I can only imagine the multitudes of disgusting things in that box. You can bet I won't be touching it.
Showing posts with label moving. Show all posts
Showing posts with label moving. Show all posts
Thursday, June 24, 2010
I'm Betting The Family Pack of Condoms Is in This Box
My brother is the only twenty-three year-old guy I know who would label his moving boxes like this:
I can only imagine the multitudes of disgusting things in that box. You can bet I won't be touching it.
I can only imagine the multitudes of disgusting things in that box. You can bet I won't be touching it.
Friday, June 18, 2010
Living in Sin
World, my brother is moving out of my mother's house.
He is moving out of the tiny room he shares with the Possibly Gay Black Belt, who gets the top bunk while Adam gets the bottom in a room decorated with an empty tank from the Myrtle the Turtle debacle, a million sample bottles of cologne, wax imprints of his and his girlfriend's hands, and posters of porn stars.
To be leaving this pleases my brother. He and his girlfriend had spent some time investigating apartment complexes around Western New York, and finally they found one they liked, which is three minutes down the road from my mother's place. Bonus: It has a pool. Bonus: It's close to work. Super Bonus: They don't have to put up with my mother's boyfriend, who's lately been on their nerves.
A month back, my brother had come home one night with a hankering for chicken wings. So he went at in the kitchen. He fried up some wings, tossed them with some sauce, poured a giant cup of bleu cheese, and dumped those things in his mouth. He had to do this quickly because he had a party to get to. And because he had a party to get to, he didn't have time to clean up the kitchen. And the rule in the house that belongs to my mother and her boyfriend is this: If you're making your own dinner, you're cleaning up your own mess.
And for the most part, my brother abides by the rule. But he was short on time that night, so he dashed off a note. It said, GROSS CHICKEN JUICE. DO NOT TOUCH. ADAM WILL CLEAN IN MORNING. THANKS! And off he went.
When he and his girlfriend arrived home later that night--in the middle of the night--they found that my mother's boyfriend had stacked all the bowls and dishes--still slimy with gross chicken juice--onto his bed.
That was one of the last straws.
Now Adam can make chicken wings and leave the mess around until he is good and ready to clean it up. He's excited about that.
He's also excited about the following things: (1.) The fact that he and his girlfriend have made the executive decision to decorate their bathroom with an ocean/lighthouse/sea-shell theme; (2.) The fact that he and his girlfriend have made the executive decision to decorate their kitchen with a strawberry theme, complete with darling little strawberry curtains.
This is a big deal for everyone involved, considering Adam is rotten with money. He will spend it on all manners of inappropriate, ridiculous things--a fluffy woman's robe, for example--and he can't save to, well, save his life.
But the nice thing is this: He's got a stockpile coming his way. He's been paying rent at Mom's for a while now, but she's been sacking it away for him so that he will get it in a lump sum when he moves out. He doesn't know this. He's been under the assumption that my mother has been taking that money--money she just shouldn't be charging her son because it's so evil and wrong, and it's clearly indicative of her blackened soul!--and frittering it away on nonsense.
"Mom's such a bitch," he said to us this weekend as we worked our way through an enormous order of foot-longs and fresh-cut fries at The Arbor. "She's basically stealing all my money, you know. She's taking all my hard-earned cash and wasting it. As soon as she started charging me rent, she and her boyfriend started going out to the bars all the time on the weekends, and they'd get smashed. Smashed! With my money! She's using my money to get all liquored-up! Isn't that wrong?"
Boy, is he going to feel like an asshole when she hands him a few grand next weekend.
So much so that I am sad I won't be there to be able to see it. I've got my own little move happening that day. Come Saturday, me and the girls will be moving vodka and snacks, streamers and favors, and, of course, a giant penis cake into a suite downtown, where we'll begin a night of bachelorette fun.
So I'm going to be asking someone to take pictures. I just want to see my brother's face in that moment he realizes he's getting a huge wad of money that he will probably fritter away on nonsense, a huge wad of money he thought my mother was slurping up out of a beer stein at the skeezy South Buffalo bars they occasionally haunt. In that moment, he won't know what to do or say, and that, of course, is the biggest coup of all.
He is moving out of the tiny room he shares with the Possibly Gay Black Belt, who gets the top bunk while Adam gets the bottom in a room decorated with an empty tank from the Myrtle the Turtle debacle, a million sample bottles of cologne, wax imprints of his and his girlfriend's hands, and posters of porn stars.
