It Came From The Shower Drain

If you never hear from me again after today, it is because we’ve been sucked into a hell dimension. I’m pretty sure that the Forces of Darkness have taken up residence in our bathroom.

On Saturday, we woke up to find a few inches of dark, murky water gurgling up from the drain, into the bathtub. Yes, gurgling. Oh, and yes – UP from the drain, even though “up from” is the preposition you least want to use in association with the word “drain.”

It was a disturbingly slow gurgle, with the occasional bubble thrown in, as if it were trying to communicate with us. Sort of like an evil Lassie. “Okay, good Drain! Gurgle once if little Timmy fell into the sewer… ”

It was like one of those scenes from a horror movie when you think to yourself: Why don’t they just get OUT OF THE HOUSE?

I turned my head to make sure it wouldn’t go all the way around before calling our building super, whom I’ll call Marcello. Marcello, who's originally from Italy, is around 40, and one of those rare skinny dudes who can be described as “jovial.” To be jovial, a man has to be either fat, or Italian, or both. (No, really. Check the dictionary; SEE ALSO “Dom DeLuise”). Let's just say that Roberto Begnini will play Marcello in the movie version.

Marcello speaks in that sing-song accent that people sometimes use when imitating Italian waiters. I hate to admit that it has a downright Pavlovian effect on me; I get hungry just listening to him talk. Even if the subject is draining toxic sludge from our bathtub.

“We must-a snake-a the drain-a, because the – how do you say? – ah, yes, raw sewage-a …”

But all I hear is pasta, pasta, pasta. I lick my lips.

It’s hard not to like Marcello, but he usually takes a very Mediterranean approach to property management. For instance, you call him up to say that he left a ladder in your apartment. You know, the time he came over to install the smoke detector but forgot to put it up and just left it on the kitchen counter, so you installed it yourself, but you’re kind of sick of tripping over the ladder?

Marcello says he’ll come over around 7 PM to pick up the ladder, which is sitting in what the broker called “the dining room,” but which looks more like a “hall closet.” You cancel your plans and stay home to wait for him, but he never shows. This is in January. Then, one random evening in June, there’s a knock on the door. It’s Marcello, looking for the ladder. Remember?
Ater all, he said he’d be coming by around 7:00. He just didn’t specify on which day or month, or which calendar year this might occur. But he’s so nice and smiley, and you expect him to jump up and down and kiss everyone after he wins the Academy Award, so you don’t have the heart to complain.

The thing about Marcello is that he never seems to be surprised by anything. So far this month, I’ve had to call him because a) my tub was going all Linda Blair and b) we got stuck in our own bedroom in the middle of the night.

In both cases, our super was not flummoxed. Instead, he was totally … whatever’s the opposite of “flummoxed.”

“Ah, you stucka in da bedroom? No problems.”

The way he says this, it sounds as if this the most normal thing in the world. As if he worked for the 24-Hour hotline of the Stuck in a Bedroom Crisis Center.

“Yes, yes, this same-a thing, it happens the other day, to an old lady in the another place.” (He’s the super for several buildings owned by our management company.) “She stucka in the bedroom for three days.”

Three …? How does this shit not end up in The Post?

Or, about the most recent crisis, after I explained about the tub, the next question was, “The sink – does it work?” I tell him it does. This was on Saturday.

“Ah, bellissima! So we can wait until the Monday,” Marcello says. “Because the plumber, he is not working on the Sunday.”

I’m not sure I buy that. Unlike in Italy or France, you can find people in America who are willing to work on the Sunday, even in the month of August. Besides, this is New York City. If you really wanted to, I’d bet you dollars to donuts that on any given Sunday at 3 A.M., you could find a naked midget plumber willing to come out and snake your drain, both literally and metaphorically (although the metaphorical part costs extra). If you want, he/she will even bring you a falafel.

Heck, that’s why we live in New York, for the naked midget all-night plumber/stripper/falafel delivery services. It’s certainly not for the reliable buildings.

My theory is that there’s another reason the plumber couldn’t come on Sunday. Because by “plumber,” Marcello meant to say “priest,” which is what the situation clearly calls for. And priests tend to be busy on …. Sundays! Coincidence? Don’t be naïve.

