Not the Year of Megan

So the universe decided for whatever reason that this year it was going to fuck with me.

And I'm not talking just "Hey look we just made that girl trip on a crack in the sidewalk, isn't that funny" fuck with me. I'm talking someone up there has something against me fuck with me. Serious stuff.

In the past fourteen months I have suffered the following catastrophes:

March 2007, Drunk driver slams into my car on my way home from work one Friday night, totaling my car, leaving me devastated.

November 2007, My only living grandparent passes away completely unexpectedly.

December 2007, Fall victim to theft and vandalism, when some stupid assface decides one week before Christmas to break into my new car and steal my GPS Navi, rip out my dashboard, render the car useless and leave me in the dead of winter without heat and a broken window.

December 2007, Shitty insurance coverage. Nothing is paid for. $900 just to have to heat fixed. Can't afford to replace Navi, or even buy terrible replacement radio. Tolerate gaping hole in dash for seven months.

December 2007, Chase Bank notifies me that my credit card identity has been stolen and $3000 has been charged to my account.

January 2008, End nearly decade long relationship with high school sweetheart, true love, first love. Heart shattered yet again for the thousandth time.

March 2008, My book publishes. Receive publisher's copy and realize it has been chopped to shit. Not my words. My heart aches. My moment in time blackened.

April 2008, My sister gives away our dog. This one speaks for itself.

June/September 2008, City of Chicago perpetuates my now predictable cycle of bad luck with unrelenting, ruthless ticketing of my car and final boot placement. Humiliated and downtrodden, I take public transportation to City Hall.

July 2008, The great apartment plumbing fiasco occurs. All of a sudden thrust into a living hell of landlords, rusty sewer water and $800 worth of damage to my beautiful closet and all of its beautiful and irreplaceable contents.

September 2008, MOVING HELL. I aged ten years in this process. There were moments where I woke up crying after falling asleep sobbing.

October 2008, Lose $10,000 in investments. Only a "paper loss" my ass. It's still the largest sum of money I've ever gambled away. Watch feebly and helplessly as my year-to-date return dwindles daily. Gasp. Sigh. Repeat.

October 2008, Latest, and hopefully last, catastrophe of the year. Wake up one morning with a stiff neck, think nothing of it. Next morning find myself admitted to the hospital, IV stuck in my arm, doctors ordering cat scans. Final diagnosis, that subtle neck pain was actually a rare throat infection called epiglottitis, that of all things, can be fatal. No, seriously, Google it. I had to.

And listen, I know I have a lot of good things going on in my life, too. I'm the first person in line with that paint brush, ready to paint my own silver lining, trust me.

I know there are people out there who have it much worse than me and that's how I rationalize not throwing myself into traffic on Lakeshore Drive whenever the next disaster decides to saunter its way into my life. I feel like I've done a pretty good job of dealing with all of these things as they come, but I'm seriously at the point where I'm starting to wonder if life will ever get easier? All of these things together make me wonder if I am going to be fighting with bad luck for the rest of my days on earth.

I guess right now what I need is a sunny day and hug. Some friendly encouragement. Maybe some spiced apple cider. And a cute puppy licking my face. And an iPod Touch.

Me, only 11 years ago better...

Awwww

So I've been sick this past week and to my surprise my sister showed up at my apartment with what she called "The Cheer Up Megan Squad".



This is the founding member. :)

Advice from Tyler Durden

"You’re not your job. You’re not how much money you have in the bank. You’re not the car you drive. You’re not the contents of your wallet. You’re not your fucking khakis. You’re the all-singing, all-dancing crap of the world."

