R.B. Winters's Blog: Rent (minus) Control, page 5
April 10, 2017
Pee? Oui…
It’s been a long time since something was truly shocking. Slack-jawed, can’t speak, stare blankly ahead shocking. Part of that comes with age. The longer you live, the more weird shit you see. The rest comes from living in New York. Who hasn’t seen a homeless person using a phone booth as a toilet, watched someone throw belongings from a fourth story window, seen the who guy roller blades on the UES in a thong… the list goes on.
So, it did take me by even greater surprise when this new and odd shock came when visiting Austin, Texas. Now, Austin’s slogan is ‘keep Austin weird,’ but who would think they mean it so literally. Anyway, I was there with Business and his boyfriend to celebrate Business’ birthday. All pretty standard stuff. Tourism, drinks. Tourism, food, drinks. Tourism, drinks.
One night of our adventure placed us on a dance floor. That was my doing, I was a handful of cocktails in and ready to shake my booty. It was only 10 o’clock or so in the evening, and though the club was fairly empty, it proved to be the perfect place to dance…and drink.
As is always the case, me and my tiny bladder, were no match for the vodka and a bathroom trip was in order before long. I can’t recall the bar’s name, but they had a bathroom intended for large groups. Three walls or urinals in a horseshoe sort of shape were available upon entry. I made my way to the one of the urinals opposite the only other occupant. I’m not one for pee and chatter.
I was doing my business and the man with his back to me began to speak. Nothing of interest, drunk ramblings. I heard him flush and his voice came closer. So close in fact that he ended up right beside me. This isn’t the shocking part, it’s still to come.
An older gentleman who gave me several compliments to which I smiled, hoping he would walk away and let me finish. I was mid stream and there was no stopping or escaping. No. This man continued to chatter on. He complemented my junk, which I found incredibly uncomfortable. Who wants to talk about their penis in public? I was still trying to pretend he wasn’t glaring directly at my penis.
Maybe he didn’t want to leave me hanging in a land of semi-comfort. That’s when it happened. Horror of horrors, this stranger took a finger and placed it into my urine stream. I could feel my face flush, jaw drop and eyes pop, then it got even worse. Sticking said finger in his mouth, stranger says, “You taste good.”
He left. I finished. Shook off some of the shock and returned to my friends on the dance floor. With a watchful eye, I avoided pee-man the rest of the night. Austin truly is weird. Never again will I trust a nearby stranger at a urinal to not be a complete creeper. Safe peeing.
March 7, 2017
While You Were Gone III
My tradition has been to write you a year in reflection at the official close of the year. I thought it made a little more sense to write you after your deathiversary. The timing seems to fit, and the end of last year was such a shit show of stress. You know how we always talked about running away and living on the beach? Well, I did. I literally ran away from New York, only to buy a condo by the sea in Puerto Rico. Go figure.
Though this week, even though I’ve been down here for fifteen months really solidified the move. No longer wanting to fork out the hundreds of dollars for storage, I got rid of everything, keeping only a few boxes of things I couldn’t toss. The good news is everything I gave up is going to charity, so it gets a second life and possibly makes another person happy. There was one mistake you could posisbly be angry about, but I have to tell you…
I didn’t expect the moving crew to arrive on time, so I only allowed myself an hour to look through boxes. Once they showed up it was a rush to get boxes out of the unit, on the truck and out of my sight. The rush meant quickly peaking in boxes. One thing I didn’t look in was the nightstand drawers. It was several hours later and one-hundred-seventy-four miles away that I realized what was in the top drawer. Your jewelry. The things Sally kept for you while Cort was being drama and you were on your way out of this place.
In my rush, I didn’t open the drawers because they were tied shut. I knew the sheets were inside and forgot all about what was underneath them. My efforts to retrieve them were futile. The company which collected the furniture was so efficient, everything was gone before I even called. I feel incredibly guilty, even though I imagine at this point you’d tell me it doesn’t matter; what use do you have for any of that stuff?
One more confession, I feel a bit guilty, maybe sad, that on this third anniversary I didn’t shed a tear or even really feel much of anything. Either your absence is beginning to sink in or I’ve fortified the wall I so enjoy. Either way, you really have missed a bunch. In short: New friends, new home, new island, new adventures and a lot of bitching.
Though you aren’t forgotten, even if I lost your things. You once mentioned after Aunt Leesa’s death that you knew she was around because of the yellow butterflies you would see. I thought you were full of it and still do, but I think of you every time I see one of them now. Well played.
