strange musings of a distracted spunk

An old college friend messaged me tonight and said, “DS. You’ve always been good at giving unbiased advice, and you understand relationships better than anyone else I know.”

I laughed, but then I thought about it. And realized that there are three very distinct people who have been using me for relationship advice in the last few days, outside of the usual folk. And this is not the first time I have found myself giving advice to people I don’t consider my closest friends. Did I unwittingly pass a relationship advice dispenser test? How would such a test even work? I’m imagining walking a yellow line with a spoon balanced on my nose; for this sort of test must be completely arbitrary and random. For the record, I would most successfully fail. Nor can I really answer what makes a relationship work, other than to say, “My grandparents knew each other for six weeks before they got married and they’re still together 53 years later.”

For that matter, why do I come across as unbiased? I’m quite biased. I’ve determined that I like contrary, obstinate asses. I’ve determined that I can only sunburn in patches; today gave me a jigsaw puzzle of a sunburn. Which later migrated, so I have a more complete puzzle of a burn.

I am no longer split in halves; at least not physically. I’ve determined that the universe likes to do what it may with me, and I’m just a merry pawn on its game of life. Yet I still wonder, what qualifies me to advise others in the fair matters of the heart? How do you be there for a friend whose mother is dying when he’s sick of hearing “Is there anything I can do? I’m so sorry.” Can a hug or a blown kiss make everything feel better? We’re not the same four year old children anymore, who when mommy kissed the boo-boo on our knee felt better. The band-aid is just that. A band-aid.

We rip them off, thinking less pain now is better but have we even given the wound time to heal? I can’t profess to understand the dynamics of relationships any better than anyone else. I’ve been on a perpetual merry-go-round of my own for a year and a half, and where logic should hold true, it fails in the face of “Well. He makes fun of me when I bang my elbow.” All I can do for myself and anyone else is say, “Be honest. If you’re in love with her and think it’s going to blur the lines of how you treat your friendship, clear the air. If you’re not sure you want to marry her, should you really have moved in with her when you know she’s waiting for a ring? If he hasn’t gotten in touch with you by now, it’s not very likely that he’s going to.” Maybe, it’s just the act of listening, letting someone think the pockets of their brains out that lets them slowly piece their feelings together. Does that qualify me as Oprah then?

I don’t sugarcoat. It’s both a blessing and a curse, and has gotten me in trouble many times. I don’t know what makes a proper relationship work. I can sit in the kitchen and watch my grandfather make his coffee while my grandmother prepares dinner for that evening, but I won’t see the inexplicable magic that lies beneath after 53 years together. I can agree that someone sounds wonderful, but ask, then why are you running away? I ask myself why people value my “unbiased” judgment so much when it seems all I do is make judgments about what I perceive as the truth they don’t see.

Are we ever truly unbiased? Can we come closer to finding the truth out when someone else has to make it clear for us? Or do we shade our own beliefs with those of the people whose opinions we trust the most, losing our own truths along the way?

I can play devil’s advocate. I can listen like nobody’s business. But I can’t give out relationship advice when I myself have been so blind to my own.

1. I started this blog.
2. I got published. Twice.
3. I kicked a boy out of bed.
4. I tried changing the world.
5. I hugged a cactus in Arizona.
6. I went to Seattle and Vancouver.
7. I stepped in two oceans and one sea.
8. I quit one job and got let go from another.
9. I found joy again in taking a pen to the page.
10. I didn’t have any emergency trips to the hospital!
11. I took a dance class with Taye Diggs, who clapped me on the shoulder.
12. I walked away from the one person who often made me feel the most secure.
13. I met some amazing people, yet I always end up on the opposite coast.
14. I moved cross-country by myself, to a place I had never been.
15. I road tripped from San Diego to San Francisco.
16. I had a bike go all transformers on me.
17. I found a softer, more reserved me.
18. I learned I have awful travel luck.
19. I went to Thailand and Japan.
20. I realized my own strength.
21. I lived the same day twice.
22. I moved. Five times.
23. I fell in love.