By this morning, it had risen even higher, but still not over the edge of the tub. I feel like a smart-ass robot should be making wisecracks from the audience, like in Mystery Science Theater 3000.

Because the shower was full of Satan’s vomit, I had to wash my hair in the kitchen sink this morning. As a result, I looked like Courtney Love. Really, all I needed was some uneven red lipstick and track marks on my arms. As an added bonus, it happened to be the one day in the year that they take the staff photos. It’s a thing. Later, they give everyone a copy in a frame. It sounds really weird, but I work for the French, so it’s not the weirdest thing that happened all day. If you don’t believe me, I could tell you about the new staff member who introduced herself vis-à-vis a mock telephone conversation with a fictional literary figure (Mrs. Dalloway, from Virginia Woolf, but it was all in French and there was an off-key piano in the mix … No, really - I have witnesses.).

This morning, as I was picking lettuce out of my hair after washing it in the kitchen, it occurred to me that indoor plumbing should probably be included in our rent. For what they charge us, they should probably throw in a small island-nation, or possibly even an archipelago, in addition to a small 1-bedroom apartment that may or may not be Possessed.

Hopefully, by this afternoon, the whole thing will be resolved. But just in case, does anyone know how to get ectoplasm to get out of velour upholstry?

Today on the Internet ...

From the "I really should be working" files ...

Instead, I learned the following on the Internet:

1. People in Florida, especially Orlando, are the angriest in the nation. (I wonder which cities are the most apathetic? Or the most giddy?)
2. President Bush has read more than 60 books this year.
3. The serving of foie gras has been banned in Chicago restaurants. Chefs say the ban "will cost more than $18 million a year in lost sales ... and may even dissuade chefs from opening restaurants here." I guess the "McFoisGras with Cheese" will have to be taken off the menu at McDonalds in the Windy City.

These inane facts, ineviably, beg an inane commentary (and yes, I really should be working):

1. If I lived in Orlando (#1 on the angry list) I'd probably go postal, too, after hearing the Lite Jazz remix of "It's a Small World After All" for the 3,000th time on any given day.

But, that said, it seems like the study might be flawed, as its measures of "anger" are largely based on rates of hypertension and aggravated assault. Increased hypertension is often, but not exclusively the result/indicator of anger; high blood pressure also comes from genetics, eating too many BBQ chicken wings (Hooters was, alas, founded in Florida), etc. And the rate of aggravated assault in Florida is higher than in other states in part because so much of the traffic in drugs comes through Florida, which leads to a higher than average incidence of gang-related violence.

But St. Pete? All they have there are retirees and sea sponges (no, really; I've been there) .
Of course, if I worked in the sponge industry, I think I would be angry with the world for making me have to think and possibly even make graphs about sea sponges. Sponges + Powerpoint presentations = recipe for disaster.

2. I think we all believe that President Bush has read more than 60 books this year. More importantly, we believe that he's winning the reading contest with Karl Rove, who has only read 50 books. Much in the way that Bush has also won the Olympic gold medal in the Luge event 60 times this year (and counting!). Sadly, Karl only won it 50 times.

This is yet another example of the triumph of belief over fact, which is becoming an epidemic in our country. Which is not necessarily a bad thing, I just wish it could apply to everybody, and not just politicians. For instance, I could tell all my credit card companies that I've already paid them much more than Karl Rove paid them since the beginning of the year, so why don't they just go away? And I'll tell my job that I already raised $3 million this year, so I'm going to go to just go to Texas and cut brush and/or read books about supply-side economics for the rest of the year.

I'm not saying it's humanly impossible to read 60 books over the past 7 and a half months. But even a President who's "literary-minded" (not the first adjective that springs to mind to describe W.) would be hard pressed to find time to read 2.14 books per week since the beginning of the year. And we're not talking My Pet Goat. The books on the Presidential Reading List include titles such as The Great Influenza, a 560-page tome about the public health epidemic of the early 20th century. Not exactly a Dan Brown novel, with those 2-page paragraphs that make you feel clever for reading 10 chapters in as many minutes.

I know he's spent about 8 weeks on vacation this year, but really, we've never seen any evidence to suggest that Bush is a bookworm. In fact, he's the only U.S. President in history who has never written anything about his policies. Other Presidents wrote articles, or sometimes even books (well, I guess there's the autobiography Bush famously didn't remember writing).

