Yesterday I wrote about my pecan pie. What I only touched on was the rest of the day from hell. It was our first day home from our honeymoon and BP had to work, even though it was a Saturday. I was so looking forward to setting up our apartment. We were living in the upstairs apartment above my grandmother and aunt in Brooklyn . We had a kitchen with an old refrigerator with an ice compartment, metal cabinets, and a stove with a lift top so it could double as counter space. We also bought a freestanding metal cabinet for additional storage and counter space, and an electric dryer. Nana had a washer in the basement, but she always preferred to hang her clothes in the yard. We had a nice little living room with huge windows, a little room that held a closet, a loveseat, and a small desk. Then there was a large but slightly haunted bedroom, that I will write about another time. The bathroom had a bathtub but no shower, and a tiny sink with separate hot and cold water faucets. The house was built, I think, in the 1910's. We got married in 1983. But since we were living there rent free so we could save for a house, it was a really sweet deal.
So we wake up for the first time in our new apartment. BP goes to work. I am supposed to go to the bridal shower of someone I don't know very well, so I call to say that I can't come because I have to wait for the dryer repairman. Since we'd just returned from a two-week honeymoon, I decided to attack the laundry first. I carried our clothes down three flights of stairs to the basement. As I put our clothes in the washer I meet Spot and Henry. Spot and Henry are now our pet water bugs. They are dark brown, about an inch and a half long, and live over the washer. I admit to being a little unnerved, but I make a mental note to pick up a couple of leashes if I find them in the right size.
Laundry started, I run upstairs and put things away. Then I clean. I decide to call Aunt Mildred and invite her and Uncle Richie over for dessert. I flip through my only cookbook and look for something I have ingredients for. Before getting married, we went to the store to stock up our kitchen. For some unfathomable reason, we happen to have the ingredients for pecan pie. I have never had pecans in stock since. Satisfied with my plans, I proceed with the cleaning. I note that the metal venetian blinds are filthy. They are also incredibly big. The apartment had ceilings that I'd estimate at 12 feet high, at minimum. The windows reach almost to the top of the wall. The blinds have many, many slats and we have 5 of them, two in the livingroom, two in the bedroom, and one in the kitchen. Realizing that it would take approximately a year to dust each slat, I figure it would be much more efficient to remove the blinds and wash them in the bathtub. Metal scratches porcelain. By the time I had removed wet, and mangled blind number one, I had muddy water, a smudged blind, soggy strings, and a horribly scratched tub. The more I work, the more it scratches. I have to give up and hang the unevenly washed blind back in the window. I never attempt blind number two. So I dry the floor and go downstairs to retrieve my laundry.
I return with my wet clothes, stuff them in the dryer, and hit the on button. Nothing happens. I called the repair hot line. They tell me to try plugging something else into the outlet. The something else doesn't work either. I need an electrician, but I am not going to get one to come immediately on a Saturday. So I take my laundry down to Nana's to use her clothesline. She introduces me to the clothespins and shows me how to use them. Within five minutes it starts to rain. She tells me to hang everything from the clothesline in the basement. I lug my basket past Spot and Henry, and proceed to start hanging. Apparently I am not very efficient because the wet towels and some white shirts fall on the floor. When I pick them up, they are black. Black, as in coaldust black. Soot black. Black black. Now the house had an oil furnace. But the floor was going to forever be covered with whatever fuel remains were there previously. I rewash the clothes and resign myself to leave it all there until an electrician can be located. Nana offers no sympathy and flatly states that going back home to Mom is not an option. As a footnote, let me repeat that I started my day lying about why I couldn't go to that bridal shower. I have never, ever again lied as an excuse for anything. I'm pretty much convinced that if I'd said I was sick, I would have contracted the plague.
I return empty handed to my upstairs abode. It iss time to start dinner. I flip the switch to turn on the kitchen light. Nothing happens. Nana assures me that the lights all work and that I just need to replace the bulb. She hands me a bulb, sends me back into the fray, and probably wonders why she thought it had been a good idea to let us live in her house. I climb up the ladder again, as high as I can go. The whole socket turns and plaster rains down on my head. Using one hand to hold the socket, one hand to hold the bulb, and no hands to keep me from plunging to my death, I finally get the bulb changed. Yes! Let there be light.
I don't believe I ever made dinner, being busy with the lightbulb, and about to become even busier with pecan pie. Eventually the laundry gets done, the bathtub get a third rate paint job, and I decide to never examine the blinds above eye level. Tomorrow I'll tell you about the ghost.
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