Blame the Economy.
Jon and I are in the process of selling our contract for our studio apartment.
It has been awkward and stressful and bizarre. I'm surprised I haven't gone into labor over it.
First of all, when you are trying to sell your contract you have to, of course, show the place.
What a weird thing that is.
The keywords "Studio Apartment: $325/mo" attract some interesting characters on craigslist.
Recollect that a 'studio apartment' is a fancy way of saying 'you have to live in one room.' No living room, no bedroom, no kitchen, no dining room, no parlour, no study, no library, no veranda, no playroom, no bonus room, no cellar, no in-house theater or pool. It is a one-room-fits-all scenario. Ours is about the size of a Chinese take-out box.
One has to be of a unique mind and constitution to want to live in such a place.
There was the single 40s-something guy, Jeff, in his bomber jacket and bleached jeans who just couldn't 'dig the student scene' of apartment living nearby. The second he showed up he told us how nice and roomy his other place was and how this wasn't what he was interested in at all. There was Tito, a cute little Hispanic gentleman who carried his belongings in a plastic grocery bag and asked if there was room enough in the back to park his bike. There was Kim, the 30s-something Southern diva in a pink tracksuit who looked like she was living out of her car (belongings piled high enough to block each window) who got one of her tires stuck in a ditch outside our house when she was pulling in. And of course there have been couple after couple who arrive, clutching a notebook of questions to run over, who look at the African hut-sized single room, take one weary look at each other and say, "We'll let you know."
We've also been on the other end looking for our own new apartment, one spacious enough to bring an infant to when the time arrives (August 17). It's been a strange and interesting ordeal as well. Living in such an odd, old little place, we know the things to look for and the questions to ask. We've been trying to find an apartment in the same ward. I love my calling and Jon has some excellent Home Teaching assignments. It would also be nice to really to feel established. As a single adult I moved into a new ward every year. Now that we're married we could actually learn people's first and last names, we could hold onto cool callings, we could sing in the choir for more than one Christmas program.
Glittery gloriousness. We found a place.
It's a sweet little one-bedroom getup very close to campus and extremely roomy considering there is but one bedroom and one bathroom. It has a bathtub (perfect for babies to be washed in) and air conditioning (pregnant in Utah through the summer - how could I do without?) and a pool (ideal for the breaching whale exercises I'll need to adopt as soon as I am too large to be accommodated at the gym) and even some counters (a luxury we've missed in our little studio). It's in the ward, it's closer to campus than we are now, and it's pretty well-priced considering the perks it offers (I'd definitely pay $50 more a month for the counter space alone). The only downside? It's available NOW. We were originally planning to move at the end of April.
We began advertising on Craigslist that we'd be willing to sell our contract now if anyone wanted it. A similar hodge-podge of interesting and unique characters applied. The truly interested people always seemed to slither away after that first phone call. They'd assure us how interested they were, how excited they were to see the place, how anxious they were to keep in touch so the place wouldn't get snatched up. Then they'd cancel their planned visit to our place or just pull an outright no-show. My phone calls and follow-up emails were to no avail.
Last Sunday a couple called. We're very interested, they said. Reserve it for us, they said. We need this place, they said. We'll sign tomorrow, they said.
Yesterday at around 5:00pm we got a message on voice mail:
"We know we said we'd sign and we were really planning to we promise and we're sorry but something just didn't sit right with us so we're not going to sign."
For reals? I mean, for reals?
Why did it 'sit right' up until this final moment? Why couldn't they have that 'not sitting right' feeling before they even called? Or what about the second and then third time I called to ask if they were really, really serious about the place? Or what about when they showed up to look at the place? Or what about the time I called them again after they came and saw it?
By this time we've put down a deposit on the new place. Foolish, maybe. I guess to me this new place just "sat right" to me so I wanted some security.
We're running through our list of interested parties and sending emails and making distraught phone calls. We have a few days to find a new renter.
Deep down, I'm sure it will be ok. I'm not worried we'll be homeless or that we'll have to bring our baby home to this hut that we are currently calling our home. I'm worried about the cost. I was fairly sure this new apartment was supposed to be our new home. I was hoping we'd have everything finalized, that we'd have official renters, that we'd know whether we'd be moving this week or not or whether we've just sunk a deposit for no reason.
I just found out I was not given a section to teach this Spring. Jon just found out the internship he had lined up fell through. We're both trying to sort out other job options. We don't know how we'll earn income over Spring and Summer; we don't know if we even will. We also don't know if I've been accepted to the MFA program in the Fall. If so, I'd be able to teach. If not, then what?
Maybe we do need to stay in our hut.
Ah, poverty is so romantic, isn't it? I just hope it doesn't give me an ulcer.