The Absurdity Of Moving

So far back into the archives of this blog are posts about my move to Boston, my move back from Boston for a summer internship, the move back to Boston again and then back to Fort Worth in the middle of the winter, Dan and I leaving Beantown when there was snow on the ground and the weather was mild once we got into Arkansas.

Today is the recounting of the most recent move, which was from South Fort Worth, near Benbrook, to what I guess would be called West Fort Worth, or about seven miles or so from downtown, just off I-30.

The NYT today ran an article about decorating a place on a shoestring budget that was cool, design-wise, but absurd, dollar-wise. In the story, this couple redid a flat for about $10,300, which made me break out the Only Partially Ironically Used Text Speak in my head. ORLY, NYT? Ten grand is a shoestring budget? Are you fucking kidding me?

Man, if I had that kind of money, I could just get it all in one dollar bills, buy a staple gun, and just wallpaper the apartment in MONEY. Then, when I needed a soda, I'd just pry one off the wall in a place no one would see it, like from behind the microwave in the kitchen.

The move itself wasn't too bad--I took a half day, borrowed the McGraw family truck, and loaded up most of my shit on my own, all Grapes of Wrath style, and drove it to the new place, where I started unpacking it all. Dan came by, helped me unload that, then his friend Jimmy came by. Dan took us all to dinner at a fairly generic by nearby Mexican place, The Original, and thanks to a catering miscount, I walked out with an extra free half of a roasted chicken. Sweet. Food.

Jimmy in his little Toyota accompanied Dan and I and the McGraw truck back to the old apartment, we wrangled up the rest of the stuff and Fenway, and then unloaded everything. I went to turn the AC on, went to buy ice (no ice maker, no ice trays, but really no big deal), and when we went to bed it was late and I couldn't really sleep. My cat took up residence under the bed, because the entire apartmend reeked of cat urine from the last owner--I mean, grody, gross, horrible smell, despite the new carpet. I ended up sleeping on the floor because I was so hot, I was so wound up, I was so sore and was sure my arms might fall off if I rolled over. The next day Dan and I walked across the street to get donuts at Dale's #9, the cable guy came, got that all hooked up, and as the temperature got warmer outside, we realized it wasn't cooling off inside. The AC was broken. The property manager said they couldn't get it fixed until Tuesday because it was Memorial Day weekend. Also said the smell would be addressed later. There was a lot of cursing. My parents told me to go to Wal-Mart and buy some fans with their credit card.

Sunday, it thunderstormed, the ceiling in the bedroom started leaking. Then I lost it and started crying for inexplicable reasons and freaking the fuck out of Dan. We tried scrubbing the kitchen to try to get rid of some of the smell.

Monday, it was fucking hot and I scrubbed walls, thinking maybe I could dent the smell. I stayed in the bedroom most of the day, though, with the fans on, the lights off, and the windows cracked enough to give light for me to read. Fenway moved from under the bed to hiding in the back of the closet. I always had a hunch he was one of teh geighs.

Tuesday, got the AC fixed and was finally able to sleep well for the first time since I moved in. Tuesday night, it thunderstormed again, and my trash can set up under the leak was filled up more.

It's been an eventful move, I guess. I love where my apartment is, I think it's cute and just the right size, but it smells bad and the ceiling leaks. I'm frustrated and smitten all at once, and I can't wait to get more art up on the walls (once I get paid) to help out with the design aspect, which is something I'm all obsessed about, even if I'm no good at it.

Yesterday I also turned in my keys to the old apartment, so I'm officially cut from that, thank goodness. Now I'm just hoping my ceiling doesn't cave in and I don't (God forbid) become used to the smell, because how gross would that be? It's so bad but you get used to it. But then, I guess the woman who lived there before me was used to it. I'm glad to know there's at least one person out there who's definitely crazier than I am.

Beer, Beans And Tuna

I find myself running out of names for blog posts, which is probably why it's a good thing I'm not a copywriter or an editor trying to come up with headlines. In a last-ditch effort to be original, I named this one after my dinner: Shiner 99 beer, tuna and white bean bruschetta.

