I’d had it fierce for John Travolta back in the ‘70s) and ten tracks from Now That’s What I Call Yodeling. Not that I actually knew one yodeling tune, much less ten, but Remy wasn’t privy to that juicy tidbit.Long story short, he glared the entire trip and practically kicked me out of the cab when we reached my apartment.“Aren’t you coming with?” I whined when he didn’t climb out after me.No, really. We’re talking a high-pitched, irritating sound that probably tormented all dogs within a ten block radius.He shook his head. “I’m due at the station this afternoon, so it makes more sense for me to head back to Connecticut now. I’ll call you when I’m free and we’ll figure out a joint living arrangement.”Before I could open my mouth, the door slammed shut. Tires squealed and suddenly I was standing on the sidewalk all by my lonesome.Yeah, baby.I’d really done it. I’d used my fantabulous vocal ability and keen improvisation skills to wiggle my way out of the dreaded commitment (and into the complaint box at the American Airlines customer service desk).Albeit temporarily (the commitment, not the complaint box—I’d been banned from all flights—foreign and domestic), but still.Score one for Vampzilla.I gave myself a mental high five and turned toward the renovated duplex that housed my apartment.It wasn’t anywhere close—not via Mapquest or property values--to the lavish Central Park penthouse my parents called home whenever they ventured into the city.
