Archive | February, 2012

Open House

27 Feb

I have always adored looking at homes. One of my favorite weekend activities is to drive around my favorite part of town, fingers crossed, that I will come upon an “open house” sign. The best open houses are the ones you are sometimes lucky enough to come across in Old South Reno. There you will find homes with original brick facades and stucco’d walls that house stories that I would pay to hear.

This afternoon my boyfriend and I were walking around our neighborhood for an idea of the kinds of houses and duplexes that would be available to us when we move out of our apartment in a couple of months. We saw one that was four bedrooms and only $825 a month! Incredible deal! The only downside, it looked like a former meth mansion…We passed.

A couple streets over we came upon an adorable two bedroom Craftsman that was recently remodeled. It was a little too close to a pretty seedy street than we preferred and it was also $1500 a month. We decided there was no way we were going to pay that much for a house that shares an alley with the Crisis Pregnancy Center and a tenement house that rents by the week. No thanks.

On the way back to our apartment we passed an apartment complex I’ve always thought was interesting. The building looks like it belongs in 1940’s Florida with it’s salmon-colored stucco and vintage-style lettering on the apartment sign. All it needs are some palm trees and some old people in Hawaiian shirts and the vision would be complete. As we walked up the street we noticed some balloons and an “open house” sign. I felt a little tingle of excitement go up my spine. I could not wait to see what these apartments looked like inside!

Just as I had suspected, orange linoleum, old hardwood floors, built-ins and an old “icebox” style refrigerator. It reeked of vintage charm and I adored it. As I be-bopped around the corner to the bedroom, I stopped in my tracks. There, laying on the green carpet, in the bedroom, were three dog turds in a nice, neat pile. Now, let me stop here… Why? Why in the hell would you open up an apartment to show to people and not clean up your dog’s shit first? Nothing says home like a steaming pile of feces at the end of the bed!

I was so astonished, I couldn’t form a complete sentence. “There’s poop”, I somehow got out. He responded with, “You have to poop? I don’t think you should do it here”. I answer back, “No, there is poop…shit…like, there is poop, on the carpet”.

That did it. We were out of there and didn’t even ask how much the place cost. I really, really wanted to ask if it would be furnished with or without the turds, but I didn’t feel like embarrassing my boyfriend.

I don’t even know how to end this post, there are way too many ridiculous, cliched poop jokes I could make. Instead, I will make the plainly obvious statement that apartments decorated with poop generally aren’t received well. Good luck getting someone to overlook your dog’s droppings and actually rent the place.

Apparently, among the gems in Old South Reno, there are a few shitters…


Co-Habitation Deux

12 Feb

Yes, yes…I am doing it again. After months of simply adoring my solo living arrangement I have decided to take in a member of the opposite sex, again. I am either a masochist or I secretly love sharing my life with messy, stinky males. However, this time around I will be doing things differently.

First things, first…no men under the age of 30. Why? At the age of 34, my boyfriend is almost as mature as twenty-nine-year-old me. It is all a numbers game, people and I am no longer interested in babysitting.

Compromise, compromise, compromise. In order to keep my amazing leopard print mirror, I had to agree to a ginormous framed zombie named, Nigel. What my boyfriend doesn’t realize is that with this deal I kept a lot more of my decor than just a mirror and Nigel is hot, despite his decaying flesh.

I have decided to only live with men who admire my decorating abilities. This way, there are very few compromises I have to make in the home decor arena (see above). He likes the pin up and vintage and his Bettie Paige gets along well with my Gil Elvgren models. So, I can still get pedicures when I please and I can drag home shopping bags of clothes and shoes and he can’t say anything about it. As long as I have my half of rent and utilities, it doesn’t matter that my clothes are taking over the 1/5 of the closet that I left for him.

Once again, I found me a man who can cook, but this time I am taking notes, er… he makes me actually touch the chicken. I just figure that if I am ever left to fend for myself I can make more than a frozen Smartones. I actually made a marinade for pork the other day (I won’t mention he sent me a detailed text with directions and measurements down to “only a PINCH of salt this time”).

Also, I was careful to pick a man who can actually do the dishes. I made careful notes the first time he invited me over for dinner at his place, “Wiped the counter down? Check. Scraped dish before putting in dishwasher? Check? Used actual soap in said dishwasher? Check.” My kitchen has never been cleaner.

No more hairy men. I swore I would never clean facial hairs as long as the ones on my head (and legs in the winter) out of the bathroom sink again and I meant it. My boyfriend can barely grow facial hair and this goes along nicely with my new rule.

All kidding aside, this new journey I am embarking on is setting out to be exciting, but I am aware of the realities of co-habitation. As fun as it is to wake up to his face every morning, the sleepless nights get taxing and the long work hours we put in leave little time for us. Despite the apparent difficulties of sharing space with another, I am finding my life feels more complete than it has in a long time.

In ending, how can anyone NOT want to live with a man who gets on the dishes right away in the morning? After I acknowledged this miraculous act, he responds, “I wanted to do the dishes to prevent feeling guilty for playing video games while you are gone getting your hair done”. No, ladies, you did not read that wrong.