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.

if it's yellow...

"I'm practically showing ass crack with my in depth assessment of the situation and he's like 'I plunge, yes?'" - text message sent regarding the toilet that clearly, hates me.

A few months ago my toilet decided that it was tired of being taken for granted. It channeled the attitude of a hormonal 16yr old girl with a love for all things glitter, and pitched a motha-effin-fit. This was the third time I'd had "issues" with the toilet, so calls to the landlord started out relatively calm "Oh hi. I seem to have a hehehe plug in my toilet or something and I can't unplug it and I don't know... could you please come check it out?" and then degenerated into progressively more panicked voicemails "IT'S BEEN A WEEK OF NO TOILET. PLEEEEEASE FIX THIS TODAY. NOT TOMORROW. TODAY!"

I spent my evenings planning out bathroom trips. Before I left work I'd take a trip to the ladies room regardless of whether or not I actually felt the "urge". It felt like I was 4yrs old and leaving on a 13hr road trip with no potty breaks in between. Every. Single. Night.

I literally spent hours plunging and snaking the thing. I poured enough chemicals down there to burn the hide off a big, angry Rhino and still, nothing. Finally Desmond, the Jamaican repairman who I swear smoked a bong right before tapping on my door, showed up. He stared at my dinner and made hungry faces, but since I was angry, I was all "No, no seafood burrito for you, Mon." After about twenty minutes of pounding, plunging and creating a foul toxic mess, he ripped the thing out of the floor and wall only to disappear for the remainder of the weekend. At this point I was ready to burn the building down and call it even.

Understandably, I began to panic when the toilet started acting up again this past weekend when the flushage was increased x2 due to the presence of a houseguest. I scolded Jane, demanding an inventory of the last three days of her bowel movements and asked really polite questions like "WHAT HAVE YOU BEEN EATING?!" I explained that Toilet was a whiny little priss incapable of handling more than the lightest of loads (pun intended). Thankfully, in spite of my mad skills at hosting, Jane and I are still friends. Toilet on the other hand had better clean up its act. Because I've got a bottle of liquid plumber and I will not hesitate to use it.

"I think I have mouses..."

In the last month or so my apartment was somehow taken over by a mouse. Initially, when I spotted him darting across the living room, I had a good old fashioned freak out and proceeded to text Julie messages like "MOUSE. I HAVE A MOUSE!"... which was followed up with much saner messages like "MOUUUUUUUUUUUUUSE. I AM LOSING MY SHIT." I saw him often enough in the last few days, that I took to stomping around the apartment in my Ugg boots every night when I got home from work. I looked like Atilla The Tall Dutch Hun. Finally, this past weekend I dragged The Uncle to the hardware store. After consulting with our local Sears Consultant we went old school, and bought a set of six bait'em and squish'em traps.

Theoretically, I was relieved to finally be dealing with the mouse issue. While stomping around the apartment does have its own entertainment value, consistently freaking the hell out every time something darts across the room, does not. Also, that little sucker ate my cashew nuts thereby forcing me to toss the whole bag. For anyone who reads this site but does not have the pleasure of knowing me in real life, it's safe to say that you do not want to get between me and my snacks.

Yesterday morning I checked all the traps and sure enough, Fivo was there staring back up at me. I disposed of him and proceeded to make gaggy faces for the next half hour. THEN last night in the middle of the Gossip Girl finale, I heard two traps go off in the living room. Two traps. In the room where I was sitting. Internet, I do not consider jumping up to stand on the couch while yelling "Ewwww. Ewwww. OH LORD IT'S STILL WIGGLING!!!!!!!!" an overreaction. I dare say it was tame, because I swear on snacks and everything else that is good and holy, I have never wished for a boyfriend more. So I did what all single girls do when they live alone, and are faced with things that should be handled by those without a gag reflex. Chugged a beer and edged it into a dust pan. This morning there was another one, which leads me to believe that Fivo did not in fact go west, but instead invited the whole damn clan up to my place for a party. I'll keep you all posted, but in the meantime I'll be the one stomping around 1R in her boots.
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Edit: Unfortunately, the title of this post did actually come out of my mouth. I said it yesterday while riding in the car with The Uncle, only to glance over and notice him staring at me, like "Woman, I'm about to beat you with a Websters and I won't even feel bad. Your parents will thank me." So, I stared back and stated as eloquently as I possibly could, "I write good." In my family, it's not so much a function of being right all the time, as it is pretending like you are even when you know the facts are stacked against you. Because facts? They are just small, insignificant details standing in the way of you winning an argument.

