Coolest Thing Ever.

Coming home from the gym tonight, I walked down the hall and it smelled like dinner.  This is not uncommon: a lot of the neighbors I haven’t met seem to be fantastic cooks who can spare the time to whip up something gourmet and delicious while still mysteriously working long enough hours to afford this extortionist-style rent.

Tonight, though? Tonight the smell was coming from my apartment.  Mine.  And it was marvelous. 

My little sister, since she’s turned all domestic and gotten married, gave me a rice cooker for Christmas.  Really a pain to haul back from the West Coast, but truly tremendous because, turns out, the thing will cook dinner for you.

Pop in some rice, some chicken broth to cook it in, and some vegetables to steam and behold. Add a liberal pour of wine, and you’ve all you’ll need.  Not as good as being home, but hey; I take it where I can get it.  

Wrong on So Many Levels.

When I heard a rap at my door this morning around 8a, I assumed it was the neighbors coming to tell me to please turn down that music.  I was working my espresso machine, but still wanted to rock out since my morning pilates class didn’t really do it on the energy boost front this morning: hence, loud music.  I’ve never actually met my neighbors, come to think of it, which is incredibly loner-ish of me.  It’s a quiet floor, though, what can I say.  I rarely see people out and about. 

 

Alas.  At the door I found one of the maintenance men.  He doesn’t speak English too well, but I’ve always been nice to him.  He knows my name; when I see him around, he says hi, gives me a hug which is a little weird but whatever, foreign little maintenance man, it’s totally harmless.

 

Anyway, he had a Christmas present for me.  He said he thought I’d moved out, I was gone for so long (two weeks, sheesh, but I have been doing a fair bit of staying over at J’s…).  I told him a present was unnecessary, but he was so sweet about it that I accepted.  He left, and I opened it.

 

Lingerie.  The pervy maintenance man gave me a set of lacy red thongs and a box of bath products from Victoria’s Secret’s “Seduction” line.  Oh. Holy. God!! I returned the same over my lunch hour for store credit, but seriously?

 

The bath stuff alone would have creeped me out, but the underwear is so crossing the line.  Completely inappropriate.  I can’t help but think, is this how I’m repaid for being nice, for being friendly? I hate that this is what I have to deal with just for being female in our society.  Can a girl not be moderately attractive without the insult of appearing all-but-naked in every passing man’s eye? Can she not be objectified, be classed as something to see rather than someone to know?  I have done nothing to let this individual think that I’m at all interested in him, or that I’m the kind of girl that would accept intimate gifts from a man not her boyfriend.  I seriously know him, um, not at all.  That he visualizes me in lacy red thongs is absolutely appalling. 

 

I could complain, but he’d probably get fired.  I don’t want that at all; I don’t want to get him in trouble because honestly, in my heart, I think he meant well.  I don’t really think he’s a true pervert; I just that his affections are somewhat misdirected.  In any event, I’m good a rationalizing and, some may say, martyring myself because, sigh, that’s just the way it is.  This is my dilemma: tell J, or don’t tell J?  J will be furious (hooray! A manly man who’ll defend my honor and be my protector!) but he’ll want to do something (and will probably fly off the handle at me for being so nice and accepting the gift and passively returning it, instead of confronting the guy or marching directly to management). Hmmm. Sometimes I worry that I’m too nice, like those girls you read about in the news—you know, the ones who have gotten themselves into horrible, horrible situations and you read their stories and are like, chuh, the warning signs were there, honey, what the hell were you thinking?  I definitely don’t want to be that girl. 

 

I’m sitting here in my apartment by myself, though, and I admit I’m getting a little bit paranoid.  Pervy maintenance man has keys that will let him into this apartment.  He knows where I live, and that I live alone.  I am locking my bedroom door from within from this night forward, and will possibly invest in a pick-ax.  Or maybe a lead pipe.  Magda, in the bedroom, with the lead pipe.  Muah hah ha.  In the meantime, though, I’m trekking to Arlingon to spend the night in my home-away-from-home where I will lie securely in the arms of the man I love.