I’m not much for signs. Despite what any Swedish pop group tells you, I just don’t think I’ve seen a “sign” and had it “open up my eyes” “whoa oh-oh.”
I’m much more for making laundry lists of pros and cons and neurotically obsessing over every decision I have to make. And it seems like there have been a ton of decisions to make lately.
Big life decisions like apartment situations, what to do with my life and where to get lunch. And so lists were pored over and options were obsessively weighed and lo and behold, some decisions were actually made. For one, Jaclyn and I decided to move (six blocks away, thirty-six inches closer to sea level [we’ll be ground floor now, suckers] and twice as many bathrooms). And we came to this decision all on our own without relying on any signs.
But since we made the decision to relocate one brown line stop south, there have been nothing but signs that we made the right decision.
Sign number one: A present on our doorstep. But not like “flaming bag of dog poo” present. I mean, if I’d opened my front door and seen that, I would’ve figured we’d done something to deserve it.
But no. This was just another Sunday morning. Ready to head out for a jog, I open the front door and—hey, what’s that? Puke. The aforementioned ass hats next door have somehow managed to puke on our front stoop. And apparently they were eating Cheetos. TIME TO MOVE.
The following weekend, sign numero dos. It’s about 3:30 in the morning on Friday night and we hear the next door ass hats stumble home. They're loud and they're slurring and they're kicking the dozens of red Solo cups along the walkway between our apartments and I'll tell you what, that shit echoes. I mean, we lived on Addison for two years and put up with more than our fair share of belligerent Cubs fans screaming in our front yard. And nothing compares to these guys.
Then someone starts banging on the front door. BANGING. It was a sort of come-to-Jesus/I'm-going-to-get-you/your-effing-pizza-is-here-and-I’ll-be-damned-if-I-don’t-get-a-tip pounding that no one likes to hear at 3:34 a.m. It was scary. Have I mentioned how much I hate our neighbors? TIME TO MOVE.
The third sign? I roll home around 9 o’clock last night and step into our dark apartment. I hear water running. I’m confused because nobody's home and nobody's been home for hours. I walk through the apartment, turning on lights as I go, knowing whatever I find isn’t going to be pretty.
Turns out, it’s raining in the kitchen. Apparently the guys upstairs were doing laundry and a hose broke. Hello, dirty laundry water. Welcome to my kitchen pantry-type area. Where I keep all of my food and my artificial Chritsmas tree. At least the guys upstairs came down to help me clean up. But still. Water pouring from the ceiling and drenching everything in your kitchen, potentially ruining your most prized holiday decoration? TIME TO MOVE.
So my apologies to Ace of Base. You always knew what was up. There were signs all along, we just had to look for them. And you’re right, no one’s going to drag us up into the light where we belong. We’re hiring movers for that.
October 1st can’t come soon enough.
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