Furthermore, it's interesting that "White House aides" say that Bush is out-reading Karl Rove (who might have read 50 books, possibly with titles such as How To Eat Babies, and Nature: Why Doesn't it Just Go Fcuk Itself?)

But then again, 50% of the country doesn't believe in evolution, and DOES believe that Christ is going to come back any day now and take all registered Republicans directly to heaven without dying, on a glowing chariot pulled by flying babies. If only it would happen sooner rather than later ...

3. And Chicago. Excuse me, but $18 million in lost sales from Fois Gras? How much fcuking duck liver are you people eating? Of course, the Chicago City Council would do well to remember what happened in the Windy City during Prohibition. I can see it now. Violent street gangs with tommy guns will erupt over illicit fois gras; goose liver "speakeasies" will pop up so that people can get their fix of illegal pâté, made from ducks raised in some guy's basement.

Come on, Chicago. This could only end badly. Except for the ducks ...

Today is one of those perfect pre-Autumn days that make you wonder why anyone would ever want to live anywhere other than New York. Unfortunately, these only come about 5 days a year, but usually they coincide with signing leases or renewing job contracts.

Starting today, we go back to working 9 to 5 (during the summer, we work 9 to 4; it's pretty sweet). During the summer we also can wear whatever we want, and now we have to go back to making some effort to look "professional." Also, I now have about two days to do all the work I put off doing all summer.

In my current job, I'm not at all micromanaged, which is both good and bad. I have this unfortunate tendancy to put everything off until the last minute, and then spend a week or so kicking myself for spending the past two months taking Cosmo surveys online when I should have been working. But at least I know the answer to the question, "How Foxy Do You Feel?" Which must count for something. Self-knowledge, , after all, is the first step in the path to enlightenment. Or, What if The Buddha Had a Desk Job With an Internet Connection?

Not long ago I came across an idea that absolutely changed the way I look at the Universe. The idea is: we are inherently problem-solving creatures. So, when things get too "easy," even if that is what we ostensibly want, we manufacture difficulties and problems in order to have something to thing about.

In other words, we are, simultaneously the scientist and the laboratory rat. We make the maze, and then run around in it.

For instance, my job is rather easy. It has hard moments, but on the whole it's not that challenging and even pleasant at times, as it involves lots of perks like occasional wine with lunch from the boss's home in France. However, I do weird things like putting off some task that's actually very easy, like writing a brief report for a foundation (something I could do in my sleep). However, I put it off and put it off and worry and give myself an ulcer. This weekend, for instance, I had two days off and spent the entire time feeling guilty and thinking about work-related things I could have been doing.

The unfortunate work ethic rears its head in the form of guilt, but unfortunately this doesn't really translate into actually working too much. It's as if my French ancestors (who are in the minority in the gene pool) gave me the laziness gene, but it's in constant conflict with the "it's important to be miserable and work hard your entire life so you may or may not go to an extremely boring version Heaven" gene from the Scots.

Even though I was raised without any form of religion, there is something downright viral about the whole Presbyterian/Calvinist idea that enjoying life is somehow wrong. And yet, argyle socks and navy-blue belts with little pink whales on them are somehow right. It's just messed up.

Worst Monday This Week

My Essay: Why Monday Was Awful, By Marguerite

Monday started out, much like your average slasher movie, on a suspiciously cheerful note. Paul and I had just spent a nice weekend languishing on the porch at the house on Shelter Island, pretending to be characters in a minor Fitzgerald story. That is, the part before the characters turn into symbols of Symbolism and the "foul dust that floats in the wake" of other more symbolic symbols, such as Gatsby's Green Light, which symbolizes the symbolism of Traffic Signals, and the corruption of Gatsby's Dream, which was also deeply symbolic.

For people who really aren't all that weathly, we spend a lot of our life, to appropriately borrow from good ol' F. Scott, in "the consoling proximity of millionaires." That is, if you substitute "annoying" for "consoling," because, depending on the day of the month, I'm lucky to qualify as a hundred-aire.

