My apartment adventures
Before I moved in with M back in late 2000, I had two apartments on my own. My first was a 20 x 20’ studio. It wasn’t in the greatest neighborhood, nor were my neighbors particularly friendly (or sane), but it was my first apartment, and it was all mine.
Another drawback was the lack of laundry in the building. So every week or so, I’d load my laundry into my Tracer and paddle over to my parents’ house to mooch off their washing machine.
One day, I was driving back from their house, my car full of clean clothes and that amazing fresh-cleaned smell (god, I sound like a detergent commercial) when someone cut me off. I hit the horn, but even after I took my hand off it, it kept beeping but then stopped. Weird.
Around 10 p.m. that night, I pulled into my parking space at home, unloaded the car and flipped on the TV. All of a sudden, some maniac started beeping wildly right outside my window. Suddenly, I realized that maniac was me. The Tracer’s horn was going off and wouldn’t stop.
I ran outside, opened the car up and tried turning the wheel to get the horn to stop. No dice. By this time, lights were coming on, doors were opening and the cursing, in a multitude of languages, had begun. I was crying hysterically and apologizing profusely to everyone I saw when a boxer short-clad form appeared on the balcony above me. I’d seen this dude around, and I explained to him what was going on.
He ran downstairs and cracked open my fusebox, pulling the horn fuse. That was the end of that – literally. I didn’t get the horn fixed until I had to take the car for inspection. That night, I don’t think I have ever enjoyed the silence more, boys and girls. Of course, the dude took my indebtedness to him to make a move, but that’s another story for another time.
When I got a better job, I moved into a one-bedroom across town. About a month after I moved in, I met M. When he came to visit on the weekends, he used to complain about the food smells in the hallway – the varied aromas of my neighbors cooking dinner – but I really liked living there. It was so cool to have actual rooms instead of one big one and not have to answer to any roommates. Hell, if I didn’t meet him, I might still be living there. NOT!
Anyhoo, around Christmastime I decided to try to make caramels. Now, if you’ve ever made candy, you know you have to get it to a certain temperature, called either the soft-ball or hard-ball stage, depending on the kind you’re making. (Heh heh heh, you said ball.) It’s a lot easier if you have a candy thermometer, but you’re supposed to let it drip from a spoon and see if a hard or soft ball forms.
Well, I had no candy thermometer. Even worse, I’m impatient, which is the bane of baking, and I turned up the heat way too high. Before I knew it, my apartment had filled up with smoke. I opened my apartment door to let some out -- without remembering that there was a smoke alarm right outside. Yup, you guessed it: I set off the building fire alarm. My downstairs neighbor, a retired fireman, came running up the stairs and pounded on my door. I told him (and everyone else coming out of their apartments) what happened, called the landlord to learn how to shut off the alarm and after a few glares and muttered words at me from my neighbors, all was well again.
Two apartment building-clearing incidents in two years of renting. I think it’s a good thing that I own now. Not just for my sake but so others can sleep at night.
Another drawback was the lack of laundry in the building. So every week or so, I’d load my laundry into my Tracer and paddle over to my parents’ house to mooch off their washing machine.
One day, I was driving back from their house, my car full of clean clothes and that amazing fresh-cleaned smell (god, I sound like a detergent commercial) when someone cut me off. I hit the horn, but even after I took my hand off it, it kept beeping but then stopped. Weird.
Around 10 p.m. that night, I pulled into my parking space at home, unloaded the car and flipped on the TV. All of a sudden, some maniac started beeping wildly right outside my window. Suddenly, I realized that maniac was me. The Tracer’s horn was going off and wouldn’t stop.
I ran outside, opened the car up and tried turning the wheel to get the horn to stop. No dice. By this time, lights were coming on, doors were opening and the cursing, in a multitude of languages, had begun. I was crying hysterically and apologizing profusely to everyone I saw when a boxer short-clad form appeared on the balcony above me. I’d seen this dude around, and I explained to him what was going on.
He ran downstairs and cracked open my fusebox, pulling the horn fuse. That was the end of that – literally. I didn’t get the horn fixed until I had to take the car for inspection. That night, I don’t think I have ever enjoyed the silence more, boys and girls. Of course, the dude took my indebtedness to him to make a move, but that’s another story for another time.
When I got a better job, I moved into a one-bedroom across town. About a month after I moved in, I met M. When he came to visit on the weekends, he used to complain about the food smells in the hallway – the varied aromas of my neighbors cooking dinner – but I really liked living there. It was so cool to have actual rooms instead of one big one and not have to answer to any roommates. Hell, if I didn’t meet him, I might still be living there. NOT!
Anyhoo, around Christmastime I decided to try to make caramels. Now, if you’ve ever made candy, you know you have to get it to a certain temperature, called either the soft-ball or hard-ball stage, depending on the kind you’re making. (Heh heh heh, you said ball.) It’s a lot easier if you have a candy thermometer, but you’re supposed to let it drip from a spoon and see if a hard or soft ball forms.
Well, I had no candy thermometer. Even worse, I’m impatient, which is the bane of baking, and I turned up the heat way too high. Before I knew it, my apartment had filled up with smoke. I opened my apartment door to let some out -- without remembering that there was a smoke alarm right outside. Yup, you guessed it: I set off the building fire alarm. My downstairs neighbor, a retired fireman, came running up the stairs and pounded on my door. I told him (and everyone else coming out of their apartments) what happened, called the landlord to learn how to shut off the alarm and after a few glares and muttered words at me from my neighbors, all was well again.
Two apartment building-clearing incidents in two years of renting. I think it’s a good thing that I own now. Not just for my sake but so others can sleep at night.
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