So far, since turning 30, I’ve lost my readership AND my apartment. Hey, at least I’m in my sexual prime.
A few of you have emailed to ask if I survived the ship or if I went all Natalie Holloway. Well, I am safely back in New York despite my utter unconcern for the Royal Caribbean Muster safety drill:
I chose not to blog from the cruise because of exhorbitant wireless costs. Also, I was drinking rum punch. I do have tons of material and will get to it in due time, but right now, I’m focused on apartment hunting.
When we docked in Key West last Thursday, I learned that my landlady decided not to renew my lease. Is it because I harbored sharp-clawed kittens over the summer? Or is it because the last guy I dated passed out drunk on my front stoop, on two separate occasions, leaving whiskey stained mouth marks?
If one has to make such difficult housing discoveries, one should most definitely be ordering one’s third mid-afternoon margarita at Sloppy Joe’s while listening to an affectionate (if somewhat cabaret) cover of The Eagle’s “Take it Easy”:
You can clearly see the freak-out on my face, right? It helps when you’ve had a becalming housing heart to heart with this guy:
His shirt says “Double True,” which of course is from the SNL Chronic of Narnia skit. Everything about moving in New York City is double: double the rent, double the trouble, double the pressure. I’m not new to this process. You see a place in the morning and you’re unpacking before sunset. When I moved here five years ago from North Carolina, I had just run my first and last half-marathon. I couldn’t feel the lower half of my body, or rather I could feel it too well, so if a walk-up didn’t have a Gatorade station I couldn’t really check it out. I had 2 days to see and sign. When you’re under such time constraints, you miss things. Important things. Like: does this apartment not have a fridge? Or: does my landlord’s schizophrenic 40 year old son live downstairs and repair bicycles at midnight and invite himself in unannounced to show-off his Stevie Wonder record collection? Yes to both.
In Park Slope, I took a three bedroom with a Fireman. I answered his ad on Craigslist. He had a Three’s Company fetish and would only live with two girls. As creepy as this was, since he admittedly cast me as Joyce DeWitt, the smart one, I managed to smirk it off and lock my door. My friends referred to him exclusively as “Fireman.” He fell asleep every night to Heart Live and suctioned his nose with a complicated allergy apparatus. Nice guy, but it was time to move on when he hooked up with one of my friends and the only way she could convince him to leave was by setting the oven timer. Maybe he thought it was a fire alarm?
The last two years with Woody in Williamsburg have been the best. Hats off, kid. I’m glad you found love and a garden.
Any reader leads greatly appreciated. I forget my keys alot but I can make you laugh.