So that thing? In that movie? That movie that I love? A "case of the Mondays?" IS EXACTLY WHAT IS HAPPENING TODAY.
This has been one of the longest Mondays in a loooooong time. Yes, long enough to warrant five extra "o"s. I have this horrible habit in the mornings of not wanting to wake up. I never used to mind it, but now that my baby sleeps until I enter her room and peel her body from her blankets, now that my linens are regularly cleaned due to owning a washer and dryer, now that my bed is filled with the furnace that is my girlfriend, I don't like leaving the bed. It's not a mad rush to wake up and get the day over with, it's a love of groggily rolling over and kissing the shoulders of someone I love; an appreciation of a quiet house, clean and settled, safe and warm, a house that surely enough, has turned in to my home; a peace that settles over me, a knowing my baby is dreaming, starting to roll around and mumble, an assurance that I am safe and loved. And I'll admit that even though I love my job, I do wish I had more days in bed past five in the morning.
I rolled out of bed thirty minutes after the first alarm (4:55a) and realized I had no time for a shower. Because, you know, there's mandatory computer time in the morning and YES MY COMPUTER TIME IS USUALLY MORE IMPORTANT THAN A SHOWER. I read cnn.com, check the weather, check my email and facebook, and then I can go about my day.
I got to work and we had an incredibly busy day. This is a huge relief. Busy is waaay better than bored, and business enables me to have a job. But, it was a very long Monday. That's all I'll say about that.
So even though I didn't write about any lake adventures, I did update. This window has been open for two hours and tomorrow I have some legal matters that need to be taken care of. My mom should be home soon, and Emily loves to wiggle her butt.
I'll conclude with a conversation I had with Emily today on the car ride home:
Emmy: Mommy, how was your day at work?
Me: Rough, baby.
Emmy: That sucks.
Me: Yeah.
Emmy: Well, next weekend you can be a kid and The Girlfriend can be a kid and I'll be a grown-up, so remember, don't take your shoes off at school.
Me, laughing: Ok. What are you going to do when you're a grown-up?
Emmy: Work and make money and pick you up from school and hug you and kiss you and pick The Girlfriend up at school and make her mac and cheesearoni and watch her wiggle her butt and make more money and go shopping and watch a lot of Hannah Montana and never tell you it's tool late to watch Hannah Montana because I'll be the grown-up so YOU can go to bed and I'll watch Hannah Montana and eat mac and cheesearoni all night.
Me: ...
Emmy: That's how things should be, you know.
Showing posts with label the girlfriend. Show all posts
Showing posts with label the girlfriend. Show all posts
Jun 8, 2009
May 24, 2009
I'm not very PC.
On Friday The Girlfriend took me on a super secret surprise date. I got home from work and was told to pack an overnight bag. Emily spent the night at a friend's house.
We drop Emily off and get on the road. After about three hours, we end up in Laughlin, Nevada. It was awesome! I had no idea, and The Girlfriend pulled it off beautifully. She made reservations at a hotel, told me what to pack in my bag, got good prices, everything. It was, simply, awesome. I've been desperately needing time away from real life and this was the perfect thing. And, to add to it, to be able to spend that time away from real life with The Girlfriend was awesome.
Real life has a tendency of weighing down on us, as I'm sure it does on all people. Like, oh shit, we've been so busy doing all the things that need to be done that we haven't had a kiss longer than four seconds in two weeks. That kind of stuff. And frankly, it sucks. I'm thrilled that we got to go to Laughlin, because neither of us had any worries. I was so thrilled to have a night to just the two of us, so thrilled that it was a night we were just focused on each other, and in a place that was away from the small town in which we live, that I couldn't shut up about it. Because in our small town, you can't go ANYWHERE without seeing five+ people that you know. It was wonderful not to have to pretend to be interested in other conversation. It was wonderful to just be with her.
We started out walking down "the strip" just looking at the different places. I guess this place is supposed to be a mini Las Vegas. Size wise, if Las Vegas was as big as a 44 oz drink, Laughlin would be a half a shot. But it was still awesome.
