Vaya con Dios

For whatever reason, deciding between my new job and my current job was really tough for me.  For a week, I agonized over a decision that presumably shouldn't have been a tough call.

But since then, a thousand little things have happened that have made me sure that I was right.

I found a new apartment in the blink of an eye.

My landlord let me out of my current lease without any fuss.

Everyone I have told at my current job congratulated me.

And today at church, the new Relief Society first counselor called me out in the hall to unceremoniously kick me out of my ward. 

I don't know what annoyed me most about that.  The fact that she asked, "Are you Ru?" even though we've had at least three conversations, including one where I was her visiting teacher.  The fact that she deprived me of my "I'm leaving, bitches!" moment.  The fact that after she said somewhat-callously, "You're not in our ward anymore" and I told her I was moving anyway, she got really sweet and asked, "Oh, do you need any help?"

No ma'am.  No, I don't. 

On the plus side, this is going to make it really easy to play the church-records shuffle in my new town.

Oh beautiful apartment

I know I should not love inanimate objects, but I sure do love you.

Thanks for keeping a roof over my head.

PS - Yes, I know that is a Christmas tree.  According to Catholicism and Orthodox strains of Christianity, I can leave it up through today.  And according to laziness, I can leave it up until I pack up the whole place, so there. 

Pot-ty break (hee hee)

In the mystery building where I work in Austin (trust me, this time there's a point to the lies and evasions), I have an office on the Someteenth Floor.  It's a nice office with a decent view.  Unfortunately, I don't spend a ton of time there these days. 

I live on the Otherteenth Floor.  In the doc review room.
Now, really, I don't mind this.  Sure, there are days when I never see another living soul, but I get all the Diet Coke I can drink and the view of the Mystery Sports Arena(s) is amazing.  Also, when there's no one down here with me, I can listen to music or talk on the phone as loudly as I like -- and when there are other doc reviewers, I can chit-chat.  So overall, not a bad gig. 

But there's one funny thing about the Otherteenth Floor: the women's bathroom gets cleaned three to five times a day.

Did I mention that maybe 15 people total work on this floor?  Literally - my firm's half of the floor is storage.  There are no occupied offices.  The other half of the floor is leased to a different business, and I sometimes see people walk from the elevators to that side, so I know it is moderately populated.  But of those 15 people?  Maybe 7 are women.  The bathroom has four stalls and two sinks.  There is no way per-stall, per-sink usage on a daily basis merits this kind of attention. 

Of course, this has led me to conclude that the janitors are smoking pot in the women's bathroom of the Otherteenth Floor.  (Hence the cloak-and-dagger.  I don't want anyone getting fired.  In fact, I kind of admire their commitment to their drug of choice.)  Last week, I arrived at work at 6:30 am because I was leaving that afternoon to catch a flight.  Women's room - closed for cleaning.  At 10:00 am when I went to get my second Diet Coke, again - closed for cleaning.  I reported my findings to the other doc reviewers, and according to them, at 2:00 pm THAT SAME DAY, the women's room was again closed for cleaning.

I have shared this theory with a select few fellow doc reviewers, most of whom tend to be on board.

Because if anyone could get away with smoking pot on the job, it's janitors.  They have all the cleaning supplies, including heavy-duty air fresheners and other abrasive chemicals.  They know how the air vents work, and hence how to stop them up.  And most importantly - no one argues with the bright yellow "closed for cleaning" sign. 

No one. 

Easter BBQ

Sometimes I get homesick.  I miss Utah.  I miss my friends and family.

And then I remember that I live in a place that looks like this.

Not too shabby.

I love the interwebs

Today while I was sitting in my apartment, I felt an earthquake.  A teeny one.  One that might have been my imagination.  But my whole apartment seemed to be swaying slightly for thirty seconds.

Wondering if I was on crack, or turning epileptic, I googled "Earthquake in city I live in."

Three minutes before the swaying, there was a 6.9 magnitude earthquake in Geographic Region close to City I Live In.

Thanks for the confirmation, computer.

Seven

I have realized that seven is my optimal friend-making number.

When I don't know anyone (as I do here, in Austin), I can't make friends in a crowded gym.  It looks fun, and if Diego, Kate, Alicia, Hannah, Rob, Sally, Aaron, etc. were here to boogie down with me, I would have gladly joined the dance party.

But when I'm alone, I just can't seem to do it.

You would think this makes me more of a one-on-one girl, but you'd be wrong.  I'm not good at putting my best foot forward, nor am I a very good judge of character.  Meeting a brand new person is generally an excruciating experience for me, and very rarely results in a brand new BFFship being formed.