To be leaving this pleases my brother. He and his girlfriend had spent some time investigating apartment complexes around Western New York, and finally they found one they liked, which is three minutes down the road from my mother's place. Bonus: It has a pool. Bonus: It's close to work. Super Bonus: They don't have to put up with my mother's boyfriend, who's lately been on their nerves.
A month back, my brother had come home one night with a hankering for chicken wings. So he went at in the kitchen. He fried up some wings, tossed them with some sauce, poured a giant cup of bleu cheese, and dumped those things in his mouth. He had to do this quickly because he had a party to get to. And because he had a party to get to, he didn't have time to clean up the kitchen. And the rule in the house that belongs to my mother and her boyfriend is this: If you're making your own dinner, you're cleaning up your own mess.
And for the most part, my brother abides by the rule. But he was short on time that night, so he dashed off a note. It said, GROSS CHICKEN JUICE. DO NOT TOUCH. ADAM WILL CLEAN IN MORNING. THANKS! And off he went.
When he and his girlfriend arrived home later that night--in the middle of the night--they found that my mother's boyfriend had stacked all the bowls and dishes--still slimy with gross chicken juice--onto his bed.
That was one of the last straws.
Now Adam can make chicken wings and leave the mess around until he is good and ready to clean it up. He's excited about that.
He's also excited about the following things: (1.) The fact that he and his girlfriend have made the executive decision to decorate their bathroom with an ocean/lighthouse/sea-shell theme; (2.) The fact that he and his girlfriend have made the executive decision to decorate their kitchen with a strawberry theme, complete with darling little strawberry curtains.
This is a big deal for everyone involved, considering Adam is rotten with money. He will spend it on all manners of inappropriate, ridiculous things--a fluffy woman's robe, for example--and he can't save to, well, save his life.
But the nice thing is this: He's got a stockpile coming his way. He's been paying rent at Mom's for a while now, but she's been sacking it away for him so that he will get it in a lump sum when he moves out. He doesn't know this. He's been under the assumption that my mother has been taking that money--money she just shouldn't be charging her son because it's so evil and wrong, and it's clearly indicative of her blackened soul!--and frittering it away on nonsense.
"Mom's such a bitch," he said to us this weekend as we worked our way through an enormous order of foot-longs and fresh-cut fries at The Arbor. "She's basically stealing all my money, you know. She's taking all my hard-earned cash and wasting it. As soon as she started charging me rent, she and her boyfriend started going out to the bars all the time on the weekends, and they'd get smashed. Smashed! With my money! She's using my money to get all liquored-up! Isn't that wrong?"
Boy, is he going to feel like an asshole when she hands him a few grand next weekend.
So much so that I am sad I won't be there to be able to see it. I've got my own little move happening that day. Come Saturday, me and the girls will be moving vodka and snacks, streamers and favors, and, of course, a giant penis cake into a suite downtown, where we'll begin a night of bachelorette fun.
So I'm going to be asking someone to take pictures. I just want to see my brother's face in that moment he realizes he's getting a huge wad of money that he will probably fritter away on nonsense, a huge wad of money he thought my mother was slurping up out of a beer stein at the skeezy South Buffalo bars they occasionally haunt. In that moment, he won't know what to do or say, and that, of course, is the biggest coup of all.
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
Three from the Move
I didn't take many pictures during the whole moving process, but here's what I did manage to snap:
That's Abbey after we emptied my giant bedroom of all its books and clothes. She was not amused because now there was nothing for her to jump on and kill.
And that's Abbey checking out the new digs. She's standing in the living room, which looks out onto the porch, which looks out onto woods. Those woods are home to many things--squirrels, birds, chipmunks--that Abbey would--no surprise here--like to jump on and kill.
And that's what my father and I look like after we've been driven insane by moving. He's wearing my headband and I am wearing the hat of my best boy from grad school, the hat I put on sometimes when everything sucks, when everything blows. That hat makes me feel better about everything.
That's Abbey after we emptied my giant bedroom of all its books and clothes. She was not amused because now there was nothing for her to jump on and kill.
And that's Abbey checking out the new digs. She's standing in the living room, which looks out onto the porch, which looks out onto woods. Those woods are home to many things--squirrels, birds, chipmunks--that Abbey would--no surprise here--like to jump on and kill.
And that's what my father and I look like after we've been driven insane by moving. He's wearing my headband and I am wearing the hat of my best boy from grad school, the hat I put on sometimes when everything sucks, when everything blows. That hat makes me feel better about everything.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
All the Lights Guiding Me Home
Outside my window small planes are lifting into the night air. This new apartment is down the road from our town's minuscule airport--a place that boasts air traffic of the type that used to set down and raise up from Mankato's tiny airport, where Dan used to take me up and let me hold the controls in a plane no bigger than my car.