We began walking to the start of the strip to a casino called The Riverside, which is where Natalie works. We stayed there for about two hours looking for Nat and playing some slots, but the amount of creepy men was a little overwhelming. So we meandered next door to The Aquarius, where I made ten dollars turn in to two hundred dollars and got carded about twelve times. From there we did the River Walk (all the casinos are on the Colorado River, and there's a walk that connects them all). It was beautiful. It was about midnight and there were ducks, and fish, and all sorts of couples standing dreamily with their arms around each other's backs. We stopped in at Edgewater, but left pretty quickly. The Girlfriend got on a blackjack table and didn't win anything, but didn't lose anything. I wanted to go to The Colorado Belle, but it was getting late and I also wanted to get back to our room. How cool does that place look though?
I would like to interrupt this timeline of events to discuss the different variety of people that can be seen at casinos. So far, it's second only to the outfits one can see on Jerry Springer. There are the old women, with huge boobs and fantastically orange tans. They walk around in very low cut dresses and shout things loudly, things like "OH MY GOD YOU SLUT! THIS PLACE IS SO FUCKING BUSY!" They shout in the hopes of getting attention from younger men, refusing to give up on their glory days when their boobs were real, perky, and their smiles were genuine and not surrounded by wrinkles. These women remind of of the Real Housewives of Orange County. Look it up.
Then there is the next group of women, the older women who don't go to surgery, but simply to "young" clothes. There was one woman who had obviously been through several pregnancies. She was probably sixty or so, and she was wearing the TIGHTEST jeans ever. The jeans had bling embellishments on the back pockets and came up to about hip level. The shirt she paired with these jeans was a midriff bearing tshirt of a baby blue color, with more bling embellishments spelling out the words "hot mama." In between the tshirt and jeans was the result of all the pregnancies, the skin that is wrinkled, leatherlike, that was hanging over the jeans. She was walking around shoving her stomach out at men and making lewd comments. (disclaimer: I obviously have a baby. But I don't subject people to the stomach that used to be lovely that was ravaged by pregnancy. It's called decency.)
The next group of women: The gold diggers. The young women who may or may not have had breast implants whose legs are still beautifully tanned and whose hair is perfect. Their eyes are dead as they drape themselves over forty-seventy years old, the ones that grimace when these men playfully grab their asses and talk about them like cattle to the card dealers. "See this one? Her ass is so high and you should see how she can make it move. Come on, baby, show the man that thing your ass does." Disgusting. And what's worse is that these girls think they're really on top of the game, but these men in Laughlin, Nevada aren't even real sugar daddies. They're disgusting men with a little more money than is normally seen. Which is why they hang out in Laughlin, instead of, say, Las Vegas or Chicago or somewhere with class.
Moving on to the old ladies, who I actually love. The ones who know they aren't hot and aren't there to be hot. They're there to play the slots and laugh with their cigarette voices, the ones that dance around when their nickel turns in to twenty dollars, with blue eyeshadow up to their eyebrows and a story for anyone with an open ear.
Moving on to the men. I saw more men with tight Wranglers, big pot bellies and unwashed wifebeaters tucked in to their wastes that I almost puked. The majority of these men were at The Riverside, and they walked around swinging their hips, thinking they were still twenty year old cowboys that were attractive. When instead, they are fifty year old men who are just plain creepy. Their unwashed mullets, slicked back with baby oil and their armpit hair covered with deodorant, their faces that lit up at the sight of the young gold diggers and their lewd, toothless words when the young gold diggers denied them, just, yuck. They were gross and were one of the main reasons I wanted to leave that casino.
The second group of men were the guys who were trying to look rich. The ones who were loud, always shoving out a lighter to girls, wearing blazers of different colors and shoes that were shined to the point that they almost looked nice, these men were trying to be high rollers, slipping off quietly when they ran out of money.
There was also a huge selection of hombres. That's what I call them. Young boys and old boys that wear tube socks to their knees, long shorts and clean wifebeaters, with gold chains and shaved heads, leering faces and the total confidence that This Look, This Look is the Way To Go. Yeah. Creepy.
I have so many more descriptions, so many more observations of Casino Wear, but I really have to pee and I fear that this post is long enough. If your eyes aren't bleeding, you're good.
Now, what are you doing for Memorial Day?
We drop Emily off and get on the road. After about three hours, we end up in Laughlin, Nevada. It was awesome! I had no idea, and The Girlfriend pulled it off beautifully. She made reservations at a hotel, told me what to pack in my bag, got good prices, everything. It was, simply, awesome. I've been desperately needing time away from real life and this was the perfect thing. And, to add to it, to be able to spend that time away from real life with The Girlfriend was awesome.
