Dear Laundry Room Book Angel

I don’t know who you are, or if you’re one person or several.  But for the past few years, I’ve benefitted from your castaway books.  Of course, that’s what I assume they are as I take my pick of the delicacies and scurry back to my nest. 

My friends tease me that I’m stealing books.  “I found a great book in my laundry room this week…” 

“You mean you STOLE a great book!”

I’m careful not to be greedy, but always happy when I seemingly get first pick of the stash.  I look them over carefully and choose one.  Upstairs, as I wait for the washer to do its work, I think of one or two others I probably should have grabbed and beat myself up.  Half an hour later, I scamper back down to put my laundry in the dryer, hoping against hope that the other book is still there.  Oh god, please don’t let anyone else in the building be doing laundry and also interested in reading about Blind Tom, the 19th Century slave musical genius ……

Over the past four years, I’ve found so many wonderful treasures in The Basement Bookmobile.  One of the first was Ha Jin’s Waiting.  A novel I’d heard about, always thought of reading, and then one day….there it was.  And it was brilliant!  I still recommend it to friends.

Though I work full-time, I go thru several books a week.  Even when the A Train’s running express, that still leaves me at least 25 minutes to read on the trip to Midtown.  I do buy new books when I can afford them, love the convenience of Amazon.com and admit that The Strand is my favorite place in NYC. 

But nothing beats The Laundry Room.  It’s a wonderland of surprises!

A few of my favorites over the years:

The Portable Dorothy Parker

Heirloom:  Notes From An Accidental Tomato Farmer

Joseph Campbell’s Myths to Live By

Rape of the Nile:  Tomb Robbers, Tourists, and Archaeologists in Egypt

The Egyptian Book of the Dead

The Kite Runner

The Illustrated History of New York

The first three volumes of The No. 1 Ladies Detective Agency

Strangers on the Train by Patricia Highsmith

Irish Fairy Tales

The Popular Book:  A History of America’s Literary Tastes

Jorge Luis Borges’ Labyrinths

The petit book on Poirot’s Fashion

Essay’s from the Writer’s Workshop

A lovely edition of Rabelais

My gay (and a few straight) friends were particularly jealous when I had Alison Arngrim’s Confessions of a Prairie Bitch in my bag!

And a few months ago, when I was going thru a break-up, suddenly a copy of It’s Called a Break-Up Because It’s Broken appeared as I laundered pajamas stained with ice cream and pizza sauce.  Can’t say it was brilliant writing.  But was a great little friend to have handy during those dark days.

Last week I became the proud owner of The Vanishing Race on the history of the North American Indian.

And then this week you gifted me with The New York Public Library Desk Reference AND The Moosewood Cookbook! 

As a voracious reader, book-lover, and awesome cook!----THANK YOU!!!

For four years, I’ve always loved the mystery of the Laundry Room Book Angel.  And frankly, I still do.  But have been so overjoyed with the books lately that I really felt the need to finally say “thank you”.  Whoever you are. 

You make laundry day a pleasure.  And wonderful reading the rest of the week.

Whether you are one person or several----I am.... 

Gratefully yours,

Bennett Avenue Book Reader  

Giant Microbes

Discovered the strangest idea ever---a company called Giant Microbes.

http://www.giantmicrobes.com

The premise is, they take a picture of a bacteria or virus in a microscope---and then they turn it into a stuffed animal! Genius! Amongst all the other oddities gracing my desk---I now have The Black Plague and Ebola. They’re so cute! I don’t know why they make me happy. They just do.

A friend of mine just had a birthday and he can now say that for his birthday, he got Gonorrhea, Chlamydia, and Syphilis. Don’t say I never gave you anything, Timmy.

However, the oddest part of the stuffed animals is the tag which not only gives you the history, symptoms and cures for the diseases---but also adds the safety precaution:

“Remove plastic hangtags and ribbons before giving to a child under 3 years of age.”

Which is more appropriate for a baby gift? Chicken pox or Mange? Hmmm.