On that note, god I miss college. I miss no responsibilities. I miss walking into Iowa Book & Supply everyday to charge a Diet Coke and a bag of pretzels to my account. I miss the guy who sold gyros in the ped mall at 2 a.m. when the bars closed down. I miss the night crew at Panchero's. I miss the English-Philosphy Building. I miss sitting on our porch swing talking on the phone and hearing the sounds of my roommates watching TV inside through the screen window. I miss K Tan. I miss the Java House and their big, comfy couches where you can study all day and people watch. I miss cheap tabs. I miss the dirty ass elevator doors at Burge Hall. I miss Sunday nights listening to Kyle play the piano in the study lounge at Currier. I miss hooker boots and tube tops. I miss open doors in hallways and IM'ing my roommates from one room over. I miss sitting on our counter in the kitchen in the morning after a long night of drinking, trying to piece together unaccounted for moments. Laughing. I miss the drop box at the Dey House. I miss walking across the bridge to the Art Building. I miss the River Room and smoothies with Mel, watching the boys play pool. I miss our carpet picnics and makeshift Slip & Slides. I miss the cafeteria at Burge and trying to find a table at dinner. I miss Easy Place and Big Mike's. I miss Snowflake. I miss the smell of Mel's Pier One candle. I miss never coming home to an empty house and always having someone to go get McDonald's with after a night of boozing. I miss Erron from the Column. I miss our pimped out dorm room sophomore year, Donnelly. I miss our autographed Ricky Martin and Backstreet Boys posters. I miss going into the closet to make private phone calls. I miss the biggest double in the Big Ten. I miss waking up at 1 p.m. everyday. I miss making Brother's our bar. I miss seventy-five cent massive Diet Cokes from the QT. I miss the Handy House and red Solo cups. I miss 111 Evans St. I miss the Union Bar and the slutty girls who danced on boxes. I miss writing papers. Long ones. I miss a false sense of responsibility. I miss the smell of Iowa City in the fall. I miss my own bathroom in my room. I miss watching the frat boys come and go at the Main Library from behind the Reserve Room desk. I miss running the belt. I miss "Razor" and Edgar and Jeremy and Elijah. I miss ghetto Diamond Dave's karaoke and "Radar Love". I miss the workshop. A lot. I miss Panda Express at Coralville Mall. I miss borrowing Mel's wagon. I miss Donnelly's closet. I miss calling cards and ridiculous drunk emails to sort through and decipher the next day. I miss weekend trips to U of I. I miss thinking the Fieldhouse was the shit for like five minutes. I miss my horrible fake ID. I miss away messages.

But most of all, I miss "once I graduate".

'Cause the real world is not all it's cracked up to be. Nope. Not at all.

I'm fighting it, I really am. The pull into the corporate machine. It's constant. It's stronger than me. Like a present being slowly unwrapped, I am losing my skin, becoming unrecognizable from what I looked like when I started. The glossy and brilliant colors of me are lying crumpled, in a pile, on the floor. Defeated.

Seeing that, those foreign bits of me scattered about, makes me fight like hell not to lose the rest of me.

We're all in it. Me. You. Your brother in law. Your father. Your neighbors. My best friends.

We're going to nine to five our way into a society that works itself to death.

When did it become acceptable to flag an email with a big red exclamation point? Why do we think more of deadlines and market share and less of creativity and collaboration? Where did the individual go in individuality? The corporate machine has no sense of individuals, only growing pensions.

When did our priorities become inflicted and not chosen? Why has punching that time clock become the loudest, most resounding noise, drowning out everything else we cannot hear or simply refuse to hear?

That, my friends, unsettles me.

I counteract this numbness in my own way.

Some people have exercise, some people get massages, some people have Prozac.

I sit in my car and scream as loud as I can, "SINCE I WAS ALWAYS CAAAAGED AND NOW I'M FREEEEEEEE!!!!" along with Dave Grohl. Or Eddie Vedder. Or Trent Reznor.

It's how I keep from ramming my car into the car in front of me while I sit for two hours in traffic on my way home from a shitty day at the office where even the guy who comes in to clean the bathrooms at 2:30 p.m. everyday ignores me.

It's the way I keep from crying when I feel overwhelmed. When money's tight. When work sucks. When my love life's a mess.

