Showbiz Commentary: Heidi Oringer

Some of you have questioned my whereabouts over the last two weeks, wondering if I "ticked someone off to the point of extinction" or if I've run out of "wisenheimer remarks." Au contraire!

Fact is, I recently moved into the first home I have owned, and I'm full of more smart aleck comments and tasteless cracks than ever before.

So, I say now … beware!

Although I could have written on Aretha Franklin's being Diva-ized, Brooke Shields remarrying, or perhaps even Eminem's little slap on the wrist via two years probation, I have instead decided to fill you all in on my moving experience. It is vastly entertaining and indeed, relates to the topic of entertainment in a number of ways.

The Friends Housing Fantasy

My new home, a townhouse similar to the one in the opening of the Ted Knight sitcom Too Close for Comfort, is nestled between the marshlands of New Jersey and a major highway. At first you might think, "Why would anyone with a brain larger than that of a caterpillar buy a piece of property in an area like that?" To which I would respond, "It's close to New York City, making the commute less heinous than normal, and you get more bang for your buck in Joisey than you do in the Big Apple."

You see, folks, the apartments depicted in Friends are make-believe. The reality is the average affordable pad for a twentysomething in NYC offers about 700 square feet, where the kitchen and bathroom are combined. Monica and Chandler's apartment would go for roughly $4,500 a month in what we call "The Real World."

Back to me …

The day I moved in played out like a calamity of errors à la The Three Stooges. The movers — and there were three — arrived at the wrong place, took out a row of lights at the storage facility, brought my things to the wrong house and mucked up my new carpet. After seven hours, all the boxes had been tossed in the incorrect rooms, and I had to beg Moe, Larry and Curly to leave me while I still had a working lobe.

I Want Knobs

Upon first inspection of the new digs, I noticed several things that just didn't seem right. (Kind of like that feeling Melanie Griffith got after her first encounter with Michael Keaton in Pacific Heights.)

The walls in the master bedroom were rippled and bumpy with boils, similar to those on the face of Baron Vladimir Harkonnen in the film Dune. I learned from a knowledgeable friend that these hideous bulges were actually called "nail pops." I also learned you're NOT supposed to have them. I found this troubling, as my new furniture was scheduled to arrive the next day. Not only would my armoire never sit flush against the wall, but it was so full of lumps, Sly Stallone could've used it to practice rock climbing before he filmed Cliffhanger.

Next up, my master bath, which was void of some fundamentals … like a knob to turn the shower on and off. Call me spoiled, but even in The Money Pit, Shelley Long and Tom Hanks had handles in their bathrooms. Besides that, the upgraded toilet I paid for had not been installed. In its place was a standard toilet, big enough for Webster, but certainly not me.

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