the herd is on the move

 

famous last words.

i really, really didn’t mean that as a challenge.

and yet…

on the 9th there was a notice from management that as of the 10th they were no longer in charge of the building. i knew the owners (out of state, of course) were terrible, but make an actually decent management company quit on the 10th of the month bad?? can they just get the building taken away already please? they refuse to spend money to repair anything, refuse to deal with any problems, and now it’s now the 28th, no new management, and, more importantly, no heat. it was down to 30* last night. heat is required. even the city can’t figure out who the new management is OR get the heat turned on. the owners should be required to either stay a month in one of the units as is, or forfeit the entire building. out of state landlords are the worst people on earth.

SO, i started looking online and found a cute little one bedroom for just a little more than where i’m at now, turned in an app last night and got approved today.

as ready as i am to say good riddance to my current apartment, am i ready to say goodbye to it?

i’ve been in this apartment the longest i’ve been anywhere in a long while; i think technically even longer than i had the house. i’ve been in this space since 4/2019. six and a half years. the house was 4/2011-4/2017, 4/17-4/19 in the valley, 3 places between moving to spokane in 1/2007 and moving into the house 4/2011. 

it’s been a long six and a half years.

this apartment was an emergency landing spot when everything blew up at the end of 2018 and my youngest moved out suddenly and everything fell apart. this apartment is where i hid (literally and figuratively) to pull myself back together.

this apartment has been my foray into empty nesting. into living alone for the first time ever. TRULY alone. not me and two kids alone. not me and andy in college alone. JUST ME. me and stella: two chunky girls facing the world alone. this apartment got me through what turned out to be a very rough empty nesting transition. through covid and riot lockdowns. through several job changes and an extended unemployment span. through learning how to unmask, how to be completely myself, and then how to be a little less myself (the pendulum swings have mostly balanced out). 

i have such a love hate relationship with this apartment.

there are the 4 most gorgeous east facing windows for my plants. those same windows are 110 years old, don’t open correctly, don’t seal against the weather, and haven’t been cleaned once in the 6 years i’ve lived there.

 

there is the biggest, deepest, covers your boobs and your knees AT THE SAME TIME claw foot tub for soaking in.

that same shower is also extremely temperamental and turns ice cold on you for 2 minutes for no reason before getting as hot as satan’s asshole in texas in august. gods help you if you want to wash your hands at the sink- there’s LAVA HOT water or ice cold water. that’s it. two separate taps. melt the germs (and skin) off or freeze them off. no inbetween. thankfully, the kitchen is 4 steps away with normal mixed water as long as you don’t mind washing your hands and face where you wash your dishes.

and let’s talk about dishes- ONE sink, not a split sink. ONE sink. no dishwasher. no space for a dish rack. you can wash/rinse the dishes as the sink fills up, then drain it and start over again. the nosebleed of doing dishes at this place has literally changed my eating habits to avoid having to do dishes. not exactly the healthiest thing. see also how the fridge door was broken for about 3 years where you had to lift it to close it. that also changed my eating habits. when every. single. time. you open the fridge it’s a pain in your ass, you stop opening the fridge. i’ve lost most of my meager-at-best cooking skills in this apartment. i loathe the thought of being in that kitchen longer than necessary.

while i love how it’s been perfectly enough space for me: livingroom, bedroom, kitchen, bath, it’s also very claustrophobic. turns out you do need outside space. green space. storage space. a bedroom door that closes so people don’t see your bras and underwear first thing. space to have friends over. space to have more than one chair. space to have maybe even a small dining room table for actual meals. not that i ever used a dining room table in all the other places i’ve lived. BUT THE IDEA OF IT.

the space to have friends over. THE SPACE TO HAVE FRIENDS OVER.

