Lost and Found

To say that it's been awhile since I last put pen to paper would be something of an understatement. I'll blame the prolonged absence on Comcast, as it was their inexplicable incompetence and repeated jackass-ism that kept internet out of my apartment throughout the month of September, thereby ruining my blogging routine. And then, well, I got lazy. And uninspired. But here I am on a boring Saturday night, and I'm now reinspired, respiring, and restless - so let the blog resume.

Since I obviously have far too much to discuss for one simple post, I’ll be dedicating this specific rambling to the glory that is our apartment. When I last left you, I had moved into an apartment with Carmine, Vince, and Mike in a sweet location on South Street paying laughable rent. It quickly becomes apparent why rent is so low when the following happens in a span of three months:

1. Our door is ungodly narrow. To watch us try to cram two couches through the door was a spectacle to behold. If our things had been any larger, I'm fairly certain we would have had to perform a c-section on our house.

2. The house had never been wired for cable, causing a month long battle with Comcast. This bullet point will require further explanation, as one brief blurb does not do the battle justice.

3. Following the first rain in Philadelphia with us as tenants at 2208, The new paint job in Vince's room turns shit brown due to water leakage. Of course, some might see this as a boon rather than a bane, as it is around this time that Lehigh alum Damon Scoleri paints his kitchen shit brown in honor of Lehigh's colors. Being a sensible fellow, the painter objected to painting a kitchen completely in brown, so Damon added a splash of yellow, Lehigh's other color, in order to officially complete the human excrement decor. End tangent.

4. Our dishwasher has but one setting: bone crushing loud. I'm fairly certain that in a previous life, our dishwasher was either a jackhammer, trash compactor, or Roseanne Barr. Needless to say, the dishwasher is the scariest appliance in our house, and we offer it sacrifices of nubile young women that we lure off the street with promises of candy and vicodin.

5. The washing machine's hot and cold setting were backwards, an inconvenience which we thought we could combat by setting the machine to ‘hot’ when cold was needed and vice-versa. One ruined sweater later, it was discovered that all settings involved a ‘cold’ and therefore scalding hot, shrink-inducing rinse.

6. Towards the end of November, we decide to use our heater for the first time. Apparently, we forgot to consult with the heater, as it had other plans.

7. Our heater was fixed, working perfectly well with the exception of a noticeable leak dripping on our carpet. Being lazy bastards, we ignore this.

8. One week after being fixed, the heater dies once again. We then notice the large swelling of water that had been slowly building up in the dry wall under the heater as a result of the aforementioned drip. Poking said swelling proves to be no help, but the process is remarkably satisfying. This satisfaction quickly fades as we begin to freeze our collective asses off.

9. Heater is fixed. Again.

10. Toilet breaks. Delightful hissing sound serves as excellent substitute for babbling brook/sleep aid.

11. Heater breaks. Again.

12. Heater is fixed, only to break later that day. Toilet and washing machine are fixed.

13. Lather, rinse, repeat. Have I mentioned how fucking cold it was in our house? I mean, 59 degrees is swell if you’re looking to take a brisk walk in the park, but it is utterly unacceptable as your living room temperature. My plan of starting a campfire/bonfire in he living room is voted down in light of our lack of renter’s insurance. Ever the fan of compromise, I proceed to light myself on fire.

14. Heater is “fixed.” Apparently, our heater enjoys turning itself on, reaching a certain temperature, and turning itself off….without ever reactivating. So, rather than address this issue, we’re left with instructions on how to reset the heater when it dies initially. Helloooo, fuse-box.

15. Some poor excuse for a band moves next door and, due to thin walls, floods our house with an inexorable flow of acoustical diarrhea. The walls, however, do not appear to be thin enough for the members of this atrocity to hear our collective cries for mercy.

So that’s where we currently stand. But I’m sure I’ll have more to report when the next part of our house inevitably breaks/dies/tips over and pins us down. More about the past three months and the present to follow.

Tally ho!