Summer in the City

Lawyerish and I may have been a bit portentous with our excessive anxiety, and in fact, I feel partially responsible for the toilet-slash-bathtub um, explosion-type thing that happened on Friday, less than 24 hours after I arrived in NYC. She explains it better than I could, so I will only add that at one point, Mer and her mom were both so hopeful, her mom announcing, “I think the worst of it is over! It sounds like he’s clearing up!” only to have me mournfully inform them that no, no, in fact, there is no way this is close to over, because I just saw a toilet — an entire, unattached TOILET — being moved from one bathroom to the next, as though the plumber wasn’t sure which one it came from and was desperate to reattach it somewhere — anywhere would do.

A loose toilet can never be a good sign, this I know, especially after the experience of watching our downstairs neighbors find theirs in the front yard while a team of men jackhammered the floor off to fix an errant leak. Meanwhile, our toilet, as of this very moment, is running like the wind, the drips becoming more and more aggressive as the moments fly by. This weekend, if nothing else, is a cautionary tale: love your toilets, lest they turn on you. They have great power to ruin your day. And for the love of Jesus, don’t flush paper towels in a pre-war NYC building’s plumbing, mmm-kay?

(For the record, and for Mer’s sake, I would like to say that I was not the least bit bothered by the toilet situation, nor her apartment at all. I am not bothered by plumbing fiascoes, being that I am prone to them myself. Her home is absolutely beautiful, M is the perfect hostess, and her mom is lovely. And I’m not just saying that because blog etiquette demands that I do so. I mean it, which is the best part. Also good: the toilet brouhaha gave us A LOT of time to sit and chat, which is my favorite thing to do ANYWAY. I mean, even if I was terrifyingly stinky, which I was.)

I would also like to now admit that I was completely tickled by the fact that M has a superintendent who cheerfully arrived to provide assistance on a fairly regular basis in a uniform-type shirt and everything. (New Yorkers are laughing at me. It’s okay.) For some reason, this was incredibly quaint, as though I were living in an urban “One Day At a Time” episode. I am not, by any stretch, a city girl — alas, I am the sad, uncultured poster child for the American Suburbs. Levitt Town, here I come! — although I love visiting and I absolutely understand why people love living it. So for me, simply being in the city — even a city apartment — is a delightful experience in Playing Tourist, even if it’s to marvel over the existence of a Real Live Super, complete with uniform-like shirt and basement apartment. I’ve lived all over Boston, and it’s just … well, it’s not the same. New York is an experience in city living all its own.

At any rate, the point is this: It was a lovely, wonderful weekend, and oh, Lawyerish. I love her so. I do. And her mom! Oh, her mom! And her HUSBAND. The problem with her husband is this: He is Adam, and Adam is him. Ergo, it becomes difficult not to laugh with (not at!) him, even in times of strife (toilet in hallway, downed cable during Belmont Stakes), because it’s like living with my own spouse, except of course, he does not know me nearly so well. I swear, you could swap out our husband’s minds and put them in each others’ skins and we would not notice who was who. This also had the odd effect of making me ache for my husband, whom I love beyond all reason, obviously, but it’s not like I’m in the habit of painfully missing him, especially when I’m having fun and the trip is only three days.

And hooray! Photos! The unflattering photos she refers to? I TOOK THEM. Note to all: do not ask me to be your staff photographer for ANYTHING. I own an accidentally pilfered speedlight (don’t ask) and yet I had no idea how to wield M’s. None. And there was lots of wild shooting into thin air, hoping that something good would be captured, which resulted in some truly hilarious outtakes that will never see the light of day, unless I’m feeling particularly malicious, which will never happen.

The mama herself.

I hate going back to work after a fun weekend, but I’m finding that it is PARTICULARLY dreadful going back to work from HOME after a fun weekend. No one is here to distract me, and instead, I’m looking forward to an absurdly full day of … exciting alone time, with nothing but me and a Chicago Manual of Style and his brother, the AP Style Book. Oh, man.

I hope your weekend was as delightful. I, for one, am going to play with my beefcake of a dog who seems fat and unwieldy after spending time with M & J’s wee little Italian greyhound. A pug, in comparison, is like dealing with an anvil. A farting anvil.

Happy Monday!

*Regina Spektor

10 comments June 8th, 2008