The Laundry Room Mystery

When you’re looking for a new apartment, you generally have a list of requirements. Allows pets. Safe neighbourhood. Reasonable rent. These are the basics. By the time you whittle your choices down and make some appointments, you’re now looking for life’s little amenities. Elevator. Hardwood floors. Security cameras. And my personal favourite---vermin-free. Original crown molding is not as attractive if roaches are crawling up the walls.

Therefore, being a savvy and experienced apartment hunter, I looked carefully before making my final decision. And, I’m happy to say that, three months later, the honeymoon is still going strong.

Over the years, I’ve discovered that a home is like a relationship---you learn something new about it everyday. And my latest discovery is like finding out that your new boyfriend is not only a great guy, but also a world class French chef.

Why?

My new apartment comes with free books!

For an avid reader like myself, this is like stumbling upon the Comestock Lode. You see, some mysterious person in my building throws away books. And not crappy old textbooks and out-of-date computer manuals. Good books. Books I would actually pay good money for new at Barnes and Noble or used at The Strand.

For the past few months, I’ve noticed that a mysterious Book Angel seems to leave their unwanted, already-read books in the laundry room. So not only do I get a super fantastic laundry room with state-of-the-art machines---I also get free books! This is an amenity that was not listed in the brochure. Makes the steep Manhattan rents much more bearable. It also gives me the opportunity to stumble across authors I might never have discovered.

Currently, I’m finishing up a free copy of Strangers on a Train by Patricia Highsmith. Found it in the laundry room last month. Great psychological thriller. Hitchcock made a movie out of it back in the fifties. Nowadays, people might know her better as the author of The Talented Mr. Ripley.

Last month, I read an uncorrected proof that was left in the laundry room of a book titled Remainder by Tom McCarthy. Very Camus-esque, wildly irritating, yet somehow irresistible. If it were a wine, it would be a petulant pinot noir.

Tonight, as I hauled my two loads of dirty bed linens and miscellaneous clothes into the laundry room, my eye immediately went to the new pile of books waiting in the free-book area. I hurriedly shoved my laundry into the machines and then went to inspect the latest laundry room releases.

At the top of the pile, was a book called Sophie’s World by Jostein Gaarder. The title sounded familiar, but the subtitle completely sold me, “A Novel About the History of Philosophy”. That’s definitely going home with me. Then I discovered the first three books in the Alexander McCall Smith series The No.1 Ladies’ Detective Agency. I’d already read the first volume and had planned on adding to my collection. So, not only do I get the next two volumes for free, I picked up volume one for one of my best friends at work who is hooked on African films. Then there was Waiting by Ha Jin. The added engravings on the cover advertise it as being a National Bestseller and also a winner of the National Book Award. An author I had never heard of and am now looking forward to chequeing out. There’s also a hardcover edition of a novel titled In the Drink by Kate Christensen. It’s a first novel and sounds like an interesting cup of tea. And finally, two Gregory Macguire novels, Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister and Lost. Macguire is the author of Wicked---another book I’ve always meant to read. Either my mysterious Book Angel kept this particular book for his/her own collection, or someone beat me to it. In any case, I’ve decided to pick up a copy of Wicked before I tackle the other two.

Needless to say, today’s catch was particularly enthralling. With no one else in sight, I gathered up the whole stack and scurried upstairs to my nest with about a hundred dollars worth of new books. I could hardly believe my good fortune.

A few hours later, as I lay in bed reading one of my Laundry Room Releases, I began to feel a twinge of guilt. After all, I was benefiting from someone’s largesse. Who was my mysterious Book Angel? And, more to the point, wouldn’t they appreciate a thank you of some sort? Or at least, some knowledge that their books had found a good home? Like those unwed mothers who drop off their babies in front of a church. My Book Angel didn’t throw their babies in the trash. They left them for someone else to care for. Perhaps a thank you note would be in order.

I suppose the laundry room would be the proper place to leave a thank you note. So, after much thought, I sat down and composed a grateful, yet casual missive, thanking my unknown benefactor for their generous donations.

