My Thai Pad

Alright. It only took two and a half months, but I finally got the courage--no I'm gonna say it--the ladyballs, to sign a lease and move into a new apartment. After what HAS to be the most difficult housing search this side of Tokyo and maybe the North Pole, I decided I needed to just take a place. Stop looking for perfect. Stop looking for what I had. Because in the Bay Area--it just doesn't exist. Well not for less than $6K a month anyway. (A big thanks to Facebook and your pimple-faced programmers living six to a flat--for that one.)

With SF out of my reach and/or wallet, I opted to move to Oakland. (I can hear you laughing from here.) Look, I know. It's one of the most dangerous cities on the planet. Could be. Could also be why the rent was so cheap for a big two-bedroom flat. When it came down to it--I found what looked like a clean, somewhat updated apartment--upstairs, with parking--just what I wanted--or maybe not wanted--needed. But looks are deceiving. So are low rents. And this one had nothing to do with the homicide rate. (Although I'm thinking of contributing to it right now.)  This low rent rental, had more to do with what the AT&T guy said when he came to fix the phone lines: "Looks like they really got you by slapping some lipstick on a pig!"

Now--let me try and describe the pig, I mean the apartment, for you. This isn't TV--what I normally write for--so you can't actually see the lipstick. But let me try to visualize it for you. The place looked pretty shiny and clean when I walked in. New door knobs. (pink lipstick) Updated light switches and ceiling fans. (mauve lipstick) New paint. New carpet. Tile in the kitchen and bathroom. (Lip gloss!) When I first saw it, I thought--I can do this. Sure there's no dishwasher and the kitchen is the size of a postage stamp with no room to roll out my pie dough--but again--This is about making a change (see last disaster blog post) and finding a new path. So I finally said "okay" to the pushy Lululemon-wearing real estate lady who couldn't seem to answer my questions about who lives downstairs or whether or not the building has been retrofitted. So I caved--I mean, signed the lease. Time to get out of boxes and stop drinking wine out of paper cups. We've all moved into places that didn't feel exactly like home right? (Please nod)

Now, I'm usually pretty good about catching things when looking at prospective places to live--like I noticed there was no shower curtain rod OR broiler pan in this one. (Ha! Can't fool me!) I asked if I could try to park my car in the garage to see if it fits. (Did not do that when I rented my house in Sacramento and so the garage became a high-priced storage unit for 7 years.) And while I noticed the apartment was next door to a pizza joint and a Thai food restaurant--I didn't seem to think it mattered much. This apartment didn't share any walls with either. Pizza and Pad Thai within steps would be a benefit--especially with no dishwasher--right? Wrong. When I first saw the place and then again when I moved in, all I could smell was the toxic new carpet fumes (most likely eating away at my lungs as I write) and the new paint smells. But as the days went on and those wore off--I began to smell something else. Something with an odor akin to the carcass of a fried yak, seasoned with a dash of fish balls and some rotten onions mixed in for good measure. You know that smell if you've ever walked the ally behind a Chinese food restaurant in Chinatown. Not good.

Horrified--I began to realize--or wait--I began to "dramalize" (Lynn's term for jumping to her own conclusions)--it was the Thai food restaurant! It had to be! Either the exhaust fans from their roof or some really stinky shit they're cooking every night-- is seeping through the windows and walls and filling my new pad. Ahem. My new "Thai pad." F the new doorknobs--Would these thin walls make everything, including my velvet couch, wreak of this fried, fatty, garlicky stench? I immediately called the landlord and ripped him a new one for not telling me about the smelly seepage. "You need to disclose that for people like myself with ultra-sensitive senses!" (Dramalizing again, although I am hyper-sensitive to smells and noise including snoring boyfriends.) He SWORE that it wasn't the Thai food restaurant and that it had to be something else causing the odor because he's been there before!? Sure. That's it. I began to think he's the pig or maybe that's what they're boiling next door.

