lightening in the microwave

[the greatest toilet seat known to man]

I spent all weekend (and by "all weekend" I mean non-social daylight hours) finishing up some painting projects around the apartment and enduring a semi-hellish trip to IKEA. I heart IKEA almost as much as I do snacks. But by noon the place was infested with parents and all of their 10+ offspring. I don't care what kind of eye-hand coordination skills you're trying to develop in your kid, it's not cute to hand them a shopping cart and let them navigate the overly crowded aisles. It's just not. If you're a parent reading this, and are guilty of said offense, then I would just like to be the first to inform you that every other person there who didn't haul their kids along for a 5hr shopping trip, probably wanted to throw their Swedish meatballs at your head. Or, maybe that's just me.


Sunday, I looked around the digs and felt like the work had finally paid off. The things about the apartment that initially drove me crazy, I decided I loved. Sparky toilet seat? Best. Toilet. Seat. Ever. Fixtures that had been painted with tacky brass paint? Quirky and adorable. I even danced a little jig to fully express my satisfaction. I danced as only a white, dutch girl can dance. Badly.

Then, this morning I wake up and notice what looks to be char marks on my newly painted walls. Apparently I had an electrical fire and my fire alarm didn't bother to warn me about it. MOREOVER, I now have CHAR marks on my wall. The wall, that I just finished painting.

Oh, the irony.

Once in high school, one of the siblings stuck something with foil on it in the microwave. The whole thing promptly started sparking, and my mom could only point and yell "LIGHTENING! LIGHTENING IN THE MICROWAVE!!!!!!!" Today, when I noticed the burn marks, I whispered "lightening... in my wall."

I get kinda hectic inside

Sometimes between work and life, I forget all the reasons that I love living here. Reasons other than the most obvious one: every kind of cuisine can be delivered. Here's lookin' at you Coco Roco. Because even though I haven't tested you yet or your Chicaron de Calamar, I love that when I do have a hankering for some Peruvian, you've got my back. And so dear friends, in the name of remembering why NY is a city like no other, I give you my favorites from the last 24hrs:

1. Seeing 50+ police cars with their lights all on sitting in a parking lot for no other apparent reason than to provide a) a surprisingly great light show OR b) the appearance of a overly collaborative department of po-pos.
2. Listening to my male dressing room attendant sing every word of Mariah Carey's Fantasy
3. Different store. Different dude attendant singing Beyonce Dangerously in Love.
4. Finding out that Barack Obama carries a picture of me in his wallet and made me a mixtape. Which really, is just all kind of adorable.

floods + compliments = troo lov

My apartment Super is Sudanese. Not Sudanese in the way that I am Dutch, cheap, and love Stroompwaffles. Rather, Mr. Hassan is Sudanese in the way that allows him to easily define the world "genocide" even though our government only manages to figure it out in hindsight. Which is probably why I've developed a slightly ridiculous affection for him making me want to feed him cookies, wrap him in a blanket, and apologize for our idiotic President all while pinching his cheeks. Every now and then I get notes shoved under my door full of phonetic spellings and have to fight the urge to reply in kind. Not that it would be a long note, probably something like "Yor the best. Thanks for beeng soo grate."

This past weekend we finally had a reason to meet for the very first time since my toilet decided that it no longer felt like flushing. What it did feel like doing was vomiting all over my floor on a regular basis. Not just a trickle, or a spatter. We're talking Noah's Ark type deluge. In true grownup fashion, my response to the problem (after I called Mr. Hassan) was to stare at the lake growing on my floor, go make myself a gin and tonic, and settle in for a Law + Order marathon. Apparently sometime between hours 1 through 4 of my television watching, the flooding caused the ceiling downstairs to collapse. True story.

I was nervous about finally meeting him. What if he didn't like me? What if he freaked out that I painted the cupboards wasabi green? What if I couldn't resist the urge to feed him an endless supply of Pillsbury Slice n' Bakes? Would he think that the flooding was caused by an excessive use of Charmin Ultra? Because I have used Scott's and really, I don't think I could go back without risking some very serious chaffing.

Leave it to Mr. Hassan to fix my toilet and calm my fears. He came and we flushed the toilet just so we could witness the flood together. After we realized that in spite of all appearances, animals weren't going to come marching out of my bathroom two-by-two, he smiled, took my hand and said "Hi, Miss Sarah. I, Hassan Seleh. Don't worry. We fix it. I call plumber and he come." Then, as if my heart wasn't already melted around my feet, he yelled "SOOO BOOOTIFUL! You single? Not married? You should be MARRIED".

I. Lov. Him.

I left my will to live on the 18th floor

Sometime ago a coworker and I decided that we would make it our personal mission in life to climb the stairs in our building on a semi-regular basis. We were hoping to ring in the New Year with firmer thighs and lifted bums without having to deal with Suzanne Summers telling us “you’re halfway there!!!” Because I’m sorry Ms. Summers, but I don’t think you earned that bum entirely on your own. In fact, I would bet money that somewhere, in a land where fat goes to die there is a doctor who put his kid through college by helping remove the cush from your tush.

ANYWAY.

Two days ago we finally ran out of excuses and actually did it. I will not even get into how hard it was, but if walking like an old geriatric is any indication, then I am well on my way to being fit. Super fit.

Hum. That last sentence reminded me of short-lived health kick in high school where I created the Wall O’ Inspiration on my yellow and purple plaid walls, which had sayings like “Be Fab, lose the Flab!” written all over it. It’s safe to say that I was really cool in high school.

ANYWAY AGAIN (have you noticed the A.D.D. nature of this post yet?)

Oh look, monkeys!

I kid.

Back to the subject at hand: my rump. Turns out that climbing 40 flights of stairs is hard, and resulted in me walking home at an extraordinarily slow pace. I thought I was doing a decent job of masking the pain until some random dude on the street glanced over and asked “Rough day at work?” I think I must have whimpered, or nodded in response because he then offered to rub my feet. And only because I still had some shred of dignity, I did not lie down on 5^th avenue and take the man up on his offer. Well that, and the fact that strangers taking a special interest in my feet sort of creeps me out.

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Edit: I climbed 40 flights in 20 minutes and wanted to die. These people are out of their damn minds