Have to admit: since moving in to the new place I find I’m falling more and more in heavy like with it. Not yet willing to pilot the boat to the end of the Tunnel of “Love” just yet. Give it time.
Oh there are a few little annoyances. Like the fact that the laundry room has “hours of operation”. In the Old Place, there was no time restriction. In the New Place – well you have to check your watch, and schedule the time properly or you may not be able to grab your freshly dried tightey-whiteys at the end of the dryer cycle. Which means any old early bird can get in there when it opens in the morning and abscond with them before you can rub the sleep out of your eyes.
Gauchie theft is a growing crime problem, you know. There are just too many guys out there, in poverty, who’ve never had gauchies of their own. They’ve looked at the Sears catalogue with longing for so many years, always turning to the men’s underwear section, dreaming of the day they can slip one of these bad boys onto their privates, and smile with contentment, knowing that their junk is finally contained.
But I digress.
Oh P.S. I don’t use tightey-whiteys. I’m strictly a boxers adherent. The reason for the use of the other term: artistic license.
Seems to me you can say almost anything, as long as you follow up with that all-encompassing justification.
“I think you and your family are descendants of feudal peasants who never washed, because it never occurred to them to do so. They’ve passed their penchant for soap-avoidance onto their progeny so really it’s not your fault that you smell. JUST KIDDING. Artistic license.”
Maybe it wouldn’t work. The only way to know for sure is to test it. If you can say the above and then walk away afterward without having to wipe blood from your nose – YOU WIN.
Getting back on topic: there is much to love about the New Place: I don’t just have air conditioning. The place has “climate control” – which is about a ton better than air conditioning. Air conditioning involves a machine that you have to spend hours trying to fit in an abnormal-sized window. You have to measure it, grab some plywood or plexiglass, and then cut it so that it fits with the air conditioner. Plus you have to find a way to anchor it in the window so that it doesn’t fall fifteen stories down right on top of that Nightmare Litigator who will sue your ass for everything you’ve got (providing that they live).
No, I have climate control, which means there is venting throughout the apartment. We each have our own controls, too. I have *never* enjoyed summer so much, ever. With climate control, there is no worry about water leaking (in my last place, water leaked onto the floor when I wasn’t home, resulting in the tiles becoming engorged and lifting. Had to get someone in to re-do the floors), and it pipes the air into all parts of the apartment. So cool, in both senses of the word.
The water pressure is great too. In the Old Place, that was a real issue, and was the cause of an unending barrage of swearing in the morning. Not only did the water dribble out of the shower-head like an old man with a football-sized prostate, but the temperature fluctuated just a little bit too. Back and forth, from frightened-testicles-hurry-up-and-scurry-back-up-into-your-body-cavity ice cold to immediately-peel-your-skin-off-down-to-the-bone red lava hot. So a five-minute shower usually took about twenty minutes to a half hour. I started out hating it, but ended up loathing it with a passion.
And washing dishes was a fall-on-your-face joke. That tap too trickled like the cutest little babbling brook. You could get suds only if, after letting the tap water fill the sink (generally about ten to fifteen minutes) and depositing about a half a cup of dish soap, you then swished it around violently with your hand.
Yes, it was definitely time for a change. Now, I have to really watch how much dish soap I put in, because too much will cause a soap volcano in the sink. And showers now take five minutes. Awesome.
What really kind of made this place cool was something I hadn’t expected, in socially cold Toronto: I have some pretty neat neighbours.
Most of them welcomed me when I moved in. The general welcome was something like “good luck in your new place.” I’ve never had that kind of greeting before. Most of the residents in this building are Jewish, too. Some are orthodox and many are not. There’s are three elevators here, one of which is designated as the Sabbath elevator from Friday evening to Saturday evening. For those who don’t know, the Sabbath elevator allows folk to ride without having to push any buttons. It stops automatically at every floor.
This morning when I went down to do my laundry, a couple of older women – both Jewish – introduced themselves to me. We got talking pleasantly about the building, and about life in general. It was pretty cool, especially since this never happened at my other building.
“So did you just move in?”
“Yes, I did. In the middle of June.”
“What apartment are you in?”
(I wondered at that question. But I told her)
“Oh, it’s one of the one-bedrooms then.”
(Evidently they knew the building floor plans. Interesting.)
“And so are you by yourself then?”
To be honest, I get the feeling the older women here are trying to size me up – since I seem to be getting the same questions. Maybe I’m a possible candidate as a mate for their daughters. I can imagine the conversation.
“He’s probably making good money, since he can afford to live here by himself.”
“So pleasant too. And good-looking. He might be a professional man.”
“You think so? Maybe my Marly will catch his eye.”
“Oh you know – Marly catches everyone’s eye.”
“What are you saying? Are you saying Marly gets around?”
“No, no dear. I’m just saying she’s good-looking too.”
“Oh. I’m sorry. Didn’t mean to get all meshugah on you dear.”
“Ah! Think nothing of it. You know, she’s probably too good for him anyway.”
“You think so?”
“I do. And besides, he’s probably Goy anyway.”
“That’s true. I didn’t see a yarmulke. Oy, I’m going to plotz before I find an eligible man for my Marly.”
I love this place.