Day 4: The Saulet Scandal

This was my original apartment. The one I didn't look at in advance, that I booked over the phone with ridiculous ease. It's the one that was way above my price range but was so pretty and clean and perfect that I thought it would be OK. 

This is also the apartment that when I went to move into it today was not the apartment for which I signed on the dotted line. 

Literally.

It was missing the balcony, the washer-dryer, and any level of cleanliness. There were dead bug carcasses all over the carpet. It had been hastily sloppily painted. Not all the light fixtures were attached to their stems. If you know me, you know I don't fear mess or dirt, but this was too much. 

I went back to the management office and told them that I think they gave me the wrong apartment. I showed the email that the rental agent had sent me, complete with the promised floor plan that had a balcony. The substitute rental agent's response? "Well, do you really need a balcony?"

I explain to her that it's not about "need", it's about them adhering to the deal that had been made. She explains to me that on the bottom of the print out floor plan says that there was no guarantee that the floor plan would match the actual apartment. I told her that I should have been told the differences. 

She got her manager. Her manager's response? "Well, do you really NEED a balcony?"

Yes, for twice what I was spending in New York City, for the promise that was made to me by your employee, for the fact the apartment is a shitty mess, and most importantly, because I'm paying the rent of the floor plan with a balcony, YES, I NEED A BALCONY!!!"

She offered to give me my money back and void the lease. I made them rip it up in front of me. 

This is the second apartment I almost took. The front of the building is gorgeous. It's on St. Charles' Avenue so would be amazing for Mardi Gras parade watching, but it felt like a highway motel. The exposed hallways were guarded by paint chipping rails. The ceiling were vaulted. That was a plus. It had two closets. Another plus. But it didn't feel right. It felt like settling and at $895 that included three out of four machines in the laundry room broken, I said I would take it.

But then when I stopped back at Dr. Anna's to pick up my certified check to exchange it at the bank, I finally stopped. This whole thing was spirally rapidly. So I called the management company, asked for 24 hours to think about it and went to check out another place in the Marigny (which was once described to me as the Brooklyn of NOLA).

I love this apartment. I love it so much I didn't stop to take any pictures of it. I called the landlord and left a message, borderline begging him for the apartment. There was a sign on a tree down the street from Dr. Anna's for an one bedroom. I drove over and called the number, realizing halfway through the message that I had given the wrong number. I also left the wrong number for the apartment in the Marigny. I called him back and he answered.

I apologized for stalking him. Told him I was a recent transplant who's apartment had fell through, that I lived in my last apartment for 7 years, was unemployed but at my last job for over 3 years, that I loved the apartment.

"I trust you. You can have it."

So, I have a new apartment. It's not a luxury rental like the last place. Smaller than the last place, it's been recently renovated. It has a dishwasher but not a washer-dryer. Who cares? I can move in on Monday when my movers *might* arrive and the landlord is a super cool small business man with hippie tendencies. The walls are already painted funky colors. Even better, it's almost $500 dollars less than the "shiny" place.

And my front door doesn't look like this:

I think I am going to be OK.

Day 3: Lost in Translation

I speak a different language then everyone here.

Per my pattern of having other more important things to do then take care of myself, I looked a hot mess. My hair has gotten long and straggly, my eyebrows had finally merged into one, my toenail polish was growing out.

This was not a strong day. I can't say that I haven't doubted this decision before. Somewhere at the end of July, I started to think about my career and my friends and was this the right decision? I helped my mother pack up and move to Colorado and I thought, "Would she kill me if I changed my mind?" I thought at some point in the rain storm in Alabama, "Am I even going to make it and will it be worth making it through this apocalypse?"

Some people say that they have no poker face. I have no poker tear ducts. But I did not cry once the whole trip. I did cry once during the packing but that's because I lost my car key in my own car. You try to not lose it when you've been packing for 8 weeks with no big fiascos and then you lose your car key IN YOUR car. It's impossible. I had no shame in that moment.

I cried like a baby today. Since I looked a hot mess, I yelped some options for eyebrow waxing and pedicure stylings and off I went on this aesthetic repair adventure. The pedicure was nice, a little pricier then I'm used to. I'm quickly learning that New Orleans is not cheaper than New York, you just get more for your money. However, my eyebrows, my poor forgotten eyebrows.

The waxing woman took off half my eyebrows. Now I understand that most women like their eyebrows on the small side, I am not one of them. I give detailed instructions because I know I am not the norm. I didn't think any thing of it on the first rip, but when she laid wax down on a strip of skin BELOW the first rip, I realized this was not going to end well. She stopped, handed me the mirror, and asked me how much more I wanted taken off. I told her nothing, that it was already too thin. She laughed at my concern, I started to cry, she laughed even harder, I cried harder. This escalated until I finally told her that I was clearly very upset and it was bad enough that she screwed up my face, but she didn't need to laugh at me. She finally got it that she had wrecked me and thought hugging me was the way to express her remorse, but she never stopped laughing.

I know I'm hilarious, but this is a little much.

I decided to continue this streak of service disaster and headed off to get a haircut. The stylist, who was clearly nuts, did an excellent job with no direction other than "please just cut it." However, my requests for no product and no blow dry were rebutted by "Oh, why not?", "It won't be that bad". With all the fight ripped out of me by mustard yellow hot wax, I walked around with stiff hair. Luckily, this place is so humid that I sweat it out in 20 minutes. Gross but effective.