there are so many reasons i haven’t had people over to where i live now. satan’s staircase is the main reason. the most insanely steep and tiny stairs that lead straight up with no room for side by side, enjoy looking at my butt for 68 steps. then once you get inside, hi, welcome to my bedroom. it’s *slightly* awkward. would you like to sit on my one chair? or on my bed? not strange at all; no weird expectations when you bring a date home. sorry friends, you need a place to crash for the night? i’ve got a rocking chair. having an indoor pup was also a strong deterrent. welcome to my house, please wait while i clean up dog poop and make it smell better. please don’t ever sit on the rug (which has now been cleaned and you CAN sit on it).

dead bodies are also a strong guest deterrent. 6 bodies in 6 years: the older lady who passed and no one found her for 2 months. the hoarder lady who passed but they found her right away because she was already on the radar for her stuff overflowing in the hallways. there was the overdose that got pulled out of the dealers apartment and

dumped in the hallway. the guy who got shot in the intersection for beating his girlfriend. the combat vet with cancer who hung himself from the fire escape after they raised the rent and took away his service dog (also happened to be the one who shot the abusive boyfriend). 

oh, i guess just five dead bodies. that’s…still terrible.

the building has been a constant chaos storm- a slew of terrible managers lying about inspections and repairs. pipes leaking and breaking, heat not working, entry doors and windows being broken/propped open by drug dealers. people breaking in through the fire escapes and stashing drugs in the laundry room. so many stolen packages. the mice. fuck the fucking mice. the constant dumpster divers. a half dirt parking lot with chunks of metal sticking out of the ground and nary a parking stripe to be found. unhoused encampments in the window wells and alleyways. overdoses and fenty folds on the daily. i’ve lost count of how many fights i’ve heard in the parking lot. how many people have screamed death threats at each other while damaging the building or cars in the lot. i will not miss the constant sirens from the ambulance shack on one side or the even louder fire trucks coming from the other direction. 

i’m more than ready to leave this place behind.

but also.

it’s been home for 6 years. 6 years of hauling groceries and laundry and 30lb bags of dog food up the stairs. 6 years of talking to myself. 6 years of figuring out who i am and what the next chapters will be. 6 years of learning to manage a solo routine, grocery shop for one, being the only one to blame when the remote went missing. that place did get me through covid. it somehow provided it’s own rent relief during the worst of it keeping me from being homeless (thanks to help from the latino center downstairs). it has been (illogically) a safe space for stella and me. i rarely had anyone unexpected knock on my door. i have mostly avoided any interactions with neighbors (aside from one screaming match with the drug dealer who kept stealing packages). my car was only riffled through a few times in the parking lot. the plumbing in my unit somehow always worked, even if the hot water was temperamental. it has been 6 years of closing my door and blocking out everything else. 

it was my home with stella. it seems like a giant betrayal to finally get a ground floor apartment with green space just a few weeks after letting her go. that unexpected tidal wave of grief that hit last night. if only she could have made it another month…

then she would have been home all month alone in the cold. then i wouldn’t be able to afford to move (pet deposits and pet rent are astronomical). then a whole different timeline would be happening. i am heartbroken to make this move without her. i’m also relieved to have a new space that isn’t filled to bursting with every memory and sound of her. no more carrying her chunky little butt up and down the stairs of death.

i don’t know what to think right now.

am i excited to move? ABSOLUTELY. the timing is working out. finances are working out (thanks to some very generous people). it FEELS right.

am i terrified to move? unquestionably. new neighborhood. new neighbors. new morning routine.

am i ready to move? i don’t know. it will take a few nights of tears while packing, i’m sure. i’m sure there will be a few pockets of rage as i clean out closets with left over mice damages. i’m sure a few moments of elation deciding what the new space will look like. where will all the art and plants get to live now. a few moments of exhaustion wondering if it will ever be over. a few more nights of exhaustion trying to remember where i packed the damn pizza cutter.

