The neighbors are cooking something that smells for all the world like parakeet droppings. I’m starting to really hope that I’m having a stroke instead, because otherwise, those poor souls really shouldn’t be allowed to cook for themselves.
I did see other humans today, you’ll be happy to hear. (Do these posts seem at all like messages in a bottle to you? They seem that way to me.) Anyway, I went out to brunch with a few friends, and then, purely by accident, we wound up going to an open house.
Open houses are a neighborhood pastime, everything that can be condo-ized having been in the past five to ten years. This one was at the top of a rickety five-floor walk-up on Fifth Avenue in Park Slope, which is where we keep the restaurants. The view was tremendous, and the place itself was quite nice, long walk up notwithstanding. The only thing that wigged me out was that there was what appeared to be a bricked up doorway in the living room.
“That is obviously the doorway to hell,” I told the Mouse, while he was wincing at some supposedly offensive blond-wood cabinets.
“There was a fire years ago,” he said. “In the ’80s. Maybe they bricked it up then.”
“How do you know?”
“On the other side of that wall exactly is my Mom’s apartment. I grew up like five feet from where we’re standing now.”
“Oh my God! You should buy it! Wait – would she be freaked or psyched?”
“Psyched. She’d bust that door right on down and make it one big apartment.”
The Mouse sounded less than thrilled about that, so I don’t imagine he’ll be buying the place.