Exciting Investment Opportunity!

Dear Prospective Investor:

I am currently seeking people to invest in two projects that are sure bets. When I say "sure bet," I mean "projects that, despite this economy, cannot fail to reap Midas-like rewards." I truly believe that immediately after learning about them, you will clamor at my door to hand over your check.

You may be skeptical. "Nancy," you will say, "in these dismal economic times, why should I part with my hard-earned money?" And I will tell you, with a grin and a wink, "Because a sound investment idea can weather anything."

Are you curious? Of course you are!

So let me tell you what sizzling opportunities await you.

Idea Number One

After visiting Key West last year, I quickly realized that there is a revenue stream that is, as of now, currently unexplored. Thus, I propose:
During the day, Banana Hammocks will be a smoothie bar/hammock store. Customers sit on hammocks, which are also for sale. Each evening, the store reopens as a gay nightclub. Instead of smoothies, there are cocktails with smoothie names. And there are hammocks instead of generic bar seating.

Picture ABC Home and Carpet selling smoothies and then turning into a nightclub on weekends.

Idea Number Two

I propose a store that sells quality, upscale undergarments in a fun atmosphere - the style of La Perla with the price point of Victoria's Secret. The ideal first location would be Las Vegas, where a themed lingerie store would fit the local aesthetic.

Capitalizing on the atmosphere of one of North America's premiere party towns, I propose: Mardi Bras.

This store would be an interactive experience. Employees would be stationed on balconies (modeled after those in New Orleans). Any customer who flashed their chest would then receive a beaded necklace thrown to them by the employee. Market research shows this would be a great draw to the men accompanying their wives or girlfriends to Mardi Bras.

Advertising would look like this:

These are but the bare bones outlines of two very exciting investment opportunities. For more information, please contact me at 555-1212.

I look forward to taking your hard-earned dollars!

Bed Bugged.

Two apartments and seven years ago, I was doing what most New Yorkers in their mid-twenties were doing – finding a new place to live after being kicked out by my insane current roommate.

She decided to move her boyfriend in and me out. But after only two months, I couldn't afford to leave. I asked if I could send the rent in two weeks so I could pay to move as quickly as she requested. And that's when she started screaming, saying she would call the cops if I didn't pay and leave immediately. So much fun. (On a side note, she was pretty and had a son who was staying with her parents in her native country in Eastern Europe. When I asked what she did for a living, she didn't want to say, but later vaguely referred to a job in "finance." To this day, I suspect she was a dancer or an escort.)

Thanks to the miracle of Craigslist, I found a new roommate pretty quickly, and moved into a miniscule room in a fairly nice Hell's Kitchen, sorry, "Clinton," apartment. If I bought a full or queen-sized bed (which was my preference), the entire room would have been bed, bed and more bed. So I compromised, bought a twin, and shoved a couple small pieces of furniture in there.

Two months later, Laura decided she wanted to move. She held the lease, and they were looking to jack up the rent, so I was once again out on my ear. I was furious she had taken me in, knowing she would be leaving so soon. I was also crushed and emotionally wrecked about moving for a third time in one year.

I called my best friend, K, and wailed, "She" sob, wheeze, sniffle, "toooooooooold me," sob, sob, hyperventilate, "to MOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOVE," sniffle, sob, drop the phone, pick it up and start deep breathing. Because K has the Nancy Rosetta Stone, she understood and started to cheer me up and calm me down.

This is when I decided I was done with roommates. I felt like I had checked off a list of things I needed to accomplish. I had lived with a roommate's parrot, waking up each morning to violent screeching at 6 a.m. I had cleaned up the dirty dishes a roommate had left on my bed. I had been tormented by my roommate's mother constantly screaming about her daughter’s good-for-nothing ex-husband and unruly children. I had even been directed not to speak to the private detective following my roommate's married lover.

This is how I found myself paying way too much – and loving it – so I could traipse around naked in my Upper West Side apartment any time I wanted, sleep in, cook at midnight, and decorate any which way I wanted. I was in a studio apartment, so while it was bigger than the prison cells I was previously housed in, I now had to fit an entire apartment of furniture into one long room. Which meant I was stuck with the damned twin bed.

Three years and two rent increases later, I was looking at an empty bank account and a quickly gentrifying neighborhood. Next door, a sign went up over new construction that read, "Coming soon – 2 to 5-bedroom Condos!" However, what I read was, "Dear Nancy, it's time for you to move. You can't afford it here anymore!"

I can take a hint, so I started looking. Washington Heights, the Lower East Side, the Upper [Upper] East Side. My mother kept recommending Astoria. And I kept telling her, "Forget it! Queens is where old people go to die."

In a moment of desperation, I considered having a roommate. She and I went out to Astoria, where she showed me the neighborhood and explained that, 1) she didn't believe in air conditioning, and 2) she had an algorithm to determine television volume, based on a variety of factors: time of day, number of people at home, and if she was taking her meds (that last one was unspoken).