I live a life of open ended questions so I sit in my car and scream as loud as I can.

And sometimes, if I’m really lucky, I feel better.

Go Hawkeyes!

More Apartment Updates - Lots of Photos for Your Viewing Pleasure

I have slowly been pulling my little studio loft apartment together over the past couple of weeks. My theme is Cape Cod Cottage meets Thrift Store Budget. I am kind of obsessed with the East Hampton beach look right now, but I have a lot of art, so it's more beachy vintage.

I finally picked my paint colors.

I am painting the living room in a quiet and calming "Shore".



My bathroom will be subtley elegant in the signature Restoration Hardware "Silver Sage".



My kitchen cabinets, appliances and floors are white and the hardware is brushed silver. The kitchen island counters are a light gray color. I've decided to do the backsplash in decorative paper. Something along these color lines:



My furniture is celery green and ivory and all the wood is a dark chocolate brown, so I think the backsplash will tie everything together.

The bathroom is my baby. I'm attempting to recreate the whole hotel spa bathroom thing. Very clean and inviting for guests. (If only I had an extra bedroom for them to stay!)



I will, of course update you with photos as this huge project progresses. Why is it that even though I downsized about 500 square feet, the projects keep getting bigger?

Oh oh! I forgot about my black and white photo wall.

I have always wanted to do this with photos of my niece and nephew and interesting photos I have taken in my travels here and there. I feel strongly about decorating my living space with art that I have created: photos I have taken, sea glass I have collected, paintings I have drawn, vintage items I have discovered in this flea market or that estate sale. I think an interesting home is a reflection of who you are. Anyone can recreate a living room they saw in a Pottery Barn ad.

So I bought this wall shelving unit from Ikea in dark brown (two small shelves and one large one) and I plan to use the frames below to make my black and white masterpiece.



Here are some of the photos I plan to use.



I am going to get the photos professionally retouched to black and white. The photos above are just adjusted on my computer. Should I go black and white, or should I try sepia? I do have a lot of browns in my apartment, though the frames are black. I just don't know. All of these momentous decisions.

I have a lot of creative ideas rolling around in this scattered head of mine, but sometimes lack the discipline and patience to see them through. I'm going to count on you guys to hold me accountable!

If anyone has any decorating tips or inspiration you might want to lend me, I'll take 'em.

Stay class San Diego, and thanks for stopping by. But mainly stay classy.

Part Three - State of Megan

I've chosen to update you today on the state of my love life.

This is actually the first time I've ever "directly" addressed it in my blog. Over a decade spent with someone else and not even a single mention of his name on here. I understand now that my choice to keep his anonymity was just my own uncertainty about him realized.

For many of you who have been following me since my Xanga days, you know that I don't get too specific about this topic, but when I'm sad, it shows. And I've been sad for too long.

You have seen me through the ups and downs, been through moments where I've teetered on the edge of heartbreak, been through moments where I ran full speed into it. You've breathed faith into my crumpled heart, inflating it until I thought it would burst with hope.

You've forced me to take a good hard look at myself, readers. And for once, I'm liking what I see.

As I've said before, I look at relationships differently than I did three years ago, a year ago, hell a month ago. It's like I've taken a baseball bat and swung blindly, shattering the perfect snow globe into millions of little pieces, exposing what's really inside; two dimensional people forced to stand in front of a fake background for eternity. Meanwhile trying to weather the storm each time life decides to flip you upside down and shake.

It turns out, you better really like who's in there with you.

And finally, FINALLY I do.

No, not "I do" in that way. Sheesh. Let's not get carried away.

I've just decided not to settle down or for anything less. That I'm not perfect, but I'm not sure that's what I'm looking for anymore. And I think I may have finally found someone that thinks imperfection is as great as I do. Flaws? What flaws? He sees the best in me and because of him when I look in the mirror every morning, I see the best in myself.

So here it is, anonymity, be damned.