And then, I paused.

Hmmm.

After all, I’m happy with things the way they are. Would beginning a communication with my mysterious Book Angel change my laundry room book-mobile? I know this might sound silly---but I kind of like the mystery. After all, we seem to have a good thing going here. Book Angel makes more room in their apartment, and I get some free books. It’s a win-win situation. Sort of the equivalent of a book booty call. A free exchange of wants and needs. And completely anonymous. Do I really want to ruin my Laundry Day Surprise?

So, for now, I opt to remain the anonymous Book Adoptee. After all, some birth mothers just want to move on with their lives.

Let the mystery continue.

But this is definitely the best apartment ever.

How I Got My Dresser

The other day, I waited on three guys from Spain. Now, for those of you not in the know, foreigners are notoriously lousy tippers. Sometimes, it’s not all their fault. Every country has different tipping procedures and percentages. And frankly, the US tops the list. Why? Because American waiters are paid sweatshop wages. Most of Europe doesn’t tip more than a few coins. In the UK, it’s generally around 10%. Australians have no qualms about leaving you nothing at all. Asians are usually pretty good---maybe it’s the polite thing. And the Canadians will fool you. They look and sound just like us---and then they hand you the credit card with the maple leaf. Shit! They’re Canadian! They really should have square heads like in the South Park cartoons.

However, in other countries, servers are paid a livable wage. By the time most US servers pay federal, state and city taxes and that damned FICA---well, we’re making about a dollar an hour. Really. If you’ve never waited tables, you should know that waiters in the US live on their tips. In fact, if you don’t tip, it actually COSTS US money to wait on you. We have to pay taxes on our sales, because the government assumes that we’ve been tipped. We also have to pay a percentage from our sales to the bus boys, runners and the bartender. And if we’re not tipped, we still have to pay. All the guidebooks to the US list the tipping customs here---15-20% for service. However, even though I’ve seen the guidebooks actually sitting on the table, our clientele seem to conveniently skip over this section of the manual for their visit to NYC.

Needless to say, it can sometimes be downright frustrating. Especially with the British who go on and on telling you how “lovely” everything was. And they “cheers” you a thousand times. Then they get an $80 cheque and leave you three dollars. A friend of mine swears that “cheers” means “fuck you” in British.

But I digress.

There once were three guys from Spain…

Now, these fellas were nice as nice goes. Didn’t speak English at all. Seemed like business guys. Late thirties to early forties. They started by asking me if I spoke Spanish. I explained that I did a little. Then they asked me about the “costillas”---the ribs. I told them in Spanish what the dinner came with and answered a few more questions in Spanish. I brought them a round of drinks and their dinners came out a few minutes later. They seemed happy. Gave me the thumbs up. I stopped by periodically to see how they were doing and everything was “bueno”. Super. Great. All seemed well. They weren’t overly friendly, but nice enough.

Then the check came. It was $85. I wasn’t counting on much. But then, I’ve always had a hard time kicking that Anne Frank thing about believing people to be really good at heart. Tho I sometimes think that if Anne Frank had survived the Holocaust and gotten a job waiting tables at a café on Leidseplein while supporting her fledgling writing career---well, she would’ve been singing a different tune. That being said, I am an equal opportunity server. While I know there are some servers who skimp on service to Europeans, I like to give them all a chance.

So I left the bill on the table, informed them they could pay me when they were ready, and walked away. A few moments later, I came back to the table to find the three guys gone and three hundred dollar bills on the table. There must be some mistake. What? A two-hundred and fifteen dollar tip on an eighty-five dollar check? But it seemed real. The hundred dollar bills were not stuck together in any way. In fact, they were slightly separated underneath the check. One. Two. Three.

For those of you who might think this sort of bonanza befalls every waitress occasionally---think again. Trust me, do not quit your day job and rush off to your nearest Applebees. It does not. In fact, it occurs so rarely, that I discovered I was actually upset about it.

