Just Another Sunday

Today my boss and friend dropped a line and asked if I wanted to come help re-do her apartment. Since it was either that or spend the day sticking to the pleather couches because I fear going outside after finding the makeshift altar with the headless turkey and gris gris stuff in front of the boarded up house next door during my morning walk (if a cat can learn to pee in a toilet, so can a terrier), I showered, dressed...is saves on gasps of horror when I go walking...and headed for the 4 train.

We spent the day spring cleaning.

I'd forgotten how much I hate spring cleaning.

We pulled out every shelf, emptied the closets, the drawers, the office, and put it back together. Everything was washed, dried with lavender, folded and put away. I got to alphabetise things, and do the closet in colour order.

It was almost better than....than.... chocolate.

You thought I was going to say sex, didn't you? Ha!

Like I know.

Two things about the day weren't so great: cleaning the windows, and losing my storage for my big rug and my first piece of dumpster diving, the table shown above.

The windows...ah! the windows. I've never seen so much filth. I did the usual vinegar and water and newspaper thing. Works a charm, to be honest. The insides sparkled...to the point, you could really see how bad the outside was.

We stood and pondered and sipped coffee.

The phone rang, and she did business while I decided to clean the outside as best I could.

There I was, sitting on the ledge of an 11th floor flat, hanging on to the sturdy... I hoped...frame, reaching up to wash and then dry these stupid fucking windows... and it's not even my flat! The results, however, are divine... as long as you don't raise the blinds more than 14.32 inches. Above that, and it's just yucky. Below that, though.. they sparkle.

ter six hours, and sushi, I was done for....gathering up my stored items... a huge damn rug and my beloved bedside table, I was ready for home. She offered to pay for a cab, and I didn't een look for a gypsy...no, I went Yello Cab. Ohhhhh.....


No problem.

I hike downstairs, dragging my aloot...remembering why I've not moved it before now.

NOone stops on Broadway. Over to Church. The cabs fly by…bastards. I schlep down to 6^th. They stop there….four in a row.

“Where you going?” I’ve exchanged Russia for India or Pakistan

\”The Bronx.”

I’ve not seen such looks of horror since (children, stop reading Mom’s journal now, and scroll down two lines) my mother found my birth control pills when I was 19.

“The Bronx? Oh, I not drive to the Bronx.” One of them almost ran over my foot.

“The Bronx??? Why you live in the Bronx??” Um, because I CAN’T FIND A DECENT SUBLET ANYWHERE ELSE??

Finally, Sinjia took pity, slammed on his brakes, and took me on. I had to load the stuff into the trunk… “I have a bad back,” Yeah, well, I have a fused neck and cancer, Jack….and we were off. He had no idea where we were going, and kept calling for directions.

Understand, after my meds wear off, my memory goes. It’s why I write everything down in my red book… which I’d left at home. At this point in time, I honestly didn’t know my address. I knew the street, but, not the number.

There we were, a cab driver with no idea beyond the basics of English or the borough limits of the Bronx and an exhausted woman with no idea of where she lived. Thank god for the terrier, or we’d have been lost…. “What? We live off Fordham? Good dog! Good dog!”

He called a friend who did a MapQuest… I know this because I made out the words “MapQuest” and he talked us though. I found the Papaya place, yelled “TURN HERE!” and saw the turkey altar, knowing we were home.

He gave me long enough to pull my stuff out for the five flight walk up, didn’t give me my receipt, and glared at the very generous tip.

“Lady, you crazy living here!”

Gee, ya think?