2005-07-06 @ 1:01 a.m.
More apartment hunting today. First stop: Martha Stewart's house. I swear! It was Martha Stewart's house. And the woman I met, even though she introduced herself as Peg McIrishname, she was definitely Martha Stewart. Had to be, because I'm fairly certain I saw her electronic prison ankle bracelet. I did! Honest! Under her Docker's. And she also had that stylish blondish/gray hair, steel blue eyes and her house looked like Martha Stewart's house!
Ok. I can see that you don't believe me. Like why would I be looking at an apartment on the second floor of Martha Stewart's house anyways? I don't know. Because it was advertised in the newspaper? Maybe her magazine isn't doing so well, and she needed a little extra money. You'd have to ask her. She lives at 307 Elm St. Doesn't that sound like an address that Martha Stewart would live at? Its so Martha Stewartish. When I got there, I kind of half expected Norman Rockwell to walk out from behind a tree with a paintbrush and start painting the house and garden, because it was so, well, perfect. A house built in the mid 1800's. Hardwood floors. Tall windows. Stunning antiques. An old fat graying beagle named Harold sitting on the $3000 Pakistan rug in front of the mahogany sideboard filled with Limogue china. Funny thing about the apartment though. It didn't have a private entrance. You had to come in through her front door.
Uh huh. No way. Coming in through someone else's house front door? I have this little thing called social anxiety. And then to have to come in through Martha Stewart's front door with its $20,000 grandfather clock in the entryway? I would be afraid I would trip over something or track snow in and she would fling open the door dramatically and I would be standing like a deer in headlights and she would start yelling at me. You know, kinda Martha Stewart-like. Like in the Martha Stewart movie starring Cybill Shephard.
Only once have I ever rented a rental from a person in their home. It lasted exactly two days. I brought my stuff into the bedroom when no one was home. I put up all my Woody Allen movie posters. I went out. When I came back super late (so that everyone would be asleep) my landlady had come in my bedroom, and taken down all my movie posters and thrown them on the floor. End of my occupancy.
But I did look at the apartment with my mom. It was up a narrow staircase. I was immediately measuring its width, as I walked up it, thinking, ya know, no way is my piano going to fit up this staircase. The apartment was charming though. It had two bedrooms with big, bright windows. It had a closet painted dark red. The walls were light purple and blue. It had its own washer and dryer (!!!!). The hardwood floor squeaked and squawked, which worried me, because I have insomnia and walk around at like 3 a.m. What would Martha think? My mom was trying to talk me into it. She really liked it. I liked it, but I had deep reservations about coming in someone's front door. I am very, very private. I felt that it would be too easy for Martha to come meandering into my space. Nobody comes into my space, unless they are invited. Gosh, that kitchen is sure cute though! And what storage! And a whole laundry room! And two bedrooms! And Guardcat would have so many windows to look out of. And it had use of a garage. How cool would that be when there was like 300" of snow outside? But, to me, being interested in this apartment would be like me expecting Johnny Depp to notice that I exist. Kinda not likely.
Have you ever been on a job interview, where half way through the interview, the job interviewer starts telling you how crummy the job is because he's trying to thwart your desire to pursue the job because he already knows he doesn't want to hire you? What? Am I the only one who that has ever happened to? Like the woman who started telling me that the employees kept getting mugged out in the parking lot, so I probably didn't want the job. Or the guy who practically argued with me, when he said, "You know, driving 7 miles to a job every day, is a pretty long drive. Maybe you should reconsider." 7 miles a long way? I used to commute to San Francisco from Sebastopol every day. It was 120 miles round trip.
So the vibe I was getting from Martha, in her salmon colored linen Capri pants and crisp white shirt with the turned up collar, was....you don't really want the apartment. I have lots of other people looking at it. I'm not sure this is going to work out. I'll take your name, but it isn't likely that I will call you back...but I'll take it...just so it looks like I'm considering you. You know, so that I don't look prejudice against poor people on disability and what's that thing again...section eight? I mean, you're dressed (long pause)....adaquately, I suppose. Your hair is brushed. You're not wearing any Dollar Store hillbilly clothes, but still. Having your ilk, up over me and Harold...and our $10,000 worth of Limogue, might just upset the karma of the house. Capishe?