This proximity issue is much more by coincidence than design. For instance, I had absolutely no desire to move to Carnegie Hill, except that we happened to find a quasi-reasonable (by the absurd standards of New York City) apartment in this neighborhood. And the house on Shelter Island is a summer share - a rambling, ramshackle Victorian with hidden rooms and views of sailboats and a tennis court. It's possibly my dream house. Literally, in that it reminds me of that dream that almost every New Yorker has had. You know, the one where you realize there's a massive, hidden room in your tiny apartment, that you just never realized was there? Anyway, I ever find $3 million lying under a rock, I'm SO going to buy it and invite everyone over.

The house is actually owned by a friend-of-a-friend who's the former anchorman of a national weekly news program which will go unnamed, although I can say that it rhymes with "30/30". So in the summer, we reap the benefits of the place without having to go to the trouble of hosting a weekly news program ourselves. Which is good because I never seem to get around to doing that myself.

Anyway, Monday (so far, I'm failing my standardized test Expository Essay on the Worst Day Evah!). We were all relaxed, and I was an ever-so-slightly darker shade of beige, possibly even "medium light beige," which unfortunately is as close as my Scotch-Irish skin will ever come to tan.

When I get into work, our accountant, a Russian man named Vitali, comes over to my desk. "I get this yesterday," he says in his thick accent that makes him sound like a spy from some Robert Ludlum movie. It's a letter from the NYS Department of Taxation. It starts with "WHEREAS ..."

When a letter starts with "Whereas," and you don't happen to be working on an early draft of the Declaration of Independence, it's never a good thing.

As it turns out, I forgot to pay my NY State income taxes on a consulting assignment I had in 2001. If memory serves, and it clearly doesn't, I forgot to declare it. That is, I forgot, rather than "forgot." WHEREAS, they didn't send a letter to my current address, they could find my current employer, and told them to take the money out of my paycheck. So I called and paid the bill, which was just over $600, so not as bad as it could've been. But still, not as good as if I'd spent the money on a frivolous pair of shoes instead of giving it to the State of New York. But the point is, I learned a Very Valuable Lesson. Or something.

But unfortunately, that wasn't the last of the Valuable Lessons for one day. AT the same moment I was dealing with the NYS Dept. of Taxation, somewhere across town Paul was about to step in a hole in the sidewalk, thus managing to miss the 99% of the sidewalk space that is hole-free. As a result, he tripped and fell. Hard. On his left arm. Yep, the one that only recently healed from surgery/brokenness. So now he's worried it might have re-broken (although this is probably not the case) and somehow he has further concluded that he's going to have to have it amputated and will have to go around with a pirate hook. Which is really too bad, because Paul doesn't even like parrots.

Anyway, I got home that evening and realized I'd left my keys at work, in my other bag. Normally, this wouldn't be a big deal; I'd just wait for Paul to come home, or call Amy and Brian or someone else nearby who has a copy of them. BUT, the locks had to be changed that weekened (another long, unhappy story). And Paul had given his keys to our friend Laura, so she could feed the cats.

So I walked 1.5 miles back to work, to get the keys. Normally, this would be the end of the story. But I'd forgotten that my security badge (which acts as a key to the building) had expired just TWO DAYS earlier, and I couldn't get a new one because the guy who makes the new ones was "en vacances." (It's the "mois d'août" and I work for the French...) AND it was 5:35 in the summer, so there was not one soul was left in the building. So I couldn't get in. AND I had two heavy bags of groceries, including freezer items. And it was 95 degrees. It was like in that horrible Seinfeld episode where they're trapped in the parking garage in Jersey. I take a taxi home and sit on the steps, waiting for Paul.

Dr. Zhivago, I mean, Paul, finally gets home, bruised and battered. Laura's girlfriend was home and had the keys, but they live on the Lower East side, which is 30 minutes away by cab. I hailed a cab.

Okay, so maybe it wasn't the Worst Day Ever. But it was definitely the Worst Monday This Week.

Worst Day Ever, Part 1

One time, in the third grade, our homework was to write a story about the "Worst Day Ever." It was supposed to teach expository writing skills or something, starting with an implied premise and providing supporting evidence. The teacher was neither surprized nor displeased when everyone's essay came out more or less the same (uniform mediocrity being the gold standard of American education).

