And if you know anything about my musical tastes, you will immediately assume that I am referencing some of that terrible 70s/80s pop rock that I love so much. In particular, you will recognize the title of this post as a song by Chicago.
I am still searching for apartments. I'm utilizing the joys of the interwebz to look all over Houston. Or, at least, all over Houston but not there and ohforGod'ssakenonotthere. I took myself on a driving tour to see the various apartment complexes I'd found via the interwebz, this afternoon, and quickly ruled out... all but 6.
I have some requirements, you see. Nothing over $XYZQ per month (this has risen twice, thus far, in $50 increments. My savings will just have to be put on hold for a while.) Washer/dryer provided, or connections provided, and I'll just steal back my W/D from a friend in Dallas who is currently using them.
That doesn't sound so terrible, does it? And yet, if I want to stay in the Inner Loop of Houston (inside I-610, that is) and not live in an apartment where razor-wire is considered de rigeur, then I'm SOL. It's the washer/dryer requirement that does it, every time. And the fact that I consider $1300 for a 1 bedroom, 1 bath, 600 sf apartment ridiculous.
Today, I accidentally enlisted the help of an apartment locator. I emailed about a listing on Craigslist, asking if I could tour the apartment, and would they be willing to hold it until 7/7/2012, or thereabouts.
Apparently, apartment locators don't actually have the apartments they advertise available. They lie. And he wanted to know if the w/d was an absolute must.
Um, yeah. It is. I can't waste the few hours I have outside of class/sleeping/migraine attacks in a laundromat or a laundry room in the basement of my building. I have classwork to do.
There's a condo for rent in Midtown that I might go see, tomorrow. Hopefully. It might work out, and it has a washer and dryer. (My sister is probably cringing as she reads "Midtown", which is sortofkindof marginal. But I don't have a whole lot of choices, and it's better than the Third Ward).
In other news, I'm also still looking for someone who can oust The Man of My Dreams from his #1 Contender ranking. Last night's combatant sure as hell didn't manage it. (I say combatant because Love is a Battlefield.)
What made The Non-Contender fail?
Do you have a while?
I should have known things wouldn't go well when he suggested we meet for dinner at 6:30. That's a no-no. Most of the time, I eat dinner early, but that's because I'm by myself and there's no one to criticize if I eat a fourth meal sometime around 10:00 when I take my B12 complex before bed. But if there's a man involved, then I tend to eat at 7:30 or 8:00, and that's pretty standard.
When I arrived at the restaurant, I didn't recognize the guy. He's acquired glasses and - er - girth. He didn't lie about his height, though, so there's that. He said 5'7" and he meant it.
When we were seated at the Indian restaurant, I noted that the painting above our booth was - er - decidedly erotic. Specifically, it was a male god fondling his lady friend. I wouldn't have thought it was odd, given my knowledge of Hindu scripture, but it became uncomfortable when he commented on it in a rather sophomoric manner.
And then... I like manly men. I have a (seemingly strange) requirement that the gentlemen I date have to be able to physically pick me up. Given my medical history (which I will not recount here, because I'm sure you don't have THAT much time) it's a logical requirement. A part of the "manly men" thing comes the ability to drive a truck and/or shoot a gun (I can't help that Texas is in my blood, okay?).
Also, not walking with tiptoe sashay and no speaking in a lisping monotone.
Although The Non-Contender drove a (small) truck and hunts, he failed on the last two counts.
And he kind of resembles Chip & Dale (the cartoons, not the "exotic dancers").
So. TMoMD still reigns supreme. And that's fine with me, for now.