At my old apartment--the one I just left, the one in the giant Victorian house, the one with all those pretty hardwood floors, the one that had ceilings that leaked and leaked and leaked--I could hear the train coming up from Boston, coming down from Bangor. I could hear the long whistle in the mornings, the afternoons, the nights. And it comforted me. Back in New York, our house isn't too far from a set of train tracks, and at night I would lie in bed and stare up into the dark and listen to that train call its way home. That I could still hear that in Maine calmed me. No matter what was happening, no matter how crazy things would get, the train always came through, always announced itself with a long, sad wail.
I can't hear that train anymore. But I can hear the rough cough of a plane engine in the morning, in the night. I can hear the rumble of some single-engined twin propeller as it takes off and lifts into the air. It's not a bad sound, and it's not distracting, but it is there. And it's new. And it makes me lonelier than I could've ever expected.
I'm not saying I don't like my new apartment. I do. It's small and sweet. It's warm. It's cute. But this move has turned into something more than a move. These last few weeks have been awful and cruel for so many reasons--I'll talk about those soon--and there is this thing inside of me, living under my ribs, brushing up against the tender pink netting of my lungs, and it's making it hard to breathe.
But at least there's this: it's dark out when I drive home from school now, and when I come close to my apartment, when I come close to the airport, suddenly the whole world opens up in blue. The color blooms against so much darkness--it's the lights of the runway, and they're guiding me home. And sometimes when I look at those lights, when I see all that brilliant blue opening up against all that black, I feel like maybe I could lift up from the ground and move higher and higher, far away from everything that has kept me so anchored to this earth, to this state and its rocks and salt and sand, and that even if I lose myself in the dark for awhile I'll somehow be able to find my way back. This might be a small thought, but it seems a little like hope, a little like trust, a little like I know that I will find a way to breathe again.
At my old apartment--the one I just left, the one in the giant Victorian house, the one with all those pretty hardwood floors, the one that had ceilings that leaked and leaked and leaked--I could hear the train coming up from Boston, coming down from Bangor. I could hear the long whistle in the mornings, the afternoons, the nights. And it comforted me. Back in New York, our house isn't too far from a set of train tracks, and at night I would lie in bed and stare up into the dark and listen to that train call its way home. That I could still hear that in Maine calmed me. No matter what was happening, no matter how crazy things would get, the train always came through, always announced itself with a long, sad wail.
I can't hear that train anymore. But I can hear the rough cough of a plane engine in the morning, in the night. I can hear the rumble of some single-engined twin propeller as it takes off and lifts into the air. It's not a bad sound, and it's not distracting, but it is there. And it's new. And it makes me lonelier than I could've ever expected.
I'm not saying I don't like my new apartment. I do. It's small and sweet. It's warm. It's cute. But this move has turned into something more than a move. These last few weeks have been awful and cruel for so many reasons--I'll talk about those soon--and there is this thing inside of me, living under my ribs, brushing up against the tender pink netting of my lungs, and it's making it hard to breathe.
But at least there's this: it's dark out when I drive home from school now, and when I come close to my apartment, when I come close to the airport, suddenly the whole world opens up in blue. The color blooms against so much darkness--it's the lights of the runway, and they're guiding me home. And sometimes when I look at those lights, when I see all that brilliant blue opening up against all that black, I feel like maybe I could lift up from the ground and move higher and higher, far away from everything that has kept me so anchored to this earth, to this state and its rocks and salt and sand, and that even if I lose myself in the dark for awhile I'll somehow be able to find my way back. This might be a small thought, but it seems a little like hope, a little like trust, a little like I know that I will find a way to breathe again.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
At Least I Have Help Packing
Abbey is in love with the obstacle course that is my apartment right now. She loves dashing around boxes, over boxes, into boxes. She loves burrowing under the heaps of packing paper. She loves that things are messy. And things are messy. Very, very, very messy.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Today's Packing Playlist
Here are a few songs that have been playing all day to keep my I-really-hate-packing-my-God-I'm-such-a-whiner spirits up:
"Goodnight Rose" by Ryan Adams
One of my favorite songs of all time: "Santa Monica" by Everclear
And, finally, "Love Man" by Otis Redding. This song will play at my wedding--mainly because I want my reception to look precisely like this (MAKE IT HAPPEN, SCHWAB):
"Goodnight Rose" by Ryan Adams
One of my favorite songs of all time: "Santa Monica" by Everclear
And, finally, "Love Man" by Otis Redding. This song will play at my wedding--mainly because I want my reception to look precisely like this (MAKE IT HAPPEN, SCHWAB):
Monday, November 10, 2008
The Packing Continues, and So Does the Loud Music
Today, another packing breakdown. I just want to give up. All I want to do is go to bed. All I want to do is sleep until... well, until other people have swept through my apartment and moved all of my belongings--including my bed, with me on it--to the new place.
