Ah, moving. It is
never not stressful, but sometimes it can be stressful and exciting. The degree of excitement lies within the
circumstance. Perhaps you are ready for a change and are switching apartments
purely of your own volition. Or, conversely, you are moving because you have no
choice but to move. I found myself on
the latter end of this spectrum a couple months ago when my then-roommate and I
found out that our landlord was planning on selling our apartment, leaving us
no choice but to find a new place to live. It was then that the dread of
finding a place to live in New York City hit me for the first time. All I wanted
was something comfortable. Judging from how hard it had been to achieve the
level of comfort I’d had at the apartment I’d been living in, I thought I’d
never find that comfort again.
I had a couple of
leads that fell through. I had a nervous breakdown about it at work and cried,
cried, cried. I resorted to combing Craigslist, where I would try to find an
apartment that I would share with the least-freaky freaks I could find.
Everybody is a freak on Craigslist. They are either prudish neat freaks or
slovenly weird freaks. I resigned myself to the fact that I was doomed.
But thank god for the
internet and thank god for my boyfriend, who sent smoke signals out over the
internet that were seen by Maud, a coworker of mine who needed to move by April
1st as well. We now have a super rad apartment RIGHT NEAR THA L TRAIN.
As soon as the deal was sealed, I finally started feeling super excited about
my move and super over my old apartment. As I packed all my shit into a
thousand banker’s boxes, all I could think about was what I hated about it and
how I couldn’t wait to leave. When I finally got all my shit out of there and
was taking one last look at the place, I could only think about the things that
I loved about living there. I made a list. Let’s start with the things I hated.
PART ONE: THE BAD
1. THERE IS NOTHING
AROUND THERE
Except Family Dollar.
Fuck those people who robbed the old Silent Barn because that was the only
worthwhile shit within walking distance of my house. Since moving to Ridgewood,
my mood has improved about 10,000 percent. There are STORES and FOOD TRUCKS and
PEOPLE walking around. If I want to go to brunch, I can take a nice walk down
Wyckoff Avenue to Café Ghia. Shit, there’s even a 24-hour McDonald’s if you’re
into that. Which I am, but only while intoxicated.
2. THEY GOT RID OF
THE BAT CAVE
What the fuck, y’all?
I don’t know what this used to be- I am assuming it was some sort of bar. One
day I was walking down the street and was very disturbed to find that somebody
had painted over the sign, which was one of my favorite idiosyncrasies of the
neighborhood. Why had I never bothered to take a picture of it to show my
future children!? Oh well. Some person from the internet did it for me. Thank
god for Google Images.
Anyway. The space of
the former Bat Cave has been empty ever since the sign was painted over. I can
only hope that they are doing some work inside to make it into another bar
because as I said before there is nothing around that neighborhood except for
Family Dollar.
3. MY SHITTY NEIGHBOR
DID PULL-UPS IN THE HALL
At first, I was
indifferent to the pull-up bar that my neighbor had installed in the doorway of
his apartment. Whatever. That’s kind of weird and bro-y but okay if you’re into
that then who am I to be a hater. But the more I thought about it, the more I
was like, dude, why don’t you join a gym? You own the apartment. Surely you can
afford a gym membership? Everybody who visited my apartment commented on and
would make fun of the pull-up bar. The ridiculousness of it became fully
apparent to me when I realized that my neighbor seemed to think that since he
owned the apartment he owned the hallway, too. Every day there was at least one
of the following clustered outside his door: sneakers and/or boots (at least
two pairs), glass/plastic recycling, cardboard recycling, a tub of car litter,
and a bike pump. JESUS. Can we say FIRE HAZARD? However, all that pales in
comparison to what came next.
One day I was
relaxing as much as one can relax while reclining on the least expensive couch
available at Target. I heard the door to my neighbor’s house open. He was
blasting Lana del Rey really, really loud. That wasn’t my problem. My problem
began when I realized he was doing pull-ups. At first, all I could hear was
heavier breathing, work-out breathing, if you will. He went inside for two
minutes. Then he came back out and resumed doing pull-ups. This occurred
several more times. The breathing turned into grunting. The grunting turned
into... I DON’T EVEN KNOW. All I know was that it was LOUD and gross. Lana del
Rey singing “Blue Jeans” in the background made it even worse. Yeah, I get it,
dude. You’re a sensitive guy who is still manly. That’s great. Now get out of
my freakin’ hallway. Because, believe it or not, OTHER PEOPLE LIVE HERE and
they don’t want to be hearing your work-out sounds while trying to read/write
on their Target sofas.
4. IT WAS TOO EXPENSIVE
AND THE HEAT WAS ALWAYS BUSTED
Actually, that’s not
quite true. The heat was working when our evil landlord decided that he wanted
to sell the apartment. As rich people spun through our apartment with a real
estate broker with a Louis bag and Restylane-filled lips (that was way harsh,
Tai), our apartment was nice and toasty. My room was always very drafty no
matter what, though. It was the one huge drawback from having the room with
windows.
5. THE LANDLORD NEVER
CALLED ME BACK
Even when some jackass
broke my toilet while we were throwing a party. Come fix my shit, this is
serious business! It sucked to be ignored all the time. I guess the thing that
bummed me out the most about the apartment was the bad vibes I got from the
management company. True, our apartment was nice and not-falling-apart, and I
was thankful for that considering my previous two apartments. But there is
something very depressing about living somewhere that belongs to a man who is
never in his office, who doesn’t care, who doesn’t like women. A man who pulls
the rug out from under you! Evil, evil man. Good riddance.
***
Well, that was the
bad. I always think of the bad before I think of the good whenever I move. It’s easier to
think of the bad, to focus on the things that you didn’t like in order to like
another apartment better. That brings me to the next part of this post:
PART TWO: WHAT I
LOVED
my old room
I won’t go into much
detail, because it was nebulous, dreamlike. I remember good things the way one
experiences happiness- in fleeting impressions. I don’t think it was the
apartment itself that I will miss. Instead, I will miss the life I lived inside
of it, even if that life was at times a huge mess. In semi-chronological order,
here are the things I will never forget:
The sense of relief I
felt upon getting out of Crown Heights and finally moving to Bushwick, where
I’d always wanted to live during all of the time I’ve resided in this city.
Everything we ever
did on the roof. Laughing with friends uncontrollably until dawn, drinking far
too much, listening to music and dancing and streaking (!) and not having any
neighbors catch me.
Sleeping in my old
room with no windows and leading the exquisitely miserable and desperate lifestyle
that I continue to romanticize.
Moving into the room
with windows after my horrible roommate moved out and my awesome roommate moved
in.
My 25th
birthday house party, our housewarming party, and Andrea’s birthday party.
Hosting the M1 Eve
sign-making party. Solidarity forever!
Those pussy willows I
put on the living room table last spring.
The breeze blowing into
the front room. Waking up to tree branches heavy with green leaves.
The lull of the B20
bus chugging down Decatur Street. Hearing laundry turn in the dryer and water
churning in the dishwasher.
Having the coolest,
most non-judgmental roommate ever.
Loving the man that I
do in my bed, in my room.
The last morning I
spent in my room. The pink and orange sunlight and the mourning dove cooing in
the tree at quarter ‘til seven.
I suppose the good
outweighs the bad, yes?
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