Sometimes I Feel Like a Nut by Jill Kargman

Author:Jill Kargman [Kargman, Jill]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Tags: Biographies & Memoirs, Essays, Humor, Nonfiction, Retail, Satire
Amazon: B0045U9WQE
Publisher: HarperCollins e-books
Published: 2011-02-02T05:00:00+00:00

Images of animals in human clothing

Morphing babies so they can talk in movies and commercials

Toe rings

Ventriloquists’ dummies

The Eagles (see Don Henley = asshole anecdote on page 41)

Cirque du So Lame

Crocs on grown-ups who aren’t surgeons

Hard-candy plastic being unwrapped during a show or movie

(sk)Anklets smashed under nude hose (double whammy)

Loud gum chewers

People who use “summer” as a verb

10

Dearest Apartment No. 5,

Some girls chart the chapters of their lives by jobs or guys or haircuts; I do it by real estate. You, no. 5, are inextricably linked to every memory I have from the mostly heinous fucking four years we spent together, but in the end, you were the one that built me back up from lonely twenty-four-year-old whimpering kvetch subsumed with worries about the Future. I arrived scarred and feeble and left you happy, relieved, and not roping up a noose. But we both know it wasn’t easy.

When we met, I was as maudlin as tattered Cosette in the Les Miz poster. I may as well’ve had a mop and actual shredded clothes, I was so down. Or, as Kit De Luca, the whore best friend in Pretty Woman, said, “Cinderfuckinrella.” I hoped in a new space I could turn my life around. You were way more charming than the other shitboxes I’d seen on my Tasmanian Devil whirlwind tour of way-too-expensive hovels that looked like Czech rat holes you’d crawl in to die. Your exposed brick and dreamy location near Central Park didn’t soothe my weary bones and battered emotions, though. That would take some time.

The hot Israeli movers came to pack me up from my downtown abode, which was a hipster gigantor luminous loft compared to you, my dark third-floor walk-up. Let’s admit it, my sweet, you were definitely a downgrade. The movers found me tearstained and sitting on a cardboard box, refugee-style.

“Breakup move?” one asked with a sympathetic look.

Whoa. ESP? “Mm-hmm,” I sniffled, wiping a hot errant tear.

“Don’t worry, honey, we do this all the time. You’re gonna be just fine.”

When I was fully moved in, my sitcom-style reverie of hot-neighbor sexual tension was dashed instantly: of the ten apartments, eight were occupied by single women. Grrrreat. Of the remaining two tenants, one was a family with three kids and the other lived behind a buzzer reading “Erlichman.” I held out hope for an NJB (Nice Jewish Boy), but he turned out to be an AARP-card carrier who told me his rent control had him paying $300 a month, compared to my nightmarish monthly ka-ching that was more than six times that.

“The landlord would love to see me go, but I got news for him,” he told me in the stairwell, which was adorned with horrifying pheasant-covered wallpaper. “They’ll be taking me outta here in my coffin.”

Good times!

Then the gal directly upstairs moved out (got married, migrated to the ’burbs) and in came cocaine-snorting, Moby-blaring Melanie, the town bicycle—and I mean every guy in New York had a ride. I didn’t know which was worse—the song “Bodyrock” playing

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