Apartment Living | Episode One

(New and improved series name coming soon.)

Last night I (kind of) introduced a new series, which is yet to be named, but will nonetheless become a monthly feature on this blog where Natasha will share her experiences in apartment living. Heck, I might even chime in once in a while too, because I’ve had my fair share of apartment experiences (as both the renter and as a representative for the landlord.) I ask that you bear with me as I figure out how this series will fit into my (ir)regularly scheduled programming, and understand that my goal is to find useful content that people actually enjoy reading, and find a way to make that fit with my need to unload and sort through my own life experiences.

So, here is the first installment in the apartment living series, brought to you by the lovely Natasha.

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I love living in apartments. While my family members seem to have mixed feelings about current and future living situations, I find myself utterly content when I live in an apartment. My favorite pastime used to be going to open houses for apartments and condos to assess which one would be absolutely perfect for me. Here’s my recent history with apartments.

When I was 23, I moved into my first apartment, which was right next door to the place my mother was living in. It was a pretty huge studio with a small kitchen and the refrigerator in the living area, but it fit me and my sister comfortably. Plus, the rent was ridiculously affordable for the neighborhood I was living in, especially considering the space I had in my little home. My only pet peeve was how small my little galley kitchen was.

The following year, I moved into an even cheaper, even smaller apartment with no kitchen whatsoever. The “kitchen” was only a patch of linoleum flooring with a mid-sized refrigerator, tiny electric stove and a sink in one line above the cabinets. I was also living with my husband there and it was an apartment on a fourth floor walk-up. Moving our boxes into the apartment was terrible, but I eventually grew fond of the place. I ended up living there by myself, and the apartment became much larger. Walking up and down the stairs became my exercise. I even managed to get rid of most of the boxes that we’d moved into the living space and made it bigger, adding colorful containers, and a new television and TV stand.

What I loved most about that apartment was the arched hallway that led to the front door and the bathroom. The hallway was this tunnel-type space that led to the living area where I could put my shoes. The bathroom had one of the “public restroom” toilets that I personally loathe, but the sink was so classic and wide. The tub and shower was brand new and so was the carpeting in the entire apartment. That apartment became my home.

Right now, I currently live in an apartment with my mother. It’s a huge space that needs a lot of work, but I can see the beauty in it. I can see what it could look like if certain things were fixed. Plus, I have my own little patch of balcony. My mother and I haven’t really done anything with it, but I like the idea of possibly starting a tiny garden there or having a small table and chairs out there to eat. My only complaint is that there are security doors and yet there aren’t any doorbells or intercoms, which is a stark contrast to the intercom I had at my last apartment. That makes it extremely difficult to receive packages from UPS or FedEx when I’m not at home, so my online shopping is severely limited if I can’t get my items through the US Postal Service.

I don’t see myself moving into a single family house and paying all of the utilities, including water, and property taxes. I do, however, see myself moving into a condo with any future children I may have. I actually have a list of things I want to have in my next apartment, and the one after that, but that is for another post… 

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Natasha is a 20-something student, writer and lover of all things comfy and Chris Evans. Her clients include a Texas-based relocation service helping you move free in the Dallas area. When she’s not living in her own fantasy world, she’s studying liberal arts or watching Chris Evans movies.

a new take on “awkward”

When I started this blog two and a half years ago, I wasn’t quite sure what I wanted it to be. It started out as a place where I (and perhaps someday others) would share my experiences and “awkward moments.” I surely seemed to have enough of them, and if I tried hard enough, I could tell those stories in a funny way. But I quickly realized that it was becoming something more than that – it was a place where I was using words to sort through whatever life had handed me, and eventually it became a means to connect to an entire community of people like me who love and support each other, and also go to Vegas and have all the fun together. It became an extension of me.

This blog has been through plenty of ups and downs and has experienced its fair share of growing pains over the past two and a half years, and during the times when I had it the hardest, this blog went silent. Sometimes, there just weren’t words. But during that time, I started to wonder if maybe I had misnamed my webspace. It wasn’t what I had thought it would be anymore, and I wasn’t sure the name fit. But I liked it. “Well that’s awkward” is a phrase that I say at least once a day, so how can it not be fitting?

Over the past several months, I’ve thought a lot about what I do here, and what I’d like to do, and how all of that fits together. And I realized that maybe I haven’t misnamed my blog at all. What I write about here is life. Growing up. Learning, growing, changing, dealing with all of the things that happen to us as we navigate our twenties (and hopefully I’ll still be doing this as I begin to navigate my thirties, too.) And you know what? More often than not, that shit is awkward. Growing up is awkward. Discovering yourself is often awkward. Making changes in your life, dealing with life’s lessons, it’s all awkward.

