Dream Weaver

I turned 26 Monday, and for the last two days I have been lying. Not about my age, just lying about everything else. I’ve been looking at apartments in LA. This of course, was for my job. (The lying/info gathering, not the actual apartment). Faux tales must be woven to obtain the coveted info regarding each apartment communities pricing, square footage, etc. I would ask “Do you have a washer and dryer inside the apartment? That’s really important to us…”

There of course, is no us.

Leasing consultants always ask certain things, when really they mean another:
“How quickly are you looking to move?” (When will I get my leasing bonus?)
“What size apartment are you looking for?” (How much will my bonus be?)
“How qualified are you to actually lease?” (Time is money!)

So, to make them sing and fall over backwards for me, I lie. I put on an Oscar winning performance:
I carry a large designer purse. In LA, this means much more than it should.
I rock large, rock-star caliber sunglasses. Sell me on the crown molding and the granite.
I wear my 7-carat citrine suspiciously on my left hand. Society likes the engaged/married kind.
I take detailed notes of all the information “because there is just so much to remember”
I have no price range that I am looking to be within. Sometimes blind squirrels get nuts…
I don’t object to anything. Everything looks great to me!

I therefore, am the perfect prospective resident.

Ryan, a bright eyed leasing consultant in Playa Del Rey said “Can’t you see yourself lying by the pool? Can’t you see yourself living here?” I enthusiastically said, “YES!”

The truth is that the odds of me living there is about as close to the odds of my becoming engaged and moving to LA. And into an apartment community. I’ve never lived with someone whom I’ve dated. And oddly enough, despite my job, I’ve never considered living in an apartment community. All of my own apartments (Bloss, Crown, 2425 Greenwich, Sacto) have been rather unique and un-traditional/un-institutional.

The irony of my faux life has begun seeping into my real life. When in LA, I always stay at the Hilton Checkers downtown. I always grab a Brock & Co. at Seven & Grand, quite possibly my favorite bar in LA. Last night I was there, enjoying my Brock & Co. and hoping to meet a familiar tall, exceptionally attractive, blonde friend of mine. I ended up laughing the night away (not the whole night, people) with a “short, chubby, mexi” (his own self-classification). He was of course from SF, and randomly shared that he likes to drive to Stinson (in his Maserati, no less). And of course, the last time I drove to Stinson was with the aforementioned tall, exceptionally attractive,blonde friend of mine. It was at this point I ordered another Brock & Co, followed by a bottle of Vueve.

If irony took the form of a receipt, it would be the one in my purse from Costco earlier today. I stopped at the Costco in Marina Del Rey to tempt fate and check for a Christian Dior watch that Costco randomly carried two years ago. The band is a stainless steel bike chain, and I pine for that watch insistently. I check every Costco I encounter. No one knows the item number, and no one seems to know how I might find it. I’m the only person who keeps this hope alive. (theme?) I did encounter a polish dog, and then a heart monitor/calorie counting watch, and I purchased both. The checker even commented “wow, that’s ironic”. bitch.

Here, I should note that I wrote everything up until this point on the plane ride home from LA. Stumped at how I might conclude this post, I put my pen down and I began listening to the new Counting Crows album. The new album is very much their sound. Listening to the album for the first time is like meeting up with an old friend unexpectedly – you laugh, you smile, and you sink right back into your usual exchange. Nothing has really changed.

As I walked off my plane in SF, standing there waiting to board my old plane heading back to LA, was my tall, exceptionally attractive, blonde friend. This crossing was completely unplanned and unexpected. We got to chat for a full 5 minutes. I suppose, with this fabulous “coincidence”, the Universe has forgiven me for all of my apartment lies.