|Jammin’ with Ayro
||[Aug. 25th, 2004|07:25 pm]
|||||John Mayer, No Such Thing||]|
The maintenance guy for my wonderful new apartment is named Ayro. (There are a lot of unfamiliar names down here. They all sound made-up.) I met him last Saturday, when he replaced the broken knob on the washer (I’ve been doing laundry for 7 straight days – Spring cleaning, in late August). Today he came and looked at my list of things broken/undone – and we finished them all! The cabinet doors are now cat-proofed (thank gods – I was so tired of chasing Buster out of my appliances); the freezer no longer leaks (although it still needs cleaning – putting that one off, I think); the washer has been maintained properly; and my closet has the door back on (which means I can keep Lucien out of my shoes). My apartment is beautiful. It is clean. It is orderly. It looks well-stocked, loved, lived in. It’s a HOME, not just another place to crash and dump my stuff – the biggest problem I have had with the nomadic existence. I sure hope Brent is happy with it (I’ve tried not to change his stuff, or anything that looked like it had any particular order to it). So after we finished the last task (minus the new screen for the window, which Buster busted out; minus the chicken wire over the screens, so he doesn’t repeat the transgression; and minus drilling the holes in the wall to put the picture hooks up – these things will happen tomorrow), Ayro was still waiting for his partner, Leon, to finish a job down the street. So we served up a couple of glasses of my Dominican rum punch, made black bean dip, and watched the light fade over the Atlantic. The breeze was perfect. The view was perfect. Life is good. I am perfectly content.
My to-do list is very, very short, now. I’ve really been motivated this break – haven’t needed to lie like a dead thing, trying to recover (I thank Brent for this – I didn’t spend finals week weeping uncontrollably, either, because of him). Feels good to apply myself to the things I’ve needed to do for so long. Feels great to have a home without a long list of things in need of attention. I think the accomplishment has allowed me to let go of some of the early part of the week’s paranoia; poor Brent got the brunt of that.
Although I think I’d like to elucidate on the rant I went off on: regarding “love ya”.
“Love ya” equals the peanut-butter-on-Wonderbread equivalent of romance. I’ve been dining on 5-course cordon bleu this semester. From feast to famine: hadn’t heard from Brent in more than a week, after 2 continuous months of his company. And a very busy Brent jotted out a short note in email, signed it “love ya.”
What happens when you throw a dead, dried bone to a starving tiger? She’s not particularly gracious about it.
He has, so far, avoided saying anything about my rant. I think I need to apologize. I intended to be funny, but I’m guessing it ended up sounding mean-spirited.
Poor Brent probably doesn’t have any idea what he’s just walked into.
Welcome to the tiger trap. Oh, and by the way, it has a tiger in it.