Somebody stop me now. Ok don’t, I’m enjoying this.

As pathetic as it is to admit, I spent all of yesterday glued to mtv.com catching up on the new series The City which stars the loveliest LA gal Whitney Port as she embarks on her new life as a fashionista in NYC working for Diane von Furstenberg. How sick is it that this stuff actually has the power to turn my brain to mush and let me sit like a vegetable for five hours straight on a Saturday when I have a million other, way more important things to get done? It’s nonsense. Oh but such good nonsense, if such a thing exists.

Years ago when I was living abroad I got such a kick out of chatting with my British flat-mates, trying to convince them that my life in New York City was really nowhere even remotely near Carrie’s from Sex and the City. They just figured it was. Hilarious! I consider myself stylish enough, keeping up with trends (to a minimum), checking out the latest city hot-spots, showing up at a cultural event or opening at least once in a blue moon, but no, I do not live a life like city gals Carrie, Samantha, et al. I don’t have the luxury of shopping all day in stores like Barney’s and Chanel. I don’t own even one pair of Manolos and I am definitely not getting into VIP parties where I might run into Anna Wintour or Tom Ford. And if I did they wouldn’t notice me any more than one of the bar-backs shoveling ice.

At least Carrie was in a different age bracket than me. She’d been a career woman for a bit longer than myself and as a result had a greater social network and a way to justify (?) $600 shoe purchases. What’s really hilarious to me though, are the girls that star on The City. In the thirteen years I’ve lived here, I have never known a 24-year-old that lives alone in a brand new apartment that measures over 400 square feet, has a balcony with a killer view and just happens to be located in one of the hottest neighborhoods downtown. It makes me feel a little better that this is TV after all and nothing is really real…but still, readers, take note: life in NYC for all of us regular people is NOT like it is for Little Miss Whitney. So if you’re planning on moving here, be forewarned: this isn’t how it really will be…unless of course you’re an heiress.

So the apartment issue— I spent my college years perplexed, watching episodes of Felicity, not sure how it was that they were also in school but living in a spacious 3-bedroom with floor-to-ceiling windows, exposed brick, the whole nine yards. Uh huh. On TV it seems everyone in NYC, no matter how young, has a sprawling apartment on the best block. That myth is nothing new. Let’s move on to Whitney’s hot new boyfriend—Jay the musician with the adorable accent. Whitney met him in the first week that she was here. Ok, yes, I realize she is rail thin and has legs for days but please. Does this really happen? No. Meeting men that are truly worth our while, is not that easy. If you don’t believe me, check in with my dozen intelligent, attractive, charming girlfriends who are all—you guessed it—single!

After reading this far you’re probably think I’m just jealous. Actually, I’m not. In all honesty, I say great for Whit. I think she’s lovely. Awesome for her and her friends that have fabulous parties to go to every night; that have wardrobes that amount to ten times what hangs in my closet– in terms of quantity and quality, that have gorgeous boyfriends that adore them. I just have to make it clear once again, that this is not real life! I’m astonished again thinking back to yesterday when I sat there watching episode five and counted on my fingers that I’m one, two, three…seven years older than these girls. Oh wait, eight, I realize, remembering my recent birthday. And I laugh to myself at the cramped quarters I call home. The sink/stove/counter combo that calls itself a kitchen, where I do my best to cook for myself. (Yesterday, by the way, it was an awesome ham and cheese quiche). Then there’s my refrigerator that leaks pools of water, the toilet that gurgles, the two windows I have and my awe-inspiring view.

Uh, huh…this my friends is my life in the city.

A while back I was walking in Soho along Grand Street and couldn’t help but notice the larger than life (thank God) rat mural by the British street artist Banksy. And I remembered back to freshman year of college when my true fear of rodents began. I was living in a ground-floor dorm room here in the city, and the girls next door had a mouse problem. And being that we were in art school, they had a charming artist friend who jokingly presented them with an illustration of the little creature to display on their door. But instead of the harmless field mouse he was, the drawing depicted him as a bloody-fanged beast, and written below his picture were the words: “Squeaky Lives Here.” It horrified me.

