The apartment or apartment building search continues. We wandered around the Upper West Side this afternoon to see what we could potentially find and explore. When you talk to different doormen around the city, you realize exactly how insane different buildings can be. Here’s a sampling of some of the things we were told:

• This building is a co-op building, and the rules are such that if you buy a unit here, you have to live in it. If you do not live in it, you’re allowed to rent it out only up to one year.
• We have a swimming pool, but only you and your husband may use it. No guests allowed. And no pool parties.
• Each of you will have to pay an annual gym membership of $1500 (!!!!!!!!). (THIS IS ON TOP OF YOUR RIDICULOUS RENT).
• We don’t have rentals here; we’re a condo building (comes with smug look that says, “You don’t belong here because you’re not worthy of us”).
• How much are you looking to pay… because the units in this building are very, very expensive (Okay, asshole, I probably make a boat load and a half more than you do, so no need to be such a presumptuous jerk). It’s amazing when the building’s residents are snooty; it’s even more amazingly stupid when the doormen are even more so.

More fun awaits.

New York theater, like Hollywood and the mainstream pop culture, is primarily based on the lives of white people. It’s just the way it is. They may be white and Jewish, but at the end of the day, they’re still white. There of course are groups that are focused on specific ethnicities; black theater seems removed from Asian theater, which seems removed from white theater. There are the occasional theaters, like the Flea, which oftentimes mix races (which is really refreshing), but for the most part, they’re generally focused to one race, and the one race is usually white. So it’s amazing to see theater that is focused on an ethnic group that is certainly getting a lot of attention in the mainstream media today: Middle Eastern cultures, like those from Palestine or Iran. We were at Playwright Horizons tonight and watched The Profane, which is a play about two Middle Eastern families and their clashes in religious and cultural beliefs. One family is supposedly modern and Westernized; the second family is traditional to the point of displaying a Koran in their living room and regularly using a prayer rug.

The most appalling part of the play was when the “modern” family visiting the traditional family started making a ruckus in the living room, and the father actually took the traditional family’s Koran off their shelf and ripped pages out of it. I gasped, along with a huge chunk of the audience, when this happened. It doesn’t matter whether you are Muslim or Christian or Jewish or anything else; an act like this is shocking. And as one of the actors said during the talk-back after the show, this shock and disgust is not actually about religion or culture or any set of beliefs or morals; it’s really about respect or disrespect. When you are in someone’s home, you should be respectful to that family for inviting you in. To do something so egregious as to rip their sacred text’s pages out is to show intense disrespect for their humanity. You ignore the fact that they are human beings with feelings, and that all human beings deserve respect.

I’ve never really had anyone regular who has cut or styled my hair. Up until about two years ago, I didn’t even know the difference between a “blow dry” and a “blow out.” I figured that since they both had the same first word that they must mean the same thing (then I had the ugliest “blow-out” done by my friend’s friend’s cheap mother in Woodside and also got charged an additional $25 for it, and I hated it and immediately combed it out when I got home). But then Chris hooked me up with Astor Hair Stylists, this dingy basement full of interesting and eclectic (and well priced) stylists, and I found a beautiful Sicilian woman who has given me many great, reliable, and affordable cuts in the last three years.

My Sicilian stylist gets bored easily. I’m pretty sure that every time I have seen her, her hair has been different; curly, wavy, straight, stick-straight; pink, strawberry-blonde, bright fiery red with bleach-blonde tips. She’s unfailingly happy and excited all the time. The very first time she saw me, she asked if I would be interested in coloring my hair. “You would look fabulous with some lovely highlights!” she exclaimed gleefully. You could see the thrill going through her head as her eyes lit up, feeling up my strands of hair and my scalp as she twinkled while looking at me in the mirror. But I’ve rejected her one time after another. And she scolds me sometimes because on average, I get my hair cut only twice a year (I must really have the cheapest annual spend on hair imaginable among women). So I tend to come to her chair with frazzled and split ends, and she has to tell me that I need to trim more often to keep the splitzies at bay.