His name is Ryan.

He is (was) my next door neighbor.

I met him coming out of my apartment at the same time he was. It was deliciously movie scripted at first. You know, the classic "girl moves into apartment building, finds out she has a cute neighbor, cue random run-ins, flustered conversations, dropping of mail, struggling with keys" scenarios.

The only thing is, I was still set on the storybook ending for my current disaster (to my credit, it didn't feel like a disaster at the time, I was still hopeful) of a relationship with my ex of six years. I mean, I know I've abstractly written about it here, but he was literally MY LIFE. I ate, breathed and lived that guy for like a decade. He was all I knew. I'm still unsure the book is closed on that one, to be completely honest. He was my first love. My big love. The love that stops time while you mourn your break-up for THREE YEARS.

Three and half years I refused to become un-single. I didn't want to find someone else. I wasn't looking. Honestly, my heart was unavailable.

When neighbor and I met, I really, really truly didn't have a care for him. No inkling, no spark, no hunch, feeling, idea, notion.

Of love.

None.

I know that the thought of making it work with the ex consumed me. I know his voice on the other end of the phone, at my front door intercom at 3 a.m. felt like home to me. I know I couldn't see who and what that was turning me into until one day I just did.

Clarity of scope always comes too late.

But at least it came. And once I decided to let him in (figuratively AND literally) neighbor was relentless. He pursued me. It made me uncomfortable. It made me wonder what was wrong with him. I told him time after time that I was a mess, that he didn't want to date me, that I would only break his heart. I tried to convince him that I was crazy. That he would eventually tire of my manipulations and slink away, defeated. I closed doors in his face. Scoffed at his emails. Mocked his pursuit.

And yet he still tried to persuade me to give him a chance.

And then all of the sudden it was New Year's Eve at midnight and there he stood in his tuxedo across the room. Champagne spraying everywhere, people packed wall to wall into our apartments singing Auld Lang Syne. I looked at him, brimming with potential and promise, earnest and expectant, smiling at me as if he already knew I was his.

And that was the moment people. One for the ages. One good enough for all the writers in Hollywood.

That was it.

Now I'm the lucky one. For so many reasons.

He offered me partnership. Finally a street big enough for two people to walk down. For once, I am the girl on top of the pedestal, not the one trying to climb up it. All of those fears and hesitations I attached to relationships were curiously absent with him. I realized what I had been subsisting on for years and years were scraps not good enough for even the strayest of dogs. Words I wrestled with saying to someone else before were at long last easy to say. The poetry in my heart, safe.

And that my friends, is one hell of an update.

Intermission

I know you're due for Part Three. I'm working on it. In the meantime, enjoy this piece I wrote a while back. Still very relevant!

Choose a life. Choose a job. Choose the fancy car or the modest car. Choose between cream and sugar. Choose to love a man, woman, pet, house, painting, ex-boyfriend, daughter, yourself. Choose paper or plastic. Choose the higher deductible and lower premium. Choose to get to know someone, something, someplace like the back of your hand. Choose well-done or rare. Choose to be happy, sad, excited, lonely, insecure, confident and outspoken. Choose to be all of them at once. Choose something. Choose your friends. Choose a big fucking television. Choose crazy over boring. Choose heels over flats. Choose to believe less in god and more in yourself. Choose a candidate. Choose 350 count instead of 200 count. Choose pride, greed, envy, wrath, lust, gluttony, and sloth. Choose to forgive him. Choose a restaurant, already! Choose lots and lots of books. Choose to create something remarkable. Choose forever or fleeting. Choose to make it easier on someone else, even if it makes it harder on you. Choose to deserve better. Choose to want, to sing, to dream. Choose Grey Goose or Absolut. Choose differently this time. Choose red and gold and green and bright blue. Choose to vote. Choose whether or not he makes you mad today. Choose big white lies. Choose compassion everytime. Choose to say yes. Choose Chekhov over reality TV. Choose to open a window when a door closes. Choose to be brave. Choose to turn it up, not off. Choose a party affiliation. Choose to cry, pound, scream, kick, punch, yell. Choose to feel something. Choose to be unsure. Choose the Cubs or the Sox, not both. Choose your favorite memory and keep it close. Choose love, always. Choose your own destiny. Choose mismatching socks today. Choose something heartfelt over expensive. Choose me. Choose you.

