The Impossible Dream

In the past two weeks, the husband and I have been to CollegeTown four times. We have clocked well over 24 hours in the car, and heaven only knows how many miles. We have seen trailers on blocks currently rented by "collectors of things" (i.e., people who live with piles of garbage stacked around their beds). This taught us to always ask for pictures or drive by the property before going to showings. Driving by a different property, we saw a couple actually brawling in the street. This taught us that CollegeTown neighborhoods are not uniformly nice, and prompted the following conversation:
Husband: Oh my god, he knocked her down, didn't he?
Me: No, she threw herself at him and fell.
H: Is that why they [the person or people who lived in the place we had an appointment to see] had swords on the wall?
Me: Sssh, don't talk while I'm cancelling appointments.

We have planned ways to scrimp and allow us to pay more rent, only to open the door to CollegeTown's larger slummy apartments. Frankly, we are at the end of our ropes.

Some of you may not have gone apartment-hunting recently, or at least not in a college town. When you are a dog-owner, you tend to see the world of apartments in three tiers. Tier One is for those of you without a soul who choose to live without a furry ball of love. Sadly for us, you have access to the nicest apartments. I get this. I really do. My first off-campus apartment smelled like dog pee from the previous occupants the entire time I lived there, and honestly, I was probably lucky that that was the worst of the damage. College students often don't properly care for their pets. A pet who isn't properly cared for can ruin a place right-quick. So fine, no Tier One for our little family.

Here's the one that throws me though. Tier Two is the world of cats-only apartments. And that I don't get. I just don't. I like cats. Were the husband not opposed, I would own at least one cat, and it would be named after a poet (Auden if it's gray, Yeats if it's ginger, and I could go on but I won't), and I would be a crazy librarian with a variety of pets named after literary figures, and that would be grand. (By the way, Beckett is named after Samuel, the playwright, because you just don't name a dog after a poet.) So I am not against the concept of a cat in an apartment, but cats only? The fact of the matter is that dog waste is no worse than cat spray - one might argue the contrary, in fact. Even if you have a cat who does not spray, cats have an in-born instinct to scratch. It marks their territory and files their nails. It's a damn fact people; Wikipedia says so. At any rate, there are many nice apartments in Tier Two. But not for us.

Then there's Tier Three. If you are a landlord with more than a couple of rental properties, apparently your thinking goes like this: "Complex A is a shitbox. May as well allow dogs." I can see that hardwood floors and a 50-lb dog might be a bad combination. But if you have carpeted the place anyway, why not allow pets? Please, for the love of all that's holy, allow pets. If you're renting to undergrads, there's a good chance there's going to be an irremovable puke stain on the floor, and you'll have to change the carpet anyway. (Or promise to change it, hoping that your unsuspecting future tenant won't make you write it in the contract.) To be fair, Tier Three also includes places rented by landlords who only own a small number of properties. They don't have to turn over 100 units in August, and thus they feel they can take the risk on pets. Our hopes rest on these types of landlords, or on people trying to back out of a lease they signed in April. But those types of places get snapped up fast and are often expensive. Or else you get there, and you see exactly how much a camera can lie and exactly why a moderately priced place near downtown is still available.

So that's where we are. Looking at shitboxes, while trying not to weep openly. There are nice places, but our budget only stretches so far and we are searching from over two hours away. You will notice the complete lack of discussion on the topic of buying. I look at what we wanted a few short months ago, and smile fondly at how cute we were. We have not given up on sheep and chickens, but we are trying to be realistic. We have allowed our dreams for the future to be put on hold and our expectations for the present to shrink. We know we missed the prime time to find rentals. All we want for this year is a clean place, where we can let the dog out at night without investing in pepper spray and, come spring, we can begin to search for our dream home for next year. Please, Tier Three, won't you come through for us?

