Sure, yeah, vacations TOTALLY reduce anxiety…

Today is Day 9 of my 10-day vacation, and it’s the only day I don’t HAVE to do anything.

But I started thinking about getting my apartment in order while I have time, and then about what kind of decor and furniture I want, which led to remembering I have zero sense of style, and to wondering HOW I have such a wide spectrum of things that appeal to me, like how I equally want my apartment to look like Olivia Pope’s but also just bought groovy yoga art and hot pink mixing bowls, and to “Do I want to stay in my tiny apartment or get a bigger place so I can have other rooms to play with different styles, AND an office and a dishwasher?” and to “City or suburbs?” and to “East Coast or West?” and to “What do I want from my fucking LIFE?!”, which led to a headache, and now I’m going back to bed.

That is what I want from life.

See also: Replacing this cup of coffee with water, and perhaps also Valium.

It’s like White Trash Melrose Place

The good news is, my new neighbor is either a hot, young-ish guy, or has hot, young-ish guy visitors at 10 pm on Saturday nights.

The bad news is, I learned this by passing said hot, young-ish guy at the common door, as he was walking in and I was walking out to meet the grocery delivery guy…and I was wearing mismatched pajamas and slippers, with hair I THINK was last washed on Thursday?

Um… it’s… um… fashion?

Achievement unlocked…with bonus Ugly Cry.

Apparently it takes me 5 years and 3 apartments to finally ovary up and get rid of my Ex Box.

I’d gotten rid of other things incrementally, but this was the greeting cards, and I am a sucker for a greeting card.

I’m still crying, but it’s done.

I am woman. Roar, etc.

*sniff* Shut up.

All the women, who independent, throw your hands up in frustration…

So, I haven’t mentioned that I’m moving again, probably in about 2 weeks. The rent in my generic, cookie-cutter apartment complex is going up to an amount that’s basically a mortgage. I COULD pay it, but decided to go see what else I could get for that amount or less.

Turns out, I can get the same amount of space but WAY cuter, a more walkable neighborhood, better food options, and closer to everyone I love, for about $400 less a month.

I made lists. I did math. I considered all my life factors and made a grownup decision. When I talked to my therapist, she told me it sounds like the perfect choice for everything I’ve said is important to me, including my budget and mental health.

NO one in my family is happy for me. Everyone got some shit to say.

Today my grandfather offered to let me move in with him, basically rent free, saying my new rent is “still a lot of money,” and my dad chimed in and said, “Yeah, can you imagine putting that amount in the bank every month? After 5 years you’d have, what, $60,000?”

Um…$60,000 for WHAT, exactly? My retirement to an institution because I haven’t had sex in 5 years and have gone insane living with a 90-year-old man who watches home shopping at full volume all day and lectures me about my sodium intake?

It’s a VERY sweet offer, honestly. I’m incredibly grateful. If I am ever in any form of dire life straits, obviously this would be a lifesaver. (Speaking of which, I’m not a total asshole — Granddad doesn’t need live-in help; his health is probably better than mine.)

But I know my family, and this is a goddamn trap. I love my grandfather, but dude IS the patriarchy. I’ve lived alone for 5 years, sir, sometimes unemployed, and the beauty of that particular soul crush is, you learn to fucking handle your bid-ness. I don’t know what kind of helpless, broke-ass princess they think they’ve raised, but I ain’t havin’ it.

I am going to live alone, and walk around naked, and stay up too late, and binge watch My Crazy Ex-Girlfriend on weekends, and hopefully have noisy, raucous sex followed by salt-laden Indian takeout at the first available opportunity.

NOW. If you’ll please excuse me, I gotta go throw my hands up at Destiny’s Child.

Vacation, all I ever wanted…

Self Improvement Phase 1: Haircut, hair color, mani-pedi, sundress. DONE. Holy shit, I KNEW there was a real woman here somewhere! I am exhausted. But pretty. *preen*

Phase 2: New dwelling. Check!

Phase 3: PROFIT! Wait, no… That’s not it… Phase 3: Vacation! See y’all soon! ❤

The Go-Go's – Vacation from Dan Hunter on Vimeo.

Burning sage. Only mentally, because I can’t be trusted with fire.

I’ve stopped calling it decluttering at this point. I’m a writer, goddammit — these are “life revisions.” I’m deleting the parts of my story that don’t work, expanding and carefully editing the parts that do.

Remember when I was Slut Singleton? My email and cell phone no longer do. (OK, yeah, my brain totally still does, but I’m working on it.)

Sad Singleton apartment? I won’t let the door hit me.

Couch of Horrible Life Choices (AKA the whorecouch)? Out by the dumpster.

Lingerie I wore when making said bad life choices? Let’s call it what it was: Trash. Not the good lingerie, don’t be silly. Bad decisions got made in $12 Target shit…and also a $6 super-clearance dress from JCPenney. (Don’t judge.) I threw that out, too.

I’d throw out the mattress, but I think that was just ONE bad decision, and I can’t afford to buy a couch AND a mattress. I’m clearing my brain, not my bank account. Though I did order new sheets and a new mattress pad. That should cover the bad bed juju.

Oh…and I guess I should replace that bathmat. (Ahem… Shut up.)
P.S. I just have one more post about clutter/moving after this, and then I’m done, I promise.

Detox/re-tox

I’ve spent the past few months paring down my possessions, making sure I know, love, or use everything I have. (“All the right junk in all the right places.”)

I don’t care about a lot of THINGS anymore. I’m not sure if that’s age, or moving so frequently, or seeing people drift into and out of my life. Maybe all those aspects just came together, but it’s been a lot easier to stop holding on to stuff. (Plus, some stuff just has bad juju on it.)

When it comes to ex-stuff, I understand it’s time (likely long past) to at least START dealing with it. I’m not talking about those random interlopers I tried dating; that stuff is long gone. But the Big Ex is another story. There’s a box of stuff I’m not ready to go through yet, and I probably won’t even try until I’m done with everything else. 

But obviously when you spend that much time with someone, it can’t all be contained in one box and buried in the back of a closet, so I keep finding remnants of the relationship among other things. It’s sort of insignificant stuff like CDs, t-shirts from vacations “we” took. And I know I CAN let these things go. I’ll never use them, so they’re getting thrown out or donated. Someone else can enjoy them, or throwing things out is healthier than being reminded of him every time I pick up a “Boston”-emblazoned pen he brought me from a work trip.

But goddamn, it’s still daunting. Happily, there is wine, and clearly that needs to be decluttered as well. So cheers, y’all.

“I don’t live here anymore!”

As I start looking for a new apartment and decluttering my current one, this scene keeps coming back to me.

This apartment was not a good place for me. It does not represent a lot of happy memories. I’m looking forward to starting over in a new place that might hold better juju.