Vodka & Cheese Blintzes

So, I got off work early on Friday for the holiday. Weather was gorgeous; I had to be outside. Took the dog on a log walk through Roscoe Village. He was able to meet and sniff two labradors (three blonde, two black), a border collie mix, and a giant, un-neutered schnauzer (with whom the greet when surprisingly well) so he was satisfied. Upon our return, he runs upstairs to meet with Grace, our Polish landlady, who has made every effort to be deemed his Second Mother and feeds him bread, cheese and retriever rolls (rawhides). Needless to say he’s in love with her now. Which started the trend of always going up the back staircase to her apartment to pay her a visit EVERY afternoon. If she’s not there, he will sit outside her door and whimper until I pull him down with the authority of Mommy Numero Uno. He sometimes gets pissy with me about this by: taking a ‘tone’ with me. So, I’m not all that thrilled about the routine she started except when I remind myself that she truly enjoys his company. He is the often the highlight of her day as a widow in her 60s (?) with no children or even family in the States at all.

So, he runs upstairs and I follow him, but today Grace sees us and starts to shut the door. She’s talking to one of my neighbors from upstairs. With a very serious look on her face she says, “Jennifer, I will have to talk to you later. I have something to ask you. Not now but later” and closes the door behind her. I could tell something was going on. Something not good. I start to think of what it could be. I’ve often worried about her financial stability. I know she gets offers to buy the house all the time. So many developers are salivating over the land, trying to build condos on this block. With the empty lot next door it’s all the more appealing. I started to worry that she finally got an offer she couldn’t refuse and that she was going to tell us we would need to move out.

About ten minutes later, she knocks on the back door. “Can you come upstairs with me? Mars can come, too.” I say sure. Mars and I head up. Walking into her apartment, she says, “I have some bad news and I think I’m going to die.”

Before you interpret this as an actual reflection on the status of her health, I should tell you that she often says she’s going to die. When we had flooding in the back staircase, when we had mice, when the pipes were frozen for almost a month last winter, when squirrels were climbing into her bathroom air duct and squawking at her in the morning…all of these times she was going to die. And if she’s not going to die, she’s “going to pass out” or is already “unconscious” (about the broken gas meter, the dryer not getting hot enough, my air conditioner going out earlier this summer). In fact, the phrase “I’m unconscious,” is especially overused, and is my favorite, of course, considering.

“Whatever it is I’m sure you’re not going to die from it,” I assure her, as I have many times before. “How bad is it?”

“Come in, sit down. You are not going to believe it. I don’t even want to tell you or I’m going to cry.”

Oh, no; she sold the house. I sit on the couch. She sits down beside me. Mars gets situated near her on the floor awaiting food offerings.

“I don’t even want to say it, but they are breaking up and moving out.” She gestures to the ceiling “Chris and Christina*!”

* Names changed here to protect their identities, but actual names equally rank with cute alliteration.

Thank God she’s not selling the house.

“I’m going to be sick,” she says. She remembers she has a bone for Mars and gets it for him. He happily chomps it in the middle of the floor.

“Wow. So…what did he do?” I asked. Sorry guys. It just came out. As soon as I said it I knew I shouldn’t assume that it was something the guy did. I quickly followed up with, "I'm kidding. What happened?"

“I don’t know what happened. The wedding is off and she is moving out and he is moving into another apartment. They will be out by November and I will have to fix up their place and find new people to rent it.”

The couple got engaged last Christmas on a romantic trip to Mexico. Right before their trip, I met Chris in the stairwell in the wee hours of the morning because he woke up my dog on his way to take out his trash. He was so excited, he spilled to me that he had a ring and was going to propose on their trip and that he couldn’t wait. He had this look in his eyes, so intense. So honestly bursting with excitement of the idea of their being engaged that I will never forget it. I just remember thinking that if I were ever to get a proposal from a guy I would actually consider marrying I hope that he has the very same look in his eyes when he’s plotting to pop the Q.

It seemed fitting for them to be engaged. They had been dating since high school in Iowa and had lived together in their upstairs apartment with cats, a large tank of tropical fish, and a dog. They did almost everything together when they weren’t working. Chris did all of the disgusting things that women sit around and dream a guy would do for them on top of being actually very attractive. Things I will pass on writing the detail of because I might throw up on my keyboard in the documentation of these. Suffice to say, he is undeniably a romantic, proclaiming his utmost affection for his Christina in actions and words to anyone and everyone. (Actually wore a t-shirt that read: “I Love My Girlfriend” and not just around the house) Whipped. Christina seemed content enough with Chris, and life, though she was quieter, not as social. Really the only time you’d hear anything from her was when she was promoting a show she was in (an actor). But Chris was always very friendly and would enjoy small talk and sitting with other neighbors in his yard talking about his band or…Christina. Grace was especially fond of him. EVERY time he would leave from talking to us, she would take it upon herself to remind me that I should find myself a man like Chris. I would always respond something to the effect of “they don’t make ‘em anymore” and she would nod in agreement with me or sometimes mention that Snoopy was like that sometimes. (Snoopy being her late-husband’s nickname; she still only refers to him as Snoopy.)

Now Chris and Christina are calling it quits breaking off the engagement, breaking up the family. He gets the dog and the fish. She gets the cat. And Grace is going to die.

“I am so upset.” Grace said, starting to cry. “I thought they would get married and be here forever. I can’t get over it. I am going to make myself a bunch of cheese blintzes and drink myself to death with vodka. I don’t know what to do with myself. How could this happen?”
“Maybe she met someone else.” I said, posing a likely theory. “She just got that new job at that bar and she met someone that made her wish she’d explored more guys since high school.”
“Could be. Could be.” She said. “He mentioned they have been avoiding each other for the last four months or so, pretending everything was okay. He said the split was her idea. He was almost crying. You know he has been drinking an awful lot in the last few months.”

“Maybe it’s for the best.” I tried to console her. “Maybe he needs to meet someone who appreciates him for who he is. Maybe now he can find a better match.”

But, I’m not so sure I believe that because Chris will never be the same. He will be jaded now like other men who have been hung out to dry somewhere in the name of young innocent love. He won’t ever want to give so much of his heart for fear of losing it again. She has probably ruined him for every girl after. His drinking may get worse. Maybe may just up the ante with cocaine, heroine, what have you, in the effort to self-medicate and lose all true senses of respect for himself and women. Another one bites the dust.

Grace tried an optimistic outlook, “Maybe they will go separate ways and see other people and then realize they were meant to be and it will be better than before.”

“Maybe or maybe not. Either way I’m sure it will be okay. They are both still young.”

“I am serious. I feel like someone died. I am going to eat cheese blintzes like you wouldn’t believe and get out my vodka,” she exclaimed.

“And I’ll have to march upstairs and say to them: Look at what you’ve done to Grace! She’s passed out unconscious from vodka and cheese blintzes; YOU'VE GOT TO MAKE THIS WORK, DAMN IT!” I motioned as if this would be said by grabbing them both by their collars, pulling them in and screaming in their faces.

She laughed and then tried to convince me I needed to eat cheese blintzes with her.

“Noooooo. My diet. It’s a no, no. I didn’t get skinny this summer for nothin’ and besides, it’s not really a matter of losing weight as much as it is for health.” I managed to escape them.

I have been fantasizing about cheese blintzes since last night. I hope she can get over the break-up soon; I can’t hold out forever- smelling them in the stairwell.