I woke up this morning from two odd dreams. (Yes, I woke up twice. I decided 5:00 AM was unproductive, so I postponed it.)
Dream the first: I am moving into a new apartment. Connor and Michael seem to play no part in this, but I do have something like thirty cats. The new place doesn’t allow pets and I have to walk right past the landlords every time I take a load of stuff in. I deal with this by cramming five cats under my ’80s-style sweatshirt and hoping the landlords don’t notice the lumps. Once finished with my final trip, I find that the cats from previous trips have shat everywhere, shed everywhere, and shredded everything. The landlords knock on my door, which I suddenly realize is made out of clear glass, as I frantically try to eliminate the mess in under 30 seconds.
Dream the second: I decide to make cookies (in my new apartment, which is now clean and painted a ’70s-style shade of avocado). I pull some batter out of, oh, I don’t know, thin air and check my recipe: “Cut dough into zombie shapes. Wash with egg. Ovenize.” I cut the (plain, bread-looking) dough as instructed, wash it, and put it into the overhead cupboards. When I take it out, it has baked up into what lookes like regular, non-zombie scones. A bite reveals that these scones are full of orange peel, cranberries, and sweet cream. I find this all, even the horrible ’70s avocado color, quite pleasant.
I know what the first dream is about — it’s a no brainer. We’ve decided to move when we receive our tax refund. I am worried that we won’t be able to find a place that accepts pets. We don’t plan on taking all of the cats with us, because not all of them are actually ours; still, I am afraid that there is not an affordable two-bedroom house with yard in town that will allow us a (perfectly reasonable) number of cats.
I hate this apartment, but I am angry at the way this decision to move came about. Our landlord has raised our rent and our pet fees four times in the last eight months. A few days ago, he exceeded the amount we are willing to pay for such a shoddy apartment. This place, while not my favorite, made sense for us when it was very cheap and allowed pets without too much bother. It does not make sense, however, for us to remain in such a craptacular little apartment when we could find a decent house (with yard, without being able to hear the neighbors’ every move, without annoying drunk guy from the block who comes by every night looking for booze and crank) for substantially less.
We’ve wanted to move for a while. (Well, ever since we moved in, really.) We did not want to be forced into it before we were ready, and we really didn’t want to have to use our tax return for moving — we had other plans for that money, and now most of them have to be scrapped. Moving makes me stress out, a lot: will we get our deposit back? Will we be able to find a new place that fits our needs? Will we get everything done in time? Will we break something crucial in transfer? Will the new place ever feel like home? Will the new landlords suddenly turn out to be assholes?
I can’t control any of that. I can, however, make sure we rent no place with even a hint of avocado in its color scheme. And I can make some damn good zombie scones.