Cutting a rug.

by statia on July 12, 2017

One of the first problems I had to tackle, in regards to getting creative, was finding my own, quiet space. I’ve been taking classes in the city, and decided that maybe a small studio would work for my needs.

And that’s what I did. I rented a studio where no children will leave their socks. Where I don’t have anything that belongs to anyone else but me. And of course, people being people, a lot of the reactions I had when I told people this, were HILARIOUS.

Friend:  You rented an APARTMENT? Does your husband know?

Me: Considering he gave me the checkbook with his blessing, I’m pretty sure he knows.

Friend: You aren’t having an affair, are you?

Me:

via GIPHY

(fun fact: The Rock went to my high school. I know, you had FUN learning that, didn’t you?)

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Another Friend: Are you selling drugs?

Me: Clearly everyone thinks I’m way more nefarious and exciting than I really am.

No, I really truly want a quiet space to do whatever creative thing I want to do. Anything to never have to go back to corporate America. Maybe get some practice groups together with my friends, or start a podcast. I don’t know. I have a ton of ideas and I’m still working on this nomadic creative life. The last time I was writing here on the regular, like the REAL regular, was before kids. I know it’s going to take some time.

Moving into a new place, when you already have a home, is super weird. One, I feel like I’m moving out on my own again, for the first, but second time in my life. It brings back strong déjà vu.

Except for the part where, when I got the keys, apparently the previous tenant was still on the lease.

One day when I was dropping a few things off, I decided it was a good time for some herbal refreshments. I was alone, and I had an hour before my class started. I put my new bathroom rug in front of my door, so as not to be an asshole neighbor that makes everything smell like herbal refreshments.

I’m halfway through, perfusing all the social medias, because I’m just wasting time. When all of a sudden, I hear a key turn in the door.

Hiding herbal refreshments… you can’t hide the herbal refreshments. At least not totally. But I put away any gear I had quickly and introduced myself. The landlord told me that he still had the keys until the 1st, but that he had moved out a month ago, and had gotten married, and now living with his wife. The place had since been remodeled.

We are both very surprised to see the other, and make awkward introductions and small talk. Mostly about how the landlord casually did not mention another person moving in before the end of his lease was up. I feel that. That wasn’t cool. But he was nice (he’s since given the keys back so I’m not worried he’s going to just show up one day.)

As he goes to leave, I notice that he’s totally rolled the door over the bathroom carpet, solidly wedging it there FOR LIFE. I cannot open or close my door at all. And I’m here by myself, with a class in about 30 minutes. I’m pissed. Not as much at him, but at the situation. He had no idea someone was hotboxing his former residence.

So here I am, trying with all of my might to salvage this stupid rug that I had literally just bought a half an hour ago. I’m now sweating profusely, adamant and STUBBORN AS FUCK, to get this rug out from under my door, but the gripping on the bottom is making it impossible. I’m sure if I had more time, I could have finally gotten it, but I was hot and annoyed and decided to just cut the thing out from under the door.

The rug won. The fucking rug won.

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