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."

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.

What. The. Fug.

My dad didn’t seem especially sympathetic when I exclaimed on the telephone “It’s BRASS paint that they DRIPPED everywhere”. He quite logically pointed out that this is NY, and therefore unless you’re living in monstrosities like thisaone, there’s bound to be 10 coats of paint on everything.

Which is all good and fine, and probably very true. In all fairness to him, quite likely, me complaining about my really friggin’ fugly apartment fixtures is sort of like the skinniest girl in the room casually mentioning that her New Year’s resolution is to “go on a diet!!” and get “really, really fit!!” saying it with such seriousness, that you want to wallup her and simultaneously shove a burrito down her throat. In other words, it’s annoying. That being said, the slightly obsessive part of me is still very much obsessing about how I can remedy the affront that is brass paint. Lo, the "before" and "after" photos.I've decided that I won't bother with the door jambs, or door handles. The light switches, outlets, and lighting fixtures however, should probably fear for their lives.

To the former occupant of 1R:

Somehow, though your reasoning dumbfounds me, you managed to paint every surface including, but not limited to the door jambs, light switches, outlets, coat hooks, door knobs, and light fixtures in a tacky bronze metallic paint. Not once, but apparently multiple times, so that removing said light switches, outlets, and coat hooks required raw determination and the strength of a friggin’ Viking (thankfully, I have both). Anyway, I just wanted to drop you a line and say thank you for your unbelievably thorough display of bad taste.

-s-

it's over.

That apartment I mentioned? The one with a bedroom, separate from the living room, and miracle of all miracles a reasonable amount of closet space?! Yes, that one.

It's mine. Officially, it all goes down on Dec. 1st. To commemorate the event I bought a poster. A poster I love almost as much as I do closet space.

EDIT - No, I did not pay the 2K fee and somehow I managed to get them to drop my rent by $150/mo. The details are a bit fuzzy, but I do seem to recall throwing down the words "couisin" and "lawyer" somewhere along the line.

apt. hunt continues

Last night I put a deposit down on an apartment. A massive 1bdr. apartment, in a fantastic neighborhood, with a laundrymat 2 doors down. I can handle 2 doors down. The space needs paint, and a fresh grout job in the bathroom. But, by the time I put the deposit down, I'd psyched myself out not to care. I thought things like "Paint? You LOVE painting. You were MADE to paint these cupboards something resembling Pantone 383C... or maybe 390C."

Did I mention that by the time I climbed the train to head back to NJ, that I'd already mentally decorated the place? Because I had.

First I'd tackle the kitchen and the bedroom and then I'd work on the hallway and living room next. Anyone that visited between now and whenever I finished said living room, was just going to have to suck it up and deal. Afterall, that's why God invented air mattresses. I'd graciously decided to overlook the fugly linoleum in the hallway, remembering that CB2 now carries FLOR tiles, and that CB2 just opened a store in Soho. If CB2 didn't have what I wanted, I could hit up Ikea, which in addition to air mattresses, is God's other gift to housewares.

So I guess, it shouldn't surprise me that this morning the landlord requested a broker's fee. Which basically equates to 2K getting shot straight down the crapper in the apartment that I have already decorated in my head.

And now I'm cranky, having to decide whether or not just to bite the bullet and go for it. Or go with option B) which involves me fully embracing my dutch instincts and telling the landlord where exactly he can stick his effin' fee.