The stories all started out with some combination of waking up late and/or missing the bus, followed by science projects eaten by the family doberman (or, in my case, my cat used my fictional working-model Volcano as a litterbox, thus ruining my even-more-fictional chances of winning first prize at the Science Fair), pop quizzes, and trips to the principal's office.

The only exception was the Cambodian refugee girl we'll call Sophy, whose story ended, "... and that's when we discovered that they were all dead."

Even with limited English, Sophy was always a wringer for "what America means to me" essay contests. And the Fire Safety essay contests, for some reason. I'm ashamed to admit that my 9-year-old self was a bit annoyed by this. True, her native village was burned to the ground, but it wasn't exactly because the Khymer Rouge was smoking in bed.

Our teacher looked a bit unnerved by Sophy's story, but couldn't exactly say that she was looking for something a little less ... authentic. "Were there any, uh, other days - maybe here in America - that were, uh, not so good?" Sophy thought, and took the note very well. "Ah, yes! For example, the day my brother is hit by car!" You could tell she was making a mental note to revise the story to reflect this happier time.

Being mostly-American kids who had grown up in comfortable suburbs, were utterly fascinated with Sophy's stories, the kind that are strangely, shamefully thrilling to people who have never experienced any real hardship or tradgedy. For most of us, our idea of hardship was having only two pairs of Nikes, even though our best friend had three pairs. Sure, many of us had experienced the loss of grandparents or older relatives, even parents in some cases, but none of us had had to flee from a burning village, knowing we would never be able to return.

So, when I say that yesterday was a "Worst Day Ever" story, I mean it in the "cat pooped in my model Volcano" way, rather than a "my entire family was killed and our ancestral village burned to rubble" sort of way.

I just think it's good to keep some perspective. This summer, I've somehow gotten into reading a lot of "beach reading" books about women who all seem to work in publishing and live in a spacious rent controlled apartment West Village or Central Park West, but who are nonetheless plagued by ennui, alternately due to to lack of dates/big thighs/bitchy boss, etc. On the book jackets, critics rave that they "speak for women everywhere." Which is true, assuming "everywhere" is confined to 10 floors in the Conde Nast building.

But still. I like reading these books, because it only takes about an hour to read each one, without even skimming or skipping, and then you get to say, "I read a book today!" and feel all smart. As if it makes up for all those Salman Rushdie books I could never quite finish. I think if the central character of Midnight's Children worked in publishing and had fat thighs, it would all be much easier to relate to. Maybe someone could give Mr. Rushdie's agent this note?

Anyway - this introduction became so convoluted that I don't have time to tell the story of why yesterday was a candidate for Worst Day Ever. Which actually references last weekend's tale of having to pee in a litterbox. I know what you're thinking, but absolutely NO alchohol was involved. Unfortunately.

Sunglasses and Wiener Dogs

Over the weekend, I almost bought a dachshund puppy from a street vendor. And no, it wasn’t a hot-dog vendor (although, in essence…).

It all started when I walked by a sunglass stand on Broadway, on the Upper West Side. I always get sucked into the sunglasses and fake handbags they sell on the street in New York. Some of the vendors are fixtures of the neighborhood, and this guy is one of them. He’s one of the rare sunglass vendors who’s actually an American, English-speaking white guy. If you know the area, you might even know who I’m talking about.

The guy with the dachshund.

What I like about this vendor is that he presents his wares as if, instead of discount sunglasses, he were the proprietor of an art gallery dealing in some unbelievably rare and exquisite art.

"Can I show you something in a particular style?" he asks. I wasn't sure what to say. It was like being in one of those SoHo galleries where you mistake the latest Jeff Koons installation for a coat rack. Just because it looks exactly like a coat rack, and is even entitled "Coat Rack 1" (don't get me started on "Toilet 3" ...).

At first, I was drawn to a pair of black sunglasses with round, oversized frames. On the rack, they seemed oh-so Jackie O., or possibly Catherine Deneuve in Belle de Jour. On me, alas, the effect was more Jeff Goldblum in The Fly. I looked like a giant mosquito.

In addition to the $10 sunglasses, he also has a cache of “the real thing,” which he keeps in a wood-and-glass case. It’s all somehow very Indiana Jones.

