Shame on me.
I have not kept up with my normal pace of posting.
And there is so much - precisely why I have not written in an almost unforgivable span of months.
Since March (ahem), I have so many more customers and clients. This real estate thing ramped up fast, yet I feel like such the neophyte. It's reminiscent of my first job as a college textbook field sales rep for Prentice Hall.
The material is not intellectually challenging. But there is so damned much of it. I have been packing my brain as fast as I can (short term memory lapses notwithstanding) with what they call the "inventory," that is, the few thousand homes out here in the East End of Long Island that are available for rent and or sale.
The core/corps of my friends in NYC know well what I am up to these past fourteen months or so. But my wider social network may be less informed - to which I say: If you want to rent or buy a house in The Hamptons - yep, east of the Shinnecock Canal (which separates this part of Long Island the way NYC is separated by the Hudson from the rest of the United States), then pop me a query right here, in the post-a-comment section.
At some point soon, I will go wider, just as GV-Wonder has advised.
Surfer Girl moved out here too.
CAN YOU EVEN???
NO SHE DIDN'T.
YES SHE DID, WHY YES SHE DID.
But of course, as she says, throaty and husky, "I've had dual citizenship between the city and out here for years."
Someone else out here remarked, "She's world class. She's wild." It's important to know what matters.
On her occasional forays to and from parts West, she stops, as if inserting push-pins on a map, to check in with um, various surfer-buds along the way. I suspect that back massages are involved, at the minimum.
And then, to coin my own phrase, albeit adopted wholesale by Surfer Girl, there is in our East End world, The House That Doesn't Suck. But more on that later, as I peel back the layers. Let's just say that years of watching The L Word, have opened new friendships, that also include speed boats, wake-boarding, all-night parties, spontaneous karaoke, and the last season of American Idol. Two words: Dave Cook.
And me, well. I think I may have started peri-menopause. I think I had my first hot flash in February. And it lasted two months. Which did suck. And then one of the last eggs in my body must have dropped, because I menstruated again after a six-month hiatus. What???
Well, now. The 27-year-old has been operating mostly in the text message periphery, but maybe because he's turned up a couple of times this spring, my body remembered how to be a female. Two times in as many months. That's the rate that my current headspace can handle (never mind the puns, I know what some of you are imagining - and it's all true - so there). I asked him if he had had a birthday since we met last summer. He said he did. I told him I had one too - and that means I am still twenty-one years older than he. As before, I say: Nevermind.
On one of the last times (apres rendezvous) he rolled out on the main drag out of here, westbound. I was driving east from Southampton when I spied his car on the opposite side of the road, leaving for now. I flashed him - my headlights, that is.
Twenty-eight on Route 27.
That doesn't suck.
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