There wasn't much I could do about it--after all, I just signed a lease. And I unpacked 78% of my boxes. So after spending a hundred bucks on candles from the Bath and Body store--I decided I didn't care if burned the crapartment down--I was just going to light the damn thing up with fragrant candles and plug-in this and thats--do whatever I had to-- just so I could breathe. I mean it was so bad--that even while living in the scariest place on earth (Oaktown)--I was forced to leave my windows open during the day while I was at work, just so I didn't sympathy vomit from smelling too much Thai food, when I got home.

But one day I came home and learned the single mom and her teenage daughter who plays her music way too loud for Lynn--were moving. And God be my witness and/or chef--when they moved out--so did the smells! It appears the odorama wasn't coming from Thai Palace--but from the Texas BBQ that was my neighbor's kitchen downstairs! Apparently--they weren't at home without a deep fat fryer boiling some sort of meet 24/7. When they moved out --I could breathe again.
And thankfully--the Texan teen's rock music stopped too! I could sleep and all was right with the apartment world for my nearly two thousand dollars a month. I wasn't dramalizing the fact that finally--I got a break. After all the stress of moving and searching for a home and starting a new job--I found myself starting to smile again.

For a minute, I thought I just might settle in-- here in my little flat in Oakland. Maybe even go try out the Thai joint next door. Make some new friends. Tell the chef how great his food smells. I expressed my apologies to the landlord--and told him it was the woman downstairs. I kindly suggested-- to "please rent to a quiet, professional woman like myself, who eats mostly cold salads and colder wine for dinner." But when one window closes--and you finally can breathe a little easier--yep--god makes sure you gotta open another. And another.

A couple weeks later--I came home to find a young man moving into the vacant flat downstairs. After introducing myself as the "upstairs neighbor"--I didn't hear anything else he said--because I became fixated on two things only: He was unloading a double-stroller. And he was wearing a Yarmulke.

Welcome to my new home--aka: the Gefilte fish flat. Complete with screaming babies.
To be continued. (If I'm still here.)

Change is the Only Constant

The old Greek dude who came up with that--clearly didn't have to pay $2400 a month for pink carpet and yellow Formica counters.

Throughout my life I've struggled with change. But really, who hasn't? And regardless of how many times you repeat it's "the only constant"-- It's still so damn hard!! We all want to hold on to something good, something we love or believe in. We'll even fight to hold on to something we only THINK is good. Or at least I do. Until recently, when I decided to change my fight against change--and totally implode my comfortable life in an attempt to unweave the past, and retread my future.

But now that I'm firmly floundering in the middle of my change mess--two months in--I'm seriously beginning to think Gandhi and that ancient philosopher with a name I can't pronounce-- were just assholes for making us believe. Maybe change isn't good? I mean, if it's the only thing you can depend on--like they said--why does it hurt so much? Shouldn't we shield ourselves from that? Stay the course! It's easy! It's familiar! Why change? Well I did. But now I'm thinking I bit off more than I can chew. Now I'm literally choking on change.

Before I tell you why I did this-- and stop speaking in code--I'm just curious. What was the last big change you consciously chose to make in your life? I’m not talking about the ones that are forced on you by fate or maybe this craptastic recession? I mean one you actually made a decision about, in an effort to push yourself forward? Was it a new hairstyle? As much as you loved that little last patch on your five-head, it was time to shave it off and boldly enter the world of male pattern baldness? (Positive Change.) Perhaps you got rid of all the clothes you haven’t worn in two years, and finally went out and bought fat pants that fit over the menopausal muffin top? (Necessary Change.) Switched from PC to Mac? (Cave to trend Change.) Whatever it was—I’m sure, the change wasn’t easy.  No I KNOW the change wasn't easy.

Recently, while sitting on my couch drinking yet another glass of watered-down Chardonnay,

(4 points) I decided it was time for a change. And nothing easy like the aforementioned hair cut--although now I kinda wish I had just gotten bangs. For the past several years, I've tried to hold on to something I probably shouldn't have. And it was constantly making me sad. So, this particular evening I decided that making one little change, at this stage of my life wasn’t enough. I decided to go for the total trifecta of life disruption. Quit my job. Pack up my house. And move out of the city that for the past six years, represented every hope and dream I ever had for what I believed to be happiness. (Hold for applause.)