Time keeps plugging along.
January 29, 2017
FOMO NOMO
Many of us say we’ll never change, and in the moment we hope it’s possible. It may be because things are going so well, or you’re happy, or having fun. Whatever the reason, things and people always change, like it or not.
In the past week, I’ve realized somewhere along the way I’ve undergone a major change. Let me explain by giving some background…which you probably won’t need if you’ve read the older posts. All of my twenties were spent under the exhausting fear that I might miss out on something. I was the go-to friend if you needed someone to hit a bar, party, have a drink, go to a museum or just wander the city. Yes was always the response, even if it meant skipping meals to have the cash to pay for drinks. Looking back, it was a great time, wouldn’t change anything and I rarely missed out on anything.
The last time I can honestly recall this feeling was near the end of 2015. As I was beginning my Puerto Rican adventure, I worried that being away for six months would mean missed friend brunches and fun experiences. Fast forward to the present, specifically this morning and last night. This morning, I woke to a few text messages from a friend saying he and another friend were nearby and going to the club. It was only midnight, but I was fast asleep and dead to the world. Yes, on a Saturday, I was asleep well before midnight. And last night, my Straights shared that they are heading to NYC in two weeks for the weekend, asking if I would like to join them. I of course would, but I have two February trips planned, and I was in NYC last weekend. The expense isn’t worth the fun.
So, where along the way did I trade in my FOMO for the joy of saving money and sipping a glass of wine on the sofa alone? Truly, no idea, but I do think it stems from my NYC departure. My temporary move turned permanent and I’ll be in Puerto Rico for at least five more years. The distance between the friends who didn’t turn tail and the fact that I was spending large amounts of time isolated to myself seems to have caused a shift. I still like going out, but only for happy hour, and even then I’m not completely disappointed if I’m alone in this activity. Friends are great, but no longer required.
If this is how my thirties will play out, it’s going to make for some very boring books and blogs, but a lot of self-made excitement. Can’t wait!
January 15, 2017
Terra[ble] Nova
The last few months I’ve been pretty hush hush on the virtual front. Now, after a few months of ridiculous stress, it’s winding down and it’s possible to play the game of hindsight without having a mini stroke.
Late in September, I began the process of purchasing a condo. Of course, it was no surprise when the bank wanted all personal information, bank statements, tax returns and more. What was frustrating was the individual who was assigned to work with me. The entire process took sixty-five long days, and with the weeks in between of no communication, it was only made more frustrating when the banker would ask for documents which had been provided on day one. It was difficult to tell if this person was simply terrible at her job, or if it was because I’m a customer who isn’t loaded with money to throw their way.
Once the closing papers were signed, it seemed reasonable to think things would be easy from that moment forward. I was so, so wrong. Terra Nova, the company operating the condo building, informed me they needed ten days to build out the walls in the apartment. I made it clear I would be moving in on day eleven, as the apartment I was residing in was now back on the market and needed me out the door.
We are currently passing day forty, I’m living in the condo, and still…still things are not finished. When I moved in it was a little frustrating to say the least. The AC units didn’t work, the showers were missing the heads and drains, the handles were broken on faucets, the sink pipes leaked, doors had not been installed, closets had no racks, and so on.
This is where Terra Nova used the language barrier between us to truly screw me. The unit I purchased is based on the model unit. We had several conversations about setting my unit up to look just like the model. However, in their minds that didn’t include the glass partitions for the showers, the racks for the closet, the enclosure around the AC and some other small touches. In order to work the deal in their favor, though they can produce no paperwork to back it up, they continue to say they told me the unit was “as-is.” Now, this seems like an easy lie to swat away, clearly the unit wasn’t sold as-is because they’ve built walls and things for me.
I did give in on the shower glass and the closets. That is what is currently raping my wallet, but one way or another it will be finished. As we enter what will possibly be the last week of construction, I’m hoping their team can finish and be out of my life. The more work they do, the more problems they create. A good example: The new doors they installed hang from a bar and slide. After two days, the bar began coming off the wall. The men came back and fixed the bar, only to screw the doors up. When you slide them together, you can now stick a pencil though the gap at the top. Oy!
