We move on Saturday the thirtieth, at one in the afternoon sharp. I simply can't wait. You wouldn't even recognize my bedroom anymore, except for the fact that I live in it and it's still blue and my clothes are everywhere. Otherwise, it's essentially all packed up in well organized and clearly lablled boxes (thank you, Broken, queen of order and precision) and ready to go into the hands of burly men charging unfortunate amounts of money per hour to manhandle our goodies. Somehow you almost think it ought to work the other way around. In any case, it's three flights up to the new apartment, and I really don't want to have to haul beds or bookcases or anything up that far. I've been trying to re-evaluate my concerns and I'm only having so much luck. It's certainly true that I'm having cold feet about the whole prospect, but I'm finding it difficult to quantify that apprehension into anything rational or defensible. I'm not even that convinced it's really the money issue anymore. I think I'm just expecting people to get in my way. You know, in the sense that I have all these great plans for living in, and decorating, our new apartment, and I might have to clash wills with people whose primary answers to decor involve painting it black, putting (black) duct tape over it, or complaining when you try to do it differently. Too many cooks spoil the kitchen, if you get what I'm saying. Kincaid actually wanted the kitchen to be dimmer, because he just likes things dark and crypt-like, and I'll be good god-damned if I have to cut my fingers off clumsily in a dark kitchen. The kitchen needs at least another light in there somewhere, perhaps over the sink or the stove, before I'm willing to call it properly lit. I mean, as freaky and individualistic and non-conformist as I am, I want my house to be pretty; not depressing and dark and full of purple lights. That's what bedrooms are for. Everyone has different ideas on how our spacious living room should look in the end, and it's going to cause problems.

Broken told me last night that even before, when the house here was going really well, everyone was terrified of the day when nice, conciliatory, good-natured and generous Rob just snapped, and let all that pent-up frustration and rage explode into a violent demonstration of precisely how unspeakably cruel and unpleasant nice people can really be. The consensus being that there just aren't going to be any survivors on the fateful day that I actually blow. And while it's actually the case that I don't tend to ball up all my rage for very long (I have a very bad temper, thanks to my Irish genes, but while it must somehow violate a law of thermodynamics, the anger does just go away. I think I have a lot of good in me somewhere, and it just eats up all the bitterness... or at least, the really big chunks. There are bound to be crumbs. Bitching into a Snivel every day helps, too), I have, of late, had some particularly satisfying visions of snapping one day, and really letting the first person who stands in the way of my big plans for a perfect house have a taste of the kind of Rob sick of trying to be nice to people when they're complaining about how it would be better if the living room had as little in it as possible because full living rooms are so ugly. I expect it will go well, of course, and that's the truth. I'm just nervous because there are so many plans floating around, and so much to do, and sometimes I just feel like eating my compatriots like a rat crammed in too tightly in a cage.

Nevertheless, however good or bad our new place becomes, it couldn't possibly be worse than H'Tog, and that's the truth. I'm so keenly aware of how awful it is here, and although it seems drastically sudden and ominous, I'm continuing to literally count the days until I'm able to move. Did I mention it was six already?
I do, of course, admit to having volunteered to buying towel racks for the bathrooms today, simply because I trust myself to find nice ones. I mean, heck, I spent eighty dollars yesterday on the silliest things for the kitchen -- I might as well spend more. Great stuff, though: I bought these exquisite plates from the Glebe Emporium. They're huge, and made from dark, dark blue glass -- the kind that makes a pretty bottle -- which you can see through. I bought four, because they were heavy, eight dollars each, and that seemed like a good number of such plates to have (one can always buy more). To go with them, I bought (thinking primarily of myself and Broken, but of course anyone who washes such things and properly takes care of them can use them) matching egg cups, matching bowls, and (of course) matching blue coffee cups. Along with that, I picked up a salt and pepper shaker for the kitchen, some little glass candleholders for putting here-and-there, some plain, clear, glasses, and a sugar dispenser of the sort you get in coffee shops -- you know, cylindrical glass with a metal, screw-on top which has a little spout with a hinged flap over it. I also bought dishtowels, and completely forgot the sleek, ergonomic dish rack I had my eyes on.

To move on, I saw Hayden in concert last night. He played at Barrymore's, and if you've never been to Barrymore's (hey, it happens), let me describe it to you. To the best of my knowledge, Barrymore's used to be a movie theatre, or possibly just a regular theatrical theatre in the earliest part of the century. This seems to be the case because it's built as a series of terraces staggered upwards from the first level, where the stage is. At each level are tables and chairs, much like you'd find at a pub, as well as standing room. At the very top is the bar. On the walls are tremendous mirrors, hanging from the ceiling are chandeliers, and everywhere else there's this gilded gold sculpted plaster work, of the sort you'd find in very old, elaborate, ostentatious public places like theatres. It's very attractive, and very large. Hundreds of people can fit into it comfortably. It's the sort of place you play after you've made it through the club-and-bar circuit, but before you get to play the Congress Centre or the Corel Centre (which is Ottawa's new, gigantic hockey arena and general forum for the masses). Example: the last time Radiohead came to town, they played the Congress Centre. The last time (and, I believe, the first time) the Smashing Pumpkins came to Ottawa, they played the Corel Centre. Anyway, if you play Barrymore's, you're definitely moving up in the world. And it was certainly packed. I wasn't aware that Hayden had so many fans in Ottawa -- though I'm glad he does. I did feel a little old standing in line, though, even if I'm just a babe of twenty-two. It was an all-ages show, so half the people with me weren't old enough to drink yet (thank goodness they were all close though. I hate children), and I felt my age. As if I'd just walked down the street whistling something by the Alan Parsons Project or something (I saw LadyHawke last night on A and E, and it took me back).