Real life has a tendency of weighing down on us, as I'm sure it does on all people. Like, oh shit, we've been so busy doing all the things that need to be done that we haven't had a kiss longer than four seconds in two weeks. That kind of stuff. And frankly, it sucks. I'm thrilled that we got to go to Laughlin, because neither of us had any worries. I was so thrilled to have a night to just the two of us, so thrilled that it was a night we were just focused on each other, and in a place that was away from the small town in which we live, that I couldn't shut up about it. Because in our small town, you can't go ANYWHERE without seeing five+ people that you know. It was wonderful not to have to pretend to be interested in other conversation. It was wonderful to just be with her.
We started out walking down "the strip" just looking at the different places. I guess this place is supposed to be a mini Las Vegas. Size wise, if Las Vegas was as big as a 44 oz drink, Laughlin would be a half a shot. But it was still awesome.
We began walking to the start of the strip to a casino called The Riverside, which is where Natalie works. We stayed there for about two hours looking for Nat and playing some slots, but the amount of creepy men was a little overwhelming. So we meandered next door to The Aquarius, where I made ten dollars turn in to two hundred dollars and got carded about twelve times. From there we did the River Walk (all the casinos are on the Colorado River, and there's a walk that connects them all). It was beautiful. It was about midnight and there were ducks, and fish, and all sorts of couples standing dreamily with their arms around each other's backs. We stopped in at Edgewater, but left pretty quickly. The Girlfriend got on a blackjack table and didn't win anything, but didn't lose anything. I wanted to go to The Colorado Belle, but it was getting late and I also wanted to get back to our room. How cool does that place look though?
I would like to interrupt this timeline of events to discuss the different variety of people that can be seen at casinos. So far, it's second only to the outfits one can see on Jerry Springer. There are the old women, with huge boobs and fantastically orange tans. They walk around in very low cut dresses and shout things loudly, things like "OH MY GOD YOU SLUT! THIS PLACE IS SO FUCKING BUSY!" They shout in the hopes of getting attention from younger men, refusing to give up on their glory days when their boobs were real, perky, and their smiles were genuine and not surrounded by wrinkles. These women remind of of the Real Housewives of Orange County. Look it up.
Then there is the next group of women, the older women who don't go to surgery, but simply to "young" clothes. There was one woman who had obviously been through several pregnancies. She was probably sixty or so, and she was wearing the TIGHTEST jeans ever. The jeans had bling embellishments on the back pockets and came up to about hip level. The shirt she paired with these jeans was a midriff bearing tshirt of a baby blue color, with more bling embellishments spelling out the words "hot mama." In between the tshirt and jeans was the result of all the pregnancies, the skin that is wrinkled, leatherlike, that was hanging over the jeans. She was walking around shoving her stomach out at men and making lewd comments. (disclaimer: I obviously have a baby. But I don't subject people to the stomach that used to be lovely that was ravaged by pregnancy. It's called decency.)
The next group of women: The gold diggers. The young women who may or may not have had breast implants whose legs are still beautifully tanned and whose hair is perfect. Their eyes are dead as they drape themselves over forty-seventy years old, the ones that grimace when these men playfully grab their asses and talk about them like cattle to the card dealers. "See this one? Her ass is so high and you should see how she can make it move. Come on, baby, show the man that thing your ass does." Disgusting. And what's worse is that these girls think they're really on top of the game, but these men in Laughlin, Nevada aren't even real sugar daddies. They're disgusting men with a little more money than is normally seen. Which is why they hang out in Laughlin, instead of, say, Las Vegas or Chicago or somewhere with class.
Moving on to the old ladies, who I actually love. The ones who know they aren't hot and aren't there to be hot. They're there to play the slots and laugh with their cigarette voices, the ones that dance around when their nickel turns in to twenty dollars, with blue eyeshadow up to their eyebrows and a story for anyone with an open ear.
