Caterwauling

I dragged a brand-new WetVac up five floors yesterday.

Since my AC went kaput for the second time in six months.

And while the lovely maintenance guy at least brought it back from the dead on Friday afternoon …

There was more standing water in my house than in the panties of six Kardashian women at the Essence awards.

Anyway … it WORKED and I am not doing a Slip ‘n Slide down my hallway today.

Leaving the temps at 79 also helped. Lowering it to 78 right now.

The good news is, I am getting the name of a plumber and a handyman tomorrow. And my AC guy is coming back to see that I didn’t break anything.

Just in time for the entire building’s electricity to be disconnected Tuesday and possibly Wednesday.

Supposedly to send power to the new elevator switch.

I haven’t been in that elevator since September.

Because it’s been OFF.

So, I need that plumber because my sink is leaking like a Kardashian at a Soul Train reunion. No wonder the bitch sells underwear.

Anyway.

With all these repairs put off as long as I could (Because, elevator) …

Even the AC, which hasn’t run since before my last two Disney trips …

As I was fighting with my toilet for the umpteenth time to JUST FLUSH ALREADY this morning …

I thought, enough.

I mean, it’s possible that one week from today, I could have an elevator, functional AC and maybe even a non-flooded kitchen.

Which, whoa.

And I will have it at the low (redacted) monthly rental rate I signed on for in 2019.

But one of my employees just moved to a really cute place in State College.

He said his cat freaked out because they have visitors. “They actually repair things here,” he said.

And I was jealous.

I who live at the beach and can see the sun rise over the Intracoastal Waterway each day …

Would KILL to call someone and they actually fix something.

Now, I recall my last two apartments, where they sent their brothers-in-law or other dudes they picked up at Home Depot.

Who quarter-assed the repairs on their best days.

So, I’m not bullish at all.

But me and my Bobby McGhee … er ChatGPT got to talking to day.

And it found me the perfect place to live.

In Downtown Orlando.

And I can find exactly no reason not to tour this place and hand over my credit card.

None. What. So. Ever.

I mean, yes, pet fees. Pet Rent. Trash fees. Pest control fees.

Whatever, man.

Look, I had originally said one more year. Suck it up for ONE MORE YEAR.

But … it’s going to keep sucking in the meantime.

Where I live now is a weekend visit, not a lifetime.

When I went to DC, I did more in five nights/six days than I did in eight years.

I can come back to DaDa. I can come back for our company events.

And I don’t have to deal with this shit for the other 300-ish days.

Even the Hard Rock, which I love, I’ve had enough of. And Orlando keeps me on the Brightline so I can go to Miami anytime I want.

I mean, talk me out of this, but other than the increased cost (sigh), net-net, I don’t see a reason not to.

I mean, other than having to put off Europe for another 10 years.

Well, fuck.

I was talking to a guy recently who’s divorced.

He said he knew on the honeymoon that it was doomed.

But he lasted until she filed for divorce. Because he doesn’t believe in giving up on something you committed to.

RED FLAG.

I said you stayed with someone you have been disappointed with since THE HONEYMOON.

And you waited six years for HER to file for divorce.

He’s like well yeah I don’t give up.

I said you gave up on the HONEYMOON, it sounds like.

And you waited for her to fix and, ultimately, to end the relationship.

Bye, Felicia.

This is white men in a nutshell, isn’t it? Just hang around and/or torture her …

Then say OH THE DIVORCE CAME OUT OF THE BLUE.

When you KNEW it was a bad fit in the first place.

GOD.

I mean, this wasn’t the only red flag from the conversation.

But assuming I could get past the hairline, the posture, the teeth, the BREATH, the lack of ambition and the general boorishness …

He was also emotionally not a catch.

I’m watching “Materialists” on HBO Max and normally I wouldn’t comment on someone’s appearance.

As not only do I have an entire wall of mirrors in this ’80s aerobics studio-inspired condo …

But I also own a 10x magnifier mirror. Because, one witchy chin hair otherwise eludes my over-50 eyes.

And the first 10 minutes of the movie is about a nice woman who is willing to “settle” for someone who makes $150k and stands at 5’11”.

Like, younger me would have said that was awful. 50 me? I think that’s a nice baseline.

I mean, at least this boor I’m talking about was a good 6’2″. But can’t make a stitch of conversation unless it’s about himself.

And he’s not that interesting.

Reminds me of someone I just blocked for the 72nd time. Likes to complain about his wife and everyone, really.

Like, I wonder if the wife ever tried to leave him, but he bullied her for it like he bullies me for not being legally required to withstand it.

All those times he complained to me about her … maybe she was telling her family what a loser she thinks this guy is. How she has to make the money and manage the household.

I mean, I don’t know any of this.

But it has definitely made me pick this red flag out of the sea of them as the most prominent.

Also, at least have some money and looks if you’re going to be a douchebag.

Like the line in the movie said. No one’s ugly if they have enough money.

Though I like the quote I just paused the movie on better.

Dakota Fanning: “I’m going to die alone or get a rich husband.”

Her friend: “Same thing.”

Doesn’t sound so bad, does it.

I mean if I were to have a type, that’s easy.

I love me some PE.