The other day, a handful of fire trucks parked outside our building with their lights flashing as a dozen firemen searched our building for a "gas leak." Apparently, one of the residents in our building smelled gas and called 911. Fortunately, the firemen figured out that our building superintendent had used a lot of WD-40 on all of the third floor door hinges earlier in the day and that caused the smell.
Once I knew we were out of danger, I returned to lounging on the couch and reading a magazine until Ben got home from work. About five minutes later, I heard heavy footsteps running down the hall. Our apartment door swung open and Ben burst into the apartment, frantically scanning the room until his eyes settled on me.
"Whoa," I said. "Are you okay?"
"Yeah," Ben replied, out of breath. "I saw all of the fire trucks and got really worried... I thought you tried to cook dinner again."
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I'm a young professional with relatively new jobs, a not-so-new newlywed, and a transplant to New York City. If you've ever been married, moved to New York City, or can faintly recall either - then maybe this blog will resurface a few nostalgic memories.
See my Masthead Archive.
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