Which is why college and law school were my ideal friendship-making zones.  You were constantly in smallish of groups of people, usually too lazy to leave the premises.  Friendships just were--it was very Zen.  Groups of seven people, hanging out and doing something?  I am all over that action.

Will someone please find me a play date so I can make some effing friends already?

Any recommendations on how to decorate cement walls?

Thank goodness for the church dumpster

First of all, without that damn dumpster, I would be drowning in cardboard right now.  As it is, I'm still overwhelmed by cardboard, but beginning to see the light.  (Cross your fingers that the couch and book case that are arriving today come with minimal packing.)

But second, without that dumpster, I think I would be way less inclined to go to church and church-related functions.  Perhaps I shouldn't internet-admit this, but it's already difficult for me to drag myself out of bed and get ready on Sunday mornings.  Now that I don't know anyone and could happily slide into anonymous semi-inactivity?  Way harder.

(I know that some people would think of church as an awesome way to meet new people, but I'm a girl who takes the path of least resistance.  Staying home and watching movies?  Painting the canvases I bought at the Michael's sale?  Blogging?  All preferable to driving ten minutes to meet new people at FHE.)

But - and here's where my gratitude for dumpsters comes in - I do need to get rid of all this trash.  

So on Monday, I went to family home evening.  I showed up ten minutes late and still managed to be caught in the awkwardly spiritual intro to playing dodgeball and missionary tag.  (I believe there was something about reaffirming commitment?  I don't know, I found it uncomfortable, so I rudely deleted text messages instead of listening.  I just didn't want to hear and analogy between church and red light/green light.)

Bonus: Got rid of two loads of boxes and bubble wrap.

Then on Wednesday I went to institute.  It wasn't too shabby, but I was already tired from a long day at work.  As the hour wound down, I started getting antsy, but the teacher made no indications of wrapping things up soon.  I leaned over to the girl next to me and asked, "How long is this class?"

"An hour and a half," she whispered back.

I was pretty outraged at this news.  I mean, what at church lasts more than an hour?  (Granted, the whole church experience technically lasts three hours, but in one-hour chunks, so I can take mental breaks.)

Bonus: Got rid of two loads of boxes, paper and styrofoam.  Also ate a bagel.  (From the activity, not the trash.)  

On Thursday, there was a tornado and flash flood warning in Austin, so I stayed home from enrichment. Pro, I missed enrichment.  Con, I lost the opportunity to throw more stuff away.   However, I did notice on Wednesday that my junk made up more than half the contents of the church dumpster.  Perhaps I should find a new place to unload my crap?

But if I do that, what what will motivate me to go to church tomorrow?

(Don't judge me, you know you'd want to sleep in, too.)

Holy shit, it's headed for the mine*

IT'S RAINING IN PHOENIX AUSTIN!!






* Whenever something unexpected happens, this line pops into my head.  It's phenomenal watching, so please enjoy.  It's safe for work, as the word "shit" was redacted from the theatrical trailer anyway:

I am the proud owner of a ...

... TABLE!

And yeah, I basically feel like a carpenter after assembling it myself, hahahaha :)

It's like a story straight out of The Ensign

And I don't mean that in a good way.

Yesterday was my first full day in Phoenix  Austin.  (My mother is upset that I reveal so much personal information on the internet.)  I dropped my pops off at the airport and went grocery shopping.  On my to-do list was buying a TV and DVD player so when the cable guys arrived later that afternoon, they would have something to hook up.

First I went to Walmart, since I still have that gift card I got from exchanging some presents.  Unfortunately, Walmart may have always low prices (always), but they don't especially have those items in stock.  The size TV I wanted was gone.  The TV a size smaller was all gone.  The only TV available was one that could double as a king-size bed.  (I'll be honest, I considered it.)

 So I settled on just getting the DVD player, but as I was checking out my credit card was declined.  (Whaaaaa?)  I was frustrated, since I knew there was no earthly way my credit wasn't good, but I pulled out the debit card and paid so I wouldn't hold up the line.  (Also, in this hubbub, I forgot to use the effing gift card, so another trip to Walmart is tragically a part of my future.)  As I was leaving, an elderly gent stopped me to say the same thing happened to him all the time, and share his belief that Walmart is running some sort of conspiracy designed to force people to pay with cash or debit.  I would say this is crazy, but as my friendster Nelson helpfully pointed out later*, Walmart doesn't exactly have a reputation for the most reliable clientele.

Then I went to Costco, where I got my VERY FIRST COSTCO MEMBERSHIP.  (Tear.)   And thankfully, the TV I have been secretly lusting over for the last month or so was in stock, and way cheaper than the Walmart counterpart.

