Mercy me! The Housing Gods still live!

So, I'm not sure which of the Greek gods I'm supposed to thank for this. But I'm thinking of how Ulysees (in Tennyson's poem) expects Telemacus to be "decent not to fail in offices of tenderness, and pay meet adoration to my household gods...."

I can show great tenderness at times, so I've just got to get this part down about the household gods, because *they* certainly earned my adoration today.

Last night, I was telling Dr. R about how stressed I was over the living situation. I want out of my house because it's, well ... it's Process Central, and it's been that way for *a month.* (Not to say that a divorce, such as it is, doesn't warrant some processing, but it's hardly fun and it's rarely a good thing when it carries on too long.) I told her that today, I was going to engage in "sell-out" activity by going to look at a cute little apartment in Irvington that *doesn't allow pets* and that I was just cringing everytime I looked at the little pup, Brogan, and his exceptional wagging tail and adoring little Cairn Terrier mug and thinking I might have to leave him. She said, "Don't give up on that. He's good company. ... All you have to do is find *one place.*"

And then she made the same suggestion Dr. M has been making, which was to look across the river -- something I find personally distressing because I'm an east-side kinda gal. As are Dr. R and Dr. M, to tell you the truth, but they are also more practical than I am and perhaps able to tolerate some things more than I. For example, I'm just not sure *how* Dr. M manages each day to drive to past that house down the block from her with the large religious message on a sign nailed to the siding. I mean, Whoa, lady! You've got an iron stomach. Or just really *fabulous* blinders, because that would eat, eat, eat at me. Dr. R lives in a more progressive, funky enclave over on the west side, but it's still *over there.* And I am firmly of an *over here* mentality. Not to mention, east-side born and bread S2 practically yelled at me when I mentioned the west side of the river, "Oh my god! Don't *do* that to yourself!"

So I was despairing. East with no dog? West with dog? And I really wanted to be within biking distance of S2.

But SGF and I had been unable to find a place we could agree on, as every place we'd seen together or I'd seen alone either sucked or was taken. And it was going to take something quite special to draw SGF out of her sweet little urban studio anyway. So this morning, I went mercenary and trotted myself up to *the one place* I found on Craig's List last night that looked appealing to me. A home for one. Allowing a dog. On the east side. And in the absolute fucking heart of Lesbian Land no less.

I didn't have high expectations because I know what's down in that neighborhood. It was a loft, advertised as "good creative space," and I thought: paint-splattered floors, concrete walls, a miserable little outdated kitchen with peeling laminate countertops and a bathroom with a deeply stained tub and a toilet with a broken seat. (No, that's not a defective cognition; it's what I've been seeing in all these nasty houses and apartments I've looked at recently.)

Obviously, my stated need to adore the household gods means I found something altogether different. I found, shockingly, a building only a year old. High ceilings. Funky, glossy wood floors. A modern kitchen with a dishwasher and nice countertops and an eating bar, which is more than I could have ever dreamed of finding. Huge windows, all of which *open* and actually have window coverings. About 800 square feet, which is plenty for me. Oh, and three (3!) GIGANTIC closets. The bathroom tub was shiney clean and had excellent water pressure. ... And they take dogs. And the view out the windows (the only downside is they face south, which equals *hot* in the summer), is of two large old Craftsman houses that are holdouts on a street being revived with cafes and boutiques and a thriving little monthly art festival. There's an organic co-op two blocks down and a wine bar that pours 400 bottles by the glass just across the street.

I nearly wet my pants.

Naturally, I applied immediately. I'll pick up the keys tomorrow.

Then, I'll start getting on with my life. (And pay *plenty* of adoration to my household gods, whatever they may be.)

Oh, and I'll buy me that sleigh bed *fo sho* now because a loft cannot have a homely bed. (But still, Dr. M, no spotlights. The bay windows will do just fine.)