That slow-ass tenant board finally called. I have a meeting with them next week during which they will decide if I can live in what is now beginning to seem like a lame, over-priced apartment in Queens. But it's better than staying with my family. All of my friends feel sorry for me -- homeless, sleeping at my mom's, getting sixteen calls a day from her asking if I'm coming home for dinner, which, because she's getting older is increasingly being served at 5:00 pm. I hate when people feel sorry for me -- makes me crazy.
Keep your fingers crossed for me with the tenant board, 'kay? Maybe I'll be able to pull off my interview persona, the one that has made so many foolish people give me jobs. Or maybe they'll take one look at me and say, "Ms. O'Brien, perhaps it is better if you look for another place to live. Something about you says that you're the kind of person who would find herself overdrawn on her checking account because she just had to blow hundreds of dollars on Marian Keyes books and platform espadrilles." Which has happened -- but just that one time.
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