Recently I moved again. This morning I tacked up a map and grabbed some push-pins and determined that this will be the 19th place I’ve lived in Santa Cruz County. Even serial killers don’t inspire maps with that many pins. And now with all those holes in my wall, I’ve probably violated my lease.
Not that I’m a bad tenant. I pay on time and I’m considerate and I can fix stuff and I only bark when fire engines go by. But when I meet potential landlords with whom I want to make a good impression, I feel the same kind of nervousness I get on first dates or job interviews. I struggle to think of just the right thing to say.
“No pets? Do bedbugs count?”
See now, right there, that’s a good example. In these situations, in what my therapist hand puppet says is an attempt to defuse discomfort with humor, I channel my inner sitcom writer and think up loads of sort of funny but inappropriate comments that I struggle not to say.