Here’s to year 24; may it be as enlightening and exciting as 23.

To whom it may concern:

I’d like to submit my resume for the (insert title here) position at (insert company here). I’m not going to give you a song and dance routine about how especially skilled I am, as evident by my previous positions in publishing, higher education, and non-profits. I’m qualified. I’ve got a brain and I’ve performed a number of duties in my professional and collegiate careers that make me the perfect candidate for your position. I will put all of my energy (and I’ve got plenty) into my job, especially if it’s one that challenges me. I realize that there will be some quiet days, just like I realize there will be some busy days. As long as there’s work to be done and it challenges me at least 80% of the time, this will be a beautiful collaboration.

My weaknesses? I gravitate towards the higher-brain activity type of work. Filing and copying are necessities in any business, as is updating databases. For the right job, I’ll happily do that, as long as I get to do other things too. Please don’t draw me in with promises or misrepresentations of the job responsibilities; I’ve been there twice and nothing hurts worst than hating a job you were once so passionate about.

I’ll be honest; I can be fickle. But if the company keeps growing and matches my growth, then I’ll stay with you till the end of my career. My strengths? Energy and enthusiasm, of course. But I’m also wickedly expert at taking constructive criticism and changing my behavior to become a more effective employee. It’s a challenge, and anything that challenges me interests me. I’m detail-oriented, time-conscientious, great at communicating, skilled in event planning and management, and a nifty writer; two published pieces under my belt are just the beginning.

I work hard. I don’t believe that a job should be your life, but I believe life is better when you love your job. I want to love my job. I want that job to be with (insert company here). Let’s discuss what I can do for you.

Sincerely,

distracted spunk.

-Why does Macy’s Wedding Registry keep sending me e-mails? Do they think I might be a customer soon? They have wild aspirations.

-My parents’ smallest cat makes noises like a robot. I’ve never heard anything like this, and I end up cracking up every time I hear a “Sqgruk.”

-It’s kind of nice having a shower that works. My apartment in Berkeley was excellent at being temperamental in temperature and pressure. This is why I often took baths.

-I’ve been shaving for at least twelve years. So explain to me why a chunk of my right leg is now missing?

-Kyle XY is quite a spectacular show, and they need to come out with the season 2 DVD ASAP. (We started watching this in the islands in Thailand. This is geek chic; who needs to go out and socialize when you can watch a boy without a belly button!) Also, why is Lisa still on Top Chef? And why did my family forget to DVR the last two weeks of So You Think You Can Dance? At least I get my dance fix tonight! *cheers*

-Twould be lovely if I could stay awake past 10. Last night I passed out at 9:45 pm. This does not bode well for my alertness at a bachelorette party on Saturday night.

-I’ve lost an inhaler, an earring rack, and 50 yen. Each one of these are in a different country. Awesome.

-When I invited D to come to a party next week, he said, “Are you sure it’s okay if I come? Won’t your friends want me to die?”

-GDB makes me laugh. He can stay for a bit.

-Family barbecues with mine and Thailand’s family are super fun, especially because he and I finish each other’s sentences and would tell stories and giggle hilariously. Also, I am craving a hot dog like no one’s business.

-One of my easiest snacks is a ketchup sandwich in a hot dog bun. My mom used to have to have my camp counselors take them away from me if I made that, but I’m such a picky eater sometimes that instead of picking at my food, it was easier to make a ketchup sandwich! I don’t know why it hasn’t caught on more.

-I think my hair is redder in California than it is in New York or New Jersey.

-I’m actually kind of digging not doing anything this week.

The youngest sexual fantasy I remember having is being dressed as Jasmine, but in the red outfit, and seducing men to get myself out of ugly situations, such as kidnappings or attempted rapes. I imagined myself witty, clever, and cunning; all things that would capably render them useless as putty in my hands. I can’t tell you why this was my youngest sexual fantasy as I don’t think the Disney company set out to give young girls new ideas on redefining the sexual norm.