Now don’t feel bad about only throwing out those size 6 jeans and telling people you’re making “change” and moving on--that's solid stuff. But what you're about to read is a cautionary tale of "Careful what you wish for" because it can all happen too quickly-- when maybe you're not ready for all that change Lynn you stupid, stupid girl who left her nice life because some guy didn't want her anymore? (oops did I write that out loud and without punctuation?) I digress. Sort of. If you’ve read any of my –oh—last 100 blog posts (I don’t have 100 blog posts but maybe you'll believe it) you’ve most likely read about my relationship and my temporary “McDonald’s” job—something I took until I could get another TV gig. IE: something I took to stay close to the guy who broke my heart because I still had hope that “maybe.”

Well that job and "maybe" wasn't cutting it for me anymore. I didn't fit in at McDonald's from the start. And while I had made lovely friends over the past six years, and adored my beautiful little house complete with ducky-filled park next door--I finally decided that staying stuck—as comfortable as it was—wasn’t the way to live my life. I heard myself secretly becoming one of those "why didn't that work out?" people. Sitting alone at home, waiting for the ex to get horny, nostalgic or both--and drop by for a "visit". So I quit “McDonalds”and pulled the plug on the Sacramento chapter—boxed it all up for greener—anythings. I didn't have a job lined up--I was ready to move home and just tough it out. Do a few producer gigs here and there--travel--bum off my sister and live in her Tahoe house. I had a plan. Well sort of. Not really. Just knew that I had to put myself in "harm's way" or risk becoming that lady with 25 cats and my own whiskers.

And just as I made this decision to pull up stakes and give my notice—magically, a job dropped into my lap. In the City I’ve been crying about returning to for the past six years. And this job isn’t at "McDonald's."  It’s with a major creative company. Doing video. No “burger flipping.” So sticking to my gut (wrenching) decision, that I need to rip myself away from the city I moved to for HIM--I took the job. And left. To live with my parents until I found somewhere to call home. Did I mention to live with my parents? Who are both in their seventies?

My first week at the (hesitant to say old) folk's home was rough. This wasn't my childhood home--thankfully. It's hard enough to move in with your parents at 49, I can't imagine having to go to sleep every night staring at my cheerleading trophies from 30 years ago. But this WAS where my much younger sister grew up. So instead of trophies--I am falling asleep looking at her Peter Pan and Annie collection combined with a pile of Cabbage Patch Dolls. On the wall to my right? A giant pink Swatch watch/clock. Don't ask. (or offer $ for it)

My parents are older--and my dad's health is not good. So when I get up at 5:30am--I try not to make any noise so they can sleep. None. Nada peep. But I need coffee. Because I'm not sleeping well in the bed that is not mine, surrounded by Phantom of the Opera posters. To make that coffee--I have to fill the pot and get out my cereal bowl the night before--and then quietly sneak down the stairs in the morning, in the dark without waking up my parents whose room is on the ground floor next to the kitchen. Now, this is not good news, for someone who just recovered from the worst sprained ankle known to bones. (read previous posts) I am pretty sure the other ankle is in jeopardy each time I carry my breakfast up stairs in the dark, quietly trying not to trip on my bathrobe or make the hardwood floors creak. 

I moved my mom's coffee pot into the pantry to cut down on pot gurgling noise and cereal pouring noise. So that one seems to be under control. But what wasn't under control was my laundry. My mother, bless her heart--kept asking me if she could do my laundry that was piling up. I said "No, no, I'll do that. I want to."  Coming home from my fourth day at work I had an episode--the exhaustion of the new job, the early mornings, the no sleep and the stress of leaving my life behind--were all getting the best of me. So was the All-Tempa-Cheer. As I walked into my sister's shrine--I mean room--It leaped out at me. Sitting on the bed was my laundry, neatly folded. I screamed "Mom did you do my laundry?" And then lost it. I cried for an hour. And not just weepy stuff. I was a heaving, slobbering, uncontrollable mess. I couldn't catch my breath. I thought I would throw up. And yes, I used the clean, folded towels on the bed to wipe it all away.