this isn’t new though. i used to be old hat at moving. 13 times in 13 years at one point. i had it down to a science. boxes stashed in storage with the contents already written on the outside for the next round. back in the same box and onto the next place! the days of pre-labeled boxes has long since passed. thankfully i work in a bookstore that gets deliveries all day, every day, so there will be plenty of boxes pre-labeled as books readily available.

the herd is on the move. is it still a herd when it’s down to just one?

i have a sneaking suspicion that saying good bye is going to be harder than expected, as much as i’m ready to say good riddance.

but. the universe has told me, very clearly, very coldly, it is time.

and so we go.

untethered

perhaps it’s the result of turning 45.

perhaps it’s the state of *waves at everything in general*

perhaps it’s empty nesting catching up to me.

perhaps it’s letting stella go.

one way or another, i feel that i have become completely untethered.

for the first time in my adult life (aka: since becoming pregnant in 1997), i am responsible for no one and nothing else but myself.

i am not a mom. i am not a dog mom. i am not a spouse.

i am completely untethered.

quick exit from an awkward party? no more dog at home waiting for me.

uncomfortable holiday event? no kids that are over sugared and need to get to bed.

friday night with no plans on saturday? i really, REALLY don’t need to close down the bar…but…i mean…

it is freeing and unnerving and wholly unchartered territory.

i am responsible to nothing but myself.

what does one do at 45? float off into space like a saundra bullock movie?

i’ve worked hard for the little life that i have. monday thru friday at the bookstore; sundays at the crystal shop. books and crystals. my life is filled with my favorite things. my finances are (knock wood) stable. my health is (knock wood) stable. i love my jobs. i have a fantastic partner i’ve been spending time with.

and i feel completely lost.

what do i do from here?

i’ve done enough major life reboots over the last 27 years that i’m not in a hurry for another.

hell, in the last year i changed jobs (changed one, added one). that’s enough of a professional reboot. i’ve lost my sweet stella in the last month. that’s enough of an emotional reboot. i’ve stepped away from a few friendships in the last year. there’s not much of anyone left in that category for a reboot there. aside from changing cars or changing apartments, there’s not much reboot space left. 

be kind universe, that wasn’t a challenge.

please. that really wasn’t a challenge.

there have been several phases of deep, uncomfortable dysmorphia in my life. times when i didn’t recognize the person in the mirror physically, mentally, emotionally.

i’m in one of those right now.

the picture mostly fits. mostly. when i look at myself at in the mirror in the mornings getting ready for work i mostly recognize her. she matches the picture in my head more days than not, and more than several other iterations in the last few years. much more than the mullet years. the hair is fantastic now. the face, well, at least it i recognize her more often than not. most days.

everything else is changing too. the clothes generally are correct but getting more uncomfortable by the day. what do you mean my safe, comfortable, full coverage high waisted low hip plain black, 100% cotton briefs aren’t the ticket anymore? TEAM GRANNY PANTY. except…not? and then there’s skinny jeans: please, for the love of fat calves everywhere, please make regular jeans (maybe even boot cut) a thing again. music? i can’t find a playlist to save my life. all the songs feel overplayed and old. the new stuff doesn’t make sense. food? my partner is a FANTASTIC cook and i’m eating things i would have strait up refused to eat a few months ago. onions? peppers? horseradish? sure. why not. WHO AM I? how the fuck do i grocery shop now? the same basic 10 items are no longer enough.

who am i? who do i want to be? who can i safely be? the world is changing daily and parts of me are quickly becoming illegal again.

a single, plus sized, educated, independent, queer, female identifying human? i’m two bad days from being on a watch list, if i’m not already. i’m two supreme court decisions away from losing my right to marry whomever i please and my right to own credit cards. they can try to fuck with my fertility, but i think that ship long since sailed. if i hadn’t already closed the baby factory, it’s getting to the age of rotten eggs and imminent decommissioning. THANK THE GODS i had a fantastic doctor 22 years ago. i’m endlessly lucky no politicians are interested in my uterus any longer. i’m now “of an age” where getting hired at any new job could be dicey. hollywood would start casting me in grandmother roles. i can start to shoplift from grocery stores as part of the invisible womanhood. being replaced by younger and prettier doesn’t take much these days. 

an educated woman with her own finances who can afford to live alone (mostly afford)? DANGER WILL ROBINSON. i’m not top of the other side’s hit list, but i’m pretty far up there.

so, where does that leave me?

i’m stuck in the labyrinth and the imps are constantly popping up from under the flagstones and changing the arrows.