I always thought I’d be sly, my hips rolling in red pants that showed off every curve I had (this of course assumed I had curves and not the stick straight boyish body I had up until I hit puberty right before college.) I never had pretensions of just who those men would be; they tend to be of the faceless sort, but as long as they had nice bodies, it didn’t matter. Steve, from Full House, who voiced Aladdin would do quite nicely, but there was something about the slightly nerdy and thin yet muscular look to Aladdin that I loved. Prince Eric was always a bit too muscular for me, but I did love his blue eyes. Slightly ironic, seeing as you know, the boy I loved for the last year is all muscle and no fat. (Jerk.) I even imagined that I’d have my own Rajah and Abu to hang out with, a carpet to lay on when I grew tired of my current scene and wanted to float elsewhere. I would have everything I needed, and my sexuality would be just one of my many charms.

I’ve never been overtly sexual, or perhaps I have, but I can’t recall ever thinking about being sexual until I saw Jasmine seducing Jafar. (I still can’t believe she kissed him!) When I watched Aladdin today, I groaned when she did. I guess we block out the parts of our minds that disturb us most. Also, I never actually pictured myself having to kiss the bad guys. I’d just trip them up with how cleverly spectacular I was.

I used to look at Victoria’s Secret catalogues and imagine myself as having one of those bodies, with large, luscious breasts and flat abs and while I knew the perfect tan was just not in the cards for me because I’m pale as sin, I thought I could decently rock a teddy or a negligee. Even the sound of the word negligee rolling off my tongue still evokes a bit of that twelve year old me who knew that one day, she would be a sex goddess. Even then, it was clear that one could use one’s femininity to get whatever one wanted from a man.

I don’t exactly know why sex became such an important factor to me; I don’t think I really truly understood what it meant until I was older, in my teens, when I held my first penis and was told, “Just pull on it, and tug it back and forth. If you keep your hand wrapped around it tight, it’ll feel really good.” So I did. I tugged. And I pulled. And at the end of it, there was a little surprise which I knew about from health class, but you never really see it in the movies. I became an expert semen-cleaner then; napkins quickly swiping at their stomach, their balls, my stomach, my breasts, wherever it happened to land really. And from that moment on, I knew that the penis was my friend.

I’ve lured boys in with my subtle maneuvers, my simple flirtations, and sometimes, my flat-out honesty. I’m sure I’ve said on at least one occasion, “Want to touch my boobs?” It helps that by now, I do have those large, luscious breasts that one does see in a Victoria’s Secret catalogue. Granted, my bras range in sizes because my breasts have more mood swings than I do. I’m not ashamed to say that when I’m annoyed with something or bored, I have pulled out the bombs as a weapon to distract the male of the moment and lure them into bed. I have a 99.9% success rate.

But I’ve never had that chance to so completely and utterly seduce someone, to play the wily female of the night. I want to put it on as a costume, slip my skin into her languorous whispers in clandestine coat rooms or in a stately ballroom, wearing clothes unfamiliar to my body with the intent to have the man I want to control submit completely. (This makes me sound like I want to be a dominatrix, doesn’t it?) I want to do something so out of the norm for me, that the guy can barely speak, and he’s completely overturned by lust. I want to know that in a time where I can’t predict anything more than what I’m doing in the next minute, there is a scene I can portray that will play out much more erotically than it ever would in a Disney movie, where kisses last no more than a few seconds.

And maybe it will even involve a red outfit.

Crawling into my bed, pulling the blankets up to my waist and sinking down into my soon-to-be-sold mattress, I can’t help but sigh. The exhaustion of going to work to clean up shop after five solid days of traveling will be nothing compared to what’s in store.

Next week, this bed will belong to someone else. Next week, I will officially live out of a suitcase for a month. Next week, I say goodbye to my lifestyle in Berkeley, only a transient visitor. It’s strange not having an address to recite anymore. It’ll be stranger still to see the pile of bills awaiting me at my parents’ house when I finally arrive.

