Glassware: 3, Ryan: 1

That’s right – a la the STAR WARS prequels, it turns out there are epic, untold chapters in the timeless saga of me versus my apartment. So sit back, relax and picture the following text as a rogue paragraph scrolling through space to a John Williams score…

Episode vII

THE PLATE GLASS MENACE

It is a period of civil war.

Ryan, having moved into his Montreal apartment with hopes for a peaceful existence, finds himself locked in a struggle for his very survival. Victorious in his battle with the Death Stove – which hasn’t been fully operational since it superheated a two-meter thermal exhaust port to detonate its plate glass cover – he’s now embroiled in a struggle against the dreaded Rebel Appliance…

On second thought, maybe it works better as my typical stream of consciousness. And no, I’m not only saying that because I was having a hell of a time finding a play on words that ties together STAR WARS and my dishwasher (Darth Washer?) But I digest…

After setting my entire kitchen to ‘frappe’ by unintentionally detonating the glass cover of my stove last month, I’ve since managed to shatter a drinking glass with my vice-like grip (no joke) and reduce a wine glass to six or seven thousand too many pieces to glue back together by pushing my dishwasher to extremes it’s never before imagined. And this, it turns out, is one of the hidden pitfalls of renting a furnished apartment. Back in LA, I break Ikea glasses like they’re going out of style (in spite of assurances from the Ikea website that the simple, elegant design design of its wares is as timeless as it is economical). Don’t believe me? Try skeet shooting a little Swedish china the next time you have a tough day at work and you’ll see what I mean.

Point is, in my own house I can break a glass and not think twice about it. Here, on the other hand, I do think about it. Constantly. Because thanks to my damage deposit – which is roughly equivalent to the GDP of a banana republic (not the store) – I’ve been having nightmares about breaking open my piggy bank, only to discover it’s filled with so much broken glass. Chilling, no? At the very least, I suppose it’s a nice reminder that I have hidden depths.

So, after buying enough new glasses from Ikea that I can coast right on through ‘til October enforcing my “tough love” policy on any and all glassware, I finally went to my landlord to put the issue to bed. Swinging by the rental agency that’s been taking a firm stance on my liability in the matter of Stovegate ‘07, I sat down with the owner and…drum roll please…have been found officially not at fault. While it still remains to be seen whether or not I’ll have a whopping charge for “miscellaneous” in the final tally when I head for China in October, at least I can sleep easy from here on in.

I mean, it’s not like they have anything valuable made of glass in China…right?