My landlord's crazy, but it's cool.

One day I came home to a giant gaping mudhole where my front steps should have been. Nice that the cracks got fixed, although if I'd had some warning, I could have done without dragging my bike through my newly-planted flowers. But he tolerates me planting flowers.

Whenever the garbage disposal breaks, it's fixed the next day. Even though the phone call to tell him takes no less than half an hour. I'm serious. A debate on DC government, an update on his boyfriend issues, and a work order all in one.

On New Year's Day 2004 at 2am he let me in because the champagne fountain ate my keys. Like a Venus fly-trap. I swear.

I moved into a pale creamy yellow house. Now I live in the orange-brown-blue-purple clown house. It's growing on me.

Last August I got put through a week and a half of hell, each day with a changed verdict on whether we would draw up a new lease, stay on month-to-month, or be forced to leave. I tried to focus on my gratitude I didn't have to move bed, desk, bookcase, grill, ginormous sofa oh my goodness so much stuff before the end of the month.

Last week he left a notice (typed! with his phone number! but on a messily torn half-sheet) saying he wanted to discuss a new lease. Not having any spare hours just lying around, I hadn't called yet. This afternoon he stopped by. We heard about hot real estate prospects and his big sells, local developers' shady deals, the Neighborhood Commission gossip, our basement neighbor's gossip, advice on how to handle catcalls and "rat palaces" (abandoned houses) and oh yeah rent's going to have to go up.

But then, when I'd stood for him to go, he said, "You know, it's really worked out, deciding to get the place re-assessed so you could stay, I'm so glad it did. I trust you to take care of the house, and I think it suits you." Oh my endearingly eccentric diva. I think we just had a moment.