Okay, it's bad. Very very bad. Go ahead, ask me. "How bad is it, Serena?"
I am ogling Phil the Neanderthal. That's how bad it is.
I got the new fridge today, finally, only two and a half months after the old fridge started freezing the cat food into a popsicle. Next week I may even get a washer-dryer. I've learned to handle ol' Phil, my Turk of a Brooklyn landlord, and I think perhaps he's learned a thing or two himself, judging by the rate of turnover in this building. I think he's starting to appreciate quiet, stable tenants who pay their rent more or less on time, in a lump sum, with a check that doesn't bounce. The technique I've consistently tried to use on him is to visibly expect the best, contrary to all available evidence. "Phil," I said to him, sweetly, in January, "I'm still waiting for my Christmas present. You know, the dishwasher?" "I'm calling the guy right now. Right now," says Phil, and lo, the dishwasher arrives. Stuff like that.
Deep down, of course, I despise him. Though, looking back, that time he and my ex got into a near-fistfight within forty-five seconds of meeting one another was pretty funny. I thought Phil was the one being unreasonable until the ex declared later that he was deliberately attempting to induce Phil to hit him, so as to have an airtight lawsuit and get me the keys to the building. I know, I know, my ex is a psychotic motherfucker. Phil is only an asshole.
But I digress. When I paid my rent last week I sort of thought, gosh, ol' Phil has filled out a bit, and softened up, and that snaggle-tooth of his is kinda cute. Then when he arrived today with a couple of henchmen and made a lot of masculine noise getting the giant fridge up the stairs, I quite enjoyed it. I stood at the top of the stairs and watched admiringly, and they winked and beamed, and all of us were glad to be alive.
Only later did it occur to me--Jesus, I'm ogling Phil. That is pretty much the definition of desperate. But, whoopee! My libido is back from Timbuktoo!