Thursday, March 6, 2014

Five Things I Will NOT Miss About Brooklyn (A Rant)

Have you heard? Famiglia Moo Cow is leaving Brooklyn.

Perhaps it was inevitable. There are a few serious issues we had with living here, not the least of which were being priced out of any reasonable real estate; the nauseating school situation*; the lack of outdoor options for my poor, misunderstood pup; and the distance from my immediate family, who live a thousand** hours away by car on the other side of the universe in the northwest suburbs of the city.

But our current living situation -- in a peculiar, post-industrial, seemingly ransacked edge of Brooklyn, where sidewalks are strewn with broken glass, garbage and dog shit -- chipped away at my fortitude and sanity, hastening our departure.

Earlier I outlined five things I will miss about Brooklyn. But what I really want to scream out loud is five things I will not. Fucking. Miss. At. All.


#1 - Hipsters 

My disdain for the smug, entitled hipsters that crawl all over "north Brooklyn," looking a mess on purpose is summed up here: Dear Sanctimonious Brooklyn. Take your artisanal mayonnaise and shove it up your microbrewery, hipsters. And may I add: Straight guys with skinny pants. Just… stop it.

#2 - The Total Fucking Asshole in 6V

Look, Total Fucking Asshole -- can I call you Asshole for short? -- I pity your pathetic life, which, as far as I can tell consists of working from 8 am to 6 pm and smoking pot for the balance. I get that it's not entirely your fault I have lived in various apartments filled with the stench of cigarette and/or marijuana smoke exhaled from my neighbors' black lungs for ten long years.

But here’s the thing, Asshole: I have a child now. I know that your five remaining brain cells can’t comprehend my ire at the effect your pastime has on his life. You live alone and probably do not have so much as a goldfish let alone responsibility for another human being. I’m sure it was super fucking inconvenient for you when the building handyman came to “seal” your apartment to prevent the smoke from billowing out of your mouth and into my son’s blood stream. (Especially because the sealing did not work at all.)

I feel like I have really gotten to know you the past two years, Asshole dahling. I know from the smoke signals your comings and goings, what time you awake, when you return home from work. I know when you are on vacation and when you call in stoned sick. I know you didn’t go to work for two days during February’s Snowpocalypse. Well played.

Yet I never, ever murdered you. Not even once.

Unfortunately, our relationship has been a one-way street. You didn’t care when you learned there was a small child living above you. You didn’t hear my sobs of fury and helplessness whilst inhaling the gauzy air. You didn’t pay the electric bills for the “purifiers” that did nothing but shuffle the toxins around. 

Asshole, I only have one thing left to say: Fuck. You. You never even offered me a brownie.

#3 - The Brooklyn-Queens Expressway 

Oh BQE, how do I hate thee? Let me count the ways.
I hate thee to the depth and breadth and height my soul can reach, 
when feeling out of sight.
I hate thee in the morning when I go to work. 
I hate thee in the evening when I return,
snaking through Queens, land of Dunkin’ Donuts, to avoid you.
I hate thee on the weekends and holidays 
when I am trying to visit family in the suburbs.
I hate thee for the black soot deposited on every surface of my home 
and upon my very soul.
I hate thee for the noise and the endless dance 
of tractor-trailers pirouetting on thy rancid concrete.
I hate thee.
I hate thee.
I hate thee.

(With sincere apologies to Elizabeth Barrett Browning.)

#4 - The Meth Lab

Perhaps I had seen too much Breaking Bad, but I became convinced early on that the Chinese wholesale grocer across the street was a front for a meth lab. It made it easier to despise them for the resulting outrageous noise pollution that rendered it impossible to open a window. Otherwise I would just be hating on random immigrants for trying to make a living. And what ass-wipe does that?

#5 - Quarters

Remember that time I carried a stroller filled with fifty dollars in quarters up and down subway stairs all day? Those were for the “laundry room” in my building. Really? Quarters? Listen up, illiterate owners of the ramshackle contents of so-called laundry room: 1994 called. It wants its machines back.

There are never any quarters in there anyway. Why bother?

* I admit to feeling a giddy tinge of schadenfreude at the prospect of my husband camping out overnight to register Henry for the morning session of a preschool to which I had already ensured his acceptance with my prompt application filing and Henry’s own finely honed toddler interviewing skills.

** Usually no more than two, but it's only 35 miles away!

This post is Part 3 in the Leaving Brooklyn series.
Part 1: Five Things I Will Miss About Brooklyn 
Part 2: Suburban Moo Cow? Not Exactly 

This has been a Finish the Sentence Friday post: "What I really want to scream out loud is..."

Finish the Sentence Friday

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