Remember
that time, not so long ago - oh wait, has it been A YEAR already? Anyway, back to that time, A YEAR AGO (my, how time flies when you're growing old and dejected) when we tried to move into an apartment, and it turned out to be the apartment of filth and disgustingness, and I yelled, screamed, and just generally lost my cool on the phone at about 400 different people, shouting things like "There is a UHAUL in our driveway RIGHT NOW, you useless bastards! CLEAN THIS CARPET AND FIND ME A PLACE TO LIVE HEY-SOOS I DESERVE MORE THAN THIS SAD SORRY EXCUSE FOR A PIT AND SOMEONE WILL PAAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYYYYY I SWEAR THAT YOU WILL PAAAAAAAAAAAAYYYYYYY FOR INFLICTING THIS MISERY UPON ME!" Remember that? (That's how I remember it, exactly.)
Well, that's pretty much how I'm feeling right now. Except without all the yelling and flushed cheeks and wringing of hands stuff. No, that's not true. There is much wringing of hands.
Last year, when the aforementioned apartment scandal happened, Brad and I were forced to find a place to live within a four hour period on a Sunday. A SUNDAY. The day when no one does ANYTHING, nothing is open, and for god's sake, people just do not answer the phone, unless it's to meet someone for breakfast at IHOP. And so we found the one lone apartment complex that actually answered the phone on a Sunday, and graciously rented us an apartment on a Sunday, and the apartment was centrally located between our workplaces, and had new carpet, even. And so we moved in, thinking "everything happens for a reason, tra la la, look at our nice apartment given to us by fate or God or The Universe or on accident, whatever, tra la lee." Until the first time our upstairs neighbors got drunk, played Merle Haggard followed by Boyz II Men followed by Tejano (nothing like an accordian at one in the morning to set your teeth on edge) and then beat each other up. That was our first sign. Signs number two, three, and forty-seven included the smashing of Brad's car window, the time some guy ran into my car at the gas station and drove away (hit-and-run style) and I came home to find his truck parked next to mine in the apartment parking lot, AND the fact that paying to live in the apartment month-to-month after our lease ended in May costs more than our
house of
perfectness did per month.
I can't even speak of that house without a tear in my eye, people. There is definite welling of tears happening over here right now. What were we thinking moving out of there?
So, now, after a year (A YEAR! MY LIFE IS SLOWLY BEING SUCKED AWAY! GOOD GOD, I CAN'T REMEMBER WHAT I DID LAST WEEK, EVEN!) of living in a marginally-better-than-poop-carpet-apartment*, we gave our notice at the beginning of the month. Meaning we're moving out at the end of the month. Meaning two weeks from now. If you've picked up on my bleak and desperate tone, or perhaps you've read the title of this entry, you might have guessed that we do not have a new place to live yet, OH MY GOD. And, in case you're wondering if I've ever heard of a little wonder called
Craigslist, the answer is YES, I see Craigslist more than I see my boyfriend. I can not stop hitting refresh on Craigslist every minute or so, as a matter of fact. The Craigslist, it will make you The Crazy, I'm telling you, especially all of the GD apartment locators and their <<<<<<<<'s and >>>>>>>>'s and their LIES, I tell you, LIES.
It seems appropriate to take a little break for Positive Thinking and Creative Visualization here, doesn't it? Okay, here we go:
Dear Hey-Soos,
Please. Please. Please help us find a two bedroom one bath home (a duplex would work, Lawd) somewhere in, around, or close to South Central Austin, with central heat and air (window units just won't do here in hot-as-Africa) and washer/dryer hookups and maybe a cute porch to sit on. Oh, and hardwood floors would be nice, and maybe a dishwasher and little window above the kitchen sink where I can look out at the world and tilt my head in contentment while doing the dishes, if it's not asking too much. You know, the kind of place that will love us AND our two cats, and fix stuff when it breaks and not more than three weeks later, and maybe throw lawn maintenence in as a bonus. Oh, and please let it be in our price range and maybe not so much on the more-than-four-car-payments-all-in-one-month side. That's all I'm asking for, Hey-soos. A home. A home that doesn't make me want to bang on my ceiling with a broomstick while screaming "Don't make me call the cops again, you crazies!" on a weeknight. A home that I will want to decorate this time. A home with good chi and stuff. Do you deal in Chi, Hey-Soos? In my world, I'd like to think so.
Love ya like a deity,
Lucy
*Yes, I just snuck the word poop in there, that's what living with a boy will do to a girl who previously wouldn't use any words starting with the letters P-O or P-U because they sound icky. Seriously, try thinking of any word (except purple, purple is okay) starting with P-U or P-O that doesn't make your skin crawl. (The word MOIST has the same effect.)**
**I can not be alone with this particular nuerosis. Can I?
So, yeah. My sister mentioned in the comments down there (comments that I read yesterday, how's that for avoidance?) on that silly thing I wrote forever ago that I have been stressed recently. YES. I have been stressed recently, and for the last four months now, pretty much. I wish that I had written about some of it, because that four month gap seems like empty space, looking back. Or no space at all, looking down the page. On the other hand, lots of stuff happened that I actually can NOT write about here, so remind me to tell you about it if I see you in person. Good stories, I swear. As for the rest of the "sorry I didn't write" stuff, please read
this entry by Jenfu. When I read it, I thought, YES. That's it EXACTLY. To quote:
Then somewhere along the way I decided that I had to write special essays, or something, and yet I couldn't edit them or work on them - they had to be first draft because this is just a dumb online journal but they had to be good because, well, they just had to, and then suddenly, with my dumb online journal, there was pressure! (imaginary) and fear! (dumb) and performance anxiety! (dumber) and it wasn't fun any more and then it was all over (over!). As it goes.
That feels vaguely familiar.
Lucy loves you |
