Every morning (or close to it) I walk past a restaurant on 16th St. tucked between 5th ave and Broadway. There is a short Hispanic man that works there, cleaning and straightening up before the doors open. Without fail, at the moment I happen to be walking by, he glances up. If he's outside spraying down the sidewalks he'll yell "Hola mamacita! Como estas mi amor?" and I'll yell back "HOLA. I'm good!" If he happens to be inside, we settle instead for furiously waiving at one another.
I don't remember how or when we established this routine of ours, but I love it more than words can say.
December 23, 2008
December 10, 2008
my survival instincts are severly lacking
My apologies again, Internet. It's not that I don't love you, it's just that lately I haven't had much to report. This time of year all I want to do is hibernate under the covers until Spring. And somehow, I just didn't think you'd all appreciate an in depth analysis of why the blankets from my alma matter are the greatest creation in the history of blankets (hint: it involves sweatshirt fabric).
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Anyone who has been reading this blog for a while, knows that issues with the apartment are old news. I mean, why should it surprise anyone that my Sudanese landlords decided to grill indoors? Why should it be shocking that my apartment filled with smoke and now, four days later still smells like a 4th of July backyard barbecue? It was cold outside dear reader. Why should they have resisted the urge to bring the Webber indoors where they could more easily warm their chilled fingers against the open flames?
Truthfully though, my own behavior from that night is only slightly less appalling than theirs. I thought I'd smelled a whiff of smoke, but brushed it off. It was 8pm on a Monday night. It was Gossip Girl time. For those who don't understand why GG would influence my decision to investigate the source of some flames, you should know this: given the choice between life or death by smoke inhalation, I would chose the later just as long as I made it through to see the scenes from next week's episode.
So there I sat, watching GG, telling myself things like "That's not real smoke. That's just your brain doing funny things in response to the smoking hotness of Chase Crawford." Denial was working well until the alarm started bleeping at me. For whatever reason, I promptly panicked. It was one thing to smell smoke, it was quite another to have my alarm recognizing the presence of said smoke. Moreover, it seemed that the smoke was starting to billow around the light fixtures.
I then did what any sane person would do: run around the apartment unplugging things and feeling up the wall for hot spots. It should be noted that the walls of my apartment got more action in that five minutes than I've had in months (hi mom!).
ANYWAY
As I bolted around the apartment yanking cords out of the outlets and groping the walls, I also noticed the mountain of laundry I'd been neglecting. It was sitting in the center of my bedroom floor, in plain sight of the fireman who'd be barreling down my door at any minute. This was no ordinary pile of laundry. It was a pile of underthings. Unmentionables. Bits-o-fabric-to-cover-m'bits... if you catch my drift. The unmentionables were promptly shoved into a closet along with a smaller pile of discarded outfits. My apartment building was burning down and I was concerned with what the fireman would think of my housekeeping. This disturbs you and me both. But, while we're on the subject, what was I planning on doing if I found a hot spot? MacGuyvering the wall down and extinguishing the flames with the sheer force of my mind? I have no explanation.
The mystery source of the smoke was discovered when I leaned my head out the window to check for flames and noticed a light shooting out of a doorway below. There stood my Super, grinning ear-to-ear. He'd gone back to Sudan for the last few months and the lamb barbecue happening beneath my floorboards, was his welcome home party. All this was explained as he offered me bits of meat and reminded me to "be careful of who you love." I just barely resisted the urge to confess my undying love for him. He is unbelievably adorable and if I could haul him around town in my purse, I totally would. As far as I'm concerned, he can grill inside whenever his little heart desires. Because the Sudanese? They can marinade a lamb like nobodies business.
-------
Anyone who has been reading this blog for a while, knows that issues with the apartment are old news. I mean, why should it surprise anyone that my Sudanese landlords decided to grill indoors? Why should it be shocking that my apartment filled with smoke and now, four days later still smells like a 4th of July backyard barbecue? It was cold outside dear reader. Why should they have resisted the urge to bring the Webber indoors where they could more easily warm their chilled fingers against the open flames?
Truthfully though, my own behavior from that night is only slightly less appalling than theirs. I thought I'd smelled a whiff of smoke, but brushed it off. It was 8pm on a Monday night. It was Gossip Girl time. For those who don't understand why GG would influence my decision to investigate the source of some flames, you should know this: given the choice between life or death by smoke inhalation, I would chose the later just as long as I made it through to see the scenes from next week's episode.
So there I sat, watching GG, telling myself things like "That's not real smoke. That's just your brain doing funny things in response to the smoking hotness of Chase Crawford." Denial was working well until the alarm started bleeping at me. For whatever reason, I promptly panicked. It was one thing to smell smoke, it was quite another to have my alarm recognizing the presence of said smoke. Moreover, it seemed that the smoke was starting to billow around the light fixtures.
I then did what any sane person would do: run around the apartment unplugging things and feeling up the wall for hot spots. It should be noted that the walls of my apartment got more action in that five minutes than I've had in months (hi mom!).
ANYWAY
As I bolted around the apartment yanking cords out of the outlets and groping the walls, I also noticed the mountain of laundry I'd been neglecting. It was sitting in the center of my bedroom floor, in plain sight of the fireman who'd be barreling down my door at any minute. This was no ordinary pile of laundry. It was a pile of underthings. Unmentionables. Bits-o-fabric-to-cover-m'bits... if you catch my drift. The unmentionables were promptly shoved into a closet along with a smaller pile of discarded outfits. My apartment building was burning down and I was concerned with what the fireman would think of my housekeeping. This disturbs you and me both. But, while we're on the subject, what was I planning on doing if I found a hot spot? MacGuyvering the wall down and extinguishing the flames with the sheer force of my mind? I have no explanation.
The mystery source of the smoke was discovered when I leaned my head out the window to check for flames and noticed a light shooting out of a doorway below. There stood my Super, grinning ear-to-ear. He'd gone back to Sudan for the last few months and the lamb barbecue happening beneath my floorboards, was his welcome home party. All this was explained as he offered me bits of meat and reminded me to "be careful of who you love." I just barely resisted the urge to confess my undying love for him. He is unbelievably adorable and if I could haul him around town in my purse, I totally would. As far as I'm concerned, he can grill inside whenever his little heart desires. Because the Sudanese? They can marinade a lamb like nobodies business.
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