R.I.P. Just Killed the Cat

Word to Young Jeezy.

In my college apartment I had three roommates. I had different levels of “like” for each of them. Apparently, it’s not any different post-college. Now I only have one human roommate and two furry roommates. One I hate, one I tolerate and one I am just indifferent about. The dog is basically one of the best roommates I’ve ever had. I honestly forget he’s here. I also forget if he’s actually a “he.” But, it doesn’t even matter because he minds his own business, lays out on the floor melting from the heat and stays in the other room. In fact, the dog and I are a lot alike, that must be why he’s my favorite.

My least favorite roommate isn’t a cat from hell; he is the cat from hell. He is annoying, he won’t leave me alone and his favorite activity is trying to push my door open at night. When I was viewing the place I thought “Aw how cute! A kitty! Just like at home.” Then when my human roommate explained to me that he was there to kill the rats I thought “Aw how gross! A rat killer! But what a useful little buddy.”

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To Move and Be Moved Pt. 2: House Rules

Although moving is the definition evil, it’s all (sorta, kinda) worth it when you have a place to call your own and to call your home. When you are forced to move to a place you still have to call someone else’s home. Well, the suck factor of moving escalates.

When I moved to the “crash pad” that also happened to be in Brooklyn, I was in the middle of a real “you don’t actually live here” situation. All I expected was a place to sleep, a place to eat, a place to shower and at least one outlet where I could plug up my malfunctioning computer and get to the internet. What I actually walked into was a palace worth over a $1 million, (yes I looked it up), that I’m pretty sure appeared on an HGTV show. I didn’t know it was possible to own four floors in a brownstone in Brooklyn. I also didn’t know I would be in a space with a family of five and a dog. So needless to say this former broke college student and current broke college grad did not quite feel welcomed in this space. The family was nice enough but the fact that in two weeks I never received the WiFi password or  heard from them once I left a Thank You note with some Thank You dollar bills sealed that feeling. I spent most nights out exploring the city, having dinner, searching for WiFi and scouring Craigslist for a place to stay.

To Move and Be Moved Pt. 1: (Un)settling Down

There are very few things that I absolutely, utterly, down in the pit of my soul despise. Actually, that’s not true, there are a lot. But I am only going to name three.

1. Being so hot that my sweat glands turn into faucets and just pour out salty water from my face. (Yes, I realize that was disgusting but I know you now have a great visual).
2. Being abruptly woken up out of my sleep. My mom has been on the receiving end of many “What do you want?”‘s on mornings when I have asked to her to make sure I was awake. And my alarm clocks, my poor poor alarm clocks, deserve worker’s comp for everything I have put them through.
3. Having to move and never feeling comfortable.

Success & the City: The PRECURSOR

For approximately 400 billion years I’ve imagined how amazing it would be to live in New York. I would have a Carrie Bradshaw apartment, Carrie Bradshaw clothes, a Carrie Bradshaw closet, and a Carrie Bradshaw social life. (She could keep her love life, it was a little too messed up for me.) Okay, so maybe I haven’t always imagined how amazing it would be to live in New York. Maybe I’ve just always imagined how amazing it would be to live like Carrie Bradshaw. Regardless of what my real motives were for yearning for a life in the city, the person I saw on my very first day of my (better than Carrie Bradshaw’s) job gave me all the confirmation I needed to know that this is going to be an amazing chapter in my life.

No, it wasn’t Sarah Jessica Parker or her super adorable twins but a close second. Er…close third? Alright, no less than the fourth best person to see on my first day. It was Cynthia Nixon and her luck of the Irish red-headed youngest son. I couldn’t help but think this was a good sign. This third chapter of my life is going to be nothing less than stellar. All because I saw Miranda in the City!

ENDING NOTE: Um, New Yorkers, how often do you see her on the subway because I was the only one freaking out and that’s just plain not acceptable. Do better.