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I really wanted to go to the Morning News party last night but I got paid yesterday and seem to have missed a few hours in the last pay period so it wasn't even enough for my rent. That's fixable since I still have (a paltry amount of) money left over from last paycheck so rent is covered but damn if this living hand to mouth (I just typed "mouth to mouth" by accident. That would be a much more interesting way to live wouldn't it?) isn't getting TIRING. Well, good thing I'm not doing anything irresponsible like, oh, having a party in a few weeks. Sigh.

So instead of going to the party and meeting some new, cool people I meandered home, and upon reaching my door discovered two rather disturbing things. 1) The hallway light is burnt out so I had to stab at the door like Helen Keller till the key found the hole and 2) as soon as I got the door open I was assaulted by the overwhelming smell of gas. As fast as you can say "Your mom was right!" I shut the door and ran downstairs to find my neighbor friend. She wasn't home so I knocked on all the neighbors doors till I found someone home. The nice girl subletting 2L agreed to come upstairs and take a whiff, as I needed to make sure I wasn't just imagining things. She confirmed the gas smell was there so I went back down to her apartment to call Keyspan. That's when I realized my cell phone service has been shut off. Nice first impression on the neighbor, jackass. She lent me her phone and as I dialed 411 for the Keyspan number it occurred to me that, and I CANNOT believe I am admitting this to the world, I have never, not ever, not once paid my Keyspan bill. What if the customer service dude refuses to help me unless I pay? What if the smell is due to them shutting off my service? I have $50 to last till the 20th, I just don't have any extra right now. And my neighbor will think I'm a total fuckpants who can't take care of her responsibilities. Holy predicament, Batman!

The Verizon guy asks if I need the regular number or the emergency number and when I say emergency he says "Good." and then laughs a little and adds, "Well, not good, I just mean..." God. I get the number and hang up to dial it rather than press 1 for an additional charge of 75 cents on 2L's phone bill (never too late to start being responsible) and explain my situation to the Keyspan guy. He takes all my info and gives me some directions. Don't turn on lights. Don't plug in or unplug any electrical appliances. Open the windows and the door. Don't light a match. Oh, and the repair guy would be there within an hour. I don't have to explain to those who know me that I have more than a little of my Nervous Nellie mother in me. I shakily went back upstairs, tears springing to my eyes and manage to open 2 windows before I freak out and grab my coat and head outside to wait, in the freezing cold, for what may be as long as an hour. I grab my book, thinking I can read by the light of the streetlamp. I am a total loser.

As soon as I get outside I decide I need to call someone, someone in Brooklyn, in case my apartment blows up and I need a place to stay, or massive amounts of therapy. I call Tom and probably wig him out with my "Gas! House! Cat!" rant, because I have no time to really explain because wonder of wonders the Keyspan truck pulls up not 5 minutes after I go outside. There are two repairmen, probably around my age if not younger and they are kind to my obviously frazzled self. I am too wigged to be self conscious about the incredibly lame fact that, as everyone who is not a dork has already surmised, the problem is that the pilot was out. Senor Keyspan explains to me, in that quiet, soothing tone that people use on small children and woodland animals, how to light the pilot and what to do first if I smell gas again. Again, I am too unnerved to be embarrassed and am instead incredibly grateful and want to offer them tea, or cookies, and have them stay with me a while longer.

After they leave I close the windows and pet the cat and try to figure out how to reach Tom to let him know I haven't blown up. I find K-dub on IM and ask her to call my cell and as I hoped might be the case, I can still receive calls, just not dial out. So I told her the story and the first thing she says is "Do not tell your mom this story!" Ha, I already knew that, I even wondered about telling it here, in case she drops in to read as she does on occasion. K-dub called Tom to pass on the news of my continued existence and I just lay on my bed for a while, staring at the ceiling and letting the cat sit on my neck. Then I watched the West Wing.

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