“Did those guys say anything to you?” I asked the manager on duty at the front door---who also happened to be Spanish. No. They hadn’t said a word.

“Why?” he asked. “Was there a problem?”

“No. But why did they leave me $215 on an $85 check?”

I was this close to peeved. I asked everyone they might have come into contact with during the course of their meal. No one had anything to add. I spent the rest of the night waiting for them to come back for their money, all the time wondering why. Why?

As I sat on the train home that night, all sorts of thoughts ran thru my head: Maybe they just wanted to get rid of their American currency? Maybe they were drunk? Maybe my restaurant Spanish was finally paying off?

The next day at work, the other servers heard about my windfall and began offering their own case scenarios: Maybe they were drug dealers with loads of money to burn? Maybe they didn’t understand American money? Or maybe they were just really nice guys?

Who knows.

What I did know is that I had an extra $215 burning a hole in my pocket, and baby needs a new chest of drawers.

But now, of course, I’m afraid to spend the money. Because what if they come back? What if they made a mistake and come in a few days later wanting their money back? Of course, I would give it to them. But this was really starting to burn me up. I mean, here I am with an extra $215 and I’m afraid to spend a penny of it.

Then word of my fabulous tip got to the General Manager. He was under the mistaken impression that it had been on a charge and that the manager on duty should perhaps have made a copy of the charge in case they called back. In fact, I got the distinct impression that perhaps he thought I didn’t deserve such a tip. And frankly, I’d be the first one to agree with him. Because I had no idea what I did? What DID I do? For godsakes, why didn’t they explain themselves? It troubled me for days.

Maybe they were high stakes gamblers? Maybe they broke the bank at Monte Carlo? Or Atlantic City? Who the hell knows?

And don’t think there weren’t plenty of little risqué remarks going around about what I did to earn that money. I’m sure there are girls working as cocktail waitress in “Gentleman’s Clubs” who get tips like this all the time. Sometimes they flirt with the customers or bend down a little low at the table when they drop off the hot wings. But I’m fully clothed. The whole black pants, white shirt and tie thing. Even if I wanted to lean over a table, all they would see is my tie in their soup. And you don’t get tipped for that. Trust me. Nevertheless, I laughed along with the dirty little jokes. But deep down inside, I was troubled. I felt like a fraud. An imposter. On my worst days, a thief. I hadn’t done anything special, nor shown anything special besides my knowledge of the Spanish word for cheesecake.

It’s been a week now. I assume my three guys are back in Barcelona or somewhere, dining on bistec and polishing off a bottle of Rioja. As for myself, I finally dipped into my ill-gotten tip money and purchased a lovely dresser for my clothes. I bought it at a Spanish-owned store in my neighborhood---figured I should probably give back to the community.

But the guilt has been overwhelming. The Spanish guys never came back. Maybe they didn’t have any more money. Or maybe they hopped on their private jet and were whisked back to their castles in Spain.

What I do know is that the next time you’re in a restaurant and you want to piss off your waitress---just leave her a really, REALLY big tip.

Big News

The big news in my life this week---are you ready?

I just recently purchased a brand new paper towel holder. Yes. It's true.

You see, I've never owned a paper towel holder. When I said this to my mother yesterday, there was a slight pause on the other end of the phone. Because life without a paper towel holder is something my mother cannot even begin to fathom. Growing up, there were always paper towels. Rolls and rolls of paper towels available for any situation. And there was always one primary roll cocked and ready in a paper towel holder in the kitchen. As a child, I just took it for granted that there would always be paper towels. I never worried they would run out. Never wondered where they came from. They were just there. Comforting. Secure. Right where you needed them at all times. In fact, every member of my family proudly displayed their paper towels in a prominent place in their kitchen---like a tartan or a family crest. It was who we were as a people. And the message our paper towels conveyed to the world:

Hey, sometimes we spill. Accidents happen. Oops.

To this day, hearing the phrase, "Oh, let me just get a paper towel" gets me a little misty.

