Making a Grown-Up House

In New York City, it is completely possible for one to live like a college student indefinitely. No one can afford to live alone, so if you are not in some kind of committed relationship,* you must continue to live in the ludicrous land of roommates. And for many people, those roommates are strangers. Strangers who fill your DVD collection with porn or leave a ring of bronzer on your toilet seat or drink your liquor and add water to the bottles to hide the fact that some is missing (hence, making me believe that I have an insanely huge tolerance, and thusly, almost killing me when, at local pubs, I order a quart of Jim Beam and a flexy straw).



It's hard when you go visit your friends elsewhere, who have back yards, pets, and (gasp!) mortgages. I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO OWN ANYTHING HERE!!!

Calm down, Lang.

In NYC, to live in an adult home requires an adult salary, so us struggling artists, teachers, administrative assistants, bankers, and doctors will continue to be stunted in childhood. We will continue to fill our tiny refrigerators with only beer, and unable to cook a normal dinner because our kitchens are too small, we will live off of mac n' cheese. We will use disgusting tapestries as room dividers and serve our futon-seated guests on TV trays. And we will try to feel sexy when we make it to our g-fries and b-fries on lofted bunkbeds.

Ugh. I moved to Brooklyn to be more adult. I was living in a veritable condom wrapper in the West Village. There was no light, I had to lift my bed to close my door, and at 5'4" I felt like a giant, always being able to touch two opposite walls at once. There wasn't even a dead bolt on my door, which is when I realized that I had moved into the renovated broom closet. So, in an attempt to be more adult, save some money, have a little more sunlight, etc., I moved to Brooklyn. Now, I have the opposite problem. My apartment is large, but falling apart more and more each day. I've only met my downstairs neighbors so that I won't feel awkward when the floor gives way beneath me and I land in their baby's crib.

It's just too hard to fix things up...it's so spensy!!! I watch Trading Spaces to figure out how they make such nice things with such a small budget, but there is no way that I am going to sit outside and affix shellacked cabbages to a lampshade. At least not all on my own.



I guess that there are little things that I can do, though. Like move the girl-who-used-to-live-in-my-apartment's hookah out of the middle of the living room...or store my roommate's Play Station underneath the DVD player...or maybe move my "dress up" box away from my bed and into the closet. P.S. this is not a sexy dress up box, it is for my sketch comedy costumes. You guys have such filthy minds! I could also empty the recycle bin so that guests coming over don't think that I've been on a Meryl Streep-style bender. Maybe I could take the sperm-shaped soap-on-a-rope out of the shower. Or perhaps, I could throw away the full-sized merry-go-round in the kitchen and the water slide attached from my window to the garbage shaft in my building.

Baby steps. Ooh, but we did install a doorbell. Heeeeeeey! Ding dong! Here's to being a grown up!!

*I am currently seeking out a serious relationship with anyone -- anyone who can pay rent, that is -- so that I can turn a second bedroom into an office, a dining room, personal gym, black box theater, prison cell. If you want to set me up with someone, I have a few very specific rules: No murderers, but am okay with furries. Clowns are fine, as long as I NEVER see you in your makeup. And I have real weakness for professional athletes who win a lot. Some call it a "type," but I think that I just know what I like.