In any case, Hayden put on a terrific concert. He actually came back for three encores. Opening for him was a fellow by the name of Howie Beck, who I'd never heard of but whose CD I might look into purchasing. He was actually quite similar to Hayden -- which is to say, a solo male vocalist who plays a guitar and sings depressing songs about girls. Halfway through his set, Hayden actually came on stage with a banjo and started playing accompanyment for one song, although no one (except me of course, because I'm not stupid) noticed it was him. Sneaky Hayden. He confessed his sneakiness when his turn came, of course. In any case, the doors opened at four, Howie Beck was on by four thirty, and Hayden was on shortly after five. The concert wasn't over until about seven, and I considered my ten dollars well spent indeed, even if I did have to go by myself. See, Broken hates Hayden and had to work at Carleton anyway, so she couldn't go. Charlotte was supposed to go with me, but at the last second her older sister came to town and she has been forced to entertain her for the next week, and last night they were with their parents so she had to abort our plans. Lucretia was supposed to be there as well, because she's been a fan of Hayden even longer than I have, but she never showed up, either (which is a shame, because she's moving to B.C. this week and this was going to be the last time we saw each other before then). She had mentioned having to attend the bridal shower for our friend Laura, who is a married woman in one week's time (I'll be there, but Lucretia won't, so she felt obliged to go), and that was, as they say, that. So although I felt like a giant loser for being at the concert by myself, I thought it was a great show. Hayden played an endless number of songs, including Trees Lounge, which isn't on any of his albums but I had hoped to hear anyway, since it is so perfect.

From what I gathered by his between-song banter with the audience, he seems like a really nice, intelligent and charismatic person. He actually reminded me of my friend Mary, although his voice was much deeper. But he joked about things in the same way that makes you think he has a deep-running and sharp sense of humour, but at the same time is capable of being quite depressing and mopey. It's a shame I'd never have the chance to meet him in any context except as "a fan," which just means I'd be some giggly schoolchild who didn't especially stand out of the crowd of hundreds of other fans just like me, as opposed to little old cool and clever me. Oh well. I will take this opportunity to command each and every one of you to go buy an album by Hayden, if you don't have all of them already. Buy them. Buy them all. If you ever listen to any recommendation I make, then listen to this one. Hayden is good -- he won't lead you astray. He just sings sad little songs about being a boy, and liking girls, and it's really just as good as that.

And while you're at it, buy something of mine too.

At the same time, H'Tog has sucked the money out of me for nearly a year now, and you don't hear me complaining about it. Not today anyway. I paid $325 for rent, and because I never cooked (not for lack of ability or inclination; the kitchen here physically disgusts me), I'm sure I spent somewhere around $150 every month on food. That's more than I'll be paying for rent at the new house, although I shall still have to feed myself somehow. Anyways, all I can do is enjoy myself as best as possible, and try not to let my generosity get the better of me. My real problem is that I have such a bewildering burden of conscience that I cannot help but give to the people around me. The only problem I see with this is that I'm difficult to stop and I wind up being rather foolish with my money. Sigh. As always, the future will tell. Typically I whine a lot about something and then it either works out or goes away.

Wait and see with me.

Meaningful pause.

Fortunately for me, many of my friends are of a dominant character, so I just tag along for the ride most of the time. But it's not like I don't have a spine. In any case, these days I'm using my backbone a whole lot, and usually it's as a lever or a club or whatever is generally required to get things done and get people moving. If you're looking for my other foot, it's probably hitting someone's ass in the attempt to encourage them along -- that sort of thing. Which isn't to say that my comrades are goofs or incompetents -- because they aren't. It's just that Kincaid, Pixiegirl and Ben are, by and large, letting someone else make all the decisions. I don't know. I'm trying to keep everyone included and have the whole process run as democratically as possible, but ultimately Broken and I are certainly the ringleaders of this operation. We've found the houses, arranged and coordinated the viewings, asked and answered all the questions, worked out the details of the move and now we're trying to hire movers (the thought of taking everything out of our four rooms, bookcases and all, load by load, out of the house and up all those stairs (three flights, straight up) would require an awful lot of testosterone for me to seriously consider undertaking it. Makes my genitals wither just imagining it...). And I'm not even convinced it's all that necessary. Everyone's done their part when it came down to making an effort. Kincaid and Ben both got their parents to co-sign their applications, Pixiegirl has coordinated things with her case worker. I'm sure the move would still happen if I weren't involved -- I'm sure. It's a consequence of my obsessive ways, though, that I absolutely lack any laissez-faire attitudes toward life, so I've been pretty intense and naggy these past two weeks as needs arose. Sometimes there just seems to be a general lack of thought or concern from my friends, and I guess that's why I felt obliged to be "in charge." I hate people who take charge, oddly enough, because it usually does wind up corrupting and twisting them like a little responsibility was the goddamn Dark Side of the Force or something. And I'm specificially thinking about Lesleigh, Indonesia, Cliff, and Adolf Hitler here.