Why won't that happen?
Here's the song that got me through today:
Why won't that happen?
Here's the song that got me through today:
(It's "Shine On" by The Kooks)
Sunday, November 9, 2008
Slummy!
This is how I've spent the last three days: packing, correcting a really awful batch of argument essays (example sentence: Red Sox don't pay him to be a grumpy old piece of crap that does nothing but argues with umpires and coaches all the time!), and nursing a sick kitten back to health.
Abbey did not respond well to her first round of shots. She wouldn't eat, wouldn't stand, wouldn't even lift her head to look at me if I called her name. I had to carry her to her food dish and coax her to eat. She cried when I put her down and cried when I picked her up. It made me feel awful.
And that awful feeling carried neatly over into everything else I did today, and I slogged through my work thinking there was going to be nothing redeeming about the day, unless I wanted to count that really good grilled cheese I made on bread from the new bakery in town. But as good as that grilled cheese was--oh, buttery deliciousness!--the day seemed like a loss.
And it was. When I ran out of boxes during my marathon packing session, I went down to my car for the last few I'd pilfered from the campus bookstore. That's when I ran into one of my students, who just so happens to live in the same giant Victorian house I do. It was an unfortunate meeting because I was dressed like some kind of drunk hobo. I was wearing pink flip-flops; grey sweatpants that have a hole in the leg; a shirt decorated with a broken heart, which, when I bought it in 1997, I thought was profound; and a scruffy zip-up hoodie. I had no makeup on. My hair was lopsided and fluffy, pulled back under a headband.
"Hi!" my student sang out. She looked normal. She looked like she was wearing makeup.
I looked like I usually look when I plan on not leaving the apartment for a whole day: disgusting. "Hi," I said. "Please ignore this whole mess." I gestured to my ensemble.
She grinned and looked at the boxes I was clutching. "Are you moving?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said.
"Us too," she said.
"Oh?" I said. I didn't really know what the other tenants knew about our landlord's situation, but I was curious to see what he'd cooked up with the first floor residents.
"Yeah," she said. She blew out an irritated breath and then started telling me a story I knew very well. Our landlord was giving her family the runaround. He said he was going to come in and fix things, but he never got around to it. He wouldn't return phone calls. When things went bad, he wasn't around.
"My apartment leaks," I said. "Like, pours. In the kitchen, in the spare bedroom, in the bathroom."
She made a face. "And you saw that notice on the door, right?" she asked.
"What notice?" I said.
"From the water department," she said. "They came by to give notice that they're shutting the water off because he hasn't paid his water bill in forever."
Shutting the water off. Shutting the water off.
"When?" I asked.
"Wednesday," she said.
Wednesday is three days before I pack up the giant rental truck and haul my belongings to my new apartment. That's three days without a toilet and a shower. Thinking of that put me in a mild panic. I am, after all, a girl who likes water, loves water, appreciates water, needs water to look good in the morning. If he really doesn't settle up with the water people before Wednesday, I am screwed.
And that's what I got to stew about all day long as I wrapped my picture frames in newspaper, as I stacked my books into boxes, as I took down my curtains. I got to think about my asshole landlord, about how he won't return my phone calls, about how he's let this beautiful old house get so run-down water just pours from my ceilings when it rains, about how he frittered away all our security deposits and we'll never see that money again, about how I have to spend a surprising amount of money moving from one place to the next because he bit off more than he could chew. And now--as if I needed to feel any grumpier about this whole move, this whole week leading up to the move--I'll probably have to find creative ways to shower in the morning.
And the only thing that's getting me through it--the only thing that made me even a little bit happier today--was playing this. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over.
Abbey did not respond well to her first round of shots. She wouldn't eat, wouldn't stand, wouldn't even lift her head to look at me if I called her name. I had to carry her to her food dish and coax her to eat. She cried when I put her down and cried when I picked her up. It made me feel awful.
