In which I try to be Pollyanna, but fail miserably, but at least I’m not homeless, so life is good

It’s been hard for me to post lately since so much has been going on. I’ve moved myself and my belongings so many times since I last posted that I can answer the title question of my blog in great detail, but probably not to your great interest, so I will abstain. I now abhor every single suitcase I own – you would too if you had been living out of some variation of them and hadn’t properly unpacked  in 8 months.

I reached a point last month when I came back ‘home’ to find out from my then-roommate (the one I had actually met and known I was going to live with, not the one that was switched out by the girl I was supposed to live with but who ended up going off the lease without telling anybody and thus completely screwing us over by forcing us to look for alternative accommodation about 2 weeks after we had moved in. Anyway, to return to my then roommate) that she didn’t know whose name the power bill was in and it was possible, probable, likely, very likely that we would shortly be without electricity in the middle of my first experience of permanently feeling like I am coated in hot sticky soup  a typical DC summer.

The light in our kitchen had already given out by that point and we were forced to cook using only the dim light above the kitchen sink. I was also already showering at the basement gym since shower curtains were unattainable so I really don’t know why I was so upset.

But upset I was as I stormed into my room, flung my purse on the floor and proceeded to cry tears of anger on my bed. (I don’t know why I was so upset. At least I had a bed.)

I stared with hate at my suitcases, now reminding me not of my exotic travels to Beunos Aires and Kazakhstan and Croatia and Ireland but instead of weeks and days of wearing the same dress pants and the unflattering cream blouse because all my other stuff was in storage in another city. Or at least, so I hoped – I could no longer be sure.

I had places to live. I had people to live with. Most of these places, and most of the people, were lovely. But I’d reached the breaking point, when my most desperate desire was to unpack just one suitcase, hang up just those few outfits that I had, and know that I wouldn’t have to change houses in another week or so. My second most desperate desire was to be able to leave work one day and have my feet automatically take me home. To know where I was going to sleep after work without checking an Excel spreadsheet beforehand. To have a wireless network I could call “I hate Comcast” and check the option “Connect automatically”. To stop paying the highest prices for the smallest quantities of every food, ‘because I need to eat it before I move again’. To go to the library and show them an electricity bill to prove “I am a resident here” and get a library card. To know a zip code by heart.

But those days of peace and calm and permanent residence were but mere mirages a month ago. After a whole month, week, day when things just hadn’t gone right, even the sobbing part didn’t work out. After a few minutes I realized that I could no longer see out of one eye. Further inspection indicated that either my contact lens had fallen out of my eye, or into my eye. A yet more detailed inspection proved the latter option to be true.

So there I stood in the bathroom, staring with my one seeing eye at my reflection in the mirror, and I started laughing. Very hard.

There is an Alanis Morrisette song called “Ironic”. It’s been the soundtrack to my life, repeatedly. Go listen to it on youtube.

PS. I fished the contact lens out of my eye. I found an apartment. And a sane roommate. So come back soon – stories that are actually interesting will be showing up over the next 11 months and 10 days (until my new lease runs out). Believe me, I am as bored of DC housing issues as you are.

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