In Search of Heat
Who poured Tabasco sauce all over the radiator last night?
I did.
But why?
It was cold in my apartment. The radiators have not turned on for days. I called the landlord. I found unsatisfactory his proposed solution of "put on another sweater, Nancy." He pronounced Nancy "NON-see," like a real Sally ("SOLL-ee"). I hung up on him and opened the medicine cabinet. To my horror, my last bottle of K-Y Warming Liquid was just over half-full, leaving none to coat the rest of my body (I have problems finding pants that fit).
So I consulted my good friend Sapphire from Bombay. She laughed at my dilemma.
"What's to laugh at, Saph? I could lose a toe. I could lose the little one."
"Dear, paranoid, crazy Sprout," she said, "don't worry. Come back in twenty minutes. I can fix everything."
I consulted her again. My face glowed rosy red.
I consulted her again. I gyrated in the mirror: "Lasso, lasso, whip!"
I consulted her again. My nose grew larger and more like cottage cheese.
And so I awoke this morning with the vague, ghostly memory of cackling as I shook vinegar and fermented liquid peppers down between the silver painted segments.
The neighbor, as is his (paid) custom, slipped under the door a typed record of what he could hear through the walls the previous night. It read:
"Saph, you are magic. I-love-you-I-love-you-I-love-you!" (He has such good syntax.)
Then: "The Spoonful! (cue falsetto [he's a former stage manager]) I believe in magic -- in a young girl's heart...(silence)... and it's magic, if the music is groovy...the magic's in the music and the music's in me...(silence)...Do you believe like I believe?...(louder)...Do you believe like I believe?"
It might have been a screaming nightmare, I thought. But the smell of burnt vinegar told me otherwise.
Burnt?
I did.
But why?
It was cold in my apartment. The radiators have not turned on for days. I called the landlord. I found unsatisfactory his proposed solution of "put on another sweater, Nancy." He pronounced Nancy "NON-see," like a real Sally ("SOLL-ee"). I hung up on him and opened the medicine cabinet. To my horror, my last bottle of K-Y Warming Liquid was just over half-full, leaving none to coat the rest of my body (I have problems finding pants that fit).
So I consulted my good friend Sapphire from Bombay. She laughed at my dilemma.
"What's to laugh at, Saph? I could lose a toe. I could lose the little one."
"Dear, paranoid, crazy Sprout," she said, "don't worry. Come back in twenty minutes. I can fix everything."
I consulted her again. My face glowed rosy red.
I consulted her again. I gyrated in the mirror: "Lasso, lasso, whip!"
I consulted her again. My nose grew larger and more like cottage cheese.
And so I awoke this morning with the vague, ghostly memory of cackling as I shook vinegar and fermented liquid peppers down between the silver painted segments.
The neighbor, as is his (paid) custom, slipped under the door a typed record of what he could hear through the walls the previous night. It read:
"Saph, you are magic. I-love-you-I-love-you-I-love-you!" (He has such good syntax.)
Then: "The Spoonful! (cue falsetto [he's a former stage manager]) I believe in magic -- in a young girl's heart...(silence)... and it's magic, if the music is groovy...the magic's in the music and the music's in me...(silence)...Do you believe like I believe?...(louder)...Do you believe like I believe?"
It might have been a screaming nightmare, I thought. But the smell of burnt vinegar told me otherwise.
Burnt?
posted by JMH | 7:26 PM
2 Comments:
I wonder if the rental board in your part of the world would appreciate the "put on another sweater" advice from your landlord.
Some landlords deserve to be neutered.lss
Nice, to have a neighbouor with the name Sapphire. Beautiful name. My neighbours are called Heidi, Hedwig, Bruno and Gotthard.
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