Her manner made me so nervous, that when she asked if she could call my landlord for a reference (as if), I could not remember their name. Heh! Must have been that electroshock therapy. I just couldn't remember much of anything. Except that I was witty and that she was Martha and that I felt like a slave that had just been invited into the Big House for the first time and was incredibly nervous. So we left it at that. I'll call you with my landlord's name. And tonight, incredibly, I still can't remember it. Electroshock therapy indeed.
After we left, I had my mom drive over to those other apartments across from the library. I had her call the guy on my cell phone and I'm fairly certain, the landlord there now thinks we're wingnuts too. I had told her that I had walked through the complex and noticed one of the apartments was empty. Well, she told the guy that on my cell phone, that we were stalking empty apartments and that I had tried the door on one and went in. YIKES!!! I did that like 5 years ago. Once I saw a door partially open on an empty apartment and I went in for like .00001 seconds. I was terrified somebody would see me and I would get arrested for breaking and entering. I just wanted to see the apartment without the hassle of calling someone. So I have no idea how he'll take that message, because there was no ending. She just blurted that in his voice mail, while I was wildly waving my arms and then she hung up.
But we did walk over to the complex...to stalk empty apartments. I know where at least one of them is. As soon as we hit the sidewalk in front of it, some woman came walking up with a bag of groceries. She said, "Can I help you?" And my mom immediately felt the need to lie. She told her she was waiting to meet the manager to show us an apartment. The lady: "Oh really?" I was looking down, shaking my head no, and then my mom said no, that we had just called the manager, but were just looking at the apartments on our own and had hoped that one of the doors were open.
I was still looking down, shaking my head no. I would make a terrible criminal. I just can't lie or do anything illegal. But then suddenly, this woman, who had the most bizarre eyebrows penciled in over her rather startling looking eyes (think Divine) invited us into HER apartment. She said to watch out for her three cats, Condoleeza, Rumsfeld, and Dubya. (What, you expect me to remember her cat's names? I can't even remember my landlord's name). But we went into her apartment and everything was exactly perfect and clean, even with 3 cats. She had cat decorations everywhere. Shiny cat frou frous. Two of her cats were orange and one was black and white, although I didn't see that one. But I did get to see the apartment. It wasn't too bad. It's not huge, not like the one on Sunday, but it does have three closets, a fireplace, more kitchen cabinets than I have now and A DISHWASHER (me doing the Snoopy Happy Dance!!. Oh, be still my heart. A dishwasher. Yippie McSkippie. I absolutely hate doing the dishes.)
The woman was a little strange though. She repeatedly told us she had covered up the fireplace, because she was afraid her cats would climb up the 2 story flue and escape. Heh, heh. Her 20 pound, lazy ass butterball cats who were so lethargic, they could barely get up to greet her...climbing up a two story metal fireplace flue. Sure, it could happen. When unicorns fly, maybe.
And then when we were leaving I had noticed a sign she had on her refrigerator that indicated that she was a hugger. It actually said that: I Like To Hug!! It should have read, "I like to invite strangers into my house and then hug them..." because out of the corner of my eye I noticed that she was making a grab for my mom, so I quickly vamoosed out of the apartment, because I definitely didn't want to be hugged by some weird 53 year old chick with bizarre eyebrows and orange cats. Oh no.
I do think I might be interested in the apartments though. I've always like the location. Its directly across the street from a beautiful library with high speed internet access. It takes Section Eight. It takes kitties. There's no pet deposit. It has a screened in porch for my plants and Guardcat. Freak-brows said the electricity is really cheap and the heat is included. Its a couple of blocks from the bus. It's next to a creek and has lots of trees (unlike here, which has no trees whatsoever. I like trees and nature). So I might try to get in there.
Afterwards I went to see "A" for a late afternoon appointment. We wrangled like we usually do. Again with the losing weight, you need to do something with your hair/clothes/make-up. He wants me to have hair from 2005, he said. Like what is that? I've had my hair cut twice in the last month. I just dyed it dark auburn over the weekend. I think it looks nice. What else should I do? I like it. Its true, I do need to lose weight, and I actually have....5 pounds in the last 2 weeks. But its not anything I can do super fast. He also said my clothes were too baggy and started pulling at my black tank top and snapping it against my rib.
Ok, got it "A". Although I'm not really sure WHAT he wants, or where I'm supposed to get the money for this fabulous makeover. Can girls go on "Queer Eye for the Straight Guy?"
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty