’s, they stop when they try them on–and if they can afford them buy a pair. My hair is Southern blond highlight; my nails just have clear polish but are perfectly manicured–Southern–got over my fear of going into a Southern nail place.

The overly long clothes description is essential to the story. I walk. I am a New Yorker. New Yorkers think nothing of walking 60-100 blocks just because.

But I no longer live in New York. I live in North Myrtle Beach.

There are walking trails here. There is the beach. And yes I feel grateful to live near the beach. But this area is very beautiful and sometimes I need to walk into housing developments, around parks, on Route 17 and Main Street. Main Street’s kind of funky. It has overpriced boutiques, restaurants, a shag shop and a store called “Two Blondes.” Route 17 isn’t beautiful but it has many stores and is the same Route 17 that’s in upstate New York. It’s the North-South Route 66 though so much less famous.

I was walking for hours. It was one of the first days where the weather was beautiful. I felt almost on vacation. My fears about living here were fading.

I was plotting stories, and truly getting a lot of work done–in my head but writers do work in their heads, and I think best when walking.

I was at the end of Main Street about to cross to go to Kroger’s when a man in a road workers uniform and holding a sign said something to me. I was a little befuddled as it was Sunday and I didn’t see any road work. Then I realized he was holding the sign to direct non-existent traffic into the mega church parking lot

I made sure I only said “no, thank you,” and not “no, thanks, maybe some other time,” as I really don’t want to be converted, and I leave no room for that possibility. He could have been inviting for coffee for all I knew as he was looking me up and down but not in a sleazy way. I smiled. I’m sure he didn’t hear me as we were four lanes away from each other and I have a soft voice in the best of times.
Some of you know my smile is worth the net worth of a tiny country. It’s perfect in its imperfection and I smile constantly. I also look horrible if I don’t.

I shopped in Kroger’s. Nobody fainted when I said I wanted to bag my groceries in my own bag. I walked through a few housing developments and found my way back to Main Street where I became so engrossed in looking at stores, the sky and how it reflected the beach I didn’t turn on my street but walked almost to the end. This is where it became weird.

A man got off his bike. I realized he was the same man I had seen at the mega church and began to say hello when he said:
Are you alright?
I have no idea what he’s talking about and begin mentally checking myself out. My mouth was parched. I had forgotten my water bottle and finished the water I bought sometime earlier.
Yes thank you.
No are you really alright?
Yes why?
I saw you walking before and here you are again.
I like to walk.
Do you have any place to go?
Hello do I look like a homeless person? I suppose he thought I had all my worldly goods in the insulated bag, and the Nike nylon bag I carry instead of a pocketbook when I’m not going to see people or for an appointment.

For some reason I didn’t say that or sound angry. I asked him what about me made him think that I was homeless.
You’re walking.
I wasn’t aware that’s illegal.
He repeated that because he saw me walk so many places he knew I must have no place to go.

If he had just turned it into a joke and said “it’s so rare to see somebody walk here,” I would have laughed and felt better but I guess that’s what we do in New York. Or I do.

I guess I was the one who was supposed to turn it into a joke or thank him profusely for caring or said my name and counted backwards from 100 by sevens (a dementia test,) but I’m sort of vain and have never been taken for a bag lady before.

I didn’t want to make him uncomfortable but I was convinced two policemen were going to come any second and arrest me for vagrancy. Logically I knew I have excellent ID, a platinum Amex, a bank/debit card and a cell, though I wasn’t sure how the cell would help me–it does have a lawyer programed in–helpfully with the word “lawyer.”

I was convinced that despite all this evidence of stability, and house keys, easily found in my jean pockets, I was going to be arrested for walking.

The man walked away, and got back on his bike. So bike reading is OK; walking isn’t. Have to remember the rules.

I walked home more than slightly humiliated. As soon as I got in I went to a mirror and inspected myself for signs of a homeless person. My lipstick–lip gloss–slightly pink was still on. I looked like a normal person.

I was doing what should be encouraged–walking with groceries that weren’t in plastic bags–and did weigh enough to be considered weight exercises. Sometimes I walk to the IGA in Cherry Grove, miles from my house in Crescent Beach, and walk back laden with groceries on the beach and even in the water. It impresses my friends.

I have found the exercise/weight program that I love and actually works and I think it’s illegal as it consists of walking with packages.

It’s April, the green month, and here in North Myrtle Beach, greenest city in the South I read, somebody stopped me for the high crime and misdemeanor of walking.

I go out walking after midnight…I stop to see a weeping willow….I go out walking after midnight

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There are two new 3WW’s below this. The second one is better and shorter, Dawg with coat of shiny hair The other blog is a true WIP. We’re not having a good day in anyway. It’s Groundhog Day at The Savage house–and probably will be for a few days or the rest of our life.
UL asked me to do this. I don’t tag people. If you want to do any or all feel free.
Five weird things about me: that will be hard. Five places that I would like to visit or visit again. Five things I never imagined at 25. I’m going to begin with that one. Continue Reading »

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