Agador Spartacus says, "Hello? A career!" and How My Landlord Almost Saw My Pooter Pie

I want to work here. They also have branches here and here. I think that's a good sign considering those are three places I've considered moving in the next few years. I've decided I'm not ready to leave River City yet. Without going into a lot of splashing-even-more-of-my-private-life-across-the-Internet detail, I'm knee-deep in a lot of recovery work on myself (read: Extreme Makeover: The Dangerous Edition) and don't feel it's a good time to uproot myself. Besides, I keep going back and forth between attending grad school on the east coast (providing they'd have me, of course), and moving out to the desert to be closer to Mack Daddy Smooth. Or going to med school to become a neurosurgeon. Or an OB/GYN. Or joining a professional dance troupe so as to fully experience the joy that is my body. Or going to massage therapy school. Or becoming a funeral director. (Those are but a few of the careers I've seriously considered pursuing over the past few months.) Seeing as how I can't make up my mind about what to do with The Rest of My Life, it makes to stay in one place for a little while longer. To borrow from the sapfest that is Boys on the Side, "Sometimes, if you don't have any place to go, it's probably a good idea to stay where you are."

* * *

Fun little fact: My landlord almost saw me half-naked over the weekend. I was enjoying a lovely Saturday at home. I was pants-free, knitting, and watching TV. I heard the main door open, the one I share with my upstairs neighbors. I'm used to the creak and thud the main door makes and therefore ignored it.

But then I heard keys turning in MY front door.

SHIT!

Jeansjeansohmygodwherearemyjeanswho'scominginmyfuckinghouse ohmygodthepolicearegoingtofindmybodystuffedinthecrawlspace goddessthiswouldbeagreattimetoownadoginsteadofsomeskittishcats

"Hello? Is anybody home?" (He must've heard the TV and wisely stopped in his tracks.)

From the corner of my bedroom where I was zipping up my jeans with lightning speed and sweating guilt bullets as though I'd been caught doing something I shouldn't have been doing, "Yeah, I'm home."

WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING, LANDLORD BOB?

"Oh. The doorbell didn't work."

That would've been my guess too. But thanks for creeping me out by going ahead and coming in anyway. The Goddess invented knocking for a reason, dillweed.

"No, I didn't hear it."

Landlord Bob steps outside and rings doorbell again. No sound.

The scowl on my face says, "Told you so."

Landlord Bob advances towards my front door, which I am blocking with my now-jeans-clad person. Thank the Goddess for long t-shirts, but that was a little too close for comfort.

"I came by to work on your sink."

Bob, have you heard of a phone? It's this great invention where you can warn me to do things like, oh, I don't know, PUT ON PANTS before answering the door. And doing fun things, like cleaning up the evidence of Friday's evening at home with Diet Coke, "Dead Like Me" DVDs, and delectable delivery-only delights.

Seeing the look on my face, which must've been a weird combination of slightly ill and still, for whatever reason, guilty as shit, he continued, "Or is this not a good time?"

I'm busy dismembering the pizza delivery guy. Could you come back at 2 PM?

"No, it's not a good time." Again. Phone. Try using one.

Embarrassed, Landlord Bob made his retreat, saying, "Okay, I'll come back some other time."

I'm changing the locks between now and then.

"Sounds good. Thanks."

I closed the main door. I close my apartment door. I put on the chain. I returned to my living room and breathed a sigh of relief. I took off my pants.