So I swear my landlady must think I'm a poor country bumpkin from Texas who would leave my trailer parked in the street if I could find a spot. Without fail every time she comes to check out the place, I'm in boxers and a t-shirt, no make up, hair a mess. She's an older lady too--not the cool grandma who bakes you cookies and pot pie. She's the LA grandma who gets Botox, tans, and tells you to stand up straight and why are you wearing your hair like that? The first time I met her she forgave me for not wearing shoes to the door. How sweet.
Today she came by and of course headed straight for our apt, not the other 6 in the building. So after an inspiring weekend, I've been painting since I got home from church this morning. I greet her in a wife beater, old football shorts, hair in a messy ponytail, paint all over me.
All that was missing was a toothless grin and a beer in hand. Luckily I had country music playing(Pat Green to be exact).
I wonder when I'll get that eviction notice....
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