How can finding a place to live be so utterly frustrating?
I have a laptop, internet access, a cell phone, great references (not quite as good as my dog, however,) steady income, a savings account, healthy eyes, a stack of sweaters, decent car, pair of solid hiking shoes, craigslist savvy and a long list of business contacts.
What’s the deal?
I’ve been on the lookout for over two and a half months, that’s steady online zillow/craigslist/trulia stalking, shaking out leads from coffee shops bulletin boards, announcing my near homelessness panic to friends and their friends.
Exasperating to discover the cute, inviting pictures turn out to be rat-hole bedrooms, “quaint” turns spotty, neighborhoods make me gasp in fright by the light of day, roommate services go sour and hopeful curdles to fear and trepidation.
My throat is hard and firm, a steady quake shakes my promise of a safe and friendly space to call home.
Boxes packed, furniture piled, sundries nestled in their bins, awaiting the time we all move (hound and I) as a unit to the Promise Land.
Tears come easy.
I reach for a book, then, unable to read with clarity, turn to the pile of movies to lighten my loaded chest.
Comfort is long in coming.
But I’ll be okay. Always am.
Something will turn up. By the end of the month. One can only hope.
Thanks for listening.