But for tonight, while this bed is still mine, I’ll wrap my arms around the bear my father brought home from Boston when I was seven, snuggle myself more tightly within the layers of blankets, and enjoy the last few nights of living on my own.

One Month Ago

As I walk back to my room, finally relaxed from a long soak in the clawfoot tub after all the latest battery and assault my heart has just taken, Roommate stops me. “Hey DS. I just wanted to let you know I’m moving out at the end of April.”

Heart stops. “What?” I say.

“Yeah, I got accepted into this program in Atlanta. I’m not sure what I’m doing after then, so I’m going to move out.”

“So I guess that means I need to find a new roommate, huh?”

“Yeah.” Roommate turns to go back to his cooking, casual and apathetic as can be.

I freak out. Living in a college town is not exactly the most profitable enterprise during the summer. Especially seeing as we live in a relative construction zone, behind a crowded and noisy bar that plays live music late into the night, I didn’t think I would get anyone. That I would be forced to cough up the rest of the rent for both apartments, when his apartment is more than mine, and I’m so caught up in student loan debt, credit card debt, and my regular bills that I would more or less drown.

Like any normal person, I immediately post an ad up on Craiglist, hoping I’ll at least get a nibble or two. Imagine my surprise when by the end of the week, I had more than fifty responses. I was thrilled. I might be able to find a new roommate after all!

Three weeks ago:

Roommate hunt #1 begins. I begin to think there are no normal people in Berkeley. Roommate stops by, the day after Roommate hunt #1.

“I was thinking,” he says. “I’m not sure if I want to come back to Berkeley after the internship, but I’d like to have the option. Also, I know you’re moving back East in August, and I thought maybe it’d be easier if we do a sublet. Instead of transferring everything into your name or someone else’s name, and worrying about a rent increase because the apartment’s been rent controlled for the last three years, you could just go pay me like you have been, I’d do a sublet, and you can find someone who can move in for the summer, or can stay beyond the terms of the sublet and take your place once you move out.”

I pause. I think. Technically, this idea makes sense. It would work for me.

When are you moving back?”

“If I move back, sometime in mid-August.”

“That should work out fine, because I should be gone by then.”

“Okay, well let me know how that goes.”

During Roommate hunt #2, I’m able to offer people the option of lease or sublet, explaining that I will be moving out in August, and my current roommate may move out for good or may move back once I leave. I meet Awesome Cat girl, we hit it off. Things are great. I offer her the apartment.

Two and a half weeks ago:

“Hey Roommate, I was just wondering if you had a chance to figure out your details, such as when exactly you’re moving out, so I can let Awesome Cat Girl know she can move in and such.”

“Yeah, I’m moving out mid-May.”

“Wait, what? I thought you were moving out at the end of April.”

“Oh, that was only if I was moving out-moving out. If we’re doing the sublet, I’ll leave when my flight leaves.”

“When’s that?”

“May 20th.”

“So you’re now moving out at the end of May is what you’re saying.”

“Yep.”

“Okay.” Fuck. What if Awesome Cat Girl wanted to move end of April? Then I’m screwed. Again. *slight heart attack*

I call her. “Hey, Awesome Cat Girl. Here’s the deal. Roommate wants to stay till mid-May. I know I told you end of April, but I guess he changed his mind. Are you okay with that?”

“Yeah, no problem. I’m not in a rush, I just want to live someplace I like with someone I like.”

“You are fucking awesome.” *huge sigh of relief*

One and a half weeks ago:

“Just so you know, I need a bigger deposit to cover the cat,” Roommate says to me as I’m walking into the kitchen.

“Excuse me?”

“Well, technically, we’re not supposed to have a cat in the apartment. But when I spoke to the manager, she said it was okay. But I don’t know how she’d feel since it’s not my cat. So if you can ask Awesome Cat Girl to give me a bigger deposit, I’ll hold onto that and if the cat doesn’t scratch anything up, I’ll give her her deposit back.”

