It struck me just now at 4am (since I cannot sleep in this god-forsaken hotel with clanking pipes) that I am and have been in a gritty war with my merciless Harvard trained landlord and his army of accomplices for years.
If you’re getting ready for an apartment hunt in New York City you might want to arm yourself with some terminology translations.
Yesterday was Valentine’s Day and a man I just met offered me chocolate. I will now call him a “food pusher.”
Me: “That’s very nice of you to offer, but I don’t want chocolate. Thanks.”