SEATTLE, Washington Three months ago, the writer's garret was under threat: my sweet landlady Ruth started making "possible sale" noise, since the apartment below remained empty. "Let me slap an ad on Craigslist?" I asked, before ditching town for some field work on a Sunday night. "I'll link to the rental agent's dossier."
Except the S.O.B. hadn't listed our house at all.
At corporate rates, Ruth scored what-would-have-been a $300 classified. I wrote the hell outta the thing.
Monday morning, calls jammed the agent's switchboard. Someone tried to bribe my landlady, I'm told. But she picked "housemates who'll get along with you, Amanda."
She obviously has a nuanced view of that equation: more so than me. Ruth a farm-dwelling Norwegian-American grandma chose a drone/doom metal composer, his e-boutiquing wife, a six-year-old enchanted by bobble-head toys, two dogs, three cats and a friggin' crow named The Judge.
Huh? And thanks! We carpool to the supermarket. I take in Angie's packages; she flips the dryer onto another cycle for me; Stuart's building a better gate, so we all can exit the freshly fenced backyard with grace. Several weekends running, we've flung open all the doors, then shared wine and dinner, while the kittehs scrap into a pecking order.
Almost makes me believe in arranged marriages, this uncanny instinct of Ruth's. Except that I've just spent several hours shooting band photos in my hall and kitchen.
Makes herding cats look easy...