In the midst of the condo wars my grandmother passed away. It was a rush of feelings. Sadness is the obvious one, but I have to say there was some relief. For a God fearing person, the last decade of her life has been filled with illness and a slow decent into the end. Shouldn’t God give his faithful followers a break? I mean, I don’t think he’s floating around up there, but isn’t belief all you need? The idea that she is no longer trapped in a hospice bed, suffering from another stroke, unable to care for herself seems much better than the continuation of life as-is. Oh as-is, the statement that continually screws.
It’s a new year. Things are going well, even with the above bitching crammed into a few paragraphs. The next few weeks are about getting back on track, working on new stories and getting 2016 out of my head.
October 9, 2016
Grow Up
The gay agenda. It’s one of those buzz phrases you hear thrown around in what are touted as news worthy reports and articles. I have no idea what gay agenda the media and conservatives think is being shuffled around, but I do know what my agenda is, gay or otherwise.
My twenties were all about pushing my agenda. Doing things the most difficult way possible, to ensure I was doing exactly what I wanted. So, pretty much behaving like very other twenty year old in the country. I can’t say on the planet as I get the impression that the twenty-somethings aren’t as psychotic in other countries.
Now, well into my thirties, the agenda is shifting. I am very aware of this as I’m in the process of buying a condo. Not an unusual thing for a person to do, but an unusual thing in this time and place. I’m still in Puerto Rico, after what was meant to be a six month stay to avoid winter. Six has become twelve and now one year is looking more like five.
If all goes to plan and I purchase said condo, then getting a second place in New York, home, will be pushed out at least five years. The thought of delaying my return is a bit terrifying as New York is my safety touchstone. At the same time, it’s freeing to be away and have no obligations. No one in Puerto Rico gives a single fuck about me or what I do. In New York, everyone, literally everyone, interjects themselves into your business.
I jot these thoughts down as it seems as though I’m living in a parallel universe, some alternate me that is observing a life that doesn’t exist. But, pen to virtual paper makes it a little more real. Now, if things fall apart and the bank rejects me and holds the condo hostage I’ll definitely suffer the wrath of disappointment. Puerto Rico has helped me raise my hopes. Now will it dash them and send me packing?
On the upside, if the condo happens my friends in the states will not have to deal with a house warming party and present. Everyone wins.
October 1, 2016
Spiteful Texting
I’ve slacked off when it comes to blogging this past year. I’d like to blame it on my extended stay in Puerto Rico and things being less exciting. At one point, it even crossed my mind to document my PR adventure, which I do a little now and then, but it’s really not that different from New York. I mean, yes, I’m the minority as a pale face and my Spanish is embarrassingly terrible, but still not that different from NYC.
The only big change, which is impacting the amount which I write and gossip about online is my lack of dating. The number of dates I go on is directly proportionate to the amount of crap I spew on here. So, after many, many, many months of hanging out with the cat, I had a date.
I mentioned the guy briefly in a previous post, The Professor. Nice guy. But I find myself being stubborn and uninterested. Let me rewind a week or so. Prof. told me for the millionth time he thought I worked too much. The first time it was kind of cute. One of those, oh you might give a shit about me moments. The second time it was annoying. The second time I made it Crystal Pepsi clear that work is a large part of my life. And if I have no issue with the amount I work, no one else gets a say in the hours I keep. A polite go fuck yourself. Also, this is familiar territory. Like when my friends in NYC were bitching about my decision to live in PR.
The third time Prof. made mention of the work issue was when a work dinner took place on a Friday. We had plans and yes I cancelled. I will pick work over a date. Though I did invite him, and don’t blame him for declining. His lengthy text message was annoying, trying to explain to me why my priorities are incorrect. I did let it go, no argument, no angry calls or texts in return. Then two days later I sent what I meant to be a cute, but what was possibly a desperate/pathetic text, “I don’t hear from you all weekend? :(” I used the emjoi, don’t hate me.
Prof. waited four days to reply. That’s when it was clear we were playing a game. At twenty-five I was all about playing. At thirty-one I have better ways to spend my time. When Prof. did finally reach out, it was a simple, “Hi.” I replied back a simple, “Hello.” Even if I don’t want to speak to you, I will respond. There is nothing more obnoxious or rude, than the person who never replies. (That would be Late Night for example.) Friday arrived and he asked if I wanted to get a drink or coffee. I politely declined. Then Saturday arrived and his texts were perky, too perky. Even on my best day, I’m not perky.
