Destination Certain

The First Great Apartment Hunt of 2008 has reached a successful resolution.  In fact, the place I will reside starting February 16 should receive some type of superlative award: it's bigger, better, and cheaper than where I currently reside.  It's appliance-er (okay, it's not a word, but . . .) because it has a washer and dryer that aren't coin-operated AND a dishwasher.  No more scrubbing!!  It's bibliophile-er, because my two roommates are both book lovers who periodically host writing groups.  And it's in my ward.  My records need not go anywhere, though I should probably remember to inform ward leadership about the change of address.

 

My mom, seizing an opportunity to take advantage of my excitement about this situation, suggested this was a good place to put down some roots.  I believe my reaction ran something like this: "Heh heh."  She keeps saying she's not earnestly lobbying for me to stay in Utah until she knows other schools have accepted me, but if her attempts of late are un-earnest lobbying, I have a certain fear of what earnest lobbying will be like.

 

In other news, I went out to lunch with my dad today.  He asked if I'd looked at the cost of living in any of the places I'd applied and I told him it wasn't a worry till it was a worry.  Meaning, I'm not looking at such stuff until I know which schools accept me (if any) and which schools say "If at first you don't succeed, try, try again.  Or apply to a different university."  As I pointed out, advance planning implies having necessary planning information.  And I don't yet.  Won't for another four weeks.

 

I told him that it seemed to me that my living in a city seems pretty inevitable to me.  Mass transit, cultural events, spectacular libraries.  Those random little stores, not to mention the dives, that you just can't find in suburbia.  "You know," he said, "Salt Lake is finding ways to improve itself as a city like that."  He'd made a similar remark on Sunday, just "to get hubby points."

 

"Dad," I said.  "Mom can't hear you."

 

"I know," he said.  "But I can tell her that at lunch, I encouraged you to stick around."

 

I no longer wonder where I learned to twist words.  My mom taught me how to have fun with them.  My dad taught me how to make them, literally, what I want them to mean.