“Is that a mirror in your pants?” would have sufficed

Author: Single. Approachable. Girl.
July 24, 2010


As you may remember from My Pinkalicious Move, I recently moved apartments.

I’m embarrassed to admit that I haven’t met many of my neighbors yet, but maybe that’s just the way it is in apartment buildings. Even when I do run into them, we’re merely laundry baskets passing in the night.

But, being a single, approachable girl, I suppose I was bound to meet my single guy neighbor eventually. I just didn’t realize the theatrics that would be involved…

I had two girlfriends staying with me for the weekend and I was thrilled to host them at Chateau S.A.G. I even set-up The S.A.G. Cafe outside my front door with an adorable table and chairs I found at IKEA. Since it was the one and only hot weekend of the summer, we spent a good amount of time at the cafe drinking wine in the early evenings.

So there we are, just three girls chatting away about boys, sex, weddings and birth control when we hear a guy suddenly break into a cappella opera at the top of his lungs. The singing disrupts our gossiping for roughly 10 seconds and then we look each other, shrug our shoulders and continue on.

Just when we start tuning out the singing, one of my girlfriends grabs my arm (looking terrified) and points down the stairs leading up to the cafe. Standing at the bottom of the steps is the mystery opera singer. He’s in his mid-30’s, wearing a green t-shirt and jeans, bracing himself with both bannisters and looking directly at us.

My Karaoke etiquette kicks in and I turn to my friends and say under my breath, “don’t…laugh.” It was a little late for that, but they tried their best to hold it in.

Girlfriend #1 whispers in my ear, “I’m so uncomfortable…I’m starting to sweat.”

In an attempt to wrap up the serenade, I wait for a pause in the song and start clapping. He waves his pointer finger up in the air gesturing that he is not done. I stop clapping immediately and the singing goes on for 15 very long seconds. At the end of his last note, he jumps off the stairs and darts into one of the apartments below.

We wait, but hear nothing but crickets.

Girlfriend #1: Is he coming back?

S.A.G. I don’t know, but I think we just met my single male neighbor. He’s quite good.

Girlfriend #2: He must be on drugs.

In hindsight, it’s pretty remarkable how quickly we were able to carry on with our conversation as if nothing had happened. Apparently we’ve become completely unfazed by druggies and eccentric actor-types in L.A.

It was about 10 minutes later that my friend grabs my arm again. I look down the stars to see the same guy, running toward us wearing a motorcycle helmet. For a moment I was fearful he was going to bash our heads in with the helmet, but he stopped at the top of the stairs, opened the front visor of the helmet and said, “The FBI is after me!”

He then puts down the visor and begins running circles around the apartment complex until he reaches the same downstairs apartment and runs inside. Once again, crickets.

Girlfriend #2: Definitely mushrooms.

S.A.G.: I can’t believe the one single guy in my new apartment building is certifiable. I’m legitimately nervous for what is going to happen next.

We wait for a bit, but nothing happens. We tentatively start chatting again, this time glancing down the stairs every minute or so.

Eventually, we see him walking up the stairs at a normal pace, completely silent and sans props.

With a fake english accent (which goes well with his thick, handlebar mustache) he says he felt it was time he come up and introduce himself to “m’ladies.”

S.A.G.: Hi (cautiously extending my hand for a handshake), I’m [S.A.G.] and I’m your relatively new neighbor.

Odd new neighbor: (Kissing my hand) Lovely to meet you, but I am not your neighbor. I’m an merely visiting my friend who lives in the apartment below.


It becomes clear that this guy is harmless and not on heavy drugs. He is, however, a fairly gifted and overly eccentric actor who thought it would be fun to break-the-ice with the girls upstairs with an impromptu showcase.

We engage in conversation with this new-found, odd friend and eventually he calls down to my actual neighbor and invites him up.

I was pleasantly surprised to find that my actual neighbor (we’ll call him Apartment B)  is a funny guy, in his mid-thirties, who is less likely to break into The Three Tenors’ greatest hits.

We ended up spending a good remainder of the evening hanging out with our new friends.

We never did have the heart to tell them that a cheesy pick-up line would have sufficed.

My Pinkalicious Move

Author: Single. Approachable. Girl.
February 12, 2010

Since finding the perfect apartment in my price range, I’ve been preparing for the big move. And this is a big move for me because for first time since I arrived in Los Angeles more than nine years ago, I’m going to hire professional movers. No more 10 x 10 U-Haul trucks and no more begging friends and family to help. I want strangers that know how to pick up a 32-inch tube TV without hurting their lower backs. I want wardrobe boxes. And, as of 11 AM yesterday, I want one, big, pink truck.

Picture 2

Now, I understand that a smart shopper always researches a few different companies, compares rates and barters the price before settling on a winner. I intended to do that, I swear. But when I came across a website with cursive pink font and a pink bubbly background, my girlie side emerged from behind my drab-colored pants ensemble and I knew I had found my movers.

A very friendly and attractive-sounding sales guy named KC called me within minutes of my online quote request. He made me feel very confident in my choice, quoted me a lower price than on the website and answered all of my questions – the most important one being, “Is the truck actually pink?”

When he confirmed, I said, “you guys must only move single women.” He replied, “We move a lot, a lot, a lot, a lot of single women.”

For the next 24 hours I went on and on about my Pink Truck movers to all the girls that I know. I felt like Elle Woods in Legally Blonde. Very girlie. Very proud to be a single women who can hire her own movers and make a bold statement simultaneously.

When talking to another single friend of mine, we decided that maybe pinkmoving.com is more than just a moving company with a great marketing ploy…maybe it’s actually a dating service for attractive young men, looking for cool, independent women. We convinced ourselves that she should come to “help” with the move because my two movers would inevitably be hot, strong, brilliant guys that painted a truck pink to meet women.

I forwarded her the link so that she could investigate for herself. A minute later she inquired how thoroughly I had read the site. I gave her a blank stare and began to read aloud the “about us” section:

“We started our company with one goal in mind. To provide the best moving service for the LGBT community…”

Hmmm. On second thought, I suppose a more aware person would have figured this out from the logo on the front page.

Picture 3

Clearly I was too busy picturing what KC looked like and too obsessed with my new-found femininity to “get it.”

Well, I’m still thrilled with my choice. The only difference now is that I’ll be making a slightly different bold statement than I originally intended and the hot, strong guys moving my tubularific TV might be more interested in my cool, independent brother.