Moving on to the men. I saw more men with tight Wranglers, big pot bellies and unwashed wifebeaters tucked in to their wastes that I almost puked. The majority of these men were at The Riverside, and they walked around swinging their hips, thinking they were still twenty year old cowboys that were attractive. When instead, they are fifty year old men who are just plain creepy. Their unwashed mullets, slicked back with baby oil and their armpit hair covered with deodorant, their faces that lit up at the sight of the young gold diggers and their lewd, toothless words when the young gold diggers denied them, just, yuck. They were gross and were one of the main reasons I wanted to leave that casino.
The second group of men were the guys who were trying to look rich. The ones who were loud, always shoving out a lighter to girls, wearing blazers of different colors and shoes that were shined to the point that they almost looked nice, these men were trying to be high rollers, slipping off quietly when they ran out of money.
There was also a huge selection of hombres. That's what I call them. Young boys and old boys that wear tube socks to their knees, long shorts and clean wifebeaters, with gold chains and shaved heads, leering faces and the total confidence that This Look, This Look is the Way To Go. Yeah. Creepy.
I have so many more descriptions, so many more observations of Casino Wear, but I really have to pee and I fear that this post is long enough. If your eyes aren't bleeding, you're good.
Now, what are you doing for Memorial Day?
May 17, 2009
Simplicity
Yesterday there was a charity event hosted by my work. It involved some horse shoes and some beer with the proceeds going to benefit, I believe, a boy with a certain rare type of leukemia.
The Girlfriend and I dropped Emily off at The Girlfriend's mom's house around 8:15a and we headed out. It was at a fairground in town that was also hosting some sort of race that involved me having to drive verryyy slowly, and a gun show (that The Girlfriend wants to go to today). The Girlfriend was on a team with her boss and they won their first game and lost the second two, and were then out. I don't remember who won the final game of horse shoes, but it was all in all a good day. Good people, good cause, good fun. The weather was gorgeous and I came in a very low cut shirt to show my support. It was a promise I made to The Girlfriend's boss, haha. Sometimes there're advantages to having big boobs. Most of the time, they're a pain in the ass. But they do look good in low cut tops.
After it was over, I went to pick Emily up and we went to the park. She LOVES the park. She was incredibly tired because earlier that day she had gone to a parade and worked in a garden. But we had a good time. However, as is always the case, when she was with The Girlfriend's mom, she ate french fries with barbecue sauce, donuts, candy, and drank a lot of orange juice. While we were at the park, Emily got attacked with OMG I NEED TO GO TO THE BATHROOM NOW so we headed home, because of course there're no bathrooms at the park. We left and headed back out to the park, and then I got a call from a friend from work, and we went over to his house so Emily could play with his youngest daughter and I could hang out with him and his wife and another friend from work and his girlfriend. More good people and good times.
While we were there, I was standing in the corner having a cigarette and when I put it out, I smashed my head on some wind chimes. Being 5'10 in a world of mostly 5'6-5'7
people is definitely annoying. So the chimes are going off, the two boys are doing their best Australian accents, talking about catching wallabies and my jumblies hanging out, the girls are inside screaming because Barbie Rapunzel (puke) was on, and the radio is blasting some sort of rap song, and I just started cracking up. Cracking up to the point that my ribs were hurting and I couldn't breathe. It was awesome.
My writing isn't up to par today. It hasn't been in the last week, thus the lack of posts. I have this issue with things not being perfect, and though I would never claim my writing to be perfect even on my best day, I'm usually able to capture more humor from things. But I'm making an effort not to give up just because I'm not satisfied. How's that for dedication?
I run most of my life based on what I want to teach Emily. What kind of influence I want to be, how I want her morals shaped, and when I think about these little tiny things, it makes me get my act together. So, here I am. Posting.
Last night we got home pretty late. I think I walked in the door at ten o'clock, which is veryyy past Emily's bedtime. We walked up the stairs and Emily started doing that little kid whiny cry-ey thing that little kids do when they're tired, and I wrapped her in my arms and let her cry for a minute. Then she went to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, took her fluoride pill from the dentist, and got in her bed. I went to snuggle up with her and read her a book, and she said "Momma, I don't want a book tonight. Will you just say prayers and sing me a song? Please?" Of course I did. Then I kissed her on the head and started to get up and she shot her arm out, "NO!" I stopped and asked her what was wrong. "Momma, can you just lay with me please? I just love you and want you to lay with me."