I finally took her up on her offer. I texted her a couple weeks ago to ask her how much she’d charge for bayalage highlights. They’re supposed to be more natural looking when they grow out, and also less harsh than regular highlights. She was obviously ecstatic, especially when I agreed to come in. So I came in today, we talked over what we thought we would do, and she did it. And when the moment came for her to blow-dry my hair and dramatically have me flip my head up, I looked in the mirror and thought… What? I can barely see them. And I’m wearing my contacts today.

Then, I went to dinner, and Chris barely noticed until I pointed it out. And neither did two of our friends until I told them I literally just got this done an hour ago. And I felt so dejected. This isn’t how this was supposed to be.

It’s okay. I’m going back next Tuesday to “dramatize” my new look. Hopefully then, when I do the dramatic head-up, I will actually have a dramatic reaction.

It’s been almost five years since I moved to Manhattan — that’s five years of living with Chris, five years since I lived in Elmhurst, Queens, and also, five years since I visited my beloved Tortilleria Nixtamal in Corona, Queens. When I used to go to Nixtamal, I took a quick bus ride about 20 minutes to get from my apartment to the small restaurant, which used to be very small, humble, and unassuming. I don’t remember their accepting credit cards the first or second time I visited, but now they do. In the last several months, they’ve gone through some pretty extensive renovation according to what my server said today, and the interior and exterior are so different than what this place used to be. The tiling is really colorful and fancy, just like in slightly nicer Mexican restaurants and kitchens in Mexico. The service is all warm and friendly, and the staff is so much larger than it used to be. The feel is still the same as before, just more colorful and ornate now.

The prices have gone up on everything except the freshly made tortillas, which are still $2/pound. But the food is just as tasty as I remember. Their tortillas are just as perfect and authentic as I had in Mexico, as they’re made from fresh corn ground up in their trusty masa machine that’s on display right in the window (in Mexico, they’d never tolerate the cornmeal-based tortillas most grocery stores and restaurants use here). The al pastor has all the right flavors and crunchy bits as I remember, without much fat or gristle. And the freshly steamed tamales are still the best I’ve had in the U.S. I just couldn’t believe exactly how popular they have gotten; it was around 2pm on a Thursday today, and after I was seated,  an actual wait formed outside the restaurant! It was a mix of tourists, locals, and others who clearly came from other boroughs and had never been to Corona before.

I love this place. And so do so many other people now.

I was planning to go to my favorite Mexican spot in Corona today to get some of my beloved tamales, tacos, and horchata, but given that the trek to get out to Corona, Queens, is not a short one, I figured I would call and check their hours to make sure they didn’t have some random day off in the middle of the week. Well, it’s a good thing I did that because I found out that they are closed not just Monday, not just Tuesday, but Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday! This place has become so intensely popular since I lived in Queens that it’s now only open four days a week! This is a place that used to be open seven days a week! Ever since all the celebrity chefs came to check the place out and were on TV showcasing it, the popularity of this spot has no bounds. They even opened a Mexican rotisserie chicken not too far away and distribute their fresh masa and freshly pressed corn tortillas (from fresh corn, not cornmeal). They are a true success. And this wife-and-husband team are from Mexico, so I hope President Dipshit doesn’t try to deport them.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m happy that they’re doing very well for themselves and that people who consider themselves borough snobs who live in Brooklyn and Manhattan (also known as ignorant assholes) will actually come out to Queens to try their food, but I was just having a selfish moment because I wanted their food for myself. And now I have to wait until Thursday.

Three days off per week, though — that’s a really good life, isn’t it?

I have friends who like to call me a foodie. I also have friends who call me a food snob. One friend always loves to bring up that it’s annoying that I can’t just go to IHOP with her and appreciate the pancakes. My response back is always the same: the pancakes at IHOP would be fine, but they won’t be anywhere as good as ones I make at home or some amazing independent breakfast spot we’d want to check out. And if I have a finite number of meals to eat in my lifetime, why do I want to waste it on a generic and tasteless chain like IHOP unless it’s purely out of convenience?

