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movin' on out

I’ve found a place to live.

The past week and a half has been spent on my ass in front of the computer, hitting Westside Rentals, Craigslist, and Pets and People Homefinders, looking for a small house within my budget that would take a pit bull and not be too painful to look at.

As it’s been three years since I’ve rented, I had forgotten the curious shorthand that landlords use to entice you to their property.

“Cute” = “tiny”
"Cozy" = “really tiny”
“Character" = “old and dirty”
“All appliances included” = “all appliances except a fridge, you don’t need one of those, do you?”
“Vintage charm” = filthy, old, and hasn’t been updated since the Eisenhower administration”
“Pets OK” = “as long as it doesn't shed, poop, walk through the common areas, whine, want to sit outside, or make noise”*

I trudged through room after room of stained carpet, stoves that looked like Jeffrey Dahmer had used them to make human soup, I made phone call after phone call and sent email after email where landlords were rude, confused, or just didn’t call me back.

My friend, mentor, and virtual sister S. phoned me to let me know that I could come live with her. S. is fun and funny and lives in a huge house in Bel Air with dogs and a pool and a huge kitchen that’s insanely beautiful.

It would be easy, I told her, it would be really easy. I need a soft landing, but not that soft. I just need to be alone for a little bit, I said.

The offer’s open-ended, she told me.

There are times in your life when you’re reminded that even though the Universe has you in a headlock and is about to slam you to the mat, that there are people out there who care. Who act. Who’ll hold out a hand to lift you up. I am astounded at the emails, the phone calls, the comments. I can’t think of anything to say but thank you.

On Saturday, I went to check out another house on the list.

I think it’s a fixer upper said the Realty Agent.

That’s okay, I told him, I might as well go look anyway.

I drove up in front of the small, mustard colored house with brown trim. The Agent wasn’t there yet so I peeked in the windows.

I didn’t look like a fixer-upper.

He pulled up and unlocked the house.

This isn’t a fixer-upper, he told me, I must have gotten that wrong.

Instead, it was a house with gorgeous wood floors, a gas-burning fireplace, a decent-sized kitchen and a separate dining area. French doors that lead out to a deck and a yard, and a separate huge enclosed dog run behind the yard.

I turned to him. I’d like to move forward with this.

He got on the phone and we made plans to have the paperwork emailed to me and set up a time for Daisy to meet the house’s owner on Sunday.

Sunday I was nervous. I had gone through the whole circle jerk before. But I put on her seatbelt, grabbed a few poop bags, tucked some treats in my pocket and hoped for the best. Daisy won over both Agents and the Owner in about five seconds flat. She zoomed through the yard, showed the owner how she could “leave it” and sat patiently while we discussed specifics. They said they’d get in touch with me later in the day.

The Landlord called A., as he was my personal reference and my boss. I handed him the application that I filled out so he’s see what I wrote, but the landlord just wanted to know Is she a good person? Is she responsible? What about Daisy?

Four hours later, I got a call: congratulations, the place is yours.

I was elated. I ran to the study to share the good news. A. was playing World of Warcraft on his computer, so I waited until he died and sat on his lap.

Guess what?

What?

I got the house!

Congratulations! He hugged me. Then stopped.

We looked at each other.

I guess I’m moving.

I guess you are.

I don’t know what to say.

Me neither.



to be continued…


*the last line lifted from this witty woman.