On a side note, how long can bottled beer be stored before it goes skunky? I really liked last year's 99, so I bought five six-packs or so, but I rarely drink at home. I've been keeping them at the back of my closet, along with my skeletons and my sister's gay cat, and they're still good but now I'm afraid I need to drink them all within the next six months or they'll be gross.

Anyway. Today we finished a health care focus at the Big BP, and it was also Dan's first day at his new job. The health care issues, as anyone who listens to me bitch knows, are a pain in my ass, and today's was especially bad because I had this monster story that defied logic and didn't fit anywhere. All morning I was freaking starving, so I kept snacking, and then all afternoon I had a headache. I took three extra-strength Tylenol from my desk stash, I'm drinking beer now, and if it doesn't go away but the time I go to bed, I'll pilfer the leftover painkillers from old prescriptions. (I guess another question would be how long those prescriptions stay good. The last thing I need is to end up sick because I took funky Vicodin or something.)

Journalism continues to be a bitch. To distract myself, I'm checking out and reading a lot of fiction from the library and entertaining my fantasies of becoming an author, and I'm also hoarding measuring cups and kitchen towels, preparing for the move. (One week! Today I even arranged to have Charter come set up my internet the day after I move in, so I'm feeling proud of myself. Now, if I can only get electricity.)

I think things are ending on a relatively good note with my sister, too, which is nice. Our relationship has been all over the place since she graduated college and then threw all her ambitions to the wind, and yesterday we had a good, civil, friendly talk. It sounds like she'll be moving only about a quarter mile from where I'll be living, so that will be nice. I shouldn't keep tabs on her, but I kinda do. It's an older sister thing. I just feel like if I don't, no one else in the can, so she could drift away and there'd be nothing anyone else could do.

Hm. I'm realizing that I don't really have much to say today. Not that I ever have much to say--even when I'm on my soapbox, my rants probably don't matter to more than, say, five people on the planet at any given time. But that's cool. Beer makes me all talky, so I'm taking it out on the interwebs. Unfortunate. Next week, though, when I'm in the midst of moving, I'm sure I'll have plenty to write about. I've moved enough times to know that every move is a pain in the ass, even the little ones across town.

Cleo Shows Me The Future . . .

. . . and it's a future that holds a lot more griping about money. I wouldn't be a journalist if I weren't griping about my paycheck, right?

So no, I still don't have any faith in journalism. I love it, sure, but at the same time I don't trust it. It's what I imagine loving Godzilla is like. Or a serial killer. Whatever. The good news is Dan got pretty quickly picked up by a local news station, and he's just waiting on new equipment to get in before he starts that job. The bad news is my paper's parent company said everyone has to take another 5 unpaid days between now and the end of August. (For those keeping track, yes, we just finished taking 5 unpaid days. Now we get to start all over.)

This is why decent journalists leave the profession--because they can't pay their fucking rent.

That's my biggest concern. The past few weeks I've been getting things in line for a new one-bedroom apartment, and I signed the lease last week. It's fairly cheap, all things considered, but before I signed I talked to our publisher about whether we were getting full paychecks back. (Most of us opted to have one unpaid day per pay period, which lessens the financial blow, and also results in a 10% decrease per paycheck, which is just enough to be a pain in the ass and result in some imaginative money shuffling.)

Our publisher said he hadn't heard anything--this was a few weeks ago--and then today I was covering an event and a fellow reporter texted me about the announcement. I appreciate the text. It means I got to have a panic attack in my car driving back to work instead of at my desk.

It's going to be really tight to pay rent, pay bills, pay gas, pay student loans and eat. Reeeeaally tight. So tight it may be cheaper just to get an eating disorder, although I don't know if treatment is covered on our shitty health insurance. I'm desperately crossing my fingers one of the adjunct journalism teaching jobs I applied for comes through--being an adjunct doesn't pay much, but I think it would cover what I'll be not making through this furlough.

(Every journalist knows, a furlough is just a fancy way of doing a paycut. Fucking A.)

The event I was covering this morning was a job fair sort of deal, with staffing organizations and employers networking to get their clients all lined up. I should have been paying more attention, because I feel like the next step is layoffs.

Double fuck.

Journalism, you suck.