She's Moving On, So I'm Moving Out

Once again, I find myself in need of a place to move to within the next month.

 

The last time this happened, my dad had decided he would charge me rent to live at home and I said, "To heck with that!  If I have to pay a landlord, the landlord isn't going to be one of the people who gave me half of my DNA."  Thus, my current roommate and I moved to where we presently live.

 

Said roommate's brother, who I'll nicely call flighty (but who, honestly, could probably drive Mother Theresa crazy if she were still alive), has decided that he's going to take his work's offer of paying for a house for his family and him to move to.  In Winnemucca.  Which is in Nevada somewhere.  Nowhere important, because when roommate told me about it, I think that's the second time in my life that I've heard "Winnemucca."  (In an aside, it's totally fun to say in an angry tone of voice and I think it it would make an excellent faux-curse word . . . as in "Well, what the Winnemucca do you know?")

 

Anyway, since his employer will pay for the house near Hades (to me, almost all of Nevada is Hades because it's either a) close to Vegas or b) not close to Vegas and therefore basically desolate except for a few random hicks and some stray prairie dogs . . . okay, I might be over-generalizing), they are keeping their current place of residence in Holladay.  Roommate will be allowed to live there while paying only Homeowner Association fees.

 

Meanwhile, I'm praying really hard to find a place that won't mind a supernally nice (although not supernally tidy, alas) young lady who only wants to sign a six-month lease.  I thought this in-between time while waiting for grad schools could not seem any more in-between, but the necessity of this move has achieved what would seem impossible.

 

On the bright side, since I didn't move too far away from my parents and they still see me once a week--at least--for Sunday dinner (twice, really, since my wonderful mother drives me to my once-weekly chiropractor appointments and then I spend the night at the folks'), I never bothered to forward my mail.

 

On the not-so-bright side, it has once again become time to collect boxes.  And to de-junk.  Of course, the bright side to the de-junking is that I won't need to collect tons and tons of boxes.  And I'm beginning to ponder if it isn't wiser to just invest in a bunch of portable plastic bins that can act as storage and boxes.  Two-in-one, yay!

 

Also, because the title is a subtle Billy Joel reference, I just have to add I hope that any stress over this move won't cause me a heart attack-ack-ack-ack-ack-ack.  (It shouldn't . . . I oughta know by know)

 

Since this will be the fourth move in a 2-year span of time, I'm beginning to feel my friend's assessment was probably truer than I'd like to admit.  But when someone tells you're that you're "like the frickin' circus" after you mention a move, you (and by you, I mean me) choose to interpret that as "You're so entertaining and lively that a tent full of elephants, lions, trapeze artists, and flaming rings ain't got nothin' on you."