We Morphed Into Mole People

The neighbors were all looking me like I was nutso as I took pictures of the sky from my porch.

   Today is yet another gloomy, cloud covered day here in Washington. What else is new though? My daughter and I are used to this gloom, this constant cloud cover that brings with it oceans of rain. And my daughter and I are southern people, so once upon a time, this gloom was a real hardship for us. We had quite an adjustment to make. I had been living in Mississippi since I was 9, and when I was 19 (and pregnant, bah) I moved to Florida, which is where my daughter was born. We moved up to Washington when she was 3, and we have been here ever since.
   And while you think that we must have been long used to the weather of Washington, this is the first year that I have felt fully acclimated. Yes, my acclimation to this cloud covered, rain soaked land has taken almost eight years. But just think of the difference!
   In Florida, we do have hurricanes, so you would think that I would be used to heavy rain, but Washington's rain isn't all that heavy. The big thing is that the rain is constant. Florida's big rain is mostly seasonal, the rest of the time, rain is occasional. Here, one second you could be nice and dry, and the next second you could be getting pissed on by the heavens. There is no way to tell. Another difference is the sun. In Florida, a lot of times when rain did grace us, the sun would still be out, fighting the rain clouds for the right to dominate the sky. They were not wrong when they nicknamed Florida the Sunshine State. Compared to Washington, which is so gloomy that a certain author based her sparkle fairies (hmmm-hmmm, I mean vampires) here. The third major difference is the temperature. In Florida, during the summer it was only a matter of time before you hit the 100 degree weather. In Washington, hitting 90 degree weather sparks heat advisories, and no apartments come with air conditioning because that feature isn't considered necessary.
   My daughter and I were sunshine people, beach people, and we moved to a place where all the beaches are cold, and where the sun rarely graces us. We were used to 90 degree weather as a norm, and we moved to a place were 90 degree weather was considered way too hot. My daughter had never seen snow, and she saw snow for the first time when we moved here. Not only snow, but ice. I had never even heard of an ice storm, but I moved here and found myself walked to work in the aftermath of one, and got pegged in the head with an icicle for my trouble (which freakin' hurts). I didn't know if I would ever like this place, and I surely wasn't imagining that I would ever feel that I fit in.
   Except we both started to fit in, and this year, when we found ourselves facing 90 degree weather, and days without a drop of rain, I found myself stepping outside, shading my eyes even though I had sunglasses on and muttering, "I hate the sun." Whaaaaaaat?! Did I just say that? Not only that, but I found myself longing for 60 or 70 degree weather, and wishing for winter, formerly my most hated season.
   Then I was hit by the realization that I am not longer a sun-child. My move to the North had been a sort of an exile from the South, I needed a refuge from certain people who lived there, and I had family up here who could help me out. But if I moved back to the South this minute, I would be miserable. I couldn't take the heat, I couldn't take the constant sun in my eyes, and the humidity would just slay me. This is because, beyond all explanation and reason, I have morphed into a mole person. And if I have morphed, then I insist that my daughter has morphed with me. I will not be alone in my mole-ness. We are mole people now. 

Living On The Bottom

   Moving sucks, but this period of suckyness is a prelude to something better (hopefully): a new place. A new place to set up your crazy little family; hopefully, a new place better suited to whatever your needs are. And I am thrilled with my new place; a place for just me and my daughter, something I haven't had since I split with her dad. All my friends and coworkers and family can tell too; I have been blowing facebook up with random pictures of things in my apartment. They have gotten pictures of my linen closet, my bedroom closet, my fireplace, and a bunch of other mundane things that don't matter in everyday life and rate a 0 on the thrill factor. Oh, I know, but I'm going to keep posting pics, because right now these things rate a 10 to me.

   One of the things I am most thrilled about is the fact that my new apartment is on the first floor. The first thought that may come to mind is 'No Stairs' but this is not the real reason. Stretching back and looking into my past, those crappy teenage years that I tend to try to forget, shoving them into little box in my mind and nailing the lid down, there was an apartment on the second story. This was the apartment that my mom, my sister, and I lived in after my parent's divorce. And I'm going to talk to you today about the people underneath us. 

Example of a 20 floor (or more) apt

   We all hear those jokes about the people living above you having pogo sticks but the truth is that walls (and floors) of apartments are never going to keep every sound out. If you can't stand the sound of someone walking across the floor then you need to at least have an apartment on the top, because trust me, you are going to hear that noise in most apartments. I don't know about the actual buildings where there are 20 floors, but in most complexes, where housing is based on a fourplex design or something similar, you are going to hear noise. And seriously, do you really think the people around you are going to live like they are in the library? In their own homes? You need to buy a house if you expect that.
   The people bellow us, in those black teenage years of mine, are the type that needed a house, not an apartment. At the very least, they needed a top apartment, an offer they refused even when the apartment manager offered to let them switch free of fees. They hated us, the family that lived above them. Why? Because we breathed. Because we walked across our floors (heaven forbid.) We walked too loudly -- according to them. Where we supposed to tiptoe? Am I exaggerating? Sadly, no. They called management and complained every single time we vacuumed our floors. Mind you, in broad daylight in the afternoon, so no breaking of those silent 'curfew' hours that apartments have, when you really are not supposed to vacuum your floors.

