Country Girl meets City Slicker
Sometimes I wondered why I moved here, don’t get me wrong. I love it, every time I walk past Louis, or the plaza, eat at another orgasmic tasting restaurant, or practice yoga in the park I say a silent thank you to the gods above for letting me live here. But let’s be honest there are some very nasty aspects about living here that takes a certain amount of grit.
I know what your thinking country girl saying city slickers are tough? She is crazy!
Which maybe I was until I moved here.
Don’t get me wrong. My daddy (and two brothers) raised me tough. I played with dolls along side Tonka Trucks. Climbed trees in dresses (bet the boys loved that). Learned how to throw a ball correctly (broken nail say what) and even learned to shoot a gun (there goes any chance of ever getting married, though I will say I don’t hunt, ever, bad for my nails and hair).
As I got older, I learned how to caulk a tub, hammer nails, (nails are tough! And no not painting them!) spackle, paint, build furniture, snake a drain, and use a drill, as well as being taught how to put on make-up, walk in heels(practice makes a model), do my hair (albeit badly) and be a total fashionista. My parents were raising the new breed of femme fatales with heels and drills in their repertoire.
I was bad ass, or a total tom-boy which ever way you prefer to look at it. I had no problems getting my hands dirty one minute getting them manicured the next. It was common knowledge that when my parents had work done on their house, they would find me asking the contractors a bunch of questions, probably right before my mom took me shopping.
What can I say I was well rounded. Or insane whichever you prefer.
When I moved to the city, it was one thing my parents didn’t have to worry about. I didn’t need to call my super when my toilet got plugged. Window catching? No problem. Caulking? easy-peasy. Dead-bolt installed? A breeze. I was pretty self suffcient. And I admit I would laugh when I would talk to a New Yorker who couldn’t hang their shower curtain, or would call their super because they had a clog.
As much as I would like to say I am a New Yorker, there were some things even this country girl can’t deny, uh hide (sorry couldn’t resist).
But then, there are some things that country girl or not you need grit. And lots of it.
Like with spiders. Country or not, I hate spiders. Freak out, should be hospitalized give me a freakin’ xanax hate spiders. I know I am a yogi, and should be all ahimsa (non-violence for you non yogis), but when it comes to spiders. Kill the mother fuckers (Sorry mom). Spiders and I will never be friends ever. And I am fine with that. Those legs can keep on walking cause I want nothing to do with them.
I can give countless scenarios where my mother has thought I was being raped, tortured, murdered, decapitated or some version of all of the above, because I have given the loudest screams that would even wake the dead.
So I am sure my parents (who still would go into my bedroom and kill the evil blood thirsty spiders…yes they deserve a warrior parent award) had some reserves about me moving to a city that doesn’t have spiders (not that I have seen thank you spider god) but some rather bigger, very disgusting insects of the Blattaria order. (don’t I feel smart!)
My first apartment was a disaster as touched on in Roommates of the four legged STDiseased kind. Well more sugar coated, but it was a disaster, ants, roaches, rats, it was a miracle I made it out of there alive. With sanity. But in all fairness it wasn’t a spider.
Fast forward to Sunday (I was deathly ill mind you, fine just had the yuckiness) I open my door, and what do I see? Spider? Ha good guess but no New York doesn’t have any of those. An insect of the Blattaria order (I swear I just like saying that) outside my door, ready to make a bee (roach?) line in.
Let’s just say I freaked out and blew my mother’s ear drum, because yes she was on the phone with me at the time.
See my new apartment (really not that new since I have been here over a year but I digress, I just like saying that word too) is actually pretty great. Don’t have issues with rodents, and the only Blattaria -okay fine- cockroaches I see are usually when I take the trash to the basement (which is scary!) almost dead because they spray. But that is understandable. See I am a reasonable solid country girl, even if I do call my mommy so I can take the trash down to the cellar not that, that was what I was doing. Okay maybe it was. I plead the fifth.
But I do have my limits, and having a cockroach barricade me in my apartment is where I draw the line. It may not be a spider, but no way in hell am I opening that door unless I have raid to eighty-six its ass.
And then clorox to scrub my apartment down. And even though it never came into my apartment (I really do have the best neighbors, first for putting up with my door decorations and then to be my knights in roach killing armor) I still feel violated and dirty and heebie jeebied out.
Which is why I give props to New Yorkers. Really having to deal with roaches on a semi permanent bases, not going postal on tourists, seeing rats skitter across your path while running, driving with people from New jersey and Florida. They may not know how to hang a shower curtain (hey we can’t all be perfect) but are a strong breed and I am proud to be one.
As Kelly Clarkson says, “What doesn’t kill you make’s you stronger,” (you are totally going to hate me for getting that stuck in your head the rest of the day.) is very true. If I can handle roaches I can handle anything.
Just not spiders.