Now I know most of you would love to have your mother do your laundry. Especially those of you who no longer have their mothers around. Victoria and Lynn's Secret: I wasn't crying because she shrunk my bras or saw that I occasionally wear a thong--I was crying because I missed my life, so much. I missed my independence. I missed my house with my own washer--I missed my routine--and my friends and caring for myself. And yes--I even missed the guy who didn't miss me anymore. Had I made a mistake? Maybe I was okay with my life the way it was? Careful what you wish for!!! Be happy with what you have! (insert thunderbolt sound effects here)

The next morning, I tried to explain to my mom that I wasn't upset with her. But I hurt her feelings. She knows nothing different, than to care for her children. No matter how old they are. FF four weeks. I've been doing the job--coming home (?) and looking at Craigslist postings for overpriced boxes with pink carpet and yellow Formica. You'd be amazed what $2400 a month gets you--or in most cases doesn't get you in the Bay Area now. And it's competitive. Landlords only have to show an apartment for 30 minutes. And in those 30 minutes--there will be dozens of people all holding their folders of pre-filled applications and credit checks. I didn't know this either. I've seen about 10 places. And each of them has something wrong with them. Or maybe there's just something wrong with me.  Nothing compares to my cute little home in East Sac. A home I got a month-to-month lease on, because I was SO convinced I'd be moving in with Mr. Sacramento sooner, than later.  Look how well that change worked out?

I have twelve days before the movers have to take my stuff and put it SOMEWHERE. And I'm scared. Scared I won't find a place and I'll become "that" daughter who moved in with mom and dad and never dated again. I'm genetically predisposed for that type of shit. My dad's younger brother moved in with my grandpa--and never married. Which is why--today I decided to take a break from the online apartment search--and instead--switch to online dating. Seriously. Mr. Sacramento is happily dating a carbon copy of me and that's all it took to get me to change that one. Three years and one carbon copy later. 

Honestly--I think I'll have an easier time right now finding a husband than an apartment. I'm not stupid. Dudes have garages. I'm willing to put up with a little Monday Night Football--to have a place to park my car and unload groceries. Even if it means I gotta cook for them too. Kidding aside. I'm doing this because I'm lonely. Living with my parents, missing my friends, working in an uber-tech world where co-workers walk everywhere with their head in a laptop and have meetings via web cam--even if they're just down the hall from each other--I want to meet someone. And maybe that's finally the lesson of this change mess-- kicking in? One of the reasons I came to this changepiphany while sitting on my couch that night--I was lonely. Isn't it funny that while many things change--some things stay the same? Until you  make that choice.

A good friend called me this week to check on my apartment hunting antics. After listening to me cry about how hard it is--and saying I miss my old life and want to go back home--she said "You forget I heard the reverse whine for quite a while." And she's right. I said the same EXACT thing for the past 3 years about how I wanted to move home and find a better job. I'm glad she "reminded me" of that.  No matter how hard it is on me -- or my poor 71 year old mother. I made this happen. I chose this. And while it is really, really hard right now, I'm the one who quit her job in a downturn and got offered a groovy gig at a big tech firm. I wished for all of this to happen. So now--I gotta make it work. The silver linings have yet to show themselves--but I think they're coming. I hope they're coming. I'm getting tired of the clouds.

So yeah--be careful what you wish for. Some of us are lucky enough to maybe, have it all come true. Be ready when they "move the cheese." Or--just move it yourself because you DO deserve better. (I think that's Camembert right?) Change IS the only constant. Philosophic assholes. A warning label would have been nice. It may be the only constant--but it's gonna f*ck you up for a while. And take half your head of hair with it.