Tag Archives: I need to move out

Sick Day Duldrums

23 Sep

Yesterday, I was feeling under the weather and decided to stay home. After passing out the night before, forgetting to turn on my alarm, oversleeping, looking at my unwashed visage in the mirror, and feeling my brain pound against the outer rim of my skull, I made the executive decision to take a bunch of Advil, crawl back into bed, and catch up on my shows.

And thus began the longest day EVER. Usually, my day is split into several chunks of time: 2 hours for my commute, 3 hours of work before lunch, 4 hours of work after lunch, and 2 hours to get home. When faced with an unbroken swath of time, the hours just drag. Even though I woke up around noon, eliminating those first five hours, the afternoon crawled by, a seemingly endless expanse of time that Oprah no longer fills. I watched Glee, read a book, searched the internet, practiced piano,  took a nap, read some more….and it was only 3:00! By dinner, I was going absolutely stir crazy–my poor mother knew I was feeling better when I started singing her my dinner request. “Eggs with mushrooms, la di daa, is so good in my bellyyyy.” Yea. That definitely happened.

I just have a really hard time managing free time these days–an hour doing nothing is pretty much an hour wasted in my book. Even when I’m not feeling well, I expect myself to operate at high-octane levels. I just feel I need to make up for all the time I spend at work and getting to and from. Granted, I’m not the Tasmanian devil at work either–there are plenty of days when I’m not exactly making the most of my workday, but at least I’m getting paid for that!

Thankfully, I’m feeling better today. And thankfully, because it’s a Friday, the office is quiet and I can catch up on what I missed with limited distraction. And then it’s the weekend….two whole days of free time! I better start planning now!!

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A Bad Dream

13 Jun

Last night, I  had a really bad dream. I will explain, and offer my interpretations below.**

It started out in the shadows of a torrential down pour, as I drove home from a weekend spent with friends in the city (light giving way to darkness, ergo the change in psyche as I made my journey home). The rain pounded, my windshield wipers whipped, (representing the end of the week chaos)  and then, like a stroke of lightning, the passenger side window magically disappeared into the door of my car (no interpretation possible). While my subconscious contemplated the deeper meaning of such bizarre happenstance, the wind and rain continued to fall, soaking the inside of my car, and the side of my face (tears, anguish over my piece of $#*% car).

Fast forward–I find myself at home, in the garage (aka my soul) trying desperately to pull the window out from in-between the miniscule space with a pair of needle nose pliers too wide to fit the gap (dreams and ambitions too large accomplish in the small space of my day, obviously). My dad comes down to help me, and after attempting to fix the window himself, realizes it will need to be fixed by a professional. He tapes a black sheet of plastic over the window, but tells me he will help (suppression of said dreams and ambitions, my dependence). I cry.

Fast forward again–It’s now Sunday morning, and I am tired (my literal lack of sleep). I go down for breakfast, and my dad tells me I should find a way to fix my car as soon as possible. After wracking my brain in an attempt to find a spare second of time in which I have to do this (overwhelming nature of life), and expressing my frustration in the fact that I can find none, I tell my dad I thought he would be able to help. He tells me he’s changed his mind and I will have to handle this on my own because I am “negative”. He then quips that perhaps my car will get stolen and my problem will be solved (my search for an easy way out?). He gets up and leaves me in the kitchen alone, then spends the rest of the day pretending nothing happened. I spend the rest of the day trying to find an open garage, checking bus schedules, and begging friends for the use of their couch while my car gets repaired (a continuous cycle of dependency and exasperation). DREAM ENDS.

What a thinker. But wait…hold on just one second….that wasn’t a dream.

THAT WAS MY WEEKEND.

 

**I do not know how to interpret dreams

The Hunt

14 Mar

This weekend I officially started my apartment search. Now, I’ve been casually searching for New York City apartments since I was in 5th grade, but on Saturday, I made it official, hired a realtor and then became sufficiently horrified and depressed.

Listen, I’m not rolling in the dough, so to speak. But my budget isn’t so unrealistic as to be mocked! And yet, everyone I’ve emailed or talked to on the phone has chortled light-heartedly when I share the news of my search and my expectation that I’ll find something. The first realtor I met with didn’t even bother showing me anything within, uh, 70 blocks of the location I want to live! Then he suggested I learn Spanish, showed me five apartments all facing a dirty brick wall, told me I could always buy my own stove and then blew smoke in my face. Literally. He smoked. And blew it in my face.

Needless to say, I was less than enthused. I saw one place I liked, but wasn’t willing to risk being attacked by drug lords on my way out the door, since this was basically what happened when we left.

