Ok, to be honest, I'm sure it's partly my fault. I'll admit it, I'm 25 and I've never rented an apartment before. I lived on campus my freshman year, after that I moved back with my parents because I liked the idea of getting through school without debt. At that, I've totally succeeded. Master's and all. What I haven't experienced is that whole first apartment drama. Until now. Can I tell you what a friggin' nightmare it is getting an apartment? I had no idea. How can people do this on a regular basis? They must hope that the more miserable they make it for you, the less likely you are to ever want to go through it again - strike fear in your heart that it couldn't possibly be easier to get a house, trapping you forever in apartment hell? Well, that's what it seems like to me. I understand the credit check. I would want someone in my apartment that would pay their bills, too. I understand the background check. I appreciate their attempts to keep the axe murderers out, I genuinely do. But I don't think that they could make this more of a headache if they tried.
But let me explain. The situation is, I'm sure, complicated exponentially as I'm 2,000 miles away. I did the whole internet search, looked at just about every apartment in the city and the outskirts. Apartments meeting my standards (washer & dryer in unit for free, dishwasher, not insanely expensive, I'm a librarian after all), I called and spoke with them to get the details and to request something in the mail, a brochure or something that would give me a feel for the place - not a big deal. I choose the one that fit best. At this point all's good, right? Shortly thereafter, I receive a brochure and app in the mail. Cool, fill it out, call to ask some questions (remember, I've not done this before), have my mom co-sign as it's required when you haven't rented before, send it in along with an extra note, for the things I though might be valuable; information such as where I'll be employed out there, how much I'll make and a contact for the verification of that information. They call a couple days later wondering where my co-signer application is. Well, I must say, I filled out everything you sent me. You didn't send me one, but OK, I understand. Fax it over, I'll drive to the library and get it, have Mom fill it out, and we'll send it right back so we can get this moving, and I'll have one less thing to worry about. They call the next day. They need a contact number for my employer out there. First of all, I work for a library. It's the flippin' library. But, ok. I call back and leave a message with my manager's name & number as well as HR's number. Today, they call and ask for the information again. I'll confess. I was snarky. I told the, what I assume to be a young thang, that a) I left a message with this information yesterday b) it's the library, open the phone book. I told you in the note what library it was and who my boss was. Why is this so difficult? I wasn't happy. It's been this huge hassle, and I was, frankly, fed up. Oh yeah, and they had already called my mom and asked her to fax a pay stub. They've already verified her employment, and mine. Why do they need her pay stub? It's my money. Furthermore, they have both our SS numbers. Honestly, what more do you need? I was willing to give them the benefit of doubt. I humored them. Now I'm not going to pretend that they aren't irritating me. My, that sounds quite angry.
Last week I said that I would tell you how I managed to sprain my ankle again, for the second time in, what 5 weeks or something. Enough time that I was finally able to fold that leg under me and sit comfortably. Setting: I was admittedly, hurrying. I was going to Josh & Megan's wedding and I wanted to be on time to meet Ryan & Ben. Ryan wanted me to 'approve' his outfit, and at the best of times he's not on time. And we had to pick up his girlfriend on the way. I needed to get a card to go with the check I was giving them, so I went to the local supermarket conveniently located within a mile of home - pop in, get out. I'm all dolled up, I look smashing, if I do say so myself. Nylons, a cool black skirt with sparkly bits on the bottom, the nice coat I only wear for good reasons (or when the normal coat stinks like the bar), and new shoes. New Shoes. I had taken the time to waterproof them. They are adorable taller kitten heels, black with a subtle bow. Steve Madden (I'm really not brand-conscience, but girls, you'll know what kind of adorable I'm talking about). I didn't take the time to scrap the black off them on concrete. As Pretty Woman would say: "Big mistake. Huge." So I'm clipity-claping up to the registers. It's Saturday afternoon. At a grocery store. There are people everywhere. Down I go. Unlike last time, this time, I know I'm hurt. I can feel the tendons and stringy stuff down there absolutely TWANG and collapse. I'm all put a brave face on it and all, but I did it in front of a bunch of strangers (again), but this time I don't have my friends to dote on me (after they stop laughing). The staff freaks out a bit, and wipes of the patch of water, I might have slipped on (personally, I blame the shoes and my innate clumsiness), and sits me down by the pharmacy with some ice and secretively slipped me some ibuprofen, for which I'm grateful. Meanwhile, there's no way I'm going to meet the boys on time, my ankle is rapidly swelling up (I had just gotten it back!), and I just really didn't want to deal with this. Again. I wanted to dance. I sucked it up after whining a bit. The boys humored me, and walked slower. Everything turned out ok. I even danced. A few days later there was massive bruising all along the side of my foot, and I felt vindicated for the whining. I'm going to miss those guys.
(note: Spell check doesn't seem to be working, I apologize. I can't seem to get a picture up either. Both will be fixed later.)