Worse than the field mouse in my neighbors’ room over a decade ago, was when, in more recent years, I was confronted with the reality that in NYC it is nothing unusual for rodents to live among us, even sometimes in the comforts of what we think are our own cozy, homes. Living in a neighborhood that is crowded with restaurants and thus garbage, mice and rats are everywhere. And in the cold, I suppose they prefer to be in warm, comfy places just like you and me. I will never forget the morning when I stumbled out of bed to go to the bathroom and did a double take as I passed the stove and saw the foil on a plate of cookies I’d made earlier, pulled back, and a human-sized bite missing from one of the cookies. I almost died right then and there. I couldn’t imagine what kind of beast could’ve possibly done such damage while I slept less than fifty feet away. When I called the super to report the apparent pest problem, he came to investigate, and lo and behold found a foot-long hole in the drywall behind my stove. I felt my stomach turn as I imagined the gangs of rats crawling into my apartment the minute I’d leave for work, nestling under my covers, watching my television and eating whatever snacks they could find. It took the drywall being repaired and many sleepless nights, before I got over this trauma, however, I finally did.

But just a few months ago I had a nagging hunch that once again I might have a furry friend living in the shadows. There was no explanation for the squeaking noise I kept hearing, so when I left for the movies one night, I set a piece of cheese in the middle of the kitchen floor to see if my suspicions were correct. Thankfully Woody Allen had me laughing for two hours, to the point that I wasn’t thinking of the intruder. But when I returned home and reached the door I turned the key remembering the cheese I’d left out. And I felt fear in the pit of my stomach. By some miracle, I found the morsel of cheddar still in one piece as I’d left it and I was able to take a deep breath of relief. But not a minute after settling in, I caught the slightest glimpse of a tail. Once again my body shuddered with panic.

For the next week I didn’t take a step without socks pulled up to my knees and sneakers on my feet. I couldn’t stomach the thought of a mouse scurrying over my toes or even worse, stopping to take a nibble. I was constantly on the lookout for the little intruder, but too chicken to set traps for fear I’d find guts splattered everywhere (as someone once told me happens). Enough time eventually passed with no sighting that I was soon able to resume a normal life at home, barefoot, carefree, and unafraid. And then wouldn’t it be, that one peaceful night shortly after, I walked in on the little bastard, beady-eyed and brave as a lion, crawling out of my toaster.

I haven’t made an English muffin since. Such is life in the big city.

Yesterday morning I woke to a scene of glorious white snow flurries falling on Manhattan. I watched out the 16th floor window as minutes passed on the clock, without a care I might be late, soaking up the last moments of my ‘vacation’. On a typical day, if snow happened to be falling, I wouldn’t notice until well into my morning routine. The windows in my shoebox apartment are decent in scale, yes, but they are few and far between. And the view to the city outside is anything but spectacular—the weathered brick on the back’s of three buildings that stand adjacent to mine, fire escapes littered with random junk and dead plants, and a small slice of the sky beyond.

Ok, so I didn’t actually go on a vacation. I was dog-sitting for the week, residing in an apartment with far more square feet than my own. So even though it was only a few blocks from my place, it felt like a vacation! For seven days as I played caregiver to my four-legged friend, I relished in the luxuries of a D-luxe apartment in the sky, à la George and Weezie Jefferson. And so quickly I became comfortable with the amenities—the doorman’s friendly greeting every time I came and went, an elevator rather than the five flights of stairs that take my breath away on a daily basis (and not the way I’d like for it to be taken away!), laundry in the building, a kitchen separate from the rest of the apartment where I actually had counter space to prep myself a meal, enough floor space to do cartwheels back and forth if I so desired, and a view of the city lights out of original metal casement windows that are sadly near extinction. So quickly I fell into a rhythm that this life was my norm. And so soon after, it came to an end.

I’m back at my place now, back in the groove of my regular day-to-day, sardine style. It’s not the Ritz, and I won’t be doing cartwheels, but it’s mine and it’s cozy. I don’t have the counter space I dream of or jaw-dropping views, but I get a good laugh tripping over my own feet trying to prepare myself a meal and find a smile at seeing a bright blue sky, no matter how small the slice of it is. There’s no doorman to greet me, but the guy at the coffee shop downstairs who never forgets to say hello and no elevator, but a good workout every time I climb the stairs. I wonder if someday like George and Weezie I’ll get to say I’m really movin on up, but for now I’ll appreciate the quirks of my little place…and agree to dog-sit any chance I get!

I was just in the bathroom.  And VERY CLEARLY heard a SOFT COUGH from one of my neighbors.  It traveled through the vent.

This means that when I sing the “scrub my butt” song in the shower, it does not go unheard.