And that awful feeling carried neatly over into everything else I did today, and I slogged through my work thinking there was going to be nothing redeeming about the day, unless I wanted to count that really good grilled cheese I made on bread from the new bakery in town. But as good as that grilled cheese was--oh, buttery deliciousness!--the day seemed like a loss.
And it was. When I ran out of boxes during my marathon packing session, I went down to my car for the last few I'd pilfered from the campus bookstore. That's when I ran into one of my students, who just so happens to live in the same giant Victorian house I do. It was an unfortunate meeting because I was dressed like some kind of drunk hobo. I was wearing pink flip-flops; grey sweatpants that have a hole in the leg; a shirt decorated with a broken heart, which, when I bought it in 1997, I thought was profound; and a scruffy zip-up hoodie. I had no makeup on. My hair was lopsided and fluffy, pulled back under a headband.
"Hi!" my student sang out. She looked normal. She looked like she was wearing makeup.
I looked like I usually look when I plan on not leaving the apartment for a whole day: disgusting. "Hi," I said. "Please ignore this whole mess." I gestured to my ensemble.
She grinned and looked at the boxes I was clutching. "Are you moving?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said.
"Us too," she said.
"Oh?" I said. I didn't really know what the other tenants knew about our landlord's situation, but I was curious to see what he'd cooked up with the first floor residents.
"Yeah," she said. She blew out an irritated breath and then started telling me a story I knew very well. Our landlord was giving her family the runaround. He said he was going to come in and fix things, but he never got around to it. He wouldn't return phone calls. When things went bad, he wasn't around.
"My apartment leaks," I said. "Like, pours. In the kitchen, in the spare bedroom, in the bathroom."
She made a face. "And you saw that notice on the door, right?" she asked.
"What notice?" I said.
"From the water department," she said. "They came by to give notice that they're shutting the water off because he hasn't paid his water bill in forever."
Shutting the water off. Shutting the water off.
"When?" I asked.
"Wednesday," she said.
Wednesday is three days before I pack up the giant rental truck and haul my belongings to my new apartment. That's three days without a toilet and a shower. Thinking of that put me in a mild panic. I am, after all, a girl who likes water, loves water, appreciates water, needs water to look good in the morning. If he really doesn't settle up with the water people before Wednesday, I am screwed.
And that's what I got to stew about all day long as I wrapped my picture frames in newspaper, as I stacked my books into boxes, as I took down my curtains. I got to think about my asshole landlord, about how he won't return my phone calls, about how he's let this beautiful old house get so run-down water just pours from my ceilings when it rains, about how he frittered away all our security deposits and we'll never see that money again, about how I have to spend a surprising amount of money moving from one place to the next because he bit off more than he could chew. And now--as if I needed to feel any grumpier about this whole move, this whole week leading up to the move--I'll probably have to find creative ways to shower in the morning.
And the only thing that's getting me through it--the only thing that made me even a little bit happier today--was playing this. Over and over and over and over and over and over and over.
Yes, Frank. Yes, let's go to that bar in Bombay. I wouldn't mind having about fifty of whatever they're serving up.
Sunday, October 26, 2008
Moving to the Country
As many people know--mainly because they were forced to listen to me when I called them to cry--I did not take the news about my landlord's properties being foreclosed upon in a manner that could be described as "good" or "reasonable" or "in stride." I kicked around for a few days, feeling snarly and mean, feeling like I wasn't quite up to apartment hunting and, eventually, moving.
Even though just the thought of it made me tired, I started apartment hunting almost immediately after hearing I was a short time from being ousted. The hunting was a vaguely terrifying experience. It's important to realize there are interesting social and economic factors that weigh heavily on this area--one of the most profound being this area of Maine is home to a large population of Somali immigrants--and there are plenty of slumlords in the area who delight in taking advantage of very poor applicants who can barely speak English. I got to meet some of those slumlords during my apartment hunting. I got to see some of the apartments they try to pass off as livable. One night, after having been shown a dark and molding apartment, I came straight home and stood in the shower for twenty minutes.
It seemed hopeless. It seemed dire. It seemed like I would never find a spot to make my new home.
Of course, it wasn't all bad--I did see a beautiful apartment with turrets and balconies and a giant stone fireplace--but the whole process wore on me. I was sick of the constant stream of dialogue in my head. Could I ever move into this disgusting place? No way in hell. How about the beautiful place--can I afford it? Yes, but then I won't be able to travel as much. Will this last place be decent enough to take? No, it smells like dead body and cat urine. Will I ever love any place as much as I love this apartment? Doubtful.
