you born alone, you die alone

I have recently found myself in a situation which requires me to return back to the oh-so-wonderful world of renting, after (as my best friend put it) getting a taste of the good life livin up in a swanky, new build

Townhouse brand spankin new stainless steel appliances? check. oil rubbed bronze fixtures including rain shower heads? of course. flat screen tv with instant access to netflix? mmmhmm. ginormous garden tub? oh fo sho. ice maker which gave me a sweet yet brief reprieve from a lifetime of dealing with those GD ice trays? sweet, sweet ice maker. thank you for your multiple chilly blessings. i will never forget.

At any rate, I have quickly become reacquainted with the gatekeeper of all abodes in the renter's world: the landlord. I once had a landlord tell my two best friends and I what a wonderful time we would have living in her cute old and very adorable home, and as she told us how fun it would be to decorate she reminisced about her old tenants, two male roommates. "Although I don't think they were you know, 'roommates'.", she mused. "The house was far too pulled together and stylish for that. Those gays, they sure do know how to style a house." I then began to choke on my laughter and panicked as I felt it threatening to come out of my mouth in an uncontrollable bout of giggles, so I ran into the bathroom and slammed the door, threw myself down on the toilet, laughed incredibly hard into my elbow and emerged as though nothing unusual had happened. Had I a blog then, I sure would have blogged the shiz out of that. Alas, I did not, but I now have a blog in which to offer you this gem of a landlord story.

Landlord Reed and I met at a Staples, the popular office supply chain with the 'easy button'. I sure as hell wish there had been an easy button for me to bang on in there on Monday. I sat in my car waiting for him to arrive as I quietly cried and sniffled, since I was in the apartment market again due to what else? Those pesky relationship woes. The longer I sat, the more I cried. The more I cried, the less of a grip on reality I had, and I fell into a deep cycle of financial worrying that I didn't have a toaster! Oh GOD how will I make toast? A coffee machine? NO MICROWAVE? Which one of my treasured possessions will I have to sell to purchase paint? My shoes....my boots alone have had their own closest, my poor lost homeless boots! Woe are my boots! The few seconds that I stopped my obsessive worrying were fraught with the grief that is so familiar to anyone who has ever been in a relationship that ended.

Needless to say, there were many tears. And sniffles, and full on heaving sniffle-sigh-sobby-hiccups. Now, you might think that one would put on her big girl panties before she met her potential new landlord in a Staples office supply store! That she would pull herself together! Slap on some face powder and hold her breath till she stopped crying! No no. I entered that store a full on level five emotional train wreck of a girl. My landlord of Eastern European descent who is six feet tall, very large, and whom I am vaguely certain is involved in some shady if not illegal business practices took one look at me and demanded: "What? What is wrong with you? You not want to do this or what?" Between snotty hiccups and tears I managed to squeeze out something about a boyfriend problem and nowhere to live and sharing a dog and needing an apartment. To which I was immediately given the gruff response of "Okay, we do this! You show me the money. I see the money." Yes. That's right. I was told to "show him the money" and then I litteraly had to fan out four hundred dollar bills right there on that office supply store table between us. Then came the tenuous process of filling out the blanks on a Universal Rental Agreement printed from the Internet. Despite having forced me to meet him at a Staples for the use of their Xerox machines, dude handed me a blank generic lease with instructions I am to fill my copy in with him as he fills out his copy. Tears dropping onto the page and smearing the ink and my brain in emotional overload having long since stopped functioning on a significant intellectual level, I filled out that damn Universal Rental Agreement. I then had to convince him to sign my copy and argue with him about giving me my key since I have given him a deposit but not rent yet. He relented and gave me a key, and mumbled "How long? How long it last for with boyfriend?" And mercifully, I was not placated with the plenty of fish in the sea if you love it set it free it is better to have loved and lost generic breakup advice. I was told by this tall domineering stranger who owns what is now my (very small) postage stamp of a residence: "You know...you do what you do. You born alone, you die alone. You not worry about boy or man, you do what you do."

 Fitting advice for a distraught girl who just signed up for her first EVER six months of solo livin, no?

Yesterday he called me to check in. Ya know...gave me some more of that stoic Russian advice. Told me I was "Young and beautiful girl! Not an old man. I am an old man, and fat too...and I am in same boat as you only it not going to be so easy for me as for you!"

I think 'ol landlord Reed and I are gonna do juuuuuust fine by one another.