My TOTALLY RAD new apartment!!!!!!!!

As many of you know, my search for a permanent home over the past 4-6 weeks has been a bit of a challenge. I’m not a vegan, I’m not unscented, I wear leather, I’m not a pagan, I watch TV and I’m not at all active in a single stuffed animal community that the Bay Area has to offer. Not one. (Ballsy of me, right? I mean everybody knows a good stuffed dog alliance will score you the best room the Outer Sunset has to offer.)

So you may be surprised to hear that someone as picky and scent-a-licious as me finally managed to sign a lease. That’s right. I’m moving into an apartment on March 3. But it was a tough choice between my two finalists. Allow me to explain.

Apartment 1
The post for apartment 1 stated they were looking for a woman in her mid-30s to balance out the 2 males (early 40s and 30) and 1 other female (early 40s). I went to meet the roommates and check out the apartment (located in Cole Valley) a week ago. Nice people, cute place, but it was as silent as a tomb at 2:00 on a Saturday afternoon. Now most of the time, I’m out doing something fun and weekend-like at 2 pm on Saturdays. But on the off weekends I’d actually be in my apartment, it’s likely I’ll be sitting in my room watching whichever marathon of whatever reality TV show VH1, Bravo or MTV are offering. During commercial breaks, I’ll be listening to clips of songs I want to buy or illegally download in between reading from whatever book I’m enjoying that particular day while fielding calls from my friends on my cell phone with a very loud ring tone version of the “Hungarian Hat Dance” regarding what our plans for the evening are. What can I say? I’m a multi-tasker.

The interview progressed and one of the roommates asked if his practicing cello and flute would bother me during reasonable daytime hours. I answered honestly: not at all. He then asked me if I had a TV. Yes. He paused. And he supposed I’d want to watch the TV in my room? Um, yeah. Right. This might be a problem. You know. The buzz of TV carries. We might have to monitor this.

Pre-advertising, this hullabaloo wouldn’t have been a problem. Because me and my 24-inch hunk of TV would still be living in harmonious urban bliss at my ginormous studio with hardwood floors, huge closets (plural), separate dining room and hallway (that’s right, a hallwayin a studio). But now that I’m paying surgeon-like student loans back for social worker-like advertising checks, compromises must be made. Lines must be drawn. Cellos must be listened to. Volume must be curtailed. Hour long discussions about handling conflict endured. O, what fun we’ll have, apartment 1!!!!

Apartment 2
The posting for this apartment announced an open house hosted by four 20-something roommates. It never occurred to me that I shouldn’t go to this open house because of my advanced age. I figured they’d either like me or they wouldn’t, I’d get the apartment or I wouldn’t, end of story.

Me and about 15 other hopeful roommates showed up at the Pacific Heights Victorian last Monday. As the roommates guided us around, a “Bachelor” vibe ensued. Other roommate hopefuls began throwing elbows to get to the front, jockeying for position so they could get some face time with the roommates, throw a few clever words in. ”Look at me! I’m funny!” But being on time, being tall and wearing heels finally pays off – I was at the front of the pack and nobody was knockin’ me and my 6’0” frame (in heels) out of the way. Go ahead, bitches. (Keep smiling!) Try.

We all sat down in the hallway area for a Q&A. More hopefuls, saying things just to be saying them, asking questions just to be asking them, talking

What the…??? Is that a washer and dryer I see back there? A new washer and dryer?? Oh holy shit, the stakes just rose. Say something funny! Wait, what? I have to write a bio about myself?? Are you fucking kidding me with this? I get to write a bio? This place is SOOOO mine.

I wrote while the roommates talked. “Like, we’re all really good friends. And we just wanna, you know, like keep that vibe. Like, we all totally go out together every weekend, to North Beach and get totally crazy. It’s really fun. We want somebody that’s into that. It’s totally important to us.”

My pen froze. Abort! Abort! You’re not 20-something anymore! (I’m talking to myself now, for those of you who didn’t catch on) You’re a self-described “daytime friend” to your other 20-something friends because you know all you really want most of the time is a couple of glasses of really good wine, some sushi, your best girls, a few hotties to serve as eye candy and a midnight curfew and poof! You’ve got yourself the perfect Saturday night. Tequila and Jager shots? 5 am taxi rides home after partying in the apartment of some randoms for 2 hours after the bars closed? Totally 1996. And an occasional 2002. (Disregard 2003-2005 of ad school) Maybe a few times post ad school in 2005. OK. You got me. No one’s perfect. BUT NO MORE.

I couldn’t do it. I thanked them, got up and walked out. I could feel the eyes of the other hopefuls staring holes in my back. Their smugness, though unspoken, was deafening. She is SO not getting this apartment. She should totally be staying to mingle with the roommates. No WAY is she getting a rose.

And the winner is…..
The answer seemed so obvious as I walked out of the apartment that night. I’m not a youngster anymore. It’s time to be an adult. To live with adults. I’ve got adult debts and lines around my eyes that I like to pretend are laugh lines. My 20s were over eons ago. Ad school was forever ago. Real life is here. Real life is today.

But as I thought more about that, I rememberd how much fun, how many gut laugh out-loud $2 wine coming out of my nose moments I had living with my five 20-something hottie London gal pals in the Islington flat. I thought about what an incredible experience it was sharing a West Kensington dive with Better Darker Half, a 20-something gay Aussie boy, an Italian guy who spoke no English and a married Polish couple that partied like rock stars, boiled water and drank it to ward off hangovers and managed to get up every morning at 5 am to report to work. And how I managed to fit my 30-something ways into that life and still have fun. Did I want to live in a library? In a place where people would judge me for loving “I love the 80s”? Or did my pendulum swing more towards an occasional tequila shot with a low-cut silk camisole thrown in for good measure to highlight my mature bosom? I’m hip, I’m with it, tucka tucka tucka. Right? Besides, no one had offered me the apartment yet. I bailed early. Surely they were on to me. Surely. Right?

Wrong, my friends, SO WRONG. I was offered Apartment 2. And I took it. I fooled them- mooohoohawwhahaaaa!! Though my intent was never to deceive them, just to check the place out and see if they looked like people I could live with. Despite their 20-something ways, they did. They seemed cool. Like me 10 years ago. (or 2 years ago at times). Nice people. Just not lucky enough to be born in a year that doubles as a sexual position. But now they think I’m between 24 and 28. Shit.

So, all you 20-somethings….would you be pissed if you found out your new roommate was older than you thought? Even if she was like, totally fun, cool, and funny but sometimes like, abandoned going out on weekend nights altogether to enjoy Netflix, wine and a good book?

Oh my GOD. People think I’m between 24 and 28. SWEET!