He finally asked if I was angry with him. I told him I was irritated with him. I’m not actually angry, but I would like him to go away. Not in the sense that he needs to not exist, but in the sense that maybe down the road we can be friends, but for the here and now I’d rather read a book and rub my pussy [cat]. To my comment, he asked if I wanted to talk about it in person or via text. I told him, “Honestly neither.”
In person would almost certainly be a mistake. I seem to have a magical way of accidentally driving a person into hysterics when confronted in person. Probably because I don’t have the same level of emotional reaction. If you want to see me react, tell me Starbucks is closed. I’ll react!
I’m right back where I started, before the Prof. and any dates, and it’s exactly where I want to be for the moment. Alone, yes. Single, yes. Wine, yes please!
August 20, 2016
Bartender, We Have a Problem
Not everyone likes to drink. In fact, I hear, there are people who have never actually had alcohol pass over their lips and drive them to the magical place of exciting and questionable decisions.
I drink. This isn’t news. The issue is when people around me don’t drink. Specifically, the guy I’ve been palling around with lately. Cute, nice, etc. He shared with me last night that he “hates” drinking. This is not to say he won’t have a cocktail. I’ve witnessed him having a drink at dinner or the bar. Emphasis on the singularity of this drink. The Professor, as I am calling him due to his profession, only has one drink and is then happy to have water for the remainder of the evening.
Wait to judge my alcoholism until you fully understand why I found this so irritating.
My Irish liver can process its weight in booze if the occasion arises. As of late, I’ve only been having a bottle of wine on Friday after work. Yes, one whole bottle, all for me. This is because I’ve been hitting the gym hard and want to make additional progress. Booze does not equal abs. Instead of drinks on Friday, brunch on Saturday and day drinking on Sunday, I’ve cut it down to one little bottle a week. Factor in work stress during the week and no alcohol to heal the wounds, the Friday bottle is like a corked gift from Jesus himself. Praise the lord of wine!
When the Professor confessed he hated drinking, I did clap back…and it was probably a tad over dramatic. My response: This probably isn’t going to work. Yes, I went from normal to pissed in two seconds, but I’ve been down this path before. Last year, Douche Bag Dan dumped me via text message because I had happy hour with my Straight. I’m not interested in dating another sober who is going to start preaching to me about being an alcoholic. I hope to be an alcoholic someday, it looks like a ton of fun, but I’ve got a long way to go to reach my goal.
As usual, this is all circling my head as it’s a weekend and there is way too much free time for me to roll around in my thoughts. What I’m pondering: Do I chill the fuck out and see if the Professor is worth the effort? Or, do I end it now and never know? Either way, I can enjoy a bottle of wine, it’s just the second option comes with judgement eyes from across the table.
August 7, 2016
Dick. Dick. Date.
Being alone is difficult for some people. There’s the social stigma of being single which causes some to jump from one relationship to the next, never taking the time to get to know who they are as an individual. Now, it’s suggested a person should be comfortable being alone. Being comfortable as a single, means knowing yourself and what you want. This in turn, in theory, can help lead to more successful relationships.
I spent my twenties casually dating. As in, so casually, that it’s been a full decade since the last time I was involved in anything which came close to resembling an actual relationship. There were many reasons for following the single life path. I was in the middle of my education, at the beginning of a career, trying to establish a life in a new city, and so on. More or less, I told myself dating and relationships were something which could be dealt with later in life.
It’s later and I’ve ventured into the dating pool. The waters are murky and filled with dicks. Literal dicks. Have you been on any dating apps recently? Not only Grindr, but any dating app seems to be filled with well-groomed profiles and introductions by penis. Seeing another person’s junk is not the way I want to try and meet a potential significant other, but it’s nearly impossible to avoid. It’s not like in the pre-app days when you could meet someone at a bar. If you meet a guy in a bar, it’s almost a certainty that you’re going to hookup and never see one another after the fact.
We’ll skip over the boring details of meeting someone new, the short of things is that I met someone who appears to be nice, handsome, educated, following a career path. Great on paper. We’ve been on a handful of dates and are clicking, in my opinion. It’s the time after the dates which make me question the whole experience. I imagine I’m not alone, and perhaps it’s a side effect of being solo for so long.
After a date, I’ll come home, you have the mini high from a good time, then think, was it really worth all the effort? Instead of going out, getting ready, conversing, spending money, it would have been just as enjoyable, and significantly less expensive, to sit on the sofa and pet the cat. Then there is the whole need to create plans. When it comes to doing something I’m pretty mellow. Lunch? Sure. Coffee? Great. However, I live on a schedule. So, if I invite you to lunch and then it devolves into multiple text messages and time consumption, my brain shifts to, let’s skip it mode. Plans should be simple, right?
