My Other Roommate

If you've been following the story, you'll know that Hollaback Girl has been staying here with me and Fang while she closes escrow on her beautiful, shiny, spanking new apartment nestled along bucolic tree lined streets on Inwood. Being that this is New York, she could close anytime between now and Christmas. No worries. Hollaback Girl is the ideal roommate. She cooks beautiful meals. She unloads the dishwasher. She entertains and grants good counsel. She distracts the cat when the cat is in the throes of a geriatric confusion episode. She's tidy. She's organized. She is the roommate I wish I had in college.

Fang really likes her. They banter about baseball and brining methods for meat and the virtues of produce selection. When I went to London last week, I was glad that they had each other for company. Of course they play well together.

When I was in London, I was telling one of my colleagues about my current living arrangement. "It has a quasi Jules Et Jim feeling about it," I enthused (pretentiously). "Sounds more like Three's Company," replied my rather astute friend. He then paused and gingerly pressed, "But are you concerned about those two getting together in your absence?" Here I evoke a thoughtful pose. "Well, no," I replied slowly, "considering she's a six foot lesbian."

It gets them every time.