I made my way to the front of the line, thinking of all the good times this TV and I were going to have together, and pulled out my debit card to pay

DECLINED.

At this point, I was just humiliated.  I mean, I was standing next to a hand truck with a flat panel TV on it -- how ballsy do you have to be to try to scam that situation?  As I frantically called my bank, mouthing to various employees and passersby, I'm so sorry, I totally do have the money (not sure why I felt compelled to tell people that), my face just turned brighter and brighter red.  I called the cable company to cancel my hookup, and went over to my bank to try to straighten this situation out in person.

I was explaining to the customer service rep that both my credit card and debit card had been declined, and he distinctly made a judgy face at me.  Seriously -- the guy I entrust with my money is secretly displeased with how I spend it.  (Ahem.  And for the record, I don't spend it unwisely.)  (Well, at least not terribly unwisely.)  Another bank employee came over to try to figure out the problem, and he very helpfully told me I shouldn't be having any troubles -- both my cards were active, neither had exceeded their limit.  (Um, yeah, I know.  That's why I'm here.)  Service Rep said he couldn't figure out the problem from the branch, but if I would follow him to his office, he would call headquarters and work out the problem.

As I was sitting there on hold, Service Rep asked me if I was from Salt Lake City.  He had seen my Utah drivers' license, so I figured that wasn't too creepy of a question.  "Yes," I said, trying to avoid further conversation with the person who had judged me for getting my cards declined.

"Are you LDS?"

At this point, I wasn't really sure how to respond, but slowly said, "Yeeees."  When Service Rep smiled instead of making a second judgy face, I asked, "Are you?"

"Yes," he said proudly.  "Did you move here for school or work?"

"Um, work," I said hesitantly, still not wanting to get into a conversation.  But get into a conversation I did.

(By the way, his response to my answer that I did not serve a mission?  Judgy face.)

At one point he asked me where I lived, and since I figured he was staring at all my financials on his computer screen anyway, I told him.  He thought for a second, and then informed me (from memory) which ward and which chapel I was assigned to.  "Wow," I said, honestly impressed.  "How did you know that?"

"I'm in the branch presidency," he explained.  And then proceeded to grill me.

Do I attend church every week?  (Real answer: No.)  My answer?  "Well, I only got here yesterday," I said with a smile.

Judgy face.

I swallowed.  (At this point, I was actually more worried about what he might do to my money should I displease him.)  "Um, I try to," I said, which is mostly the truth.  (If by "try," you mean "don't actively not try," sure.  Look, I just believe in taking personal days here and there, all right?)

Am I going this Sunday?

"Yes," I said firmly, because this one is at least completely true.

Am I married?

"No," I said.  (Too much personal information, Mom?)

He shrugged, as if this were completely irrelevant.  (And here I was expecting another judgy face.)  "There are lots of good people in your ward," he said.

"Good to know," I said weakly, wondering if he also had their addresses memorized.

Long story short -- the customer service reps at headquarters very helpfully concluded that the problem must be Walmart and Costco's, since my accounts were fine.  Since that was obviously not true (both stores had the same problem?), I withdrew the money and went back to Costco to pay cash.

As I was leaving the bank, Service Rep yelled across the lobby, "Make sure you go to church on Sunday!"**

The rest of the story: To be continued ...   



* Via phone.  Still don't have too many friends here in Austin ... but give it time.

** Seriously, I hope he harasses enthusiastically fellowships every Mormon who walks into the bank, because otherwise, what does that say about me?  It's like he was a Mormon Jedi Master, and he sensed that the Force was weak with me, or something.

Apartment hunting

Flew down to Phoenix for the weekend to look for a place to live.  It has been an adventure.  I've made a few mistakes (buying the rental car insurance I knew I didn't need, but was too scared not to get; forgetting the camera sync cord so I could email pictures of various apartments to my friends; booking the "Expedia Recommends!" hotel which apparently features neither free parking -- $19 a night -- or free internet -- $13 for 24 hours), but all in all, I think I will have a home in three weeks.

For anyone who is interested, here are my current prospects, complete with pros and cons.

First apartment complex: Super close to work, exposed cement walls and 10 foot ceilings, very quiet complex, good management.  Includes cheapest option.  Only real downfall?  The floor plans I liked best were essentially studios, with the bedroom separated from the rest of the place by one half wall and nor door, so when (not if, bitches) people come to visit me, it's basically like they're going to be sleeping in my room.  Weird?  I don't know.

Second apartment complex: Bleh.  Bleh bleh bleh bleh bleh.  I did not care for it.

