The more things change...

The more they stay the same.....

I'm glad my phone wouldn't let me write this portion of the blog - a few too many Guinness coupled with an irritated lady do not make for niceness. I checked out the apartment in the Quarter, and it was, as expected, quite the fixer-upper. I could see the cuteness of it, but the lack of laundry is really what made me say no. So the search continues.

One of my colleagues was having a day from hell, so happy hour was a must. I had an appointment to look at another place, but we were having too much fun, and so I rescheduled it for today. After my counterpart left, it was just myself and our assistant. We were laughing and discussing the plans for the rest of the evening when a cute boy sat down next to me. He had been in the bar before, and while I thought he was cute, the first thing I noticed was his height. Or lack thereof.

Anyone that knows me knows I'm a tall drink of water. I'm 5'10" flat footed and can frequently be found in 3+" heels. While I'm not opposed to dating someone the same height, I generally don't date guys that are shorter than me. Not that I had any inclination to think he'd even be interested, just throwing it out there. There have been exceptions to the rule, and it's not to say I wouldn't again, but my preference regarding the male species is that they are taller than me. I applaud Nicole Kidman for doing it for so long, but even she upgraded in the height department.

Eventually he introduced himself to us ladies, and apparently works pretty close to us (he also happens to have the same name as my sisters fiancé, so that's strike two). He challenged me to a Google duel with my iPhone (he works for Verizon) and I handily kicked his ass. As such, he bought us a round of drinks. My lady friend departed to some pool thing with her brother, and so I was left to my own devices with this boy.

Pool sounded interesting to me, so we went to some divey place called Chucks. On the walk over, he was telling me about some dating service and arguing about why it was ok for Clinton to get his knob slobbed in the Oval Office by some intern (he for some reason felt it was - strike three). Drinks were ordered, pool table was racked. He made mention of getting laid and I made mention of if he wanted to get laid, he was hanging out with the wrong chick and should probably find somewhere else to get tail. He apparently kept trying, but would not acquiesce to my request for at least a couple of dates first.

Here's where I get irritated. His exact words (or close enough since by this point things were a bit fuzzy) were, "I think you and I will be great friends.". Which I'm completely fine with!! Duh, I just moved here! Dating is the last thing on my mind, and even if it weren't, you're STILL shorter than me! So, my response, in typical me fashion, was, "That's cool. I don't usually date guys that are shorter than me anyway.". Apparently he felt this was a hit below the belt. I was simply stating a fact. When a guy says "I think we'll be good friends", a chick hears "I'm not interested in anything other than sleeping with you", which I had made VERY clear wasn't going to happen. Why is that so flippin difficult to understand!? I very clearly stated my intentions, and he gets upset and calls ME a game player?! WTF?!?! THIS, this is the precise reason I'm not dating! Men are too effing stupid! That's not to say I'm even remotely entertaining the thought of going the other way about it, but whatever.

So he gets huffy and leaves. I'm standing there, in complete disbelief that I've just been left in a bar, by a somewhat cute boy, pool cue in hand, and about ready to cry. I walk to the bathroom, look at myself in the mirror, and say, "He's not worth it. He's not worth crying over. You said what you needed to, and he couldn't handle it, and there's no sense in being upset over someone that's being an idiot.". I pulled it together, sat down at the bar, smoked a cigarette, thanked the bartender for taking care of us and walked out the door, head held high.

And there he is. Across the street on the phone (likely looking for a backup to nail). He crossed to my side of the street and anything he said, I really didn't hear. I just kept walking. I made it to the end of the corner and turned around. He was still standing there. Looking forlornly at me, I think hoping I'd come back. And so, of course, in typical me fashion, I did. He tried to pull me in for a kiss, but I was so steamed I was having none of it. I tried to stop being so emasculating earlier in the evening, but I just couldn't help myself. I pulled up the keypad on my phone and told him he had 5 seconds to give me his number or it was the last time he'd see me. And the countdown was on. He kept trying to speak, but nothing that came out of his mouth was a number. So when I got to zero, I turned around, wrested my arm from his grip and walked away into the night. Part of me hoped he'd come running after me, but the smarter part of me is glad he didn't. I didn't turn around once. And when I got back to my room, and put my head on the pillow, all was right in the world.

He said us meeting was fate, and while it may be, I still think he's a douche and doesn't deserve even the lowliest title of acquaintance.

On to happier things! There is a festival here this weekend called Bayou Boogaloo. I'm so in, it's ridiculous. Will report back on Monday. Have a good weekend all!

Apartment Hunting....

Well, I looked at my first apartment over lunch today. A 1 bedroom in the Quarter. Just shy of $800, including all utilities, a block off of Bourbon Street. While I don't know that this is the best idea ever, considering my social (re: partying) ways, I've never been much of a tourist, and cannot fathom spending another minute on Bourbon Street. I will to appease my friends, if and when they visit, but other than that, I will avoid at all costs. I may be a bit of a party girl (understatement of the decade?), but Bourbon Street just doesn't appeal to me. (I need an abbreviation for Bourbon Street....B.S. is just not going to work.)

It certainly wasn't the nicest apartment I've ever seen, but it would afford me the ability to sell my car, and walk or bike to work. It's a ten or so minute walk. However, I feel that the "touristy-ness" of the area might drive me a little crazy. There's a cute little courtyard in the back, where I could bask in the sun and read, and considering the location, it's surprisingly quiet. The one thing that's holding me back is the lack of laundry options. There are no machines in the complex, and no hookups even if I wanted to buy something. I'm willing to relax a lot of standards (see the Miller Lite I was drinking earlier in the week), but I just don't think I can bring myself to use a laundromat.

I'm looking at a place in Mid-City this evening. It's further away than I'd like to be ideally, but it's only a couple of blocks from the Canal street car and I can use that to get to work. It looks like a really cute house, so hopefully it'll be nice. I'm also looking at a place on St. Charles on Saturday morning - a SUPER cute building with lots of options for apartments. The only issue with this is that they're all studio apartments. I really feel like I'm past the point in my life where a studio is an acceptable living environment, but like I said, I'm into the relaxing of standards lately. Standards, not morals, mind you.

I'll use most of the rest of the day Saturday to drive around and hopefully find something. Our bartender suggested the Marigny district; not a lot of public transportation options, but certainly a bikeable distance. Though I'm not sure how badly I'll want to be biking with 100% humidity through most of August and September.

I've baffled quite a few of my colleagues with my disdain for driving to work, especially considering we get free parking. I don't know....I just don't care to drive for the most part. I've put less than 20K miles on my car in the last three years, and I really don't see the point. It's not a lazy thing, or a green thing, it's just a thing. One of many that make me a weird circus freak. Albeit one with pretty great legs.

One last thing. The local hotel bar has what is quite possibly the best Cuban sandwich on the planet. Last night we put bacon in it. Was. Amazing. Next quest? Wrapping it in bacon and somehow creating a Monte Cristo-like Cuban. I hope they name it after me. It is now my life goal to have a sandwich named after me. Ah, the little things in life.