So I got back down and nestled her head in to my neck while my heart melted out on to the floor. I love how simple her requests are, how simple it is to make her happy.
The Girlfriend and I dropped Emily off at The Girlfriend's mom's house around 8:15a and we headed out. It was at a fairground in town that was also hosting some sort of race that involved me having to drive verryyy slowly, and a gun show (that The Girlfriend wants to go to today). The Girlfriend was on a team with her boss and they won their first game and lost the second two, and were then out. I don't remember who won the final game of horse shoes, but it was all in all a good day. Good people, good cause, good fun. The weather was gorgeous and I came in a very low cut shirt to show my support. It was a promise I made to The Girlfriend's boss, haha. Sometimes there're advantages to having big boobs. Most of the time, they're a pain in the ass. But they do look good in low cut tops.
After it was over, I went to pick Emily up and we went to the park. She LOVES the park. She was incredibly tired because earlier that day she had gone to a parade and worked in a garden. But we had a good time. However, as is always the case, when she was with The Girlfriend's mom, she ate french fries with barbecue sauce, donuts, candy, and drank a lot of orange juice. While we were at the park, Emily got attacked with OMG I NEED TO GO TO THE BATHROOM NOW so we headed home, because of course there're no bathrooms at the park. We left and headed back out to the park, and then I got a call from a friend from work, and we went over to his house so Emily could play with his youngest daughter and I could hang out with him and his wife and another friend from work and his girlfriend. More good people and good times.
While we were there, I was standing in the corner having a cigarette and when I put it out, I smashed my head on some wind chimes. Being 5'10 in a world of mostly 5'6-5'7
people is definitely annoying. So the chimes are going off, the two boys are doing their best Australian accents, talking about catching wallabies and my jumblies hanging out, the girls are inside screaming because Barbie Rapunzel (puke) was on, and the radio is blasting some sort of rap song, and I just started cracking up. Cracking up to the point that my ribs were hurting and I couldn't breathe. It was awesome.
My writing isn't up to par today. It hasn't been in the last week, thus the lack of posts. I have this issue with things not being perfect, and though I would never claim my writing to be perfect even on my best day, I'm usually able to capture more humor from things. But I'm making an effort not to give up just because I'm not satisfied. How's that for dedication?
I run most of my life based on what I want to teach Emily. What kind of influence I want to be, how I want her morals shaped, and when I think about these little tiny things, it makes me get my act together. So, here I am. Posting.
Last night we got home pretty late. I think I walked in the door at ten o'clock, which is veryyy past Emily's bedtime. We walked up the stairs and Emily started doing that little kid whiny cry-ey thing that little kids do when they're tired, and I wrapped her in my arms and let her cry for a minute. Then she went to the bathroom, brushed her teeth, took her fluoride pill from the dentist, and got in her bed. I went to snuggle up with her and read her a book, and she said "Momma, I don't want a book tonight. Will you just say prayers and sing me a song? Please?" Of course I did. Then I kissed her on the head and started to get up and she shot her arm out, "NO!" I stopped and asked her what was wrong. "Momma, can you just lay with me please? I just love you and want you to lay with me."
So I got back down and nestled her head in to my neck while my heart melted out on to the floor. I love how simple her requests are, how simple it is to make her happy.
Apr 17, 2009
Battles. (edited to add: tangents.)
I just had a battle with the doors to the laundry room. They are two unmatched and differently sized doors, and they do not close correctly. I have an awful habit of taking frustration out on inanimate objects. The door wouldn't close, and the stupid slider thing came off the track, and then the other side of the top of it, the stationary side with a brace, not a slider, and with no sliding capabilities whatsoever, slid off the track as well.
So instead of calmly fixing it, I begin to slam the door, over and over and over again, until finally, the one side pops back in and the side that opens breaks off. So now the door hangs there instead of sliding, but it closes. It fucking closes. So I win.
I've been having several little episodes like this, episodes where something so tiny happens, something so indescribably small-scale and I just FLIP THE FUCK OUT. I have no idea what it wrong, except that everything feels just a little bit wrong. I don't deal well with this, this multitude of wrongness. When big problems happens, or when one specific thing is wrong, I'm fine. Because, see, that means I can fix it. This though, this completely overwhemling everythingwrongness is something that I cannot fix, and if there is one thing I loathe in this world it is being out of control. Hi, internet, I'm Melissa and I'm a control freak. I can admit it.
