I'm mostly all settled in here in my spacious though hot-as-a-motherfucker suite in a dusty, old, male-inhabited, haphazardly-
 |
| The view from my cab yesterday |
A weird things is I've been here for one afternoon and evening and have yet to meet my landlord or any of the other men living in this house. I'm afraid to go take a shower because I don't want to be wearing a robe during our first meeting. No worries. I'll skitter out eventually - must remember to close the window in the bathroom lest the next door neighbors get an eyeful. Ah, city life.
I've come to think of my landlord, with whom I have spoken on the phone several times, as "James, James Bond" mainly because that's how he says his name EVERY time. Like if I introduced myself as "Pam, Pam Victor." As far as I can tell by examining his home, that is literally the only quality he shares with James Bond or any other sexy metrosexual spy. If I had to guess, I would say that his wife either left him or passed away at some point during the mid-70s, and he has not touched the house - in some cases, even to clean - since her death. Yes, let's just say she tragically passed away, probably from breast cancer, in 1977, leaving behind two daughters and possibly one son. She was a good woman, I have no doubt. A thin film of nutritional yeast still coats her carrot juicer, testament to her futile efforts of perfect health. Poor James James Bond never fully recovered from her passing though he has applied his life to the purpose of good in her honor. All his energy over the last 35 years has been taken up raising his daughters (and possible son) and providing handicap-accessible rowing experiences to those in need of such things. Thus, he has had not one spare instant to update any kitchen appliances, plates, silverware, furniture (poor man didn't even have time to shop for new furniture or forks...or apparently a new sponge...in the last 35 years!), or even clear off a counter. I have discovered all his history in his absence. Poor James James Bond.
I've come to think of my landlord, with whom I have spoken on the phone several times, as "James, James Bond" mainly because that's how he says his name EVERY time. Like if I introduced myself as "Pam, Pam Victor." As far as I can tell by examining his home, that is literally the only quality he shares with James Bond or any other sexy metrosexual spy. If I had to guess, I would say that his wife either left him or passed away at some point during the mid-70s, and he has not touched the house - in some cases, even to clean - since her death. Yes, let's just say she tragically passed away, probably from breast cancer, in 1977, leaving behind two daughters and possibly one son. She was a good woman, I have no doubt. A thin film of nutritional yeast still coats her carrot juicer, testament to her futile efforts of perfect health. Poor James James Bond never fully recovered from her passing though he has applied his life to the purpose of good in her honor. All his energy over the last 35 years has been taken up raising his daughters (and possible son) and providing handicap-accessible rowing experiences to those in need of such things. Thus, he has had not one spare instant to update any kitchen appliances, plates, silverware, furniture (poor man didn't even have time to shop for new furniture or forks...or apparently a new sponge...in the last 35 years!), or even clear off a counter. I have discovered all his history in his absence. Poor James James Bond.
Last night, my Roeper friend Amy drove me around the neighborhood in a little tour, then we went out to eat yummy Japanese (I mean, not Zen-good, but still good), and finally she was gracious enough to take me to Trader Joe's to stock my pantry. I have almond butter and rice cakes. I will be fine. Amy took a quick tour of the house and my room, and she's all fired up to bring me the necessary extra fans, extension cords and maybe even a bike to lend me for my visit. She even offered to bring me to her house once a week so I can do laundry if there isn't one in this house. (I have yet to find it, but that doesn't mean it's not here.) So I feel very taken care of by Amy, which is nice.
I still do feel like Mary Tyler Moore, living the independent woman's life - ah, city life! If I had been wearing a beret when the cab pulled up at the house yesterday, I sure-as-shit would have thrown it. (Then left it in the street where it fell because who the hell could pull off a beret besides Pablo Picasso?)
No comments:
Post a Comment