Hanging on the Telephone

The husband and I just spent a few days at his parents’ house. One of the things that always amazes me when I’m there is just how often their phone rings - at least 20 times a day. I can't imagine having that many conversations, mostly with different people, every day. Somewhere along the way, I have become a phone-phobe. I don’t know why. When I was in high school, other than family-enforced breaks for meals, I would pretty much spend all of my non-school waking hours on the phone with my best friend. Stephanie went to the same school as I did. We would see each other at lunchtime and in several classes. Somehow, though, it didn’t seem at all weird to spend nearly every waking minute with a phone attached to my ear, listening to her breathe as we watched Friends or The Real World or whatever godforsaken form of entertainment appealed to us at that moment.

Then we went to college and I spent a year or two working for my university’s survey research center. I would call up randomly generated phone numbers, and ask questions designed by various government, academic, and other non-profit organizations. Working there, I learned that a certain brand of citizen assumes that any information gathered about their life would be recorded and entered into a national database accessed by the liberals, and they have no problem shouting at you to make sure you know that they're onto you. While doing a survey designed by the admissions department of the school, I also learned that one gentleman thought that my school was populated by lesbian witches. He knew it was true because he saw a sign for a lesbian witch meeting on a bulletin board during his one visit there. As much as I wanted to find out where and when those meetings were (my hermaphrodite drug-user meetings were getting a little dull), I couldn’t ask him because I had to keep to a carefully worded script.

I still enjoy giving and receiving calls from friends and family, but I think the job conditioned me to associate most phone calls with hostility and anxiety. Which makes it especially painful that I am basically tied to the phone at the moment. I applied for a job in CollegeTown, and got an initial interview. It was a panel interview over the phone. Combine their speakerphone with my crappy cell phone reception (we don't have a landline here, a mistake I don't intend to duplicate), and you get a recipe for frustration. I am waiting to hear if they heard and/or liked enough of my answers to grant me a second interview. I am also constantly waiting for a call from the real estate office requesting a showing. So my cell phone is usually in my pocket, and I find myself visiting it if I leave it alone in a room for too long. And that, perhaps even more than the fact that I want to be able to afford to buy food once we've moved, is making me really wish we could sell this place and that someone will just hire me already.

Stop and Smell the Smoke

Dear fellow residents of my over privileged suburban neighborhood,

Hello! How are you? I wanted to take a moment to congratulate you on your financial windfall! No, I don't know you, at least not those of you who don't live in my building. But I know you must be really really rich because you spent six solid hours basically blowing up paychecks in a cloud of noisy smoke on Friday night.

I have to admit, I don't understand the point of fireworks. Well, professional fireworks I get. They can be quite pretty and impressive. But the ones you set off at home? They're expensive - more so in Illinois, since you have to drive to Indiana to buy them. And they're really not very pretty. And they leave smoke-scented garbage littered all over the street. Not to mention the potential for maiming.

To be completely honest, I never really cared one way or the other about them before we had the dog. I have to make a confession. Originally the dog didn't care about fireworks either. And then one year, we thought we'd see our town's fireworks display and since the dog had heard fireworks before without caring, we figured we'd bring him with. But apparently, the combination of the loud noise with being able to see the explosion caused something in him to snap. We went home feeling like the worst pet owners ever, and since then he has been terrified of fireworks.

Which kind of makes sense, when you think about it. Friday night was surreal. I am fortunate enough to say that I have never been in an actual war zone, but I have to imagine that our neighborhood sounded like one, with explosions literally every few seconds. I just don't get why this is how we celebrate our nation's birthday. To remind us of past wars? Frankly, who needs a war to take off limbs, when the combination of beer and explosives can do it right in your own backyard?

But I forgot about you, neighbors. I just have one question. If you honestly believe that midnight is a super time to grab another bottle of beer and blow some more stuff up, then why not do it in front of your house? Why come to the playground, which is, coincidentally, right in front of my house? The dog was already huddled in our closet, shivering violently. Did you really have to make him pee on my husband's shirt?

