No, there isn’t a doctor, per se, but there are two new roommates to introduce. They go by the monikers, “McDreamy” and “McSteamy”, and boy are they.
McSteamy is a friend I’ve had for a while, introduced through the famed Lesbian Legion. He was one of few brave gay men who dared roll with the Double Ell. He has southern roots and a Drag Queen past that should prove advantageous when it comes time for makeup lessons. He’s promised to teach me to contour like a Kardashian. Gird your Instagram accounts. The selfies are coming. Since I no longer have access to a room full of mirrors, I have to instead rely on the harsh truth spewing from the mouth of McSteamy. He tries to sugarcoat it by adding a “maybe” in front of “you should find something else to wear”, but I’m grateful. I need it. I’m living in a post-mirror room apocalypse and I’m finding it hard to adjust. McSteamy is currently out on a trail somewhere, running in preparation for a half marathon. I know, I traded a yogi for a run-nut. What was I thinking?
McDreamy, on the other hand, is a typical run-of-the-mill straight dude. He’s in the kitchen right now wearing basketball shorts, a white T-shirt and a backwards baseball cap. But he’s cooking and singing along to some soft rock, gently ebbing from his discarded iPhone. He works at Founders, which lends some insight into what beer is happening when, and also sometimes results in a fridge full of the catch of the day. Today is Centennial and All Day, if you were wondering. McDreamy is cute. In an All-American kind of way. So I’m safe from wanting to sleep with him. He’s a smallish white dude and he’s super nice. Lorde knows I hate nice white dudes. Dreamy calls me “Miss Kaira” and “Ma’am” and if that weren’t enough, he tells me about his girl troubles and I smirk, knowing that he just has to be a little bit more of a dick and they’ll come running. But you can’t tell a nice guy to be a dick. He just has to wait it out.
Our threesome has moved into a two-story house in the Belknap district. Which isn’t quite ghetto, but isn’t quite not. It’s certainly not as pretty as Heritage Hill and yes, I’m still mad about it. Over here, I get looks if I step outside in something other than velour sweatshorts. Which is just insane. The other day, I almost ran into the back of a woman who stopped abruptly on the sidewalk right at the bottom of my house’s stoop. I didn’t know what to do, and she had hoop earrings on, so I panicked, told her she smelled good and basically ran up the stairs and into my house. Art School Hipster Youths are one thing. I’m not equipped to deal with those I can’t knock down with snark alone. And yes, I base whether or not I could beat someone in a fight on the size (or existence) of their hoop earrings. Don’t be fooled by these blogs that I got. I’m not, I’m not, Jenny from the Block. Yet.
On a positive note, my cats are loving the new digs. Cee Lo has been reveling in “bro time” with the guys, sleeping on Dreamy’s chest and letting Steamy pet his belly. I’m pretty sure he’s trading me in for them and he’s not even sorry. Not even sorry, not sorry. Adele still likes me best, but that means I get to pick her super-long hairs out of my eyeballs on a daily basis, so that’s fun.
We’re only a block or two from the “Medical Mile” and I’ve heard word that sexy medical staffers hang out at a local bar. Maybe there soon will be a doctor in the house. But, likely, just a parade of nurses coming in and out of Steamy’s bedroom.