“Is that mold?”: the two week live-blog of my first apartment
The family before us fled to Egypt, locking the only set of keys inside our new apartment and prompting me to cry in front of a locksmith because it’s New Year’s Day, management’s closed and “God damnit I pay to live here now.”
They left us 60 cents, two wine glasses and a DiGiorno frozen pizza.
I borrow basement keys from a filipino couple on the first floor and meet the dog they dress in a pink polka-dot skirt. Her name is Grizzley and she hates people.
I nurse a Verizon-induced breakdown by sorting old photos into piles (Save, Store and That Small Child Could Be One Of My Parents). I booked a U-Haul for the blizzard because, of course I did.
Citywide classes are cancelled and so is my U-Haul.
That doesn’t stop me from taking the subway to the city to support my roommates’ band/start a tab/black out and use my debit card for popcorn. “Post-show party at our place,” I say, three Jamo shots in as I direct people to our furniture-free apartment and get in a cab without them.
Moving goes well given three feet of snow and our passive-aggressive neighbors. Turns out we weren’t so subtle for four in the morning. Roberto slips on the stairs and warns Tom to be careful. Tom slips on the stairs and warns Neil to be careful. Neil also slips on the stairs.
We remember that Brian did the same last night and broke a finger. We start a tally.
Our living room has a couch and my bedroom has a bed (minus some crucial nuts and bolts either scattered across Fifth Avenue or packed in a box inside another box still in storage).
Our stovetop says we ate the frozen pizza last night and I forgot to pack the fucking Keurig again.
“That’s what your thirties are for. Matching your wood.”
Michael (Roommate #1) and I spend our first night at the apartment watching one of our three copies of Garden State without Neil (Roommate #2).
The one where we get lost in Ikea and Neil asks if he should pack a lamp.
“Is that mold?”
The one where Time Warner Cable is a cunt.
This is the first “Thursday night at the bar” I can’t ignore everyone’s texts about because “the bar” is now two and a quarter blocks away. I take shots from strangers and spend six dollars at the jukebox on Say My Name and Sum 41.
The entire bar mumbles along to “Fat Lip,” just waiting for that line about abortion.
To absolutely no one’s surprise, I drink too much for a worknight and use Melissa McCarthy as a pick-up line. To absolutely everyone’s surprise, I only fight with my front door once.
Our first pregame. Our freezer has some frozen corn, Australian liquor and a bottle of Fireball. We christen a $2 sleeve of coffee cups with Carlo Rossi and Michael blacks out.
Our first “I have to take my roommate home.”
Sarah finds what looks like a fifth-grade suicide note/”last words” in a composition notebook that made the move:
Also this seemingly disturbing drawing of a girl we thought was drowning (alongside a picture of herself drowning?) but at second glance, she’s just doing cartwheels on a very wavy carpet:
The one where Erin drives to the Target adjacent to the Jay-Z concert for a bookshelf and we almost crash the car on purpose. We fall asleep at 9:30 p.m. to Michael’s Real World season one DVD.
Our first trip to the grocery store.
We buy eggs and milk and frozen waffles but put back the cilantro. We get knockoff everything, up to and including Apple Zings/Cinnamon Toasters cereal. Sean Greany lends us Fargo, we steal cable and we finally have wi-fi with the default password “freshriver908.”
It’s starting to look more like a home and less like a Craigslist ad. Arguable mold and scalding hot water aside, I wouldn’t trade our humble abode/shithole-above-a-vacant-store for anything — except maybe some shorter cabinets.
Cheers to progress, no matter how small the window between first and second month’s rent. Please pardon our appearance during this Three’s Company transition.