Needless to say, we parted ways – but I was hooked on Astoria.

So here I am, three years later, loving my family-friendly neighborhood and my one-bedroom apartment. Yet I never replaced that effing twin bed. Yes, my living room couch pulls out into a Queen-sized bed, but it’s lumpy and awful. And not particularly practical.

On Friday, mother called and said, “Sleepy’s is having a sale.” With her bartering skills (by telephone, no less!) we used her senior citizen discount to take $200 off a fantastic mattress set.

It was delivered on Saturday, and I couldn’t stop grinning. Here we are (“we” meaning me and Sleeping Beauty, my new mattress):

I keep smiling every time I walk into my bedroom. No more pushing pillows onto the floor when it’s time to go to sleep. No more feeling like I’m laying in a coffin.

Here she is on Sunday morning, after the first test run:

I’m in love. What a beauty!

Why Did the Chicken Cross the Road?

On a recent trip to Stew Leonard's -- the inestimable, incomparable grocery store that my grandmother Barbara often called a museum of food -- I discovered that my photo-resistant younger brother, Josh, is a big chicken. Wait, no, I meant he likes chickens.

The same guy who will only take family photos after no small amount of coercion, will apparently jump into any old shot if it involves this:
Really, could he look any happier? I have NEVER received a grinning, twinkly-eyed, thumbs-up pose from Josh. Not even once.

If you look closely, he's even subtly restraining the man-chicken from running away from this momentous occasion by stepping on his large, orange toe. (Do chickens have toes?)

So Josh, be forewarned, I am hiring the man-chicken! You will appear in family photographs, and you will like it, even if it means that Six-Foot Sammy next to you will be in them too.

This is Why I Love New Yorkers, Part II

You know how sometimes you wake up at 8:15, take a shower, get ready for work (including applying the new Sleek'n'Shine leave-in conditioner system you just bought, brushing both your teeth and your anti-grinding night guard, and deciding which podcast to listen to on your commute), and then finally make it to the subway platform, where a little old lady curses you with the Evil Eye?

It seemed so innocent at the time. All I said was, “Excuse me, could you move your bag?”

Does that seem threatening?

When I arrived at the subway platform this morning, ready to go to work on my next-to-penultimate day before the long weekend, there were plenty of people and the lone bench appeared full. As I walked by, I realized that one seat was actually taken by the small tote bag of the white-haired lady sitting next to it. All New Yorkers know that this is a faux pas – you don’t put bags on the seat if the train is full. This rule applies to subway platforms, too.

So I said, “Excuse me.” She ignored me at first, and I figured she didn’t hear me, so I said it again, and then asked the ill-fated question.

What happened next was unexpected.

First, she moved her bag. Then, she started mumbling in Hungarian (or some such), gave me the stink eye, got up, and walked about 10 feet down the platform.

I was confused. I clearly didn’t ask her to leave. And she was pissed – she stood there staring right at me, mumbling in Hungarian, until the subway came five minutes later.

The woman next to me, who had been witnessing this spectacle, looked over at me and shared a sympathetic eyebrow-raise, then started laughing. I joined her, but started to wonder if the “Evil Eye” (were it real) could be effective from 10 feet away.

However, I have yet to sprout a tail, grow horns, lose my hair, gain some warts or turn into a forest animal.

So I’m probably safe. (For now.)

Bananas & Nectarine

Dear Barnes & Noble:

I get it -- times are hard. People are losing jobs and don't have the paper to spend on your paper, so I understand wanting to branch out, see what other revenue streams might be available.

Maybe you're afraid that you're going the route of The Shop Around the Corner in "You've Got Mail." I mention that movie because: a) everyone knew the fictional Fox Books was a B&N stand-in; b) Fox Books was on the Upper West Side, where there's a real B&N (the one where I used to shop, when I lived there); and c) my brother had small recurring role on a Meg Ryan project when he was an infant.

Maybe you're concerned that Amazon's cheaper prices, access to used books and Kindle are hastening you toward an inevitable, vestigial, Blockbuster-like existence.

Or maybe you see the writing on the wall -- books are out, fruit is in!

Really, that's the only explanation I can come up with for this:

Weekend at Bernie’s

While updating my podcasts in iTunes the other night, I saw an ad for the recently released Sims 3. I’ve always been curious about this franchise, but after my experience with Sim City a decade earlier (I got bored after building two houses, a playground and a bar), I wasn’t willing to spend the cash. Which made this iPhone game perfect: inexpensive, pared down and easy to play on the subway. Ca-ching!

It started auspiciously, with me crafting a smoking hot avatar out of the two choices they give you. So my game cyber-gal was probably a little generic, but she was itching to step out of the wardrobe and into her new, awesome life as…a town clerk.

I started to learn about what Nancy Sim (“NS”) wanted out of life by the goals that were set for her. They included NS becoming a Chef de Cuisine; a Landscape Architect; a Master Repairman; and a Competition Fisher. Not my first choices, but I was open. Mini-goals you can ignore also pop up periodically, and range from “grow a head of corn” to “stay rested for three days.”