“Why would you give her her deposit? Shouldn’t that go to the landlord?”

“Nah, I have your deposit also. You would get it back from Awesome Cat Girl when she moves in. That’s how it always goes.”

“Why would you have my deposit?”

“It just makes things easier.”

“Uh….what? Okay. I’ll talk to her.” Fucking mother fucker. How many times is he going to come up with this bullshit? Make a fucking decision and stick to it!

“Hey Awesome Cat Girl. Roommate wants a deposit for the cat, just to cover his butt.”

“Is the cat not allowed?”

“I thought it was. But the lease technically says it’s not. But when Roommate was planning on getting a cat, he said it was okay with the manager. So he just wants a deposit to make sure things are copacetic.”

“Yeah, sure, that’s fine. As long as I can bring my cat!”

This girl is officially the most awesome girl ever.

One week ago:

Jack of All Trades is over. We’re watching a movie. Roommate’s girlfriend cackles, a la Fran Drescher. I cringe. He looks at me. “Wow. You weren’t kidding about how bad it was,” he says.

I notice there have been dirty dishes from Roommate piled in the sink for the last week. His girlfriend has slept over on average 4-6 nights a week now. We are out of toilet paper. We are out of paper towels. The toilet often has pee and floating paper in it. Not mine. I generally make a habit of flushing.

“I can’t wait till he moves out,” I sigh.

Yesterday

Awesome Cat Girl and I talk about upcoming move. We’re super excited. Whoo! Roommate sends us both an e-mail.

“I’ll be moving out on May 22nd, so Awesome Cat Girl, you can move in after then, but you don’t have to start paying rent until June 1st. DS, if you can be out of the apartment by August 8th, you don’t have to pay any August rent.”

What? I thought his flight was May 20th. How…what? And August 8th? But I can’t leave until August 23rd, as I’m planning an event for my job on August 22nd, that evening. What?

I come home and pass out, exhausted from taking an early morning flight from Tucson back to Oakland, and then going straight to work without recuperating.

Tonight

I pass Roommate on the way to the bathroom to get ready for bed, intending to make an early night after this week’s stress and zombie-fication. I have bubbled. I am content and calm, and had joyful conversations not involving boys.

“Hey, Roommate. Where did August 8 come from?”

“I always said August 8.”

“Um….no. You said mid-August. If you even came back.”

“I don’t know when I said that, but okay.”

“Well…I can’t move out by August 8th. I have to work until the 22nd, and I will need a day to gather all my stuff together, as I am going to be working overtime the entire week or two leading up to the event.”

“I guess Awesome Cat Girl will have to move out for two weeks, until you move out.”

“What? That’s not fair to her.”

“Well, can you go somewhere for those last two weeks?”

“Are you kidding me? I know all of seven people in the Bay Area. A few of them are moving in July. No, I can’t go somewhere else. And I’m not moving out two weeks before I move across the country! You know more people around here, can’t you find somewhere to live for two weeks?”

“It’s my name on the lease. If you want me to set this up as the agreement, then these are the terms. If you don’t like it, you can either get the new lease taken care of with a rent increase, because it’s been stabilized due to my having lived here for three years, but I don’t know if the landlord will let you keep the cat, or you can both move into the apartment across the way, or you can just move out.”

I stand there, completely flabbergasted, growing more and more furious as the conversation builds. I’m also growing more hopeless. How many hoops am I going to have to jump through, just to stay in my apartment until I leave?

I realize that I don’t want to live with this jerk, ever again. He’s become increasingly disrespectful, and I’m tired of the games. Of course, my landlord has an Asian accent, which is not easy to understand in person, let alone over the phone and I have no e-mail address at which to contact her to price out these options of negotiating the lease in Awesome Cat Girl’s name and subletting from her.

