I've had these little inklings in my mind at various times today, telling myself that, well, you know, maybe I am overreacting. No one's actually said so yet; most people have cautioned me not to do anything rash. I'm not planning on moving for many, many months yet; maybe even a year.
But I just kind of had a wander back and I was looking at that little movie of poor little Twinkle, tube in her nose, trying to eat for me in the animal hospital. And no, I'm not overreacting. That's all this place has been to me, and everything else considered, I'm not really interested in giving it the several years it'll take to stop being that.
When I moved [note: interruption of about 18 hours occurs at this point in writing due to my cell service provider calling me up to offer me more service at a cheaper rate] in 2011, things were different. For one thing, Bonnie, Twinkle, and Max were all alive. I figured I had probably another two or three years at least with Bonnie, another five with Max, and probably another ten with Twinkle. I was still working at a nice office on the subway with the team of people I had to interact with to get things done actually there in the bullpen or elsewhere in the office. We could even go out to lunch, and sometimes did. I was finally a home owner, with a great view, and could even at long last do my laundry without leaving my apartment. I missed the company that having Larry a couple of steps down the hall had grown me accustomed to, but he still wasn't far away. G was still alive and if not a constant presence when I got together with P-Doug, a constant topic of conversation, news, and anecdotes. I kind of missed the place I'd lived in for 11 years (had they stuck a washer and drier in it and put it up for sale, frankly, I'd have bought it), but I felt I'd finally stepped up to something better. Well, I did. It's just so much about it all in the meantime has grown so depressing, and I want a change.
It's little things, too. I'm tired of everything being about elevators. A couple of months ago, I was literally on the way out the door when the power went out. Thirty seconds later and I'd have been in the elevator, and stuck between floors for two hours. As it was, on the 19th floor, I wasn't about to trot all the way down, only to find out I couldn't get my car out of the garage because the door wouldn't open, and then... what? Climb back? Sit in the lobby till whenever? So I had to sit it out.
Yesterday (the day I started writing this), I stepped out into the hall at 6:30 to find a cascade of water pouring down in front of the door of a suite opposite the elevators. It wasn't a torrent, but it was as much water as you'd get running the bathroom sink, and there was a pool a couple inches deep in front of the door. I went downstairs to tell the office, called the number, could hear the phone ring, got no answer. So I had to try at the intercom in the lobby. And then it was a 30-second comedy of errors trying to explain the problem over a bad sound system to a guy who came by the English language late in life. I'm tired of feeling hostage, as I have been for 13 years now, to everyone else's fuck-ups, and the response of other people whose responsibilities I can't supersede even if I wanted to.
As mentioned in a previous entry, last night I parked in a visitor spot in the off chance my car needed to be towed in the morning (it didn't). I left a note identifying my suite number and typical spot and why I was there, and I still came down to this snotty note about this not being my parking space and move it or it'll be towed. If I hadn't been more worried about getting the car started and to the dealership, I'd have marched inside and told them what I thought of the note and where to shove it, and how deep. Instead, I crumpled it up and threw it on the lot. Last year, someone broke my window doing work on the roof. I'm sick of all this, too... stupid, arbitrary, bullshit little rules about when you can do this and what colour that has to be and when to make sure they can get into your unit. Can't have a dog, but a hallway full of someone else's pot smoke at 7 in the morning, no problem.
Oh, and I'm paying what will soon be $700 a month for a lot of facilities I never use. I look around at other places, especially town houses, and their condo fees are more like $400-500, even when they're inclusive. Because they're inclusive of upkeep and utilities, not facilities, so they're not expecting people to pay for Beverly. Hills, that is. Swimmin' pools, movie stars.
Anyway, you add it all up, and I'd really like to get Dig and Bolt in there this summer, spruce the place up just a little, maybe do some painting, and then see what I can get for it, and where that can take me.
It's still a good place. Just not for me, that's all.