“Got something here I think you just … might….like…,” he said, pulling out a glass box under his cart. He opened up the box and a bright light, as if emanating from deep inside the box, seemed to illuminate his face. In the soundtrack of my imagination, a chorus burst into a rousing rendition of Carmina Burana.

They were the most beautiful sunglasses I’d ever seen.

“Only $40. But (leaning closer) they’re real. Calvin Klein. And – (lowering his voice, looking around to make sure nobody overheard) – I’ll throw in a sunglass case. For free.”

They were dazzling. The Platonic Form of sunglasses. I slipped them on. They looked great. Not only that, they felt great. Solid and light; didn’t pinch at all, the way cheap sunglasses do.

Maybe they’re hot? I wondered, again, without caring.

Reaching for my wallet, I stopped. If I came home with yet another pair of sunglasses – something that, by any definition, I do not actually “need” – there would be a 99.97% chance of Paul making fun of me (assuming he did not buy a new video game that day).

Paul and I have this thing. It’s very Lucy & Ricky Ricardo, like when she would buy too many hats. “Now, Loooouuuuuu-ceeeeeeeee!”

The thing is, I know that in this instance, Paul would be right (but for god’s sake, don’t tell him I said so). Yes, I do have a job, and yes, I can afford to buy a pair of sunglasses and even the occasional tube of $42 lip plumper. But it’s probably not a good idea to do so every day.

”See, if we spend every dime we make on frivolous crap, we won’t be able to have save up for other, more important frivolous crap,” Paul contends, “like vacations to Europe, and eating at nice restaurants, and … living indoors.”

Paul and his “reality” crap. It’s such a buzz-kill.

“But … but … it’s an infinitely abundant universe!” I say, quoting from one of the many self-help books that I purchase every month. Ironically, these are part of the reason I’m always broke.

And I did just get a check for the freelance writing I did for the politicians (don’t ask)…

The thing is, every time I get any extra money, I use it to justify at least 5 times as much in expenditures. If only I could make actual money stretch so far. For instance, a single check for $200 justifies: a) $200 haircut b) $200 for new summer wardrobe (okay, new shirt) c) $115 for ridiculous face cream, and … d) for just a few hours work, I could earn … my very own dachshund puppy!

Leaving the sunglasses on, I contemplate my Frivolous Purchase du jour. Okay, du moment. Not an hour before, I’d purchased that gauzy, sequined “beach sarong,” which I might actually wear someday, if I ever need a light wrap to attend a semi-formal soiree on a beach in Tahiti.

I ask if I can pet the dog, whom we’ll call “Millie” (dachshunds are very private, not to mention litigious, dogs). She’s awfully sweet, and looks up at me with those big black wiener-dog eyes.

It occurs to me that this is all starting to sound dangerously phallic; to paraphrase Freud, might I remind you that sometimes a wiener dog is just a wiener dog?

“Do they make good pets?" I ask Sunglass Dude. "Dachshunds, I mean?”

“Why? You want a puppy?” he asks, again, looking around to ensure our privacy. “’I’ll make you a good deal.”

“Huh?”

“Millie here just had puppies. 14 weeks old.” Sunglass Dude whips out his phone and shows me the pictures. They’re pretty friggin’ adorable. Mostly, the shots also feature S.D., a somewhat tough-looking guy in a muscle shirt exposing gratuitous arm tattoos, grinning cheek-to-cheek with hamster-sized puppies.

For a minute, I considered forgetting about the sunglasses and just getting a puppy, instead. Maybe they come with a free sunglass case?

“Yeah, but ... I don’t have a big apartment,” I confess. “And I have two cats. And a husband.” A husband who would probably be slightly annoyed if I wasted $40 on some possibly-hot sunglasses, I thought but didn’t say, much less a hot dog.

Besides, I’ve seen the cautionary videos. This is how it all starts. First, you buy a weiner dog from some guy on a street corner. Then, it’s just a slippery slope until you’re in the South Bronx trolling for a baby Kodiak bear.

So I didn’t buy the cool sunglasses. Or a puppy. As a consolation prize, I did get the $10 pair of sunglasses. They really do look better on than off. Still, every time I put them on (they pinch slightly) I will think of those Calvin Klein sunglasses. The fake ones, I fear, will always savor of anti-climax. And wiener dogs.

Ahem. Maybe I should rephrase that …