Also, while walking through the town's downtown yesterday, a woman in a cocktail dress burned me with her cigarette as I was walking by. It was an accident, but she didn't even know it happened, and I was so taken aback that I didn't even say anything until she had passed. It's just further proof that you all need to learn a lesson. So, neighbors, I'm taking away your lighter privileges. I don't care if you spent this month's mortgage payments on fireworks and cigarettes. You can spend the time cleaning up that mess you made. And if I hear any lip from you, I'm going to make you pay the dog's therapy bills.

Peaches come from a can...

Getting ready to move does funny things to your mind. We haven't even got to the point where we're deep in the throes of packing (which are less sexy than the throes of passion, but feature just as many noises), and we're already starting to think of things in terms of boxes. As in, that dictionary is like a third of a box; why don't we sell it?

Selling books is something we haven't done before, but this move, we were determined to cull the collection a bit. We have made over $200 selling books. This is really cool and exciting until you stop to think about how much we paid for them initially. We have decided not to do that, and so we're still excited. We are down to two bookshelves, the books in our built-in cabinets, and our cookbook collection, which for us is downright paltry.

The alternative to selling is, of course, donating, and we've done an awful lot of that lately too. Everything is up for grabs. The bigger an item is and the closer it gets to go time, the more tempting it is to get rid of. The ice cream maker was even considered. It's got to be about a quarter of a box, especially since it's an awkward shape and nothing can be put inside of it. In the end, it got to stay because it provides sweet, delicious, homemade ice cream, and what other appliance does anything that cool? (Immersion blender, I'm looking at you.)

Ultimately it doesn't matter. We have so much stuff, and we are people who try to keep our lives as simple as possible. We don't have knick knacks. But we do have a couch, and three chairs, and a loveseat, and two desk chairs, and two bookshelves, and a bed, and a mattress, and box springs, and a dresser, and a night stand, and, well you get the idea. The husband was telling me about a guy at Columbia College who was doing some sort of project documenting his efforts to only have 100 things. Food didn't count, I don't think, nor did things built into his home (the toilet, for example). But just think of all the things you need just to eat a meal: silverware, plate, clothing. If you count each thing as a single item, it adds up fast. I'm sure it must be a freeing way to live. I know we've been trying to move in that direction, but I don't think we'll ever get that far. Although I might change my tune on moving day. I bet you fit all 100 things in, like, 5 boxes.

By the way, do any of you remember the band The Presidents of the United States of America? Their big hit was "Lump" but they also had a minor hit in "Peaches". Every time the husband and I talk about moving to the country, in my head I have to add "Gonna eat me a lot of peaches." This isn't doing good things to my psyche. Just thought I'd share.

Things I Have Been Doing Instead of Blogging

1.) Making peace with the overwhelming presence of termites. They are confined to our back stairway, completely external to the actual unit. Thanks to them, we might get a nicer, less moldy and horrifying back stairway. So yay termites? Well, maybe not, but at least they're not eating the floor beneath me. (Knock on non-termitey wood.)

2.) Revising my novel. Back when the husband and I were not getting lucky in Kentucky (we had sex, mind you, but that was about the only positive thing we had), we did this thing called National Novel Writing Month (or NaNoWriMo to the cool kids). We did not do it in the official month of November, but we did it, and both produced a novel. The husband hated his, said it wasn't cohesive, and used certain plot elements in the jottings that he does when he is in a writing mood. Mine was pretty cohesive, actually. And not altogether bad.

The thing about NaNoWriMo, though, is that you have to write a certain number of words (1,500, I believe) every day for a month. Every. Single. Day. So towards the end, I started to get a little bit punchy and just throw in elements of my own life. I have been meaning to go back to it for a while now, and this period of intentional unemployment seemed as good a time as any. Honestly, it's not awful. If all goes according to plan, I'll finish revising it in the next few weeks, and maybe, possibly, hopefully send query letters to agents. I hesitated to share this one, but a little peer pressure wouldn't hurt here, so don't be afraid to nag me.

