More Domestic Bliss in Brooklyn, or Fun with Fuses
We have the top floor of a two-family house, which was built sometime in the early 1940s. With the exception of the original (and very excellent) stove and the slightly newer refrigerator, all of our appliances are from this decade, which is something of a problem; the circuit breakers (I think that’s what you call them) have a hard time with all our shiny new things. Especially when they’re used at the same time.
I should note that in my previous Brooklyn apartment, the hair dryer and the coffee maker could not be used at the same time, and it was a much older house (from the 1880s) with much newer wiring, but that is irrelevant to today’s adventure, except that I think hinky wiring is part of the Brooklyn experience.
So, there I was, still not showered at noon. This is because the Russians had yet to return my clothing to me, which as noted elsewhere was more a matter of laundry and less an issue of espionage. It wasn’t that I had nothing to put on so much as that I was waiting for the nice man to deliver the neatly folded wash, and had just found out that it wasn’t going to come until 3 this afternoon. Which would be about now. Seeing a crack in the window of opportunity, I leapt merrily into the shower, and as I was toweling off, decided that I would use my time efficiently and put a little smackerel of lunch in the microwave while I dried my hair.
You see where this is going? I didn’t until the lights (and hair dryer) went out.
In our former lives, Bob was an electrician and I was a punk rocker. These lives were roughly parallel, and left him with certain practical skills and me with the ability to correctly answer certain Jeopardy questions, not terribly useful in this situation. Knowing Bob was having a bad day with a work crisis, I sent text, feeling it would be less obtrusive if he were in a meeting. My text read:
Blew a fuse. What to do?
In retrospect, Bob might have thought that I had gotten mad at something and flung more of his things behind the bookcase, but for reasons that remain a mystery, he always seems to believe in, or at least hope for, the best from me. He called and told me, which involved going to the basement.
The very short version is that the door to the basement, adjacent to the downstairs neighbor’s front door, was locked for the first time that Bob could remember. The neighbors weren’t home, and neither was the landlord, who lives in the house next door. With ever-increasing anxiety, I sent Bob text, and he called back, incredulous. “It’s never been locked, in the nine years I’ve lived here,” he told me. But he also told me how to get in through the back.
I’m sure that like most people born in an age with electricity and talking pictures, you’ve seen Friday the 13th, or maybe you’ve seen Halloween, but you know the type. There is a noise in the basement. The cute but not terribly bright girl (played by me in today’s performance) goes to investigate. The light switch doesn’t work, so she fumbles around in the dark until she finds a door, which has two big bolts. The cute-but-dim girl, being dim, decides to go through the door, which requires considerable effort, since the bolts are, as mentioned, enormous, and difficult to move. Of course, you know and I know that there are no chocolate bars, stacks of cash, or good-looking men on the other side of the door, only monsters, but your small and red-haired heroine does not know this and opens the door.
You have seen this movie, right?
After fumbling around in another small, dark room, which seems to contain only a foul-smelling armchair, our heroine finds another door and goes through it. That’s when the monster gets her. Screaming and blood ensue.
All of that happened, except the part about the monster and blood and screaming, and I’m sure that the only thing that saved me was that I wasn't having sex when I was meant to be babysitting. Instead of a scary monster with a hockey mask, I found the fuse box, did what I thought Bob instructed, and I guess it was close enough for rock and roll, because when I got upstairs, lights were on and the hair dryer was doing its best to parch a patch of bathroom wall.
All’s well that end’s well. We have electricity. The laundry has arrived. I can see to put it away. And I have enough light to clean up a bit before going out to dinner.
Stay tuned for the next exciting adventure of Domestic Bliss in Brooklyn, which will involve many yards of burlap or canvas, and some picture hooks.
I should note that in my previous Brooklyn apartment, the hair dryer and the coffee maker could not be used at the same time, and it was a much older house (from the 1880s) with much newer wiring, but that is irrelevant to today’s adventure, except that I think hinky wiring is part of the Brooklyn experience.
So, there I was, still not showered at noon. This is because the Russians had yet to return my clothing to me, which as noted elsewhere was more a matter of laundry and less an issue of espionage. It wasn’t that I had nothing to put on so much as that I was waiting for the nice man to deliver the neatly folded wash, and had just found out that it wasn’t going to come until 3 this afternoon. Which would be about now. Seeing a crack in the window of opportunity, I leapt merrily into the shower, and as I was toweling off, decided that I would use my time efficiently and put a little smackerel of lunch in the microwave while I dried my hair.
You see where this is going? I didn’t until the lights (and hair dryer) went out.
In our former lives, Bob was an electrician and I was a punk rocker. These lives were roughly parallel, and left him with certain practical skills and me with the ability to correctly answer certain Jeopardy questions, not terribly useful in this situation. Knowing Bob was having a bad day with a work crisis, I sent text, feeling it would be less obtrusive if he were in a meeting. My text read:
Blew a fuse. What to do?
In retrospect, Bob might have thought that I had gotten mad at something and flung more of his things behind the bookcase, but for reasons that remain a mystery, he always seems to believe in, or at least hope for, the best from me. He called and told me, which involved going to the basement.
The very short version is that the door to the basement, adjacent to the downstairs neighbor’s front door, was locked for the first time that Bob could remember. The neighbors weren’t home, and neither was the landlord, who lives in the house next door. With ever-increasing anxiety, I sent Bob text, and he called back, incredulous. “It’s never been locked, in the nine years I’ve lived here,” he told me. But he also told me how to get in through the back.
I’m sure that like most people born in an age with electricity and talking pictures, you’ve seen Friday the 13th, or maybe you’ve seen Halloween, but you know the type. There is a noise in the basement. The cute but not terribly bright girl (played by me in today’s performance) goes to investigate. The light switch doesn’t work, so she fumbles around in the dark until she finds a door, which has two big bolts. The cute-but-dim girl, being dim, decides to go through the door, which requires considerable effort, since the bolts are, as mentioned, enormous, and difficult to move. Of course, you know and I know that there are no chocolate bars, stacks of cash, or good-looking men on the other side of the door, only monsters, but your small and red-haired heroine does not know this and opens the door.
You have seen this movie, right?
After fumbling around in another small, dark room, which seems to contain only a foul-smelling armchair, our heroine finds another door and goes through it. That’s when the monster gets her. Screaming and blood ensue.
All of that happened, except the part about the monster and blood and screaming, and I’m sure that the only thing that saved me was that I wasn't having sex when I was meant to be babysitting. Instead of a scary monster with a hockey mask, I found the fuse box, did what I thought Bob instructed, and I guess it was close enough for rock and roll, because when I got upstairs, lights were on and the hair dryer was doing its best to parch a patch of bathroom wall.
All’s well that end’s well. We have electricity. The laundry has arrived. I can see to put it away. And I have enough light to clean up a bit before going out to dinner.
Stay tuned for the next exciting adventure of Domestic Bliss in Brooklyn, which will involve many yards of burlap or canvas, and some picture hooks.