But surprisingly, I wasn’t too discouraged. I had decided I didn’t want to live where he ended up showing me for a variety of reasons, but actually being able to walk around and get a feel for the place set off visual alarm bells. Plus, I didn’t really feel a connection with the realtor. He was twice my age, an 80s metal head, and yea, did I mention he literally blew smoke in my face?????

Later that night, I saw another two places in the area I had originally wanted to look, and sure enough, absolutely loved it. It was convenient to subways, close to a college and a park, and had that jazzy New York feel. Unfortunately, the place he showed me was minuscule and over my budget, but at least it was in the general direction of what I’m looking for. Plus, the realtor had an affinity for Boar’s Head cheese, and pointed out every Bodega on the way, which I found more entertaining than washed-up Axl Rose references.

So it’s back to the drawing board for now, but my foray into apartment hunting was actually pretty exciting! I felt like a real grownup…looking for apartments, preparing to be poor…it’s all part of the process, right??

 

My Parents Went to Miami

29 Jan

So my parents went on vacation this weekend…without my sister and I. What the hell, Mom and Dad. Isn’t the only time you’re supposed to go anywhere is when you can bring us?

But anyway, there’s about 9 billion feet of snow on the ground right now, and it’s supposed to snow consistently throughout the weekend. Looks like I’ll be stuck inside for eternity while my parents live it up at the Fontainebleau. It’s really depressing when you realize your parents lead a more exciting life than you do. They already see their friends way more than I see mine, and they drink a lot more wine.

Now, I wouldn’t say my parents coddle me, but when they’re not around, I’m actually responsible for getting up when my alarm goes off and making my own coffee. Of course, I have several issues with this:

1. I cannot recall A SINGLE TIME IN MY LIFE when I actually get up when my alarm goes off. Usually, my mom comes in and gets me up so I’m not running around like a crazy person with ten minutes to get ready, nothing to wear, and five thousands things to do. Like I did tonight.

2. I cannot make coffee. Every time I try to make coffee, it tastes gross. And I NEED coffee. And because of #1, I didn’t have time to stop and get a better cup, so I choked down the bitter brew and am now shaking at my desk because it was so strong.

So the two things that I’m actually responsible for doing when they’re not around, I suck at. Have I really become this dependent? I recall a time when I lived on my own, got places on time (mostly…) and didn’t need four cups of coffee to function on a normal day. But seven months into living at home, I’m now crippled by the small shreds of responsibility I’m doled out. When did it become so difficult for me to figure out the automatic setting on the coffee maker? I need my mommy!!

O god. What the hell is happening to me?? Please just be the coffee talking, please just be the coffee talking!!

A Deaf Sounding-Board

8 Jan

Last night I spent an inordinate amount of time on Craigslist, the treasure trove of my biggest fantasy: my own apartment. The urge to rent my own place is become stronger everyday, as my commuting time grows and my connection to the general public shrinks. But perhaps my middle-of-the-night hunting was an omen for what I was going to encounter at home this morning–yet another preachy lecture from the almighty parental units after a gripe session about my job, my constant fatigue, and my frustration in the complete lack of progress I’ve made so far. In fact, it seems I’ve taken some steps back since I started: I’m working less and mostly doing nothing after being relegated to weekend overnights, aka “catching up on my New York Times” time.

Now as some one who has felt intense dissatisfaction with their life and faced an ongoing struggle to 1. be happy and 2. get out from under the eternal cloud since graduation day, I more than anyone else should be allowed to be frustrated. But of course, since my dad graduated college once, and had an entry-level job in a completely unrelated field once, he knows absolutely everything there is to know about what I should and am apparently not doing in my current situation. After berating me for being “the most negative person ever” he proceeded to tell me I needed to be patient, but also aggressive. Don’t expect too much, but set your goals high. Succinct, dad. And the final flourish: “I never got to live rent free in a comfortable house!” Craigslist, are you still there?

I personally find it a bit offensive that he thinks I’m not trying hard enough. All I do is try! I don’t recall my dear old dad having to chase his dream down 9th avenue on a Friday night at 11:53, nor do I recall hearing stories of a senior year filled with a 30-hour-a-week internship and an 18-credit course load while friends were hitting happy hour and making sterling silver cocktail rings. I’m not bemoaning my choices–I’m proud of what I was able to accomplish and understand the rarity of my situation–that I have a job at all. I just would like a small pat on the back sometimes, instead of a beat down.

The thing about parents is that they always “have your best interests at heart” but often that really only applies if your interests are their interests.  I understand I haven’t been a picnic these past couple of months, and perhaps I need to continue tweaking my attitude adjustment, but do I really need to get the “I’m your parent therefore I know all YOU MUST LISTEN TO ME” treatment every time I have a bad day? When will my parents see me as an adult who’s not satisfied with their job instead of a naive college-grad complaining for the sake of it? I would ask, but they’re too busy assembling the lectern.