Keys and White Russians
Tonight, I came home to an empty house.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
No matter how much you love your significant other, there's nothing like having the apartment to oneself for a whole evening. Fortunately, Paul and I seem to agree on this point. Unfortunately, this means I need to get a new hobby/social life/addiction, etc. to get myself out of the house at least one evening a week (the "quid" being the bitch of the "pro quo," I suppose ...).
So there I was, basking in the solitude ... basking.... staring at the wall in between half-assedly working on a crossword puzzle ... In a word: paradise (my standards ain't high, folks).
Then comes a knock on the door. Must be someone from the building, because the buzzer didn't ring. A soft knock, like a hobbit, or a ghost, or some demonic Amway salesman who'll end up eating my kidneys in a bernaise sauce while listening to Rachmoninoff ...
With great trepidation, I open the door. It's my 92-year-old next door neighbor, Mrs. K.
Wordlessly, she points to the deadbolt in my door. Sure enough, my keys are sticking out of it.
"You know, dahlink," she says, with a frighteningly slight hint of a (pre-Revolutionary?) Russian accent, "here in New York, it's not safe to leave your keys in the door ."
She gave me that look that wise old New Yorkers give to wide-eyed young girls straight off the bus from from Kansas, or wherever else it's customary to leave your keys sticking out of the deadbolt of the front door, as a sign of welcome ...
The irony being that Mrs. K is 60 years older than I am. And yet, she lives alone. And doesn't EVER leave her keys in the door.
Unfortunately, it's not the first time I've left my keys in the door/left a suitcase on the stairs in when moving back from Paris/forgotten my purse/gloves/scarves/cats at the grocery store, etc . I've been like this my whole life. Call it A.D.D., call it D.U.M.B. - either way, it's more than a little bit scary. If this is how I am in my early 30s .... If I were a few decades older, they'd have me committed.
Sigh.
Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
No matter how much you love your significant other, there's nothing like having the apartment to oneself for a whole evening. Fortunately, Paul and I seem to agree on this point. Unfortunately, this means I need to get a new hobby/social life/addiction, etc. to get myself out of the house at least one evening a week (the "quid" being the bitch of the "pro quo," I suppose ...).
So there I was, basking in the solitude ... basking.... staring at the wall in between half-assedly working on a crossword puzzle ... In a word: paradise (my standards ain't high, folks).
Then comes a knock on the door. Must be someone from the building, because the buzzer didn't ring. A soft knock, like a hobbit, or a ghost, or some demonic Amway salesman who'll end up eating my kidneys in a bernaise sauce while listening to Rachmoninoff ...
With great trepidation, I open the door. It's my 92-year-old next door neighbor, Mrs. K.
Wordlessly, she points to the deadbolt in my door. Sure enough, my keys are sticking out of it.
"You know, dahlink," she says, with a frighteningly slight hint of a (pre-Revolutionary?) Russian accent, "here in New York, it's not safe to leave your keys in the door ."
She gave me that look that wise old New Yorkers give to wide-eyed young girls straight off the bus from from Kansas, or wherever else it's customary to leave your keys sticking out of the deadbolt of the front door, as a sign of welcome ...
The irony being that Mrs. K is 60 years older than I am. And yet, she lives alone. And doesn't EVER leave her keys in the door.
Unfortunately, it's not the first time I've left my keys in the door/left a suitcase on the stairs in when moving back from Paris/forgotten my purse/gloves/scarves/cats at the grocery store, etc . I've been like this my whole life. Call it A.D.D., call it D.U.M.B. - either way, it's more than a little bit scary. If this is how I am in my early 30s .... If I were a few decades older, they'd have me committed.
Sigh.
posted by Marguerite at 6:31 PM
2 Comments:
Don't worry. I'm the same way. One time, I jumped out of the car, keys in my hand, locked the door and shut it. I looked in the back seat and almost had a panic attack. I thought I had locked the baby in the car. I was almost in tears freaking out about to call a locksmith. Hello! I have my keys in my hand.
That's why I'm afraid to have kids. I think I might forget and leave them in the cart at the grocery store or something. At least nobody calls Child Services when you leave your backpack in the frozen foods aisle (uh, not that I know from personal exerience or anything...).
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