I fear my outfit is not wholly successful. I am wearing skinny jeans, high boots, a sort of navy cashmere tunic. So far so good, you're saying, but imagine if you will a striped silk scarf draped around my neck and anchored by a thin belt with a minute turtle closure. Hm, I thought so.
So, the other day, Mike, 'the one who speaks perfect English' and my landlord's henchman, showed up at my door and demanded payment on electric.
'You haven't paid it since you moved in,' he accused.
'Well, I've never seen a bill,' I pointed out.
He informed me that I owed $150 a month, a total of $600.
'That seems very high,' I ventured, wondering if I'd been covertly running a doll factory, in my sleep, for the past four months.
'Don't it?' he replied enigmatically, and disappeared.
A few hours later, he said he'd meant $50. So I paid it. And yes, I probably should have demanded to see a bill with a breakdown. Well, I 'should' do a lot of things. I 'should' fix my toilet so that in order to flush it you don't need to plunge your hand into the freezing water of the tank. I 'should' cash my paychecks. I 'should' take my psychiatric medication. Well, if wishes were trees.
As re my recent nightmare, I called my mom to see if she had in fact poisoned my dad's seltzer with NH3. She said that, on the contrary, she was making him the salt cod gratin from Bistro Cooking, and the recipe made so much that she was saving me half.
"Well, that's a fine kettle of fish!" I expostulated. "I have my own pound of salt cod soaking in the refrigerator as we speak!"
She did suggest, though, that the nightmare had probably been suggested by the fact that she and my dad had been watching 'Notorious' that evening.