#*@!! On The Radio

Remember us?

I got the apartment. Moving in tomorrow. Hells yes.

Ever since I got an office job (my first full-time one) I've kept the radio on quietly in the background. I don't really like most of the stuff on 101.3, but I feel like I need to be able to relate to the kids that I work with, so I aurally choke down all the Hedley and Flo Rida that Halifax DJs feel they can cram into an hour.

It's not good.

I inherited a lot from the last person to occupy this office, including a sweet Swingline stapler (not red, unfortch), a framed motivational poster (which I took down and now leans face-down against a filing cabinet) and an 80's era boom box. It only plays tapes and the radio, and since my cassette tape library is, um, nonexistant, I've been forced to make do with the latter. As a result I'm listening to Rihanna's "Disturbia" for the fourth time today.

So... mix tape time, anyone?

(*image from amazon.com. Sweet Nelly F. Hear it, get it, love it.)

House Huntin' Take Two

So I've dropped off my (cash) rental deposit, smiled a few winning grins and am now hideously annoyed that no one's arsed to get back to me yet. I've resorted to calling the property manager from work and leaving messages that include phrases words like "status update" and "touch base".


Dear God.

I should have known that trying to get a month-to-month in this town without selling my body would have been a no-go.

Hell on Wheels

Moving brings out the worst in people. The following contains enough anxiety to induce stress and a phobia of moving, ever. In fact, I might have to make Halifax my home base from now on.

Friday 5pm: I pick up the Uhaul with my mother. We are already fighting because I couldn't just walk out to the highway 30-min from my house and pick it up myself. I have been "upgraded" to giant Uhaul despite calling numerous times to confirm my smallest-size-possible Uhaul.

9pm: With the help of two male friends (paid with beverages of choice) the U-haul is packed. Conversations with mother avoided although numerous comments made about me being a terrible packer.

Saturday 8am: Leave in the Uhaul. Considerable discussion over who is driving vehicle from hell. Dad is slow to get ready and follows us in own car. Barely ate breakfast because my mother is paranoid we will miss ferry. Mum forgets to take the food she claimed to have packed.

9:30-11:00 - endure crowded, noisy, crying baby ferry ride. Decide never to have children.

11am - 2pm: Take four wrong turns on the way to Halifax. My mother refused to listen anytime I gave directions. We got lost looking for gas in Bible Hill and tried to go over the wrong bridge into Halifax. It begins to pour.

2pm-3pm: Unpack my life into (beautiful) apartment. My dad arrived one hour before us and already became BFF with a law student in my building. Sweating profusely, I am super annoyed in general.

3pm: Celebrate successful unpacking and breath deep sigh of relief. My parents reminds me not to get too happy until we drop off the Uhaul. I frown, increasing the likelihood of my face freezing after a day of frowning.

3:25: Arrive at stated Uhaul drop off location. Got special permission from construction crew to drive down blocked off street. Said location is a dead end residential street with no Uhauls.

3:30: Place first frantic call to Uhaul Charlottetown, while parked on busy side street. Parents commence arguing. Uhaul Charlottetown appears confused and tells me to go to Jubilee Street. Still raining.

3:50: Arrive at Jubliee. Mum turns right instead of left when I say we should turn LEFT. I get yelled at. Resulting turn results in hitting a lamp post. My fault also.

4:05: Arrive at stated address on Jubliee. Find it is a small store without no drive way. Talk to employee. They are decidedly not a Uhaul drop off location, although they do sell moving equipment.

4:07: Place third call to Uhaul. Ask for Manager. Get very angry. Still no apologies. Give vague directions to third Uhaul place. Parents furious. Still raining.

4:15: Call Uhaul again because the vague directions they gave me did not help. I am furious. Seriously consider driving it into a brick wall. "Josh" at Uhaul still does not appear apologetic or take responsibility for fucking up.

4:40: Arrive at North End drop off location. Find abandoned warehouse location with broken blinds and turned over chairs inside. See no "drop" box for Uhaul keys.

4:46: While I am on the phone with U-Haul, the police pull over to tell my father that he is parked the wrong way on a one-way street and imply that we might be in the wrong neighbourhood. I scream at U-haul Charlottetown that I am not driving to any other goddamn location. Also curse my future cell phone bill.

5:00: Finally speak to Uhaul Halifax. Girl is incredibly apologetic for Uhaul Charlottetown's incompetence. All three locations haven't been in use for years. She tells me to LEAVE THE KEYS IN THE UNLOCKED VEHICLE. She will pick it up Tuesday.

5:05: My mother doesn't listen to me when I am trying to explain this to her even though I am screaming at her not to lock the doors and she locks the doors. We are locked out of said Uhaul and they don't have another set of keys.

5:10: Call Uhaul Halifax to apologize and they reluctantly agree that this is their problem.

5:12: Get into car and am so frustrated that I can not speak to either parent. Start to cry. My dad suggests we all go out for a nice dinner. Despite teeming rain, I ask to be dropped off immediately at next stop light. Parents insist on driving to the Subway near my apartment. Since I ate one piece of toast all day, I feel like I am going to pass out.