Therefore, you can imagine my mother's shock at my revelation. After all, I'm a grown woman. I've been sent off into the world to represent the family name. She had just barely gotten over the fact that I didn't have an electric can opener. And now this? I found myself stammering long-distance into the phone.

"Well, I have paper towels. I always have paper towels. It's just...well, I kind of just put the paper towel roll on the counter and it just sort of stands there. Commando."

Silence. Apparently, I'd been living like the apes.

However, on the bright side, she was the first person I'd spoken to in a week who was as excited about my new paper towel holder as I was.

You see, a few weeks ago, I moved into a lovely new apartment. Well, frankly, it's just a nice studio apartment. But it's the nicest apartment I've ever lived in. Clean, pest-free. nothing falling apart, everything works, and my neighbours aren't murderers and/or psychopaths. It's a little bit of heaven. And it has an elevator AND a laundry room. Doing laundry is a breeze. I just put the laundry into the elevator and push the button and voila! There I am! Sometimes, I just get into the elevator and push the buttons and go up and down. It's like The Love Boat---exciting and new.

So my mission the past few weeks has been to create the most comfortable and convenient apartment EVER. Decor can come later. What I strive for now is complete and utter convenience. And nothing is more convenient than a paper towel holder.

For weeks now, I've agonized over every purchase. Even the smallest of items must be carefully chosen. I looked at dozens of toasters for weeks. WEEKS. I poured over office supply catalogs looking at hundreds of desks in a quest to find the perfect desk that fulfilled all my particular desk needs. I spent hours searching online for the perfect ice cube bin. And, yes, I finally found it---at The Container Store. Now, instead of banging the ice cube tray and sticking my fingers into the icy crevices each and every time I want a cube of ice---now, I simply empty the trays into the ice cube bin and when I want a cube of ice, I simply open the freezer door, reach my hand into the ice cube bin, and, with absolutely no physical effort whatsoever, I retrieve a cold cube of ice. It's like magic. This must be how rich people live.

Nevertheless, after two months of careful thought and planning, I still had not come to any decision regarding the paper towel holder. There were so many things to take into consideration. First of all, do I want a free-standing paper towel holder or a wall-mounted one? Not an easy decision. The free-standing one has the advantage of being portable, plus, it doesn't disturb the line of the wall. On the other hand, the wall-mounted paper towel holder generally dispenses the paper towels with more efficiency AND it doesn't eat up much-needed counter space. You see my dilemma.

Then, there is the question of colour. Am I going for your standard white plastic? Or maybe a wooden rustic sort of thing? Or perhaps something a bit more modern and chic would be fetching? How you display your paper towels says a lot about you as a person. And, up until now, my paper towel message said, "I'm single and afraid of commitment." After all, I can't even commit to a paper towel holder.

But I finally made the decision that I wanted the paper towel holder attached to the cabinet over the kitchen sink. What could be more convenient than that? You have wet hands---paper towel. Spill---paper towel. Right there handy. Sink---paper towel. Who wants to walk with wet hands across the room to the paper towel holder? No one. That's who.

I'm so excited about this new paper towel holder. It's completely changed my life. I even took pictures of my new paper towel holder. Okay, here is my paper towel holder without the paper towels.

Mmmm. Sleek. It's shiny and silver and it matches my new toaster. You can imagine my mother's happiness. I not only found my roots, I co-ordinated.

And here is a picture of my new paper towel holder in its brand new home with a brand new roll of paper towels!

Huh? That's what I'm talking about. Is that not the best paper towel holder set-up ever? You can imagine my excitement.

But, outside of my Mom, no one wants to hear about my paper towel holder any more. My friends are literally walking away from me as I begin to tell the paper towel story. I've emailed out-of-town friends my pictures of the paper towel holder, but have gotten no response. And just how many of these people have emailed me pictures of their ugly babies and I've immediately typed back a glowing baby review? I can't even count. In fact, I've been told, by one particular friend, that I've got to move on.

Okay, Fine. I get the idea.

So, this week, I'm thinking bathroom trashcan. Hmmm.