Relocation

I absolutely love my apartment. I love its location, its size, and most importantly Narnia. Yes, I have access to Narnia on the Upper East Side - jealous? Thing is, I had a large wardrobe in my last apartment, and it accommodated 90% of my clothing.  I was beside myself when I realized there wouldn't be room for it in my new studio. Moving from a roomy two bedroom into a studio is difficult enough without the added pressure of potential clothing racks lining the hallway, bathroom, kitchen, etc. I was a few coping-cocktails away from posting it on Craigslist, and waiting to watch all that beautiful storage space leave me forever when my roommate came up with a brilliant plan - Narnia.

All I had to do was remove the back of my wardrobe and position it in front of the existing closet in the room. With the trusted assistance from my dad (and a few moving-day-cocktails), we affixed the wardrobe to the closet doors and voila - Narnia! Now existed a gateway to a beautiful land and some little half goat looking son of a bitch that could show me where the Turkish Delights were stashed. Home sweet home. Well, it was home sweet home until last week when I found out I would need to relocate ASAP.

OK, maybe I'm over-exaggerating, but hear me out.

I had been enjoying a bottle of wine (yes, to myself) in Central Park during a screening of The Big Lebowski. I wanted to honor The Dude with a White Russian cocktail, but my schedule did not allow the time to build said beverage in an appropriate commodity. My friends enjoyed libations as well, but the bottle ended up only serving one - oops. After the cult classic credits began rolling, we headed back to my apartment. We dropped off our chairs and blankets, and decided it was best to maintain our level of intoxication by heading to the bar. 

We walked in and the bartender served me up my regular icy cold draught. My friend (the other decided to retire at a respectable hour) and I made great conversation with the other patrons, and even enjoyed a few shots on them. When my beer had but a sip left, the bartender came over with a full pint in hand and told me, "This is from your boss." I figured he was joking, but threw him a puzzled look regardless. He then confirmed my suspicions when he said, "Yeah, your boss, Tony." How did he know my boss's name? My eyes darted frantically around the bar looking for answers. My boss visits elite establishments that require memberships; no way would he be at a dive bar whose slogan is "Put Some South in Your Mouth." My heartbeat finally slowed when I saw the culprit - Josh - one of my boss's contractors whom I saw at the office only a few days before. His eyes were bloodshot and he was enjoying a good laugh at my expense.

Reason one that I needed to relocate: my professional life has begun to mix with my personal. Josh was allegedly a regular at this bar - a claim I refuted since I was a regular and had never seen him there before. He proved himself quickly by scrolling through his contacts and pointing out bartenders that worked there. I am never on my best behavior at that bar - I can't risk my shenanigans getting back to my boss. I must move.

If Josh showing up to buy me a beer "from my boss" wasn't reason enough, a few moments later my doorman walked in. What. The... He made a beeline toward me, and greeted me with his creepy I-might-keep-children-in-my-basement grin. "I always hear you talking about this place when you leave, and I decided to check it out," he admitted to following me. Being the kind and drunk friendly girl I am, I offered to buy him a drink. "I really like vodka, I'll take a Malibu rocks." Ummm.... I ordered him his rum vodka, and we all started chatting about the fine establishment in which we all now drank. One thing led to another and my friend and I snuck out of the backdoor with the bartender's assistance. We had been hiding in the restroom for a solid five minutes before I poked my head out and saw my doorman's eyes locked on mine. I'm sorry, but I learned my lesson with men and their blackouts. The only thing we could do was sneak out of there. Apparently, I was too far gone to realize I would have to see him the next day...and every day thereafter for the remainder of my lease.  Oops. In retrospect, I shouldn't have pretended to date rape his drink when Call Me, Maybe? came on (my favorite remix is Date Rape Me, Maybe). 

I got home safely and peeled myself out of bed the next morning confused by what day it was. I managed to shower off some of the hangover, and left for work. To my horror, my night doorman was wobbling on the corner at the end of the block. He was wearing the same clothes he had on the night before, and looked lost - no way he made it home yet. I avoided eye contact and continued on my commute. I should have taken that as a sign from above and gone back to my bed because shortly after I arrived at the office I was called out for "reeking of alcohol." Awesome. I spent the rest of my hangover the day researching apartments, and only stopped when I came to grips with the real problem - me. Because "no matter where you go, there you are."