On Wednesday before thanksgiving, my friend Christoph came over for dinner, but, obviously. we did some copyediting first because we know how to party. During his whole visit, my apartment was A) warm [thank you heater-fixing man] and B) quiet, which are my two favorite ways for my apartment to be. Wither the upstairs crashing and bellowing and stereo singalongs? How can one solicit sympathy from one's friends if the thing that is ruining your life refuses to display itself in company? Hrumph. Christoph informs me--very satisfyingly, I might add--that there is (really) a German word for that. A word that describes this phenomenon of something not happening when you are trying to demonstrate it to others, despite it having happened any number of times before. I do not remember what this word is, alas, but I would imagine it is equally applicable when you try to print for an hour, finally give up and call the technology expert, only to have the printer leap to life the moment he enters the room.
I wasn't sure whether this was a one-time just-to-screw-with-you instance of the German word or something more enduring. Dare I ever hope? But morning came and still: nothing. Ultimately, the neighbors were gone for four whole days during which I did things like read an entire book, sleep til 11AM, and weep tears of joy. Thanksgiving was our one-year anniversary of bitter co-habitation and, to mark the occasion, I would like to thank the boys upstairs for giving me the incredibly thoughtful gift of their absence.
This morning I had a dream that my cousin called to tell me that some friends of hers were moving out of their apartment in the West Village and that, on my behalf, she had convinced them to let me have it for $2500 a month, but I needed to decide immediately. I said yes.
When I woke up and groped my way back to reality, I puzzled over this dream. I seldom think about this particular cousin, so where did she spring from? My hardworking subconscious must have considered all my many cousins and produced her as the most connected among them. The one who would perhaps be able to call in a favor for me. Mind you, I cannot possibly afford to pay $2500 in rent, but I did so appreciate her efforts, particularly as we haven't spoken for years.
I lay there listening to the boys breakfasting in the manner of young oxen five feet over my bed and realized they were what had woken me. They are the last thing I hear at night and the first thing I hear in the morning--a statement that might be quite tender were I describing a lilting melody or the sonorous murmuring of my true love. Alas. Meanwhile, there I was sleeping, while my poor subconscious, jostled from its pleasant REM, was trying to develop an emergency exit strategy. I felt quite sorry for it. My subconscious, in short, would like me to get the hell out of here, crippling debt be damned.
It's worth noting that the impressively connected cousin lives in Texas, where one assumes she would have a lot more real estate leads than in Manhattan, but my subconscious, desperate or not, is apparently having none of that.
For some reason a Google image search for "quiet" results in a LOT of pictures of nearly naked, buxom women holding massive automatic weapons. I have no idea why.