45; if i live til 90, i’m just now at the half way point. the first half has been growing up- literally for the first 17 years. then human motherhood for years 18-38. dog mom for years 37-45. there was a divorce in there. school took up a solid portion going well into my 20’s. a few career changes. more than a few deaths and losses. a house somewhere in there. money and not money in there. plenty of therapy- part paid by insurance, part completed with hope, deep dive google searches and a bit of experimentation.

now, what do i do with all that?

that’s some hard earned learning.

frank mccourt published angela’s ashes at age 66. laura ingalls wilder published the first little house book at age 65. tolkien published the hobbit at 45. kathy bates did misery at 42. samuel l jackson did pulp fiction at 45. alan rickman did die hard at 42. brian cranston did malcom in the middle at 44.

I HAVE TIME.

i have education. i have experience. i even have new non-granny panty underwear (thanks to a weekend score at ross). i have stability. i have health.

and yet, i float.

untethered.

unsure of which direction to go.

do i take the winter, the dark months, the quiet season to figure it out? spend some time quietly reading, meditating, writing, waiting for the spring to return? take some time to adjust to the most recent changes, strategize, plot and plan? let my finances adjust to their new normal? hunker down where i’m at to avoid packing boxes and moving in the snow (again)? 

do i ask the universe to just get any more changes out of the way while i’m already free floating? do i dare open myself up to whatever that might mean? the universe is a sneaky bitch sometimes and when you say change she really takes the opportunity to show you change is for more than underwear and coinstar machines.

there’s a lot of underwear in this post today. i would apologize, but i don’t care. UNDERWEAR. there you go. one more.

for now, i’m content with day by day.

to be blunt, i didn’t expect to make it this far, so taking it day by day is kinda all there is.

i don’t know what i expected from life, but somehow reaching 45 wasn’t on the list. contemplating another 45 seems…like being asked to eat an elephant. daunting. overwhelming. unpalatable. illogical.

why would i eat an elephant when there’s a taco bell 2 blocks away? they say to eat it one bite at a time, but what does that even mean? who’s cooking it? do you have to cook each individual bite? that seems exhausting. is it really the WHOLE thing? trumpet to the tail? like a pig? squeal to the heel? can’t i just have a burger instead?

it’s easy to get mired down in questions and nonsensical distracting rabbit trails. who was the first person to eat an elephant? are elephants an endangered species? how do you refrigerate an elephant to keep it good long enough to eat the whole thing?

what do i want to do next? where do i want to live? when do i *really* need a colonoscopy? who designed mammograms and why isn’t there a better option yet? do senior living communities really hold hard lines on the 55+ part? does my hip just hurt or is it bone cancer? what kind of underwear do you wear if you have a hip replacement? do you have to get ones with velcro tabs on the side? a tear away thong ala burt reynolds? how much will menopause suck? when will i have to learn to adapt to being a grandma? can i be a cool grandma? or will i be a memaw in a mumu with slightly unhinged responses to things that probably aren’t kid friendly?

i’m nervous for the next chapter. maybe a little excited nervous. more-so walking into an unknown dark room with a blindfold on nervous.

trepidation. perturbation. apprehension.

i know whatever comes next, i’ll learn to adapt like always. i'll pull up my big girl panties and deal with it. i’m trying to be curious. excited (without the nervous). exploratory. open. adventurous.

and, at some point, maybe a little tethered again. at least a floating buoy.