It's not to an unhealthy extent, for example, I don't need to control the people around me, or worldly events (though I wish I could). I simply need to be able to control every single aspect of my own life, of Emily's life, and when my head wigs out, I freak out because zomg why the fuck can't I fix it?!? WHY?! And then I get so upset that I can't fix it that the laundry room door suffers an attack (although, come on, it so deserved it.)
The Girlfriend picked Emily up from school today to take her fishing. Which was pretty awesome. This spending-time-with-the-three-year-old-of-her-own-free-will thing is relatively newer, and it's something that warms my heart through and through. Of course I got a call an hour in to PLEASE COME GET THE CHILD BECAUSE SHE WON'T STOP WHINING. But hey, I'll take baby-steps.
Speaking of The Girlfriend, we're at that phase in the moving-in part of the relationship where it's all, um, HOLY SHIT we live together. Like, why do you load the dishwasher the way you do? Huh? Because that's SO NOT THE RIGHT WAY. And things like, um, Melissa? STOP LEAVING YOUR FUCKING COFFEE CUP IN THE BATHROOM (which, by the way, internet, is the PERFECT place to keep it. I wake up and pee, and then I'll bring the cup down and get coffee. See? I'm right.) and the development of it is admittedly a little stressful, and is admittedly a little more stressful than I thought it would be, but is also endearing in a difficult-to-explain way. Like, even though we spent every night together for eleven months, there're things we're learning about each other, and I can't speak for her, but things I'm learning about myself. Things like, hey, it doesn't matter if the dishwasher is loaded "right" or not, it matters that I'm with someone who will load the dishwasher so I don't have to.
So instead of calmly fixing it, I begin to slam the door, over and over and over again, until finally, the one side pops back in and the side that opens breaks off. So now the door hangs there instead of sliding, but it closes. It fucking closes. So I win.
I've been having several little episodes like this, episodes where something so tiny happens, something so indescribably small-scale and I just FLIP THE FUCK OUT. I have no idea what it wrong, except that everything feels just a little bit wrong. I don't deal well with this, this multitude of wrongness. When big problems happens, or when one specific thing is wrong, I'm fine. Because, see, that means I can fix it. This though, this completely overwhemling everythingwrongness is something that I cannot fix, and if there is one thing I loathe in this world it is being out of control. Hi, internet, I'm Melissa and I'm a control freak. I can admit it.
It's not to an unhealthy extent, for example, I don't need to control the people around me, or worldly events (though I wish I could). I simply need to be able to control every single aspect of my own life, of Emily's life, and when my head wigs out, I freak out because zomg why the fuck can't I fix it?!? WHY?! And then I get so upset that I can't fix it that the laundry room door suffers an attack (although, come on, it so deserved it.)
The Girlfriend picked Emily up from school today to take her fishing. Which was pretty awesome. This spending-time-with-the-three-year-old-of-her-own-free-will thing is relatively newer, and it's something that warms my heart through and through. Of course I got a call an hour in to PLEASE COME GET THE CHILD BECAUSE SHE WON'T STOP WHINING. But hey, I'll take baby-steps.
Speaking of The Girlfriend, we're at that phase in the moving-in part of the relationship where it's all, um, HOLY SHIT we live together. Like, why do you load the dishwasher the way you do? Huh? Because that's SO NOT THE RIGHT WAY. And things like, um, Melissa? STOP LEAVING YOUR FUCKING COFFEE CUP IN THE BATHROOM (which, by the way, internet, is the PERFECT place to keep it. I wake up and pee, and then I'll bring the cup down and get coffee. See? I'm right.) and the development of it is admittedly a little stressful, and is admittedly a little more stressful than I thought it would be, but is also endearing in a difficult-to-explain way. Like, even though we spent every night together for eleven months, there're things we're learning about each other, and I can't speak for her, but things I'm learning about myself. Things like, hey, it doesn't matter if the dishwasher is loaded "right" or not, it matters that I'm with someone who will load the dishwasher so I don't have to.
Mar 13, 2009
Bittersweet.
Today is my last day in my apartment. I've lived here for two years, one month and twenty-nine days. That is the longest I've lived somewhere since I moved out when I was seventeen.
