My Apartment, My Self

The big day is almost upon us. September 1st is always a momentous day. It signifies great change- change of address, change of roommates, change of season. That cool September breeze is blowing yet again, and it’s time for me to leave... yet again.

With great change comes great preparation. Those of you who know me well, know that I generally get off on a to-do list, however, being paralyzed by overwhelming anxiety and general lack of excitement and motivation, I’ve come down to the wire this year. I’m taking time out from packing to write an article- I think that pretty much speaks for itself.

It’s usually around this time that I realize several things about my surroundings. First, I don’t finish anything. I get about 97% there, but there is always a floorboard here or a corner there that I never got around to. I’ve painted practically every surface there is to paint in this apartment- 97% of them anyway. But I like things unfinished- I like things coming undone. The new tenant might not appreciate my artistic viewpoint when it comes to half-painted doorframes. To you, it might look messy, but to me, it’s intentionally half-assed. You can’t fully understand the artist if you can’t see his brush-strokes.

Secondly, I throw nails in the wall like it’s my job, and therefore my drywall looks like it has really bad acne. And I love how in the moment I have no concern at all. “Oh,” I think to myself, “I’ll just Spackle it when I leave,” and just leave all the work and the cover-up to some future Kate who will take care of everything. Well Future Kate is here, and she’s pissed. Past Kate is ridiculous- running around making messes and expecting me to clean them up. She’s such a selfish bitch. And why is Spackle reflective?!? It doesn’t help to cover the hole but then draw attention to it with shiny Spackle.

Thirdly, more than once I’ve been taking things down and have had to put a hand to my forehead and say to myself, “Stocks, please tell me you did not put double-sided tape on this wall.” Naturally, I had. The double-sided tape was not as bad as the time I decided my bathroom should be wallpapered in newspaper, and being the impetuous little artist asshole that I am, I had to put it up right that moment and used the tools at hand. Months later while cleaning out that apartment, I realized that I had put them up with a glue stick.

Not to mention that my grand plan of “getting rid of everything” resulted in sending more than 30 boxes to Florida. I keep trying to say to myself, “Stocks, if the cops came for you right now, what would you put in your getaway bag?” (And yes, I do address myself internally as Stocks. I also mentally slap my wrist whenever I see something I want to buy, or a cute boy I want to talk to. For the same reason- it gets things done and keeps me in line.) But there are things that would be stupid and wasteful to throw away. I want to live a simple life, but if that means throwing out the three cloth-bound binders of alphabetized fonts organized by style that I spent two months making, then forget it. A life without organized font books is not a life for me.

Since I am a great believer in reflection (except when it comes to Spackle), let’s reflect on the lessons I’ve learned about apartments:

1. Don’t pay retail. Paying retail for furniture and furnishings is like putting cash into a shredder. Such a waste of money.
2. Use a drop cloth when you paint. Make a plan when you paint. Don’t just grab a paintbrush and go to town (no matter how wonderful it feels).
3. Don’t put glue or any other adhesive on the walls. Ever.
4. Don’t move into a big apartment- you’ll buy more things to fill the space and things will spiral from there.
5. Use those sticky hooks to hang things on the wall. Put the hammer away.
6. Try to save enough money for a mover so you don’t have to schlep boxes to the post office and drive cross-country twice.
7. When in doubt, a Magic Eraser can do anything. They really are magic.
8. It’s always nice to have a big strong handy man to help you out, but if none of them are available (or tolerable) figure out how to repair the floorboards yourself.
9. It takes five coats of white paint to cover a black chalkboard.
10. Whatever you do must eventually be undone.

I also realized that I am just like my apartment. Sure, I need a lot of work. Sure, I’ve got a lot of baggage. Sure, I’m just a big old mess right now. All I need to do is get all the clutter out, Spackle over my mistakes, bleach everything in sight, and work until I collapse to make myself habitable. And although there are certainly doubters, like my landlord, I know I can get it done. I have to.

But I am sad to leave. I have not yet had my breakdown, but it’s a comin’. In honor of my beautiful little nest here, I’ve written a haiku. (I wanted to write a poem, but seriously, I need to get on with my day…)

I will miss you so…
Parquet floors and stunning views
but rent can eat me.

In the spirit of moving on with my life, I’ve made myself a promise. Just as Scarlett O’Hara vowed to herself that she’d never go hungry again, I have made a very important promise to myself: No More Roommates. If I have to lie, cheat, steal, or kill, as God as my witness, I’ll never live with a roommate again. But then that’s another article entirely…

Gypsys, Tramps, and Me

We are in the middle of Move:2009. Please forgive the rawness of this article. My internet got shut off this morning and am flying without a net on the public computers at the library. Let the fun of moving begin.

I have moved quite a bit. So it isn't that I'm in any way unprepared or unable to deal with this move. I'm just rusty and out of resources. There was Move:2004, when I first came to Boston in an over-stuffed mini-van. Store:2005-2006 when I moved to U-Haul for a while which was a move with all the problems and none of the benefits. Then Move:2006 when I moved to Connecticut (which was the worst decision of my life). On the coat-tails of the Connecticut debacle came the big Move/Store/Break-up:2007 which lasted 5 months. Then Move:2007, Parts 3,4, and 5 where I finally landed in my current aparment, vowing to myself not to move again for two years, because I had been literally living out of a suitcase from September 1, 2005 to September 1, 2007.