Do I:

A) Move out two weeks early and live out of a suitcase again, much like I did the first month I moved out here, making my life in California a full-circle (but hopefully without the anti-semitic crazy old bitch I first lived with?)

B) Try to re-negotiate a lease with a woman I can’t understand and hope that she lets us keep the cat and lets Awesome Cat Girl become the primary leaseholder, and me a sublet until I leave in August, and kick this fucking asshole roommate out?

C) Suck it up and search for another sublet option, who moves out when he moves back out, and deal with him for the last two weeks that I’m in California?

Fucking A.

Update, 11:15 A.M.: It’s all over. I’m leaving California. Guess that takes care of that.

The sound of sand shuffling while the sun beat down on us was all that could be heard. Some murmurs overlapped, of people talking, but mostly, it was quiet.

We walked, foot over foot, up a crag, down into small valleys. We tripped over roots, hard rocks that had yet to disintegrate into sand. The sand was a thousand different colors, every shade between yellow and brown and gray one could imagine. The sky blazed blue, almost gray when juxtaposed against mountains of yellow.

All we could see was sand. We stood on the edge of a crater, watching where our ancestors had walked thousands of years ago, nature shaping itself into a solitary existence where there was nothing but rocks of sand. This was the Israel that I had always imagined. This was where I finally stopped wondering “What if,” and finally said, “When.”

I came across myself there, in that desert, as though I had been there before and was waiting for me to return again. It somehow instilled a sense of calm, one I hadn’t had in a long time. We were close to the end of our trip, close to exploring Masada and the Dead Sea, but I couldn’t remember feeling so relaxed. As though finally, my father’s native Israeli roots had sprung out from inside me and reclaimed me as its own.

It has nothing to do with being Jewish. It has everything to do with being Israeli. I’m proud to be able to call myself half-Israeli. I’m proud that the small country that my father was born in is one that reveals its contradictory nature upon first glance. I identify with the contradictions, being a walking one myself.

I had expected sand, only sand, sand everywhere with the deserts and the beaches of my father’s childhood. I never expected the waterfalls, the forests glens, the meadows, the creeks and the luxuriant  flora that could poison you if you drank its stems in water. I didn’t think when we would hike miles a day, that we would do so under the cover of trees, finding abandoned buildings made of stone, disabled by the ages. Even the scorpions held an aura of mystery around them, which I found when our tour guide placed one in my hand for me to feel.

The natives I met, compromised by a sense of concern for the next war and a sense of laissez-faire for it’s going to happen anyway stunned me with how different their attitudes were, how willingly they accepted their challenges, living in a politically charged country. I was just a visitor; willing to absorb as much of my father’s culture as possible. He hasn’t returned to Israel since he was twenty one. I first went when I was twenty one, having just graduated from college and barely on my way to graduate school. I was lost, saying goodbye to my college years, and welcoming a future that was uncertain at best, hopeless at worst.

I started to find myself beneath a waterfall, where we splashed and laughed. On the rocks, which I climbed forty feet or so barefoot, just because I felt like it, where I stretched out and faced the sun, while I waited for the rest of the group to catch up. And finally, in the desert, among the sand, where each shuffled step was muted somehow, silenced by the sun and the overwhelming expanse of the desert, as it valleyed and dipped around us. Somehow, I thought, each of us was in a grain of sand. That our stories lie there in the desert, tracked by the footpaths of our past. I wasn’t home. But I was found.

I found Waldo tonight.

Or rather, he found me.

He called to tell me he was downstairs, but when I opened the door, no one was there. I walked past the scaffolding of the restaurant they’re constructing next door, and saw a boy in a red and white striped shirt with glasses and restless hair walking towards me and waving. They always said he was where you never expected to find him.

Waldo had responded to an ad I put up on craigslist looking for a roommate, now that my roommate has announced he will be departing Berkeley at the end of April. At first I panicked; I only have another four and a half months left on this side of the country, what if I can’t find a roommate and have to move? Especially as it’s going to be summer and all the college students will be fleeing Berkeley in favor of warmer climes, summer jobs, and summer drinks. But after putting an ad up on Saturday afternoon and getting over twenty responses in one day, I felt assured that I could find someone. With the help of my cheerful friend Dan who is always up for a good time, we began the roommate hunt.

