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.
- 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).
- 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.
- Having to move and never feeling comfortable.
Moving is awful. If you honestly find pure joy in moving all of your your belongings time and time again, I want to meet you. Just like triflin’ ol’ Paula Deen wants to meet people who have never said anything they wish they had never said. (But you obviously don’t wish you had never said it because “you is what you is”). But I digress…
As a young lass growing up on the West Coast, I only had to move a handful of times. And every time I did it wasn’t a huge move to a different state. So obviously when I got older I thought to myself “Hey, moving isn’t so bad. Why don’t you do it a thousand times in four years. AWESOME!” *Side eye to my younger thoughts*
The moment I realized that moving was an activity developed in the depths of Hell was at the end of my freshman year of college. I had only lived in that room for less than a year and it seemed idiotic to move all of my belongings 1.5 hours away only to move it BACK to the same area less than 3 months later. This is why my last two years of college I stayed in the same apartment and moved absolutely nothing absolutely nowhere. I had my own room, my own bathroom, my own ceiling fan and shared air conditioning that was sometimes too cold but hey, it’s better to be cold than to be dripping in sweat.
As you’ll soon read in several of these posts, I moved quickly. So I had to do one of the world’s worst activities in a third of the time. And the battle had just begun when I tried to find a place to stay in this great city. My first “place” was an ever so lovely hotel in Brooklyn. I knew I was doomed the moment I had to move my stuff in, one bag at a time. That was followed but the realization that I couldn’t even turn the TV on. (I am actually not even convinced it was a real TV, I am 99% sure it was plastic). And the day that I returned from work to find that my “Do Not Disturb” sign had been removed and my room had in fact been disturbed is when I began counting down the hours until my next move.
And the next move wasn’t as buttery smooth as I thought it would be. After searching and contacting people high and low prior to leaving for NY, I finally found a person who offered to let me crash while I got settled. I was ecstatic because I thought I could stay at this place until August, find my Carrie-like studio apartment, fill it with sidewalk furniture and have a grand ol’ time, (this was before my grave calculation mistake). The hitch in my fantasy was that I actually had not spoken to this person between getting the “Okay” and having to get up out of Hotel Nosy. So when we were able to speak (12 hours before I was scheduled to check out), my world came crashing down. I could only stay for 2 – 3 weeks. I wasn’t scheduled to get my first paycheck for another 4 weeks. And even with that first check, there’s no way I could afford a first, last and/or deposit on the charming studio apartment of my dreams! And that panic led me to this place. The place with the house rules I can’t quite agree to, the annoying cat who doesn’t know that I pay rent and he doesn’t and the 6 grueling months left on a verbal lease.