So here we are. Move:2009. I decided to move a few months ago, because a gypsy like me has to uproot frequently to avoid insanity. In an ideal world, I would buy a camper van, put all my stuff in it, and rove the country like a free woman. However... I don't have a camper van. I have a twenty year old car that needs a great deal of engine overhaul. But she made the trip down to Tampa and back last week just fine. The old girl loves the highway. So does the car.

That's right. I said Tampa, aka Trampa. When I decided to move, naturally, I had no idea where the hell I would go. The world is my oyster, you know. But this pearl is broke. So my options at the moment are homelessness or moving home. It came down to the flip of a coin.

Since I cannot afford to hire movers and since my trunk only large enough to fit two bags of golf clubs, I have to sell everything I went broke for nesting in my big girl apartment. There are certain things that I refuse to part with and they are already safe and sound in Tampa. Again, the battle of burn the magazines or save the magazines rages on in my head. But I'm sure the magazines will triumph... yet again.

Dorthy clicked her fab red heels and found herself back in Kansas instantly. I have to drive cross-country alone three times over the course of a month, and my fab red heels are being boxed and sent in the mail. I guess Tampa's not as bad as Kansas. I mean, I've never been to Kansas. If I had that camper van, I could go and do a comparitive study. But I must stop thinking about that camper van. It's not like I can afford gas, anyways. But I could always predict people's futures.

Let's start by predicting my future: I will scramble til the last minute to get everything painted, cleaned, shipped, and sold. My car will break down on the way to Tampa- on an off-road, in the middle of the country, at night. I will piss myself when I remember that I forgot to pack my lead pipe. When I finally get to Tampa, I will be forced to resume working at the same jobs I held in high school- teaching swim lessons and filing orders at a carpet installation company. I will immediately regret my decision to move to Tampa and all previous decisions that led to said decision. I will enter a severe depression that leads to either an unwanted pregnancy, or an amazing novel.

Keep your fingers crossed I park my tush in front of the typewriter, and not on a bar stool. Or that I can teach enough swim lessons to buy that camper van.

Dear Publisher,

Dear Publisher,

I am tired of being a victim of your incompetence, and the incompetence of your employees. I wish someone had made it clear to me in the beginning that the copies of my "book" you told me were to be produced, would not, in fact, be produced, so as to save me the two months I wasted working on this book for no money.

At this point, can we even call it a book since it does not exist in book form? I had been referring to it as my Downs Syndrome baby. Then I realized that I was only a surrogate for your Downs Syndrome baby, and I am saddened to hear that after cultivating, gestating, and nurturing your mentally handicapped offspring that you put it to sleep on its belly and it suffocated. I am, however, happy for the baby.

When I originally spoke with your editor, he told me the book would be in University bookstores and orientation packets, and the reason I had to produce it in three weeks was because you were going to get the book into students' hands for the fall semester. Apparently I was smoking crack that night, because nothing you've done since then has supported that goal.

I had then counted on receiving income from University sales, especially since my contract says "hard copies." I created a book out of thin air in three weeks, while eating spaghetti and moldy bread because I'm dead broke and was not doing this for love. I was doing this because you promised to put money in my pocket. Money so that I could buy things like fresh bread.

I was told that we had a deadline to meet. A deadline that has now come and gone. Orientations are over. Kids are in school. Way to go. I am astounded by your professionalism. My next book will be entitled, "How to Succeed in Business by Suing Your Publisher for Breech of Contract."

At this point, it's very difficult for me to trust your "tried and true process," since I've been deliberately misled through every step of this process. I took two months off work to dedicate myself to the creation of this book for your company. I'm a little perturbed. It's my fault really. I assumed I'd be working with people who had an IQ higher than 85.

I suppose that deadline is a foreign word to you. It's no big deal, really, you only run a publishing house. The final draft was supposed to have been due July 10, but since no one was there to edit the first draft because "all" your "editors" (i.e. The high school student whom you taught to use Track Changes) were on vacation, that "deadline" got pushed back. I wish I had been informed of that so I didn't forgo sleep for three weeks to finish a book that then sat on your "desks" untouched for two weeks while you were at the beach. The extra month I spent re-editing when I should have been working was exceptionally enjoyable.

In addition, I don't even know where this book is being marketed or distributed. I have been in contact with S (who is lovingly referred to in my circles as "Fucktard") from your marketing department. While I applaud your endeavor to hire the mentally challenged, can someone else please be assigned to my account? It took a week for her to respond to a question I had about the subject and word count of the articles you requested from me and she responded that she had to ask her manager.

I can't imagine why it takes one of your employees a week with help to answer a question about word count. I've asked her about the marketing plan because I planned to supplement your marketing with marketing on my end, but again, she has yet to respond to me. I can't do what you're asking me to do if your employees are unable to communicate with me.

I have found the experience of working with your company to be extraordinarily frustrating. If given the choice again, I would rather have been gang-banged by a group of silver-back gorillas while someone videotaped it. I would have made a lot more money and had a much better time.

Thank you,
Kate Stocks.

p.s. I would tell you where to stick your book, but you can't shove an e-book up your ass.