I’ve been hearing something going bump in the kitchen periodically since moving to my new domicile and am beginning to see traces of evidence that something small and squeaky is dallying in said room for late-night snacks. This at least makes me less worried about the unpredictable loud noises, though perhaps I should worry about having a furry companion in my midst. Maybe I should send for another furry companion currently vacationing indefinitely in Southern California. I wouldn’t mind so much if it didn’t insist on leaving little blotches indicating its presence on the counter.
This rodential roommate is one of a growing list of imperfections about my current quarters that make me wonder when it’s time to contact the landlord. The problem with almost all of these is that the manner of fixing them is worse than putting up with the mild inconvenience of leaving them alone. For example, Fish & the Madster found out first-hand this weekend that my cold “tap” in the bathroom runs unchecked unless one has learned the special trick for retwisting it to a mere drip, whereupon it remains at a slight drip. There are two small nails that poke up above flush-floor level in strategic spots near doorways between rooms. No two patches of wall are exactly the same shade of off-white, the product of several spackelings without repainting.
I really don’t care about any of these things, though the dripping/flooding faucet is pretty grating for guests. But bringing in someone to help would involve them camping out in the place and making an altogether unnecessarily large deal out of whatever the issue is, be it painting or plumbing or, heaven forbid, chasing mice. So they become folded into my day as small conduits to the way that most people live, those being people who don’t have the luxurious options to live in America and expect comfort at every turn. And of course even as proxies for such experience they fail, because the fact that 99% of this apartment is perfect, including and especially the heating and solidity of the place, keeps me well removed from such a real relation to incomplete living space.
In other first-world news, I have received my first cell-phone bill and determined that while I do not need to immediately switch to an unlimited plan, my interest in same was not entirely unwarranted. I used 3,258 minutes last month (54.3 hours), though only 384 of them (6.4) were at billable numbers during billable hours. So I guess you could call me a big fan of the phone, even if I’m not wild about its cellular nature specifically.
Soon I should know whether I’m going to be spending most of December working in New York or hanging out in New Mexico. Why do I feel so old?