5:30: Arrive at new home, shaking uncontrollably from low blood sugar and frantically search for ibuprofen.

5:35. Eat Subway cookies first. Recover, slowly.

12pm: Realize I have a beautiful new home and that I don't have to live with my parents or travel in a Uhaul again for a very long time.

House Huntin'

"I can't understand why it's taking so long to process my application. I mean, they rent to hookers for Chrissakes!"
"Maybe you're too legit."
"The super has no teeth and used to live at the shelter where I work. That should be my in, right?!?"

Waiting for a management company to get back to you about a new apartment is nerve-wracking. It's particularly nerve-wracking when you've forked over $400 in cold, hard cash as a deposit and then heard nothing for days on end. Thank God I asked for a receipt. Years of being used and abused have taught me something, apparently.

Filling out the application is equally stressful for me because I'm such a loose cannon. It's hard for me to list my past addresses because, well, I've had about seven in the past year alone. I usually just list my home in Charlottetown and pray they don't ask too many questions about University of Toronto paraphenalia and vaguely American accent.

I used to say that I would always be a renter, since I can't commit to anything and I find even the signing of a twelve-month lease leads to a tightening of the chest and small spots dancing before my eyes. Although I can't see myself being a homeowner in the next five years, the stability is appealing...

Now where's my freakin' apartment?!?

Nickle and Dimed

29 days later... and $315.

All things considered, my budget experiment went pretty well. I have two days left and one mandatory work-related-but-you-still-pay lunch. My mom even gave me $20 last week – I’m practically rich.

The play by play is pretty boring. Roughly $25 spent on office snacks (mostly caffeine), three restaurant lunches (which means 19 packed lunches). No shopping except one t-shirt (mandatory sailing crew purchase) and one pair of rubber boots (essential Halifax gear). Two nights out and two at the movies.

Granted, this doesn’t count the pre-reiumbursement $200 I dropped in Ottawa on airport, transport and meals. It wasn’t my fault that the continental breakfast was $12. I ate food in styrofoam containers but it adds up. Go figure.

It also doesn’t count $82 on paint supplies to re-do furniture or $60 on physio. My back was in rough shape, despite walking 5km to and from work because I can’t afford gas.

Now I have to make my budget experiment a permanent practice. For all those unexpected incidentals, (the un-official total being well over $600) well, that’s what student lines of credit and future well-paid jobs in my boring middle age are for. Right?

Barbara Ehrenreich revealed the dark side of the Merry Maids. I realized rejecting consumerism still has a price tag. Count your pennies kids, life is rough.

C.R.A.Z.Y.

Lunatics and lunacy have their roots in the word "luna", or moon, as it was once thought that the phases of our lunar orb played a role in dictating people's sanity. I should really check on whether we're waxing or waning...

Cristobal is pouring outside, but the bus is $2 that I'd rather spend on coffee and pears. Sticking to my Money Diet (I dislike the word "budget"), I decided that I wasn't made of sugar and maybe a little stroll through a tropical storm would do me good. It took me thirty very wet minutes to get from my place to the youth centre in the Square, and by the time I actually squelched in the door my make-up had smeared into something resembling The Crow in drag. My cute little boho scarf was plastered to my neck and I actually had to turn my purse over and pour the water out. Remarkably, the kids were unfazed. One of them pointed out to me, a little needlessly, that I was wet. I managed a watery grin (haha) and wrung out my hair and shirt over the sink.

Coming home, I took the damn bus.

(*"Moon Tarot" by Michelle Ewing-Juarbe; www.paintingfingers.com)

Rock Of Love

Oh God. Not again.

Because we've learned nothing from the fact that Flava Flav, The Bachelor and the casualities of The Pick-Up Artist are still solo acts, VH1 is going to be producing a third Rock Of Love season. Yet another overtly sexist and vaguely misogynistic "reality" show aiming to make our lovelorn celebs more "like us". This, of course, is assuming that you consider Bret Michaels a celebrity, a claim well-worth disputing, but more on him later (can you pick him out in that photo? Because I sure as hell can't.)

So sexual inequality and bad hair aside... why do I care?

Because I absolutely lap this show up like a cat with a saucer of milk. Honestly, the whole televised train wreck is so insanely addictive that you'd be a fool not to tune in, much less turn off. The first season was on when I had first moved to California and it was kind of this American baptism by fire... which I took to like a God-fearing salamander. The premise: groupies in denial vie for the affection of one Bret Michaels, AKA lead singer of Poison, the one hair-band that not only won't quit, but continues to tour without a shred of irony. Hmm, and I just said it was the groupies that were in denial...

This season promises to be even better than the last because all of the show's, ahem, contestants are going to be - ready for this? - strippers. Yessir, they're going to go from town to town in a stripper tour bus with Mr. Poison and, um, strip their way into his heart. Presumably there will be a stripper test of sorts to separate the chaff from the other chaff. I wonder how they'll send her off...

"The harem has spoken. Please collect your pasties and exit the Shag Wagon."

I'm dying here.

(Ed's note: inspired by angilio via no ordinary rollercoaster)