3.) Knitting far overdue socks.

I'm pretty pleased with how they turned out, but they took absolutely forever. I went for weeks without working on them because they pissed me off so much. But now they're done, and they're pretty, so yay. Onto the next pair. These are starting off late, so we'll see when they actually get done.

4.) Losing all sense of time management. When I started, I had lists every day, and I got shit done. Somehow I lost that in the past two weeks or so. I am much like the children whom I used to lead in storytime. I need structure. I need someone to say, "Hey, just a few more minutes of cover letter time, and then we'll do a story!"

5.) Not getting employed or selling a condo. I am trying to stay upbeat and positive, so I'll say no more there.

Why I Can't Stop Crying

I don't usually blog while crying. This isn't my diary; it's a public forum, even if my public is somewhat limited. People don't want to read about whatever spat the husband and I just had, at least not until the point when I gain some perspective and see a little bit of humor. Today, I am making an exception. If I waited till I stopped crying, it might be a very long time indeed before I posted.

You may remember that we're selling our condo. On Sunday, we had an open house. Only two or three people came, but that's not why I'm crying. We found out that our buzzer is broken, but that's not why I'm crying either. That evening, while I was finishing dinner and the husband was talking on the phone to a friend, he started noticing little bugs with big wings. They were all in the vicinity of the south wall of our living room. They looked a bit like ants, so we were a bit worried, but we killed all the ones we saw, and didn't find any more. All was right with the world.

Until today. In the past hour, I have killed at least 15 of these little bugs with big wings. And now they are along the north wall of our office. I put some rubbing alcohol in a bowl and dropped a few in, and googled "ants big wings". And guess what? Our ants? Not ants at all. In fact, it looks very likely that our ants are termites. Termites, you see, have big wings when they go out to seek love and shelter. They will shed the wings after mating, and then settle down to lead a happy of life of destroying the lives of wood-owning humans. I have already found two with no wings, and am hopeful that they are genetic freaks and not freshly sated lovers. Yes, that's right, I am at a point where I am just hoping that the swarming insects in my house haven't gone all the way yet.

They may or may not have been brought in through the cocoa shell mulch that our slovenly neighbors purchased and left in the main entryway. They may or may not be the kind of termites that eat houses. (Apparently there are kinds that don't). Does it really matter? Would you buy a condo with termites crawling in it, if the owners promised that the termites were just visiting and totally didn't want to eat the beautiful vintage wooden hutch or the gorgeous hardwood floors? Oh, and by the way, your visitors will have to throw rocks at your windows to let you know they want to come in. But really, the place is cute!

I am trying to stay calm. The internet has led me astray before. The husband is still at work, and there is a chance he will come home and convince me that I'm loony. But I've killed five of these things while typing this, so I think we might have some kind of problem regardless. So I'm sorry to blog while crying, but you know what? It's my decaying condo, and I'll cry if I want to.

Weirdest thing ever? You decide.

People, I just saw something so weird, I just learned how to embed YouTube videos so that I could share. Check this shit out.



So that's Mark Bittman (the ever so awesome food columnist from the New York Times), Mario Batali (the red-faced, Crocs-wearing, Iron Chef-competing TV chef), Claudia Bassols (the, well, I don't know what she is, but she's pretty and seems to be foreign), and Gwyneth freaking Paltrow (dude, if I need to tell you, you should probably not be wasting your time on my plebeian ass). On PBS. On a reality show. That takes place in Spain.

The preview (in case you don't watch the whole weird thing) features Michael Stipe and an architect who the husband would have recognized immediately but I didn't. Am I alone in wishing that this was on right now so that I could stare at it in joyous wonder? It's just so weird!

Full blog post in the works, by the way. I was out of commission with a really bad cold for the first part of my first week of freedom. When my sinuses get pissed off, they pin me to the couch.