Bang bang bang!

   And what did they resort to doing when their frantic calls to the office yielded no results? They would thump their ceiling (our floor) with their broom whenever they thought we were being too loud. Walk across the floor (bang bang bang), vacuum (bang bang bang), get in a fight with your sister (bang bang bang), wash dishes and do laundry (bang bang bang), and the list of what that woman would bang on her ceiling for went on and on and on. She was banging on the damn ceiling (our floor) every five minutes it seemed. Did she have any kind of a life? I don't think so. I think that banging on that ceiling was her greatest joy, truthfully. Added some zest and drama to her life. Unfortunately, that zest, that drama, was at my family's expense.
   I think that at first, the apartment managers thought we were the problem; we must have been neighbors from hell. That family underneath us must have been in that office twice a day at least, complaining about us. But the tables turned and the apartment saw the true colors of these people, these Noise Nazis. One day, we needed some serious repairs done. Our air conditioner was broke, and this was high summer in Mississippi, where the heat could (and did) reach the 100s. The apartment's repair men were in our apartment fixing our problem and (bang bang bang! bang bang bang!) breaks out underneath their very feet. They look at us, dumbfounded, and we can only shrug, because we've been living with this for the past year. Then there is a knock at the door. And guess who it is? The police. These jackasses had called the police and filed a noise complaint on us because of the repair men. And these men can testify to their bosses (the apartment managers) that we were not doing a thing: that all the noise was caused by themselves as they walked across the floor to look at the air conditioning unit. Oh, the stink that made. And those people-- they were gone not too long after, and we never heard the bang bang bang again.
   Yet this has made me leery of living in a top floor apartment. I don't mind noise above me, but I am not tiptoeing across my living room floor for anybody. And if I am excited and jumping up and down, I don't want to get slapped with a noise complaint; nor am I going to be the one to slap someone else with a noise compliant. (People above me: you are safe!) Yay, for a first floor apartment!!!

Where Is All This Stuff Coming From?

   So I've been packing, and packing, and packing some more. My daughter has also been packing, and is actually managing to be a great help. When she first asked, I let her but envisioned my needing to secretly repack every box because I didn't want a bunch of haphazardly thrown together boxes. She's really much more organized than myself, something that I should have remembered.

We've been busy girls, and we're running out of boxes!!!

   Yet in spite of all of this packing, we still have not managed to get all this junk in boxes. And I keep getting surprised by the things that I am finding. I have stuff stashed in the dark recesses of my closet that I don't remember ever seeing, much less buying. Where is all this crap coming from? And books. I know that I love books (BOOKS!!!) I am a book freak, and bookwyrm, and book stalker, certifiably obsessed with them. I have a Kindle, a Nook, and then there are the books that I just have to own, in hardcover, please. I need to see them on shelves, or I feel like something is missing in my little bookwrym of a soul. (Can you say biggest NERD ever?) And my daughter is the same way. So I expected a lot of boxes filled with books, but the problem is that I am packing and packing and packing them, and I still haven't found the end of them. I am finding them in closets, in dresser drawers, in the bathroom,  and under the bed; you name it, and I have books in it. It's that bad. And I swear, I think that they are breeding. That is the only explanation that makes sense, because why am I not able to find an end to them? They are never-ending!!! All I can say is they need to stop, books aren't supposed to breed.
   Another item that breeds? Chargers. I have charges that I don't even know what goes with them. And I'm terrified to get rid of them, because what if I need them? What if I find what the mystery charger belongs to? But where are they all coming from? And why, when you put one charger in a drawer, shut that drawer and walk away for a while, and then come back later -- why are they five more chargers in the drawer?! Someone explain this mystery to me? How can a charger breed when it is alone? I don't understand.
   But moving day is tomorrow, so I have to find an end to all these books and chargers tonight. 

Apartment Hunting (Yay, I'm Moving!!)