Just choose.

State of Megan - Part Two

Today we're going to talk about money. The state of my money.

See the problem is, I'm not a naturally fiscal person.

My inherent proclivities are towards spending, not saving. Matters of money are a huge source of stress for me. My relationship with it vascillates between love and hate, almost daily. Almost hourly. I've never had *a lot* of money per se, but I'm definitely not poor. I save during months where money is not tight, less than my financial advisor wants, but more than the average person I suspect.

When I started at my current job six and a half years ago I immediately enrolled the max into my 401k. My company matches 6%, so by now I have a considerable chunk of change socked away for when I decide to live my dream of building a gigantic front porch somewhere, spending the rest of my days fanning myself between glasses of iced tea and unreciprocated fetch with my fat, grandfatherly curmudgeon of a dog.

Trust me, it's planned out. There will be cupcakes, too. Lots of cupcakes.

So this morning when I signed on to check my stocks and see this in the activity column: Gains/Losses -$7,313.42, it put a bit of a dent in my day.

I know times are hard for everyone, but that's the largest sum of money I've ever gambled away, ever.

My Year-to-Date Rate of Return is -32.1%.

I don't know much about the stock market, admittedly. I dated a broker for a while, but most of my money I entrust to the good people at Ameriprise Financial. My advisor has honestly helped me a lot to understand good spending and saving habits. He put me on a budget, which I adhere to everyday with a computerized program that my boyfriend wrote for me. It tells me how much money I have to spend for the week and then that's what I spend. I have a Roth IRA, an ING Savings account and a 401k and all that makes me feel is confused. I know it's not enough. Not enough, even still.

Me and money, we don't know the steps yet in this dance. Somehow, I fear we will always being stepping on each other's toes.

The economy is in a sorry state today, this isn't news to anyone. Of course during the years of the Clinton surplus, all I had to worry about were slap bracelets and Slurpee allowances, so its definitely news I am keeping up with. Like most Americans, I have a lot of debt. Credit card debt, school loans, car loans, not to mention the thousands of dollars my parents have lent me over the years.

Short of a miracle, that little nest egg is all I have. So yes, I'm concerned. I'm not an economist. I don't even balance my check book.

What I can't imagine is that anyone would willingly volunteer to take on this country's issues. That is why I am a voter. I have such respect for both candidates in this election. Who would want to be them right now? Honestly.

She wrote an intriguing post today and I have to say, after reading it again, I really think she's right on the money. *Cheesy pun FULLY intended*

Maybe a recession is what this country needs. Learn to live within our means for a while and then appreciate what we have. Its amazing how it takes ridiculously high and rising gas prices to really focus on the energy crisis. I know it sounds socialist, but I really believe there could be worse things. So we buy generic for a while. We buy the sensible, fuel-economic Honda instead of the gas guzzling luxury SUV. I'm up for it. I have enough Ramen to last me another ice age.

But seriously. What this is teaching me is how unnecessary half the things I buy are. I've been wanting a new bed frame/headboard set for my new bedroom. I can't afford what I want. What I want is from Crate and Barrel and is $1200. See, totally unnecessary. But I waaaaaaant iiiiiiit.

With my new fiscally responsible mindset at work, I searched for something that would satisfy my headboard obsession at a lower cost.

Then I found the Ikea "As Is" section.

I peed my pants a little I think upon stumbling across this veritable diamond in the rough, this wonderful section of loveliness. In my current state of newfound frugality, all of those "as is" items looked shiny and new to me. I walked the aisles like a queen ordaining saints. "I'll take this one. And this one. Oh this one. This one for sure. Annnnnnnd this one."