I don’t consider myself a food snob, though. I don’t look down on people for not knowing more about any number of cuisines. I don’t expect everyone to spend their entire Sunday afternoons cooking the way I like to. But one thing I will say is: if I am talking about something food-related I care about and you try to correct me, you better watch out because there’s very little chance I will be wrong. I know that sounds arrogant, but let’s say this: I don’t bullshit about things I care about. If you tell me about a current event and I’m unaware of it, unlike some people I know, I will not pretend to know what you’re talking about and babble on and on and pretend like I understand everything when I know nothing. I will admit I don’t know and listen. I will only talk when I really know what I am talking about. However, if I am passionate enough to go on and on about something and you try to correct me about something very basic, I will pounce on you.

Here’s a case in point. Tonight, I’m at dinner with my friend and his girlfriend. We’re discussing buckwheat pancakes, and I tell my friend that buckwheat pancakes are actually gluten-free because buckwheat is not actually wheat or grain; it’s a misnomer and comes from a seed. He immediately freaks out and insists I am wrong.

Friend: It’s not gluten free — it’s a grain! Wheat! Buck-wheat! Wheat!

Me: That’s just its English name and is a misnomer. Buckwheat is made out of ground seeds. It’s closer to quinoa than it is to the wheat in your bread.

Friend: It’s buck-wheat! (turns over to his Japanese girlfriend, because apparently Japanese people eat soba noodles, which is made of buckwheat, so of course she has to be an authority on this). Right? It’s wheat!

Girlfriend: Yes, it’s buck-wheat. (She’s speaking way too slowly and both of us are getting antsy).

Friend: See!

Me: (there’s no way I’m letting this go) No, again, it’s in the name. Buckwheat is not wheat. It’s closer to a fruit than it is to wheat. Why don’t you just Google it and you’ll find out. Why do you think gluten-free people are using buckwheat flour now?!! Do you think they’re trying to kill themselves? These are all facts. There’s a reason these “ancient grain” flours are so popular now.

Girlfriend: (timid) It’s not a real wheat.

Friend: Ooh, okay. (decides that I am now right)

It’s always nice when you can claim authority of a food just because of your country of origin. But hey – even if she didn’t agree with me, her passport wasn’t going to be a reason for me to stop arguing. That’s what Google is here for.

That’s the other takeaway from this, though. A name doesn’t always mean much, particularly when the name is an English name. If it’s an Asian name, chances are the meaning is there. English – meh — not so much. Here is another case to illustrate this: buttermilk. THERE IS NO BUTTER IN BUTTERMILK. My father-in-law loves to mention how caloric and unhealthy buttermilk must be for you because of how much butter is in it — no fail, it happens every time the word comes up in conversation. I always remind him that it’s just soured milk. Back in the day, buttermilk was the liquid that remained from butter churned into cream. Today, it’s literally just soured milk. You can even made it yourself by adding a vinegar or lemon juice to a cup of regular milk.

While many of the buildings on the Upper West and Upper East Side are old and pre-war, many high-rises have been coming up in the last couple decades since as we can all see, New York is a very tall and concrete jungle. Many of the buildings are marked as “luxury” when you look up their names in Google Maps, or when you see signs outside their front entrances. However, I would argue that the term “luxury” in front of “apartments” is used a bit too loosely, and it’s pretty frustrating when you’re actually looking for a good-amenities building.

Today, I walked into a “luxury apartment” complex just two blocks over from where we live now. I asked the doorman if there would be any availability, and he gave me their website name and the name of the leasing agent. I went online to look at their available units, and the apartment layouts were horrendous: with one unit, when you enter the apartment, you’re literally entering the kitchen. Another one was a two-bed/one-bath apartment; if you’re going to be a luxury building and you have two people living in an apartment, shouldn’t they both get their own bathroom at least to pay the insane amount of rent you want out of them? One of the last units I looked at had a kitchen that was literally a corner of a room, and it looked like the people designing the place just forgot to add a kitchen to the unit and slapped it on at last minute. Did I mention the photos of the gym made it look like a dungeon?

Apartment hunting is never fun, even for people with fatter wallets.

Are the worst. Where could it possibly get worse in real estate than in New York in this country?

