A Progressive Pre-Hurricane Friday

First of all, I should apologize to the entire east coast.  I had no idea that my being homeless for a week would result in an earthquake and a category 1 hurricane named after a Jim Carrey movie, but it has.  These unfortunate events clearly indicate that the world actually does revolve around me, and I’m sorry.


Regarding the apartment search, a great friend of mine referred me to a no-fee broker who is now doing the dirty work of finding a place for me.  She is confident that I will have a home by the end of the coming week.  Granted, this bitch is generally impossible to get a hold of, so my hopes aren’t too high.  But the thought that she exists is comforting.

My self-guided search came to a horrible low on Friday when I decided to view a three-bedroom share in the Lower East Side.

Prior to this visit, most of what I knew about the Lower East Side was that it was home to pre-fame Lady Gaga back when she was addicted to cocaine.  And can I just say, now that I’ve toured an apartment there, I totally understand why she took to drugs.

As a whole, the area is filthy.  I say this not by my snobby Connecticut standards, but by general New-York-is-already-basically-dirty standards — so this is saying a lot.  Also, there were “project” buildings aplenty, and I’m pretty sure I saw human teeth on the sidewalks.

To be fair, the apartment I looked at wasn’t exactly in the cultural or hip part of the neighborhood.  It was more so in the area of the Lower East Side that I might refer to as the bowels of Chinatown.

Or more simply, the bowels of civilization.

It’s a shame, because the building itself wasn’t horrible, and the would-be roommates were lovely.  After they showed me around, I was kind of sad that this otherwise great apartment had to be located right in the middle of what I imagine to be the birthplace of gonorrhea.

I decided to pee and leave.

I found my way to the restroom; I peed.  Everything was going great.  But then.  As I leaned forward to flush the toilet, tragedy struck.  My sunglasses — which were clipped comfortably to my shirt’s neckline — fell.  Into the toilet.  Into my pee.

(I apologize for the imagery, but this story must be told.)

Frazzled, I decided to go ahead with the flush.  I got lucky in the sense that my glasses held it together through the toilet-water-tornado, so that was good.  Now that my urine was removed from the equation, I reached in and transported the sunglasses directly from toilet to sink, where the hot water was already running.

I squirted some Dial hand soap on them, rinsed, and placed them directly on my face.


After recovering from this debacle, I decided to walk to my old neighborhood and have lunch at my favorite salad place.  It was there — at the corner of My Old Apartment and Depression — that I determined that New York is acting like a crazy ex-boyfriend.  I spent my summer having an illicit affair (with Nashville) and now that I just expected to waltz back into New York’s life, he was getting all bitchy about it.

This revelation lasted for about two horrible minutes until I got a text from Dante.

  • Name-change alert.

Dante is a handsome and charming 28 year old man that I casually dated, fell head over heels for, and was basically rejected by (in relationship terms, at least) last fall/winter.  He happens to be an Executive Vice President at a major corporation, and lives in one of those ridiculous luxury apartments with a private terrace and floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook the city.  Needless to say, his mere existence makes me feel inadequate.

Having heard (probably because I told him) that I was in town for the day, he offered to take me out to dinner.  I might’ve been hesitant to accept — mainly due to the distant possibility of sex combined with the fact that he’s only seen me naked twenty pounds ago — but the news of Hurricane Irene served as a good excuse to have to rush home to Connecticut before the night could progress to that point.

When the evening rolled around, I somehow managed to show up to the restaurant on time.  This was much to my dismay, as I had every intention of being late.  Dante has kept me waiting so many times in the past that I wanted to kick off our reunion by making a dramatic statement.  Something like, I’m no longer a desperate loser who’s always on time and willing to wait for you!

Instead, I just reinforced my old behavior.

However, by the end of the night it was clear that I actually have changed.

Keychanges, anyone?

We talked for hours — a great conversation — and there were absolutely no romantic expectations.  Unlike before, I was able to enjoy his company without having any random imaginings of our lavish future wedding reception.  Progress!

The experience was really more like an evening with an old friend, and it became clear to me that falling for him last year was just silly.  He’s clearly a playboy whose chances of being tamed are no better than those of Miley Cyrus.  By the end of the night, I became so comfortable with this “friends” concept that I even offered to pay for our next dinner.  Of course, this means we’ll be dining at either Chipotle or a Halal food cart.

I’ll let him choose.

In closing, I should mention that I now have a mild crush on Dan Malloy, the [heterosexual, married, 56 year old] governor of Connecticut.  I’m not sure if it’s because of his TV-ubiquity during this storm, or the fact that he kinda reminds me of Nathan Petrelli from Heroes — but the man is clearly my dreamboat.


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