They have this section that just has scraps from returned cabinets, media centers, bathroom shelving units, kitchen counters, backs of chairs. Their collection is amazing. I settled on this little piece, the door from a bookcase unit. The wood was exactly what I wanted, dark brown, the size, perfect. I plan to knock the glass out of the center and replace it with a covered piece of MDF or foam core, maybe in a microsuede with some upholstered buttons.

And all for $10. Plus I had a coupon.

Oh yeah, I'm a coupon cutter now, too.

I know my money is the issue here, but I also know many of you are feeling the effects of the slowly tightening wallet of our goverment. What are some things you do to make ends meet?

State of Megan - In Five Parts

Hey guys, I know I've been mysteriously absent lately. I've decided that in order to update you appropriately, that I would tackle one topic per day for a whole week.

Today's topic iiiiiiiiis.....

Part One: MOVING!

Moving is never fun. I don't think I need to tell any of you that. This move, however, was unusually nightmarish due to some insane outlying factors. For one, I am currently embroiled in a lawsuit with my old property manager over the whole water damage mess I wrote about here. It's a total catastrophe. A headache beyond all proportions of headaches. I asked for a simple request. A barter if you will. Something Americans all the way back to the days of Conestoga wagons and the Oregon Trail have been doing, quite easily, might I add. I asked for a twenty-four hour extension to my lease from my landlord and in exchange, I would drop the issue of reimbursement for damages to my personal property due to their negligence.

Seems like a pretty opportunistic trade, no?

No. No it was not.

Not only did they refuse my offer, but they countered with kicking me out of my place even earlier, by 2 p.m. on Sept. 30th. So from 2 p.m. to 8 a.m. I was bound to be homeless. Not just me. Me and all my shit. AND I HAVE A LOT OF SHIT.

After selling half of what I own on Craigslist (god bless you, Craig and your inimitable List) and moving every last nail and screw and dust particle to my boyfriend's apartment, I successfully was out of my place by 2 p.m. Keep in mind this is taking place during the day on a work week, so it is JUST ME moving ALL MY SHIT, eighteen boxes, a bed, ten thousand books, three wardrobe boxes of clothes, one for JUST COATS. MY COUCH.

On a side note, my boyfriend's apartment is the mirror image of mine. He has a roommate, so the space for all my stuff was limited to a 10x10 area behind their couch in the dining room. I don't know if I've ever mentioned this, but he lives across the hall from me. Everyday I live an episode of Friends. It's incredibly convenient. I never had to pack an overnight bag or leave a toothbrush. All traces of me, safely locked behind my apartment doors. When I lock myself out, I just buzz the intercom and voila, I am ushered inside. Low on butter or milk? Just don't want to cook? Walk across the hall. Need something heavy brought down to my car? Not even a phone call needed. Want a 60" rear projection flat panel HDTV to watch Cubs games? Um I'M THERE. It's been great. And now, it has served it's purpose as my very own storage solution.

But I digress. The night before my move I was freaking out. I know I am 28 years old and that is certainly old enough to be doing things on my own, but I've never lived alone and I've never had to move alone and what if the movers try to screw me into buying seventeen rolls of packing tape and what if my property manager catches me moving out the front instead of the back and decides to fine me $100 and what if I get to my new place and my keys don't work and the movers throw all my stuff into the alley and my head explodes?

Freaking out.

I end up waking up around 5:15 a.m. and couldn't go back to sleep I was so anxious. So I'm sitting up in bed at 5:20, just sitting there, knees pulled into my chest in the darkness. Boyfriend's hand grabs at mine and he sleepily mutters, "Go back to sleep." I think about that for a second and then climb over his lifeless body, nearly kneeing him in the crotch and say, "Um I'm gonna go to Dunkin' Donuts. I'll be back." He gives me a quizzical look and just buries his face in his pillow.

