Where I’ve been
“Jack and Jill went up the hill
Jack burned out on booze and pills
Mary had a little lamb
But Mary just don’t give a damn no more.”— Kacey Musgraves, “Merry Go Round”
Other than battling my demons with Grey Goose and Klonopin that’s been in the freezer for two years, I’ve been apartment-hunting.
It suuuucccckkkkks.
I’ve found some cute 1BRs on the shore. Not that I can get a 1BR but you know, I’m trying to keep my options open.
Mom hates everything I love. I mean, she hates EVERYTHING. Because nothing will be a corner condo with a wraparound balcony that sits where the Intracoastal meets the ocean. The privacy, the sea air, the prime ZIP code … it can’t be beaten. Even the price is good for what I have.
But … I found a similar unit one drawbridge south of here. Five hundred bucks less a month. No pets allowed but meh. And the thing is, paying $500 less a month isn’t out of the realm with most of the units I’m looking at.
Hello I can pay for her health care with that. Buy a car. Fly to Paris. Build up a fund so I am not in a constant panic about this fragile field I work in.
She talked me out of moving last year. Mostly because after you pay first month’s rent, last month’s rent, security and moving costs, you don’t save squat. That, and it’s all on me — paying for it, orchestrating it, packing and having the nervous breakdowns while working 12-hour days, 45 minutes away from here.
Believe me, writing out those big fat checks has been a pleasure compared with the 10 pounds of worry you have to squeeze into a stressful 30-day moving period. It’s not like you can take a day off when you do six jobs.
But if the Chinese are right, sometimes you have to cut your hair to get rid of the bad memories and ju-ju that become embedded in the dead strands. I took this place when I was making the Big Salary that drew me here.
I assumed Princess would get a job and help out around here financially. I never anticipated being unemployed for a year and her never managing to contribute. I didn’t expect a pay cut when I DID get a job again.
Oh fuck it, let’s face it. I never dreamed I wouldn’t be shacking up with someone by now and splitting expenses and that mom wouldn’t be on her own somewhere.
Life has a funny way about it. That’s all I gotta say.
Anyway, she wants to stay and frankly, I have been OK with that until a few days ago. It’s not that anything happened, per se. I just had a chat with my Source and I heard, loud and clear:
“You came here when you were working for a terrible company, and then another terrible company. You came here with a different salary. You came here with hopes and dreams and you leave here every single day without them. Time to switch things up, get new dreams, and get a new perspective.”
Hey, I don’t argue with God when one of His messengers manages to get through to me!
I have yet to give notice to this palace that my carriage is about to bleed pumpkin guts in our pothole-filled lot.
Dear God, since you’re listening and all, can You whip up something with modern appliances, that was built after I was born, and with Intracoastal views, an elevator, quicker access to the freeway, some more access to civilization (i.e., stores), and some good-looking men on the premises who are in my age group AND who are single*?
And can it materialize within the next four days so I can give my 60-day notice to this place on Jan. 30?
(*Don’t get me started on the messages in my personals inbox. I’m … intrigued. By several of them. But none of them will ever be _ _ _ _ and I’m having a surprisingly hard time coming to terms with that right now. A blog entry for another time. Like when I have time to CONSIDER a response.)
“Tiny little boxes in a row.
Ain’t what you want, it’s what you know.
Just happy in the shoes you’re wearin’.
Same checks we’re always cashin’ to buy a little more distraction.”