It's a travesty that many young, sharp, and urbane people are resigned by fate to live in unsafe, crumbling, and inconvenient houses by such things as low income and stigma and the desire to live with our friends. Well, not us. Never again.

We low-income and marginalized groovy kids shall be taking up residence in a posh part of town, close to every amenity we could hope for, and all for the bother of a credit-check. That's correct, oh you loving public, Rob, myself, and three of our pals shall be co-habitating at an affordable price, in an absolutely wonderful set of apartments, on the third and fourth floors of a charming victorian house. They are a house in and of themselves; they just happen to be piled on top of another house.

Let's start with the features of our new digs. The only obstacle taunting us is a long, narrow staircase, up which it may prove impossible to move the largest of the house-load of furniture we have. Let me say, I adore my two, 5-seater couches and king size bed. I shall not be deterred by any staircase, even if I have to splinter the bulk down to toothpicks and reassemble it all with nails and glue.

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The first floor contains the largest living room I've ever had the privilege of drooling at. It was beyond the measuring tape's capacity. Maybe 20 feet by 15 feet, with a nice bright window. "Freakin' huge, and possibly larger," says Rob, by proxy, who cannot write this snivel for fear of jinxing it all. Did I mention the living room is sunken? Be green with envy, my moppets. There is also an impreccably clean and modern kitchen, with plenty of pantry/counter/cupboard space, a working sink, and new stove and fridge. One full bathroom can be found behind the kitchen. Across from that, is the smallest room in the house, eight feet by fourteen.

The stairs off the kitchen lead up to the top floor of bedroom suites. There are four. Two are enormous. One is medium. One is small, but larger than the room off the kitchen. There is plenty of closet space, and there are ample power outlets, lights, and windows for all. Oh yeah, and a second, full bathroom. No early morning shower conflicts for us! The whole house is very clean. There is no damage to anything, save one coffee stain on the living room carpet, which we gladly ignore. We saw an ant, but the place had been empty for a month so we imagine with a little occupation and perhaps a little cruel enforcement of our mammalian wills upon the little buggers, the concept of ants should lapse into obscurity. No roaches, no earwigs, no spiders. Ah, bliss.

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Having gloated, I shall gloat some more. Earlier, our wee troup applied to rent a different house. A plain house. A house that had been ill-abused by its tenants (6 university boys). Still, it had character, and space enough for all of us, and we liked it. The day that we all viewed it, by appointment, a car full of university kids happened to drive by, saw the for rent sign, and came in to view the house minutes before our scheduled viewing. Well, they applied. We think they got that house. The part that sticks in our craws is that, while that house was available June 1st, they just wanted to sublet it to other people until September, so that they could go away and frolick for the summer. We were never called back by the property manager, even to be rejected, despite our frequent phone calls to inquire. THAT is what I call bad business. We're sure not likely to rent from that company ever again...

Now we have a bigger, better, brighter, cleaner, better-located, castle of our very own. We were debating actively trying to find out if that stupid group of kids actually stole that house from under us. If so, we might invite them to a housewarming party, and thank them ever so much for saving us from getting stuck in that place... Thank them for forcing us to find our beautiful new abode, of which we shall send them many pictures. Petty? Perhaps...but house-hunting tends to rob a body of all charity, you know.

We shall have a very fine house indeed. We shall have a perpetually clean and ordered kitchen, and the most sanitary of bathrooms. Never again, shall we endure the stand up showers of the current house - encrusted with the kind of grime that only 18 slobby goths can inflict on poor, unsuspecting tile (it's a 6 split-level, 14 room house). Never again heat that cannot be turned off in +30 celcius weather. Never the vanished thermostats! Never the caved in ceilings! Never the fool who washed macaroni down the drain, where it got stuck, and didn't fess up to, or clean it - leaving it to congeal into the most foul, black, ghoul's poultice in all of creation! Goodbye, cracked floors! Goodbye dead-deer-head in a bucket of bleach that got spilled down the sidewalk, ew gross! Goodbye shoebox rooms, once used for disreputable sexual practices (house was previously a 'spa'). Goodbye strangers wandering to the door! Goodbye, unsafe address to send your mail! Goodbye and good riddance to you all! (God, let me not fall into the delerium, of using multiple punctuation marks...)

Bye Moppets,
Broken.

Brought to you by Jolt Cola, with
the buzzing and mild irritation of
caffeine induced paranoia.

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