This is clearly my "Make it Work" smile

This has to work.

There is no other option.

Day 2: Adjusting

The drive from New York to New Orleans was really intense. My feet were swollen, my back crooked,  hips tight, brain swirling from podcasts and a cloudy future. On both days of the trip, I encountered blinding rain. The first day was your typical night storm--black sky, cracking lightning, pelting water. The second day, however, was terrifying. The sky in front of me was a bright light brown, behind me a bright vibrant blue, and to my right, a baffling bright white sky. The trees were too dense to see if the light came from, but I finally understood why the people you hear about reporting UFO sighting are from deep rural areas. Lights through thicket can arouse curiosity.

I also at a tremendous amount of junk food: Waffle House, Steak & Shake, Chilis. Not good for your overall health but excellent for dehydration and therefore limits the amount of stops you need to take.

Dr. Anna and I went for a Power Hour class at Reyn Studios to try and re-regulate our bodies. The studio is one big room with little built in closets for the bathroom and shower. The class was free since we were first timers and locals. There was no air of judgement that despite me stating "Yes, I live here. Give me my free class", I could not remember my zip code or apartment number.

The soundtrack was Tribe Called Quest, the room was 88 degrees and sweaty, the moves were tough and abs oriented. By the time we were done, I was exhausted but able to push farther back in downward dog then I was at the beginning of class.

I can be part of this.

Real life has started.

My laptop charger died. I plugged into every outlet in the living room. No light, no charge, mild panic.

I called the Apple tech support line and they suggested I go into the store at the mall and exchange it for free since I finally wised up and got AppleCare. Dr. Anna recommended I go immediately since the suburban traffic window was going to to open up by 4:30pm.

Off I went to Metaire, which is Southern Suburb Standard, could have been Sarasota, FL for all I knew. Packs of houses give way to strip malls give way to a mall complex. I parked in the back and went I went into the store, the snotty young adult charged with the scheduling iPad informed me that I needed to make an appointment because "only a Genius can authorize that return." He was nonplussed by my rebuttal that I was told I didn't need to make an appointment and he couldn't make a recommendation to a bar nearby where I could watch tennis and wait.

Thank heaven for the sprawling ubiquity of PF Chang's. After my 45 minute pre-determined wait time, I headed back into the store. I checked in with a new snotty young adult, who informed me that there was going to be an additional one hour wait on top of the 45 minute I already elapsed. I explained to him, in an admittedly strained but even tone of voice, that this was my third try and all I needed was a simple exchange.

He flipped out, started talking really fast and looking around like I had charged him with the prongs of the charger aimed at his jugular. He said he could get the manager. I breathed a sigh of relief and thanked him, bordering on profusely since all I had ever wanted was someone who had the authority to actually help. He summoned a manager to assist me instead, informed me multiple times that he does not get paid to get yelled at and huffed away, his blue polo shirt disappearing into a sea of more blue polos. The manager immediately switched out the charger, no Genius necessary.

I asked the manager what that young man's name was, described his black framed progressive glasses. The manager pointed to the tall 2 eyed white man behind us, "Him?"

"No, short African American big black glasses."

"I have no idea who you are talking about."

"The guy who waved you over to me."

Once again, he pointed at the tall 2 eyed white man, "Yeah, him."

So now I'm hallucinating horrible customer service reps? Must be all the inversions.

Day 1: Arrival

I officially live in New Orleans.

I arrived last night at 1am after driving two legs worth of a trip. The second leg was 16 hours long from Virginia to here. Originally, I was going to stay in Birmingham for a night, put on a fancy dress, take my independent and strong self out for a fabulous dinner. But an unfortunate side effect of this being this independent and strong is that I have moved to New Orleans without a job and with a fantastic apartment that is not the kind of domicile you rent if you are moving to New Orleans without a job.

Oh my God, I don't have a job.

For me, this is frightening not only because of the delicate nature of my economic standing but also because I would say 60 percent of my personal identity is caught up in my occupation. In New York, I had what can be referred to as a good job -- I made good money, I had been promoted a number of times in a short span of time, my co-workers were hilarious, results were easily recognized. But outside that bubble, I felt like I was hitting my head against the wall. That's really all I can say about that and not feel like I'm airing too much bizness on the internet.

Personally though, I felt the same way. The rest of the 40% was also feeling stagnant. My mother, who I have lived in the same state as for 31 years (minus 5 months I spent living in Connecticut, which is a story for another post), moved to Colorado. I lived in a three bedroom, super cheap but super isolated, apartment with two roommates generations younger than I am. I spent way too much platonic time with my ex-boyfriend. Nothing felt like it was moving forward.

So I moved to New Orleans with no job, a ritzy apartment, and three friends city-wide.

I don't move into my apartment until Friday and until then I'm staying with Dr. Anna who lives in a massive and well-kept house. I stayed with her when I came to visit twice in the last year. She's the only one I know well who has a job more stressful than mine. She seems so happy here. And she has a dishwasher and washer-dryer. That was enough to convince me to give everything up and come down here in a quest for more.

This was my dinner on my first night in town. Frozen carrots and okra from her freezer and brown wild rice that I found cleaning out my old pantry and stuck in a plastic bag in my backseat for food emergencies.

Frugalness in a borrowed pot.