We went to take a look at a few apartments in Lincoln Square and Columbus Circle, and I really did not like one of the leasing agents at all. One of them I hadn’t even interacted with, as I communicated with her partner, but she didn’t even want to come down to the lobby to see me unless I specified a budget. “Well, you need to tell me what your budget is.” “In New York, nothing can be perfect. You have to pick and choose. Closet space or natural light? Big kitchen or big living room? What’s it gonna be?” “The reason I keep asking about budget is that I really don’t want to waste your time or mine. Sometimes, I get people coming in and they ask, ‘Well, I’m looking for a one-bedroom for $3,500/month, so what do you have to show me?’, and I have to say I have nothing because our prices are much higher than that.” These are all the annoying, pushy things you hear when you’re looking for a new apartment in the metropolis that is Manhattan.

We even were told of a full-floor penthouse in a building in Lincoln Square that was $45,000 per month in rent. At that point, why would people just not buy? I guess once you’re talking about rent in the five-figures, money probably doesn’t mean much to you at all.

There are so many new “problems” in society now with the emergence and prominence of social media. Who do you “friend,” and who do you keep as “friends” even when you’re no longer friends in real life or acquainted via work? (For the record, there’s a difference between “being friends on Facebook” vs. “being friends in real life,” and sadly in everyday conversation, we actually have to clarify that with people we speak with. Why do we feel a need to “stay connected” via Facebook or Instagram even when we have zero intention to ever speak with or see former colleagues or classmates or friends ever again? I see people watching my Instagram stories every single time I post, but I know we’ll never interact one on one ever again. So why are they so nosy about my life, anyway?

I actually have unfriended people almost every year. Sometimes, it’s been in waves. Other times, I see some stupid, obnoxious, or ignorant as hell post they put on Facebook, and I think, “I’m still connected to this person, really?” And I’m sure people have felt that way about me, too. I don’t care. It’s not always personal. It’s that as you get older, you realize that the circle of people you care about gets smaller and smaller, and you know your time on earth is running out, so why not just focus on the people you really care about instead of thinking about all the nobodies you don’t care about? I’ve unfriended people who have actually tried to RE-ADD me as a friend within the same day or two, as though they had some add-on monitoring turned on that alerted them to when and who attempted to un-friend them. Why are people so desperate to stay connected to people they don’t care about? Is it because they have no lives of their own that they feel compelled to keep track of where their lives are in relation to others they don’t care at all about?

I was planning to be out and about today, but it was raining quite hard with a lot of thunder, so I ended up staying in. It’s been a week of introspection for me, a lot of reflecting on the last several years, if not the almost nine years I’ve been in New York City. I suppose this is normal every time you reach a pivotal point in your life, whether it’s about a new life circumstance change like marriage, a move, or a new job. You never know what’s going to happen next, but while you are waiting for that “next thing” to begin, you think about how far you’ve come that’s led you to this point.

I noted yesterday how sad this last job made me because it would always be tied to my brother’s death, and today, I thought about how everything that happens to me now, I’ll never be able to share with him. It’s been nearly four years since I lost him. That’s four years of never sharing, of never hearing his voice or seeing his face. I wonder how he would have reacted. I can imagine him asking me ten million questions about why this last job wasn’t amazing or didn’t meet my expectations. I can also imagine him thinking the new benefits package is borderline excessive. But I can also imagine how proud he’d be for me. I only wish he could have had some of that pride for himself.

But these are the moments, the pivotal and happy moments, when I think of him and really miss him. I miss my Ed. I wish he were still here in a happier and healthy form.

I hate to say this, but as hard as it is to believe, our mother is far calmer now than she had ever been when Ed was around. Even when she’s at her worst these days, she’s never as crazed or out of control the way she was when Ed was here. It’s like he was a constant physical reminder to her that she wasn’t perfect, that she didn’t do enough for him. I know she thinks about him constantly through the day now even with him gone. But she doesn’t have anything or anyone staring her in the face anymore.

I told her about the new job. She kept glowing, saying how proud she was of me. “You’re all I have now,” she said. “I have to be proud. I only have one daughter… I had two children, and one came out wrong, but one came out very well.”

Ouch.