I would wander my apartment at night, staring at the view out my kitchen window, looking down into the giant lilac bushes that bloomed in the spring, filling my entire apartment with the smell of purple. I started saying goodbyes to my hardwood floors, my built-in drawers, to my fireplaces, to my hideaway ironing board that folded out of the wall near the fridge. I said goodbye to everything I loved best.
But then there came a day--a single, beautiful day--where it appeared as though I wouldn't have to move anymore. Our landlord had struck some kind of deal with the bank, and the bank was going to now let all the renters stay. The next day, however, it was revealed that no substantial repairs were going to be made on the house, which meant that I--the only renter whose apartment was plagued with bizarre leaks in the bathroom and spare bedroom--still needed to leave, unless I wanted to continue to live with water pouring from my ceilings.
I did not.
At the end of this all I was exhausted. I was tired of the up-down-up-down-up-down cycle that insisted on following me around day to day. So I signed with an apartment complex out in the country. The apartment is a nice apartment, but I will lose a lot of space. Still, the apartment does have some nice things going for it. I will no longer have to deal with a private owner who does not answer his phone when I call to tell him, well, the bathroom ceiling has collapsed and I don't have a place to go to the bathroom anymore. I will have a dishwasher now, and my own washer and dryer. I will have a deck that overlooks woods, which will, in fall, be just as lovely as anything you could ever hope to see. Even Abbey will get to enjoy the outdoors from that porch.
Maybe I will paint. Maybe I will hang these. Maybe the whole moving process won't be as bad as I think it could be. In fact, on a morning like today's, when I walk into the kitchen to find the floor slick with water because there's a new leak, a leak that lets in rain over my sink and counters, I'm beginning to realize this move is probably way, way, way overdue.
Even though just the thought of it made me tired, I started apartment hunting almost immediately after hearing I was a short time from being ousted. The hunting was a vaguely terrifying experience. It's important to realize there are interesting social and economic factors that weigh heavily on this area--one of the most profound being this area of Maine is home to a large population of Somali immigrants--and there are plenty of slumlords in the area who delight in taking advantage of very poor applicants who can barely speak English. I got to meet some of those slumlords during my apartment hunting. I got to see some of the apartments they try to pass off as livable. One night, after having been shown a dark and molding apartment, I came straight home and stood in the shower for twenty minutes.
It seemed hopeless. It seemed dire. It seemed like I would never find a spot to make my new home.
Of course, it wasn't all bad--I did see a beautiful apartment with turrets and balconies and a giant stone fireplace--but the whole process wore on me. I was sick of the constant stream of dialogue in my head. Could I ever move into this disgusting place? No way in hell. How about the beautiful place--can I afford it? Yes, but then I won't be able to travel as much. Will this last place be decent enough to take? No, it smells like dead body and cat urine. Will I ever love any place as much as I love this apartment? Doubtful.
I would wander my apartment at night, staring at the view out my kitchen window, looking down into the giant lilac bushes that bloomed in the spring, filling my entire apartment with the smell of purple. I started saying goodbyes to my hardwood floors, my built-in drawers, to my fireplaces, to my hideaway ironing board that folded out of the wall near the fridge. I said goodbye to everything I loved best.
But then there came a day--a single, beautiful day--where it appeared as though I wouldn't have to move anymore. Our landlord had struck some kind of deal with the bank, and the bank was going to now let all the renters stay. The next day, however, it was revealed that no substantial repairs were going to be made on the house, which meant that I--the only renter whose apartment was plagued with bizarre leaks in the bathroom and spare bedroom--still needed to leave, unless I wanted to continue to live with water pouring from my ceilings.
I did not.
At the end of this all I was exhausted. I was tired of the up-down-up-down-up-down cycle that insisted on following me around day to day. So I signed with an apartment complex out in the country. The apartment is a nice apartment, but I will lose a lot of space. Still, the apartment does have some nice things going for it. I will no longer have to deal with a private owner who does not answer his phone when I call to tell him, well, the bathroom ceiling has collapsed and I don't have a place to go to the bathroom anymore. I will have a dishwasher now, and my own washer and dryer. I will have a deck that overlooks woods, which will, in fall, be just as lovely as anything you could ever hope to see. Even Abbey will get to enjoy the outdoors from that porch.
Maybe I will paint. Maybe I will hang these. Maybe the whole moving process won't be as bad as I think it could be. In fact, on a morning like today's, when I walk into the kitchen to find the floor slick with water because there's a new leak, a leak that lets in rain over my sink and counters, I'm beginning to realize this move is probably way, way, way overdue.
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