I chose “rise to top of career ladder,” so NS met her boss, Ruth, on the street and asked her for a promotion. After chatting Ruth up, NS was offered a position on the town counsel. I was excited by this fast-track to success, so NS knocked on her door the next evening, and proceeded to coo over Ruth’s home and personality. When asked for another raise, NS was declined. So she made Ruth laugh and chatted with her at length, then asked again. Bingo. MAYOR of Simsville!

I was feeling heady with all of this success. On Saturday, I had NS bump into Ruth at the park. After similar efforts, she was promoted once again: Vice President Nancy Sim!

I was now officially drunk on power. On Sunday morning, around 5 a.m., NS visited Ruth’s home and asked for another promotion. No go.

I had NS coo, joke, compliment, and then flirt. No promotion, but they became best friends. NS then flirted, hugged, and tried to kiss Ruth. She did the same the next day…and the next. Ruth became the only Sim in the game for me, while I had NS attempt to sleep her way to the top. I eventually had to choose the option: “apologize for creepiness.” Even though we were still officially best friends, I put a TRO in place to give Ruth some space. In the meantime, I was developing relationships with other Sims.

(Keep in mind, this was months in “Sim Time,” but in real time I had been playing for an hour.)

NS became friends with Marcel, Jack and Jill, Theresa, Walter and Kia (her future spouse). She invited people over, chatted, and periodically accepted requests from them; she brought Walter five eggs and gave Marcel a salmon. But it got interesting when one Sim asked her to be mean to another. After working, staying rested and trying to make friends, a little naughtiness was welcome.

Bernie was the last Sim that NS met. They bumped into each other at the park right after she received a request to “insult a Sim.” He was convenient, so I clicked “Be Mean” and watched another task be crossed off the list. The next time I was asked to “kick over a garbage can,” NS made her way to Bernie’s house (after all, he already didn’t like her), and accomplished the next task.

I quickly developed a strategy: persecute Bernie.

Every time a similar mean-spirited goal was set, I proceeded to find Bernie so NS could carry it out. This included:

1. Stopping by at 2 a.m. and inviting myself in to eat a snack from his kitchen.
2. Chatting, making him start to like me, and then using his shower.
3. Apologizing for my previous rudeness and then taking a nap in his bed.
4. Instigating an argument and then proposing marriage.

Bernie eventually kicked me out of his house. Five times.

Nancy Sim may be a creepy, slutty avatar. But at least she’s a creepy, slutty chef de cuisine, landscape architect, master repairman and competition fisher avatar.

Vote Nancy Sim for President!

(Ruth, are you listening?)

Blame it on the Rain

It was a dark and stormy night. (I’ve always wanted to write that!)

The roaring thunder and the eye-squintingly bright lightning tore through my apartment at 2:30 a.m. and lasted about 45 minutes.

I woke up this morning completely exhausted, took a shower while still half-asleep, and then managed to blow a fuse while drying my hair. I was only partway to an exquisite 'do but decided the lack of light was more urgent. So I peeked into my bedroom to confirm the power was off there too (it was) and made my way into the kitchen, where the fuse box is mounted about 7 feet off the ground. I used a spatula to open it and flip the bottom switch back to the “on” position. Voila! Power was restored. I'm like Bob Vila, but with kitchen utensils.

I returned to the bedroom so I could get dressed. I then reached for my glasses...which were no longer on my night stand, where I had placed them before going to sleep last night.

Forty-five long minutes passed, during which I did the following in order to locate my much-needed glasses:

1. Pushed night stand away from wall, looked in all drawers, then lifted it up and looked underneath.

2. Moved bed to center of room, tore off all linens, including pillowcases, put lost socks back into laundry basket, decided it was time to sweep behind my bed.

3. Ransacked my newly-folded (now unfolded) clothes.

4. Looked in my laundry basket. Left giant, heaping pile of linens and assorted clothing on floor.

5. Examined my closet, faux-armoire, hallway, living room, kitchen and front hallway.

6. Approached highest levels of desperation, began peeking in toilet, medicine cabinet, refrigerator, underneath my jewelry box and inside my air conditioner.

At this point, I was supposed to be at work in 5 minutes. I was half-dressed, completely confused, and entirely certain that a cockroach had wandered in during the night and decided my prescription would be perfect for his elderly cockroach father.

I also was starting to feel like my apartment was getting unbearably stuffy and humid. A bead of sweat proceeded to roll down my forehead and land...on a lens. On my face.

On the glasses which I had apparently been wearing THE ENTIRE TIME.

You know what? I still have no idea when I put them on, since I definitely wasn’t wearing them in the shower. On the way to work (clocking in a whopping 30 minutes late), I periodically touched my face, still unable to believe that I was in possession of my glasses.

Clearly, both my brain and the fuse shut off simultaneously. And I’m starting to think I will never know what truly happened during those lost minutes.

Hey, have you seen my watch?

Never mind.