   Oh my lord. A nightmare. A veritable slew of worries, stress, and apartment manager ladies who give you the stink-eye when they discover the amount that you earn. (And you think you can afford to live here?!) Okay, I'm not that friggen poor, and I resent those looks. Don't even get me started on credit checks. A nightmare. My credit, as I have said before, is bad, but the only items in collection are unpaid ER bills from that time when I had no insurance. My student loans are in good standing, but they are high, which lowers my score, some kind of debt-to-credit ratio thing that I don't really get.
   I started looking a while back, but for the longest time, the apartment size that I wanted wasn't available. I remember one conversation with an office lady, which she attempted to have at the top of her lungs.
   Me: "I'm looking for an apartment. I would like to look at one of your one bedrooms or your small two bedroom floor plans."
   Her: "WE HAVE TOWNHOUSES! YOU WANT TO LOOK AT A TOWNHOUSE!"
   Me: "No, I would like to look at one of the smaller floor plans."
   Her: "COME LOOK AT A TOWNHOUSE!"
   Me: "I really am only interested in a smaller floor plan. Do you have a smaller apartment available?"
   Her: "YES! COME SEE OUR APARTMENTS!"
   Guess what she had available to show us when we got there? If you guessed townhouses, then you guessed right, Plus -- she had three other appointments scheduled at the same time. Really?! I think I deserve my own appointment slot. And what part of smaller apartment was hard to understand? My daughter and I don't need much space; also, I want a rent that I can easily afford. I don't want to be eating peanut butter constantly because that's the only food I can afford. If I have extra money because I have a lower rent, all the better. I have some expensive hobbies. I like to game, I like to go to the ballet, I like to travel, and don't get me started on the amount I spend on books. (BOOKS!!!) Plus, I like to eat. Good food, not peanut butter on crappy, cheap-ass bread.
   Well, after many attempts to view an apartment of the size and price that I wanted, I found one. I was ready too. That lady was probably wondering what the hell she got herself into. $150 holding fee? I'll be back in two minutes. Hell yes I'm putting that apartment on hold. I'd been looking for a month; I wasn't losing that place because someone came in and swooped it up from under me -- exactly what my sister did to someone else, by the way. Someone wanted the apartment she got, but they didn't put a hold on the place, so she gleefully swooped it up.
   But now was the nerve-wracking part. Getting approved. Gotta make 3 times the rent, they want good credit, good leasing record, and the list goes on. Well, I didn't have good credit, but I was willing to pay a bigger deposit, which is usually what they want. So I wasn't expecting to get a call from them saying I was not approved because I was breaking my lease. Also, they told the that this was somehow put onto my credit already. What?! No I wasn't, and why was something like that on my credit? (It wasn't. I don't know where they got that.)
   So off to my current home's office to get the paperwork saying that I'm not breaking the lease, which takes about 5 minutes because I wasn't breaking the lease,  and I bum a ride from my mom to the new place, all-in-all taking probably about 15 minutes. Imagine those people's surprise when I bust up in that office, paperwork in tow. Deny me? I don't think so.
   So the official move out date is the 11th, and I'm a ball of nerves because I won't feel that the apartment is really mine until the key is in my hand, the lease is signed, and my stuff is inside. Because anything that can go wrong, will go wrong :p
    Please, just let it go wrong with someone else.

The Awesome Box

   I've been packing in hopes that my application to move into an apartment will be approved. Packing for me is a way of positive thinking. And really, the only reason they could disapprove my application is credit. Mine is bad, but that is a song that probably every single parent could sing. It's hard when you only have one income; this is a two income world. And my credit isn't too bad; it's all hospital bills and student loans. The student loans are even all in good standing, but they make my debt-to-credit ratio high. I am a worry-wart, so as a way of keeping positive, I am packing. And I am packing things that I use practically every day -- the power of positive action.
   One of the things that  I am packing is my gaming equipment. I am a gamer; I don't know if you would call me hard core -- I take bathroom breaks and eat and sleep and go to work. I don't ignore my family over a game either. I'll never understand why some people do that. Games do not trump human contact. And I am never going to be the smuck who died because they gamed for 72 hours straight with no breaks. I mean, since giving birth I need to pee every two hours, and I need to eat. I am NOT going without food. But I do usually game daily, even if only for 30 minutes. And I've packed all of my gaming stuff. What am I going to do with myself until I move??!!
   As we have been packing, my daughter and I have been painstakingly labeling each and every box. We don't want to get into our new apartment and not know what is packed in each box. There are things that we are going to need right away, and there are things that can wait a little. Gaming stuff cannot wait. In reference to this, and in acknowledgement of the value of the items in the box, I have labeled my gaming boxes Awesome Boxes. Well, my daughter thought they needed to be labeled better than that. I don't see why, I think Awesome Box explains it all. If you have a box labeled kitchen supplies, and a box labeled awesome box, which one are you going to open first? If you answer kitchen supplies, my next question is-- How often do you lie and has this been a problem for very long? Of course you are going to open the awesome box, and what could be in an awesome box that was better than games, consoles, and equipment?

One of our labeled Awesome Boxes. 

   But my daughter took my sharpie from me and painstakingly made a list of what was in each awesome box. I have talked about our differences before, and this is one of them; my daughter is a little more orderly than I am; I tend to be chaotic. I suppose that this labeling is better, in the long run. Now I know what box has my PSP, and what box has the Wii. But they were all going to be opened on the first night of our arrival, regardless. The awesome boxes rule!