So now it's 5:30 and I'm in my car in the dark on my way to the Dunkin' Donuts down the street. It's oddly crowded for this time of the morning, I order my dozen donuts and three bottles of water and leave. When I get back, I notice that the loading zone in front of the bar below my apartment is totally empty. This is a huge score. I pull my car right into the middle of about two and half spots and go upstairs. I arrange the donuts and waters artfully on the kitchen counter and by this time its about a quarter after six.

Boyfriend's roommate is sleeping on the couch, so I gently nudge him to get up and move to his room. The TV is blaring ESPN. After several failed attempts, I leave him and go to the window. A fucking van is parking in the spots I have so circumspectly saved!

So then I run downstairs and bark at the guys unloading their van. "My moving truck is coming any minute now! You can't park here!" One of them looks at me like I am a crazy girl. The other one says in a thick Eastern European accent, "We are painting all day in apartment upstairs. Where we go?" This is me, frantic, "Um I don't know, across the street in like ANY of the open spots? Please, they have nowhere to park. It will be gone in a half hour. Please, just move your van. PLEASE?" Then the one guy mutters something to the other two and they keep unloading their stuff onto the sidewalk. I just stand there and stare at them with eyes burning into the back of their heads hotter than the fire of a thousand suns.

Finally the gang leader turns around and says again, "Where you want us to go? We paint ALL DAY."

Then in a voice that I didn't even know existed inside me growled, "I don't CARE where you go, just MOVE YOUR VAN."

It was seriously something out of Ghostbusters. "There is no Dana, only ZOOOOOOL!"

The other two guys stopped unloading and came around the other side of the van to look at me. Then for about a whole uninterrupted thirty seconds, the leader just stared at me. It was kind of intense. I just stood there in the typical mad girl stance. Feet wide, hands on hips, scowl on my face.

He said something to his crew in another language and then they moved the van across the street just as the moving truck was pulling up.

Oh I forgot to mention that the reason I had to move my shit across the hall is well, number one, because they wouldn't extend my lease and number two, because my new landlord told me that I "couldn't possibly move in any earlier" because the current tenant was also moving out at 2 p.m. on the 30th and they needed time to paint and clean before I moved in. This is even after I begged and pleaded with her....told her I would do the painting and cleaning myself. Told her I would let them paint the apartment occupied after I moved in. Told her to take pity on me and my homelessness. Finally, she said "I'm deeply sorry" and I walked away dejectedly with slumped shoulders.

Another defeat.

Little did I know the battle was just beginning. After that I called to schedule the movers and could not find a single company that could give me a set moving time. One company told me anywhere between 10 a.m. and 1 p.m. One told me flat out that I should have called two weeks ago to schedule a move ON THE BUSIEST MOVING DAY OF THE YEAR. Uh huh, yes. This is why I don't do anything alone. Because I fail when it's just me. I don't know these things.

One last call to make. Done Rite Movers. This place sounds legit, right? Haaaaaaaaaaaaa. HA. I left a message and tried not to sound like I had just been sobbing earlier. Still sniffling, a woman called me back. She said they had a cancellation and that they could schedule the move on the 1st for 7 a.m.

HALLELUJAH! "And so shines a good deed in a weary world."

Now. The key pick up mishap.

I swear to you this is last disaster I will outline.

After I scheduled my move-in time, I emailed my new property manager to let her know that I would be moving in the morning on the 1st and if I can pick up the keys the day before.

"Oh no" she replies "that is just not possible." "Your key pick-up and your move-in date need to happen on the same day and our office does not open until 9:30 a.m., so you will need to reschedule your move-in."

"You will need to reschedule your move-in."

As if I can just make a call and magically reschedule to a time that is better for her. Poof! You now have a 10 a.m. move in time and the movers will pick you up in a diamond covered chariot with horses that shit money.

I calmly explained to her that I had already put down a non-refundable deposit on the movers and that if she had wanted me to move in at a specific time, she should have said something other than "Just let me know your move-in time." in her last email.