The first person to show up was a power lifter with a shaved head; he also had no neck. When I saw him standing outside my door, I almost jumped, and I’m pretty sure Dan did too. The roommate-wanna-be declared he ate lots of food, which would prove problematic for my smaller-than-normal refrigerator (which come to think of it, might actually be smaller than him.) After a few minutes, despite his troll-like stature, he turned out to be much nicer than we had expected. He works as a waiter by day and club bouncer by night, and noted that he was pretty low-key. A story about a guy who wore a puffy coat outside the club and traded it for a sports bra, leather chaps, a headband, and legs glued to a stripper pole as he gyrated and contorted beneath the club’s spotlight had Dan and I doubled over in laugher, and I said I’d be in touch.

When he left, Dan and I remarked on how much nicer he seemed, but neither of us could totally picture me living with a power lifter. Incidentally, I’d be a bit afraid to live with someone who could easily compete against Superman, and as there are french doors with no locks that connect the two bedrooms together, it could be a bit sketchy. On to roommate number two!

Waldo found me. Or I found Waldo. Waldo also has no personality. He just nods and smiles and whispers (I guess they forgot to give him a voice in the books), and only moments after I found him, he disappeared again. Perhaps I’ll see him again someday at the West County Fair, behind the hogs pen. Perhaps not.

Once again, Dan and I sat around, playing with my new camera that I just got tonight, taking pictures, and more. I warned him that the next prospect was supposedly a model, and that there would be no ogling allowed.

There was ogling all right. Just not of the “Holy crap she’s hot” kind. See, the elf princess somehow made her way across multiple lands, having suffered at the hands of multiple fates and been a second mother to her kin after some tragic story. She looked up at me, with her wide blue green eyes and her slightly larger than normal ears and said, “Ask me anything. I’m blunt.” Yet she volunteered no information, asked no questions, and bowed down to me upon her departure. A nervous tic joined her (perhaps it was an invisible creature I could not see, warning her of unspeakable dangers? Such as those of a deaf redhead?) and her blond hair billowed down to her waist. The multiple piercings only belied the innocence of her eyes and left me utterly befuddled. As she left, Dan turned to me and started laughing again.

“I think the weight lifter is the best one we’ve seen so far tonight.”

The guy who was supposed to arrive at 6:00 called just then and asked if he could come by at eight. Dan and I said sure, and went off on our merry way for pizza and some beer. A half hour later, I was thoroughly tipsy on half a glass of beer and neither of us could stop laughing long enough to carry a coherent conversation. We marveled at my sudden inability to hold my liquor, made fun of my penchant for nerds, and disturbed the table next to us. All in all, a good time.

I somehow managed to sober up a tiny bit in time for the last prospect to show up. I might have encoded a fairy-tale spell in my ad, because the guy who showed up had red eyelids, as though he had just gotten his eyes dusted with deep red eyeshadow. Vampire, much? It seems only slightly suspicious that he asked to swing by after the sun had set. He spoke with an accent, at which point Dan took over translating, and I’m not entirely sure what he said other than he liked the size of the room, it’s much bigger than most apartments in downtown Berkeley, and also, he has a cat. It somehow was related that he wanted the bigger room, “For my furniture,” he said. A coffin? A place to commit unspeakable acts against humanity? He had perfect white teeth too. A bit unnerving, to say the least. Moments later, he left, and I was back to square one.

“Do you know anyone who knows anyone who’s looking for a place? You might be better off that way,” Dan suggested. “There’s a lot of weirdoes in Berkeley.”

I looked at him and started laughing. It seems the biggest success of the night was capturing a picture of me during my tipsy phase; a rare moment indeed. Roommate hunt, part two, coming to a blog near you soon!