Third apartment complex: Very torn.  Not too far from my work, but much closer to fun Phoenix things.  More expensive than the first complex.  My favorite floor plans included (1) a two bedroom (place for visitors!) with hardwood floors and a gas fireplace and (2) a two bedroom plus loft with spiral staircase.  But the bedroom layouts were weird ... like, not square at all.   I don't care from rhombus rooms.

Spiral staircase ... how I lust after thee ...

(While I forgot my camera cord, my dad's real estate agent friend emailed me a few pictures, so there you go.)

Fourth apartment complex: Really liked.  Further from my work than the first place, but not by much.  Huge bathroom with a tub and a shower.  (Why separate?  In case you want to soak and then shower, I guess.)  About the same size as the first apartments, but the bedroom is fully enclosed, so visitors would have the living room to themselves.  Gas fireplace.  (Ok, I know that fireplaces are not exactly a necessity in Phoenix, but I love fire.)  But more expensive than the first place, and I'm not really sure what the deal with the management is.  Not actually convinced they have management.

Fifth apartment complex: I think drug dealers lived there.  But really, a trip to Phoenix isn't complete without a trip to a crime-riddled area.


My super-sensible pops thinks it's a no-brainer--the first place is closest to work and cheapest.

But ... fireplaces ...  :(

I'm going to sleep on it.  In the meantime, if the interwebs have any thoughts, feel free to share.

Phoenix and I are not friends

V.

 Looking for a place to live in Phoenix while still living in Salt Lake is a tricky task.

First problem: I can’t decide whether I ought to rent or buy.

Pros of renting: Someone else will continue to take care of my problems. I can remain financially untethered. More disposable income due to not forking over a down payment. If I hate my neighbors, I will not need to make any effort to see the positives in them. If they hate me, I will not need to make any effort to win them over.

Pros of buying: It’s the grown-up thing to do.

Cons of renting: My dad’s voice in my head, constantly reminding me that I am throwing money away.

Cons of buying: I don’t think I have it in me to decorate and maintain a home adequately. Also, I’m in a condo stage of life (emotionally, financially, socially) and the concept of HOAs really annoys me.

Winner: Renting



Second problem: Phoenix is a land of great contrast. Phoenix has air conditioned major league baseball fields, and awesome restaurants, and great outdoor activities, and Neiman Marcus. It is also the kidnapping capital of America.

So the dilemma is thus: If I do rent, all the places that I feel are within my price-range appear pretty beat up and ghetto. All the places I would love, love, love to live in are out of my price-range.

Why is this an issue? You would think that would be a no-brainer. Suck it up and live in the icky apartment with 80s tile and fake panel wood in the sketchy neighborhood. That’s what people do when they’re starting out in life, after all.

But that’s not really the answer, because Snobby Me knows that she can’t kill a cockroach, and will immediately book a flight home to live with Mommy and Daddy as soon as she sees her first scorpion. Snobby Me knows that, all protestations to the contrary, she is really freaked out by the fact that there was a shooting at the grocery store I frequented the last time I lived in Phoenix. Snobby Me remembers the Great Roommate Fire of 2008 debacle all too well. Snobby Me knows that Phoenix has a high crime rate, and Snobby Me also knows that I never really took any of those self-defense courses seriously.

And Snobby Me really, really wants garage parking. And floor-to-ceiling windows. And a view of pretty mountains, or pretty desert, or at least a pretty mall—not chain link fences. And Snobby Me wants hardwood floors. And a gym. And a washer and dryer. And a DISHWASHER, damn it. We went for three years hand-washing dishes in law school, and those days are OVER! And Snobby Me wants a second bedroom, or at least a den. And no, that will not be to facilitate roommates. That will be to facilitate our desire to have more than 600 square feet of living space. Ahhhh, the freedom of a thousand square feet …

Snobby Me really thinks that this is really not too much to ask for.

But Financially Responsible Me wants me to remember the value of provident living, and paying off student loans as fast as possible, and saving for retirement, and giving to charity. Financially Responsible Me choked on her own gum when she saw that sweet, sweet high rise apartment for $1600 a month before utilities. Financially Responsible Me is even bribing Snobby Me with the fact that my long-postponed vacation to India will be much more justifiable if we sacrifice now.

Snobby Me finds this argument very persuasive, but ultimately not conclusive.

So Financially Responsible Me and Snobby Me are duking it out in my head. Walk in closets and gated communities, or the peace of mind knowing that my 401K is maturing nicely? Granite countertops now, bitchin’ vacations later? Live with the guilt of knowing that my monthly rent could feed a starving family in the third world, or live with the fear of having my throat slit at night? (OK you two, that last one was a bit dramatic. Tone it down, please.)

This is a problem that may have no answer, much like a circle has no beginning or end.


But unfortunately, with or without an answer, I’m moving in six weeks.


Eeep.