Part Two

The move progresses.

Unfortunately, not at the happy and problem-free pace one would hope for.

Do you remember Mr normal, non-creepy, drama-free, chill dude from last week?  I called him up and said I liked the house, liked the neighborhood and would like to move in.  You know what he said?  Nothing.

He didn't answer the phone.  Nor did he return my message.  Not the first one, not the second.  Neither did he answer my e-mail.  *rolls eyes*  Honestly, people.  It's a roommate situation, not a date.  As a friend of mine said, "he turned me into a psycho ex-girlfriend," making me call all the time, waiting for some crumb of attention that's never going to come.  Tell me men, how hard is it to just say, "no" or "the room is already rented"?

Anyway, that was a disheartening experience.  The first place I saw where I could really imagine myself living, and he didn't want me.  Even worse, he couldn't bother to tell me he didn't want me around, so I wound up wasting four whole days of finding another space - putting me into panic mode instead of ahead-of-the-game mode.  But find another space I did.

It's a bit more expensive than the first place, and it's in a snootier part of town, but it's sooooo cute!  It's the kind of cute where I might be forced to post pictures once I move in.  The landlord believes in colour, so he's painted the walls with strong bold colours - each room is different.  And he upgraded the joint to a state where HE would want to live, not just a state where it's livable.

There are skylights.  Two of them - and one of them is going to be over my bed.  My BED people!  He closed in the patio in order to get more room.  There's a walk-in closet and tiled floors.  It's also pet-friendly.  I am a happy Venus.  I made three trips to Phoenix, saw about twenty places, and put over 800 miles on my car in order to find the right fit.  I deserve skylights, dammit.

On the other side of the coin, the packing progresses on pace.  As do the daily asthma attacks brought to you by the letter D (for dust).  My groovy, fantastic friend (GFF) boxed up my kitchen yesterday.  All the cupboards are empty, and I've been attempting to empty out my cleaning supplies on each new surface as it is uncovered. 

I've been forbidden to purchase anything edible, and have been given instructions to eat out of my fridge or off the few dry goods I was allowed to keep on the counter.  I'm trying to approach it like a stay at a Residence Inn, but it's beyond weird to walk into my kitchen and see it so bare.

I have a suitcase packed - out of which I'm living.  My cat is FREAKING OUT and my bathroom is stripped clean of all girly things.  All my books have found a box to inhabit and I was ordered to return all checked-out books to the library and NOT to pick up any more because if I get them, I'm going to read them.  Ummm, yeah, no.  I mean, yes, of course I'll read them.  That's the point.  But, she thinks I'll read them instead of packing while not under her eagle eye.  She is right.  But if I don't read, I go crazy.  So I couldn't agree to that latest edict.  But I did pick up the pace on the solo packing to prevent getting in trouble.  Yes, I'm scared of her. 

The movers are going to come by on Sunday.  My first-born has already been promised, and after GFF packed my kitchen I've also pledged my second-born, so the movers are going to have to settle for good, old-fashioned legal tender, but I have a feeling they'd prefer a limb instead.  Or maybe two, both an arm and a leg.  I researched them though, and they get high marks for customer satisfaction, plus they were upfront about their quote and I'm willing to believe that they won't screw me over.  Still, I'll be a one-armed, one-legged, childless wonder when this is all done.

In other news, I broke a tooth last week.  I haven't gotten in taken care of because I can only handle one emergency at a time, and right now moving is taking up all my stress.  I don't have the effort for dental stress too.

The moment my eagle has landed in the new home, I get to find a dentist.  Ugh.
Make that a one-armed, one-legged, childless, toothless wonder.

 

 
 
Just finished: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society
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