Between April of 2005 and January of 2007 I moved something like eleven times. One of those times I was seven months pregnant and moved from Chicago to a suburb of Phoenix.
Emily and I moved in to this apartment on January 15th, 2007. She has lived here longer than anywhere else, in her entire life. Today I packed up her room and got all of the furniture out except for the beds. I almost cried. I am so ridiculously excited to start this new chapter of life, and I can't wait to live with the person I love, and that I'm actually in love, and that I'm doing something by choice and not by force. It's amazing.
Right now we're sitting in my living room on camping chairs. The Girlfriend is playing playstation and I have this thing in my lap. I've been working on a piece of art for you all, pictured below. This is part stolen and part touched up, to include a general idea of my setup of the apartment. It's little.
(First off, I know the picture sucks. I wasn't having fun in paint and I gave up after five minutes. Secondly, I changed the size of it so much that it's blurry and since it's not a picture I care about, but rather a picture for demonstration, I didn't care enough to fix it. Thirdly, the thing on the right of the bedroom, kind of next to the couch is my computer desk and the thing in front of the couch is the TV stand with TV on top, and a bookshelf on either side.)
526 square feet of MINE. When I moved here, it was winter. And it was cold. I had just had a falling out with a roommate that I adored and decided to move to make life simpler. It was just Emily and myself, and I loved it that way. Emily and I lived here and I was so fucking proud of myself for being able to give her someplace secure, someplace of our own. Slowly, I began realizing what a shit hole this place is, complete with mold, no security and Mormon RAs. The families that live here are, in general, wonderful. I've had a couple run-ins with graduate students that are complete assholes, but I'm pretty sure I'd be an asshole too if I were in graduate school and trying to raise a three year old. Anyway. The people are wonderful, and I've made some friends here. Emily has as well.
The school keeps raising rent, though. When I moved in, it was a very good deal. Now, two years later and rent $150+ higher (and going up $50 more in July), it no longer makes sense. I knew last year that I wanted to leave this year. And then, I fell in love.
We are moving to a place that has MUCH more space, and it has a patio, and a swimming pool in the complex and THE LANDLORDS AREN'T MORMON thank god. Nothing against the Mormons, just that we don't have many, at least not public ones, in Chicago and um, wow. I've seen enough glazed eyes and have had enough visits from some "sisters" for a lifetime. (Funny story, at the apartment I lived in previous to this one, my downstairs neighbors were two young Mormon men on their missions. They met me and, to my surprise, didn't pass judgement. Instead, they would be kind and say hello to me, often stopping to hand me a prayer card. I gladly accepted the cards, because they were never ever trying to shove anything down my throat. I got to know the cute one a little bit. Of course, all of our conversation was on my porch, because there were no MEN IN MY HOUSE so he couldn't come in, weirdo. I found out that on the mission they can't listen to anything but church music, or something, and so I would make play lists of his favorite bands and BLAST them from my patio when he was outside. I totally caught him dancing, and tricked him into saying that two girls in a shower would be hot. I wonder if he's still Mormon? Tangent. Anyway.)
So anyway. I am so excited. I've been planning where to put things, instead of just figuring out how the hell to fit my couch somewhere. I've been looking at decorative things, like picture frames and curtains and rugs, instead of never bothering because there are very few ways to warm up white concrete brick interior. Did you know it's damn near impossible to put anything on brick that's impermanent? It is. A few drunken nights spent with a hot glue gun succeeded in getting some things on my walls, but, well, I was drunk and using a glue gun. Yeah. Not so pretty.
I am so excited for Emily to have space to play and for her to have a room that isn't as cramped. I'm so excited at the possibility of ZOMG SOME PRIVACY. But, I'm sitting here tonight, staring around and I'm actually a little sad. All I want for Emily is stability, consistency, a loving home. And with as many problems as I've had with this apartment, those things have been constant. Our little home may be ghetto, and cold, and dangerous, but it is one filled with love. I know, it's cheesy. But it's true.
I hope I have enough love to fill a bigger place. I'm sure I do; My heart feels like it's swelling over most of the time. I guess this post can be entirely summed up like this: I hate to admit it. And I'm more happy than I can describe to leave. But, I'm sad to leave the place that holds the most memories of my adult life.
Goodbye, family housing. I'm never coming back.
