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.
When I found this place I was at a point of desperation. Well, more desperation. The price was right-ish, it was furnished and had internet. Of course for over $100 more for what I paid for in my college apartment I had to share a bathroom, not have a living room and live with someone 2 – 3 times older than me. In comparison to the neighborhood I should have never stepped off of the train into, it was perfect. So within days I stopped by again to drop off my deposit. And had I not needed to move so quickly, I would have kept that money order for the next place.
The problem started with hair. (Actually it started with the smell of the cat and dog I didn’t notice the first time). As a young natural lady, and an observant person in general, I notice when people want to say something about my hair. So as I am writing down all of the rules that she expects me to abide by, she stops to tell me one very important rule. To make sure I don’t leave hair in the bathroom. Well obviously, no one wants to shower in hair, just like I didn’t want to move into a room with cat hair, (but I did). So although this request was perfectly reasonable, she went on a 10 minute schpeel about how girls before me would forget and blah blah blah. I didn’t care. What I did care about was that I had worked from 9:00 am – 6:00 pm and I wanted to eat and go to sleep.
As I was finally leaving and walking down the steps I have come to loathe, she called me back to remind me once more of the hair.
I was not moving in that night and to my knowledge I did not leave puffs as hair as I walked through the apartment. So why was it necessary to beat the dead horse? Oh yeah, *looks up at mini twists*.
Upon my move in, I have been BEYOND careful to pick up every dark, curly hair that happened to be in the messy and moldy bathroom. And today, when all three of my most hated things happened on my 1 out of 2 days off. I saw a clearer picture of what I was going to have to deal with for the next 6 months. It started with how the exterminator comes once a month and needs to go in my room. Fair enough, until I found out 10 minutes later that the exterminator had ALREADY come and ALREADY been in my room. I responded with a “Great! I plan to clean and organize today.” In my head I continued with a “…sorry I have a job that requires me to work 40 hours a week for the first time in my life while trying to adjust to living in a brand new state on my own and survive off of the $8.15 currently sitting in my bank account.” According to her she knows I’m busy, but she needs it a little more organized. Which I find quite ironic with the way the rest of the apartment looks and smells. And once more that I need to remember about the hair and another lovely anecdote about her former male roommate who left his facial hair everywhere, and oh, it’s not anything against me personally. And with that statement I’m sure I gave her a look that rivaled our amazing First Lady’s side eye. I asked wherever did she find this hair she can’t seem to stop talking about. Apparently the exterminator found hair when he came in the room, (this is when I found out he had already been there). Furious, but remembering that I’m broke and living a dream I replied by telling her I didn’t know anyone would be in there or I would have cleaned beforehand.
And this is where I become confused, irate and unsettled. What exactly am I paying for each month? Does my rent not come with privacy? Respect? Respect of privacy? I do understand I was spoiled in my living arrangements before, but the only things I DO own in this city is what I brought in my two suitcases, bag, pillowcase and backpack. That is mine. That is what I feel like I can drop hair balls on whenever I want. That is what I expect to be left alone. But expectations are apparently the root of all evil for a reason. Although I still believe moving is. Only 6 more months until I can hopefully paint my own private and respected walls with Carrie Bradshaw blue.