Perhaps these are all the normal interactions that take place in dating, but taking a big nap seems like a fantastic alternative to the effort required. Not ready to give up just yet, I’m attempting to not behave like a stubborn old man, and chill the fuck out. We’ll see how well it goes. Worst case scenario, there’s always Xanax and the puss to keep me company.
July 31, 2016
Into the Darkness
Stepping out a on Friday night is nothing new, exciting, or even that interesting to be honest. It’s a part of life for most people. A friend and I decided to brace the long line of cars clogging the one-way road to Old San Juan and find a new watering hole.
Dive bars are a preference for some [me], others prefer dim lights, faint music and well dressed waitstaff to pamper them. Of course the place we landed was a generic dive, though not a complete and utter hole, so don’t be scared off. Local #110 was blasting music form the 90’s, had florescent pink lighting and a chipper bartender who was heavy-handed in her pours. A true delight.
My friend and I sat talking, well, screaming at one another as we caught up on the week. Then there was a sound. That sound buildings make when the electrical current fades from their wires and vanishes. The disturbing winding down of life as the bar faded into black and the patrons mumbled to one another in a number of languages.
In New York, it’s almost a certainty that we would have been asked to pay and leave when the power was out for a few minutes. It is more difficult to keep track of people in the dark, especially when there are expensive bottles of liquor within arms reach. That was not the case here. We sat for at least another hour, the bartender lighting a candle, which I promptly pushed away. The last time someone provided me a candle during a power outage it resulted in the firey loss of my bangs. With hair this bleached, fire is not my friend.
My trips to the bathroom were much more interesting as the rear of the bar was completely vacant. I used the light of my phone to guide my way and iTunes to make it more interesting. After all, a trip to the baño isn’t nearly as exciting when you don’t have music to pee along to.
What was most interesting is who I turned into in the dark. I’m a fairly nice person, in the sense that I do normal things like say, please, thank you and excuse me. It is highly irregular for me to engage with strangers outside of such niceties. In the dark, I transformed into a social butterfly. Chatting up the couple at the bar, visiting from Chicago and getting a full-blown taste of what life can be like on a tiny island. We all had a good time, that is until we had to figure out how to pay without access to credit cards or ATMs. Yes, the struggle of modern life is difficult and fragile, a house of cards which collapses the moment a singular card is removed.
The night was so enjoyable that I look forward to the next power outage, I mean, the power should plant to come on as I’m arriving home, but it’s more than welcome to take a break during happy hour from here on out.
July 10, 2016
Becoming Untied
I have a friend. Wow, that sounds pathetic. Let’s try it one more time. I have a newer friend, one of only a few months. He is preparing to move to New York City, having been born and raised in Puerto Rico. It’s exciting, a new adventure and I’m happy for him.
All of this got me thinking about New York. I love New York, and a decade ago if anyone dared to tell me I might live any place else, I would have spit in their face and called them a liar. Okay, maybe not spit in their face, but you get my point. There’s no place like NYC, maybe Dorothy should have clicked her lil shoes together and gone there instead of Kansas. She would have had more fun.
As I spend more time away from home, the dependencies created by the convenience of the city are very clear. Life is hard in Puerto Rico. I say this in a way that requests no sympathy as you should not feel bad for my first-world ass. Delivery, 24-hour anything, on demand services, all of these things are what New Yorkers expect at all times. Living in a place where they are not only unavailable, but totally inconceivable is a life shift. It’s not a bad thing.
The more time I’m away, the more like a human being I become. New Yorkers, we’re not exactly human. By blood, yes. By nature and nurture, no. We avoid phone calls, eye contact and conversation with strangers. In Puerto Rico, people smile, look you in the eye and stop on the street to converse. I’m talking about strangers. This has been a paramount shift for me. I still jolt when a stranger rolls up in a car and attempts to strike up a conversation.
As I learn the ways of the real world, I’m attempting to share tips with my soon-to-be New York friend on what life is really like. It’s not walk in the park, but it’s worth the effort. While he’s running off to enjoy the dreams of my twenties, I’m still trying to figure out what the hell I want to do with my thirties. The more I become untied from New York, I think another, larger, move across water may satisfy my thirst for something. What is that something…
Rent (minus) Control
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