I don't usually say this about other women, but I'll make an exception for you, Tiffany from Enterprise Realty.

You are A HUGE BITCH.

The queen bitch among worker bitches. The wickedest bitch in the Midwest. You are such a bitch I bet you bark every time you hear an ambulance pass by. BEEEEEE - OTCH. Bitch.

On that note, she told me that if I agreed to let her paint the apartment after I moved in, she would give me the keys early. I said, "Whatever. Fine. When can I get the keys?"

Her response was this, "I have 65 apartments moving this week so the only time you will be able to pick up the keys is Monday from 12 p.m. - 1 p.m."

I said yes, even though a one hour window seemed ridiculous. This would mean I would have to drive 45 minutes out to my office in the morning, drive 45 minutes back to Lakeview at noon, pick up the keys, drive 45 minutes back to work, then drive 45 minutes back to the city to come home. That's four trips back and forth, a whole tank of gas. And at $4.89 a gallon, it's also expensive. I guess "Tiff" never had to commute.

So my very altruistic and munificent boyfriend, upon hearing the patented "I'm gonna cry" waver in my voice over the phone, offered to pick them up for me, since he works ten minutes away from the Lakeview office.

A sigh of relief. I email her to tell her that he will be there at noon, with a check for $1342.50 for first month's rent (rent and half), to pick up the keys.

I get this email response on Monday morning at 11 a.m.

"He can't pick up your keys. He is not on the lease."

That's it. That's all. Just those two sentences. No alternate offerings. No I'm sorry, but I just can't do its. Not even any fake effort. Just straight up BITCH PLEASE.

Wow.

Ok so at this point I need to figure this out. Am I going to drive back and forth to get these keys? I have no other option, it seems, so I walk into my boss's office to tell her I might be a little late on my lunch break and start explaining the situation. Then I just lose it. The flood gates open and I would have lifted my arms to shield my hysterically crying eyes, but they were too sore from moving a hundred and fifteen boxes all by myself.

The she started crying, bless her heart. It was a genuine woman to woman cryfest. She told me she understood and to take the rest of the afternoon off. I told her she was the best boss ever and hurried my mascara covered ass out of her office.

The key pick up happens and now that I have some extra time, I head for Comcast to get my new HD-DVR cable box for my NEW PLASMA HDTV. Of course it's like 1:00 p.m. so why wouldn't there be a line of like twenty-two people waiting. I finally get to the front and tell her that I need to start new service and pick up my cable box. She gives me the run around about how the current tenant hasn't disconnected service yet, so I can't have anything installed until she does so. She calls said tenant and leaves a message. A stroke of luck. The tenant calls her back while I am at the window and says its fine, they can disconnect her service. That she's sorry she didn't call sooner, but she has been moving all morning into her new apartment.

I blink my eyes and say, "She said she was moving into her new apartment TODAY? As in THIS MORNING?" I ask.

Ok, let's reverse a second. I want you to scroll back up to the paragraph that begins "Oh I forgot to mention..." where the property manager explicitly states that I "couldn't possibly move in any earlier" due to blah blah blah BULLSHIT. I grabbed my DVR and fumed all the way to my car, then fumed all the way home, then fumed in my empty apartment by myself where I scrubbed the refrigerator down in rubber gloves, all the while fuming and gagging because THAT SHIT WAS DISGUSTING.

So in a nutshell, both my property managers screwed me over, one straight up lied to me, I made an unnecessary move of all my shit to my boyfriend's place for the night, had a mini-breakdown in my boss's office, almost killed a civilian at Comcast, and probably now have a hit on me from the Russian mafia painters.

Um, the movers were nice.

*think silver lining, Megan, think silver lining*

Oh and someone stole my front two hubcaps. Fuck you karma you bitch whore. Just the two? Seriously?

Post one.

Done.

Fun with Grandma's Mac.