Between April of 2005 and January of 2007 I moved something like eleven times. One of those times I was seven months pregnant and moved from Chicago to a suburb of Phoenix.
Emily and I moved in to this apartment on January 15th, 2007. She has lived here longer than anywhere else, in her entire life. Today I packed up her room and got all of the furniture out except for the beds. I almost cried. I am so ridiculously excited to start this new chapter of life, and I can't wait to live with the person I love, and that I'm actually in love, and that I'm doing something by choice and not by force. It's amazing.
Right now we're sitting in my living room on camping chairs. The Girlfriend is playing playstation and I have this thing in my lap. I've been working on a piece of art for you all, pictured below. This is part stolen and part touched up, to include a general idea of my setup of the apartment. It's little.
(First off, I know the picture sucks. I wasn't having fun in paint and I gave up after five minutes. Secondly, I changed the size of it so much that it's blurry and since it's not a picture I care about, but rather a picture for demonstration, I didn't care enough to fix it. Thirdly, the thing on the right of the bedroom, kind of next to the couch is my computer desk and the thing in front of the couch is the TV stand with TV on top, and a bookshelf on either side.)
526 square feet of MINE. When I moved here, it was winter. And it was cold. I had just had a falling out with a roommate that I adored and decided to move to make life simpler. It was just Emily and myself, and I loved it that way. Emily and I lived here and I was so fucking proud of myself for being able to give her someplace secure, someplace of our own. Slowly, I began realizing what a shit hole this place is, complete with mold, no security and Mormon RAs. The families that live here are, in general, wonderful. I've had a couple run-ins with graduate students that are complete assholes, but I'm pretty sure I'd be an asshole too if I were in graduate school and trying to raise a three year old. Anyway. The people are wonderful, and I've made some friends here. Emily has as well.
The school keeps raising rent, though. When I moved in, it was a very good deal. Now, two years later and rent $150+ higher (and going up $50 more in July), it no longer makes sense. I knew last year that I wanted to leave this year. And then, I fell in love.
We are moving to a place that has MUCH more space, and it has a patio, and a swimming pool in the complex and THE LANDLORDS AREN'T MORMON thank god. Nothing against the Mormons, just that we don't have many, at least not public ones, in Chicago and um, wow. I've seen enough glazed eyes and have had enough visits from some "sisters" for a lifetime. (Funny story, at the apartment I lived in previous to this one, my downstairs neighbors were two young Mormon men on their missions. They met me and, to my surprise, didn't pass judgement. Instead, they would be kind and say hello to me, often stopping to hand me a prayer card. I gladly accepted the cards, because they were never ever trying to shove anything down my throat. I got to know the cute one a little bit. Of course, all of our conversation was on my porch, because there were no MEN IN MY HOUSE so he couldn't come in, weirdo. I found out that on the mission they can't listen to anything but church music, or something, and so I would make play lists of his favorite bands and BLAST them from my patio when he was outside. I totally caught him dancing, and tricked him into saying that two girls in a shower would be hot. I wonder if he's still Mormon? Tangent. Anyway.)
So anyway. I am so excited. I've been planning where to put things, instead of just figuring out how the hell to fit my couch somewhere. I've been looking at decorative things, like picture frames and curtains and rugs, instead of never bothering because there are very few ways to warm up white concrete brick interior. Did you know it's damn near impossible to put anything on brick that's impermanent? It is. A few drunken nights spent with a hot glue gun succeeded in getting some things on my walls, but, well, I was drunk and using a glue gun. Yeah. Not so pretty.
I am so excited for Emily to have space to play and for her to have a room that isn't as cramped. I'm so excited at the possibility of ZOMG SOME PRIVACY. But, I'm sitting here tonight, staring around and I'm actually a little sad. All I want for Emily is stability, consistency, a loving home. And with as many problems as I've had with this apartment, those things have been constant. Our little home may be ghetto, and cold, and dangerous, but it is one filled with love. I know, it's cheesy. But it's true.
I hope I have enough love to fill a bigger place. I'm sure I do; My heart feels like it's swelling over most of the time. I guess this post can be entirely summed up like this: I hate to admit it. And I'm more happy than I can describe to leave. But, I'm sad to leave the place that holds the most memories of my adult life.
Goodbye, family housing. I'm never coming back.
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