I’m amazed at how long it took for me to look at it that way. But now it makes perfect sense.

So now that I’ve solved the identity crisis of Well That’s Awkward, I’m planning to slowly make some changes. You’ll notice them as I introduce them, which I’ll do just as soon as I figure out just what the hell they’re all going to be. One of my intended changes is that I’ll actually, you know, BLOG MORE. Since I’ve adjusted the way I’m looking at the whole “theme” here, I should have plenty of material to work with. Second, I’m going to move this blog to wellthatsawkward.com, which is a domain that I’ve owned for OVER A YEAR and it’s still sitting unused. Yeah, I don’t want to talk about it. Then I’ll add some features and other fun things…

One new feature is something I’ll kick off tomorrow, but I’d like to introduce it now. Starting tomorrow, Well That’s Awkward will be home to a monthly feature about apartment living, because let’s face it, that’s a big part of navigating your twenties (or thirties, or for some, life in general.) These posts will discuss different aspects of apartment living, whether it’s how to make small spaces work, dealing with roommates, or searching for the perfect place. The series will have a name, but I haven’t thought of one yet. (Now accepting awesome submissions for the best series name in the comments below.)

I’d also like to know if there are any suggestions for other weekly/monthly features that you think are related to these awkward years (because let’s be honest, they didn’t end with high school.)

I’m excited to finally have some sort of direction for my little corner of the interwebs, and I hope you’ll be along for the ride, and maybe even find something useful along the way. Cheers!

frustrations come in threes like everything else i guess.

Alternate Title: In Which I Vent About Some Of The More Mundane Ways That Society Is Slowly Causing Me To FREAKING LOSE MY SHIT.

Sometimes people leave me so dumbfounded that I am literally speechless (no small feat for me.) And other times I know exactly what I want to say (although usually not until well after the fact, at which point I KICK myself for not being quick enough on the draw to pull that gem out on the spot, so then sometimes when I re-tell the story I say the thing that I wish I had actually said but didn’t think of until later, because that makes for a better story, and you get the idea.) And even if I do know exactly what I want to say at exactly the right time, I usually don’t have the chutzpah to actually come out with it, because I know that once I do I will feel like a Grade A Asshole.

After I’ve held my tongue in too many of these situations for way too long, the Smart Ass in me starts to get far too antsy and the next thing I know I’m exploding with frustration that’s usually (unfortunately) targeted at the wrong person.

However, this evening I managed to keep it to myself, but only because I bit my lip until it almost bled and waited until I got to the safety of my own (beautifully empty) house where I could vent to the best listener in the whole, wide world — my dog. He didn’t judge me. I’m pretty sure he even nodded in agreement a few times. HE TOTALLY GETS ME.

So let me fill you in.

Tonight, my boyfriend is coming home after being gone for a week in Houston. His plane lands at midnight, so I thought I’d be a nice girlfriend and make a giant pot of chili for him to eat when he gets home, along with leftover cheddar scallion muffins I made for a potluck last night. So on my way home from work, I went to the store to get everything I needed and came home to get started.

Here’s the thing, though. This is where it started to go wrong.

I always put beer in my chili. I mean, it makes it so much better! I sauté onions, garlic, sometimes peppers, sometimes celery, whatever I’m putting in it, in a little bit of the fat from the beef that I already cooked, along with enough beer to make me feel like it’s enough. IT’S VERY SCIENTIFIC.

So I went to the fridge.

And there was no beer.

Because my roommate drank it all.

AGAIN.

The last two times we’ve bought a case of beer (and paid equally for it), I’ve had one from the first case, and three from this most recent case. I’m not the best at math, but I’m pretty sure that in neither of those cases did I have my equal share of a case of twelve.

So I had to go back to the store. I hate the store, especially between the hours of 5 and 7 pm on weeknights. But I did it, because I’m a good girlfriend. But I was pissed.

But somehow it wasn’t awful, and I came out with a case of beer ready to make my chili. And I got to my car and noticed that there was an older man standing near the front of it. Around the same time, I noticed a woman driving a gigantic beat-up pickup truck and attempting to park next to me. She pulled in once, and then backed up in an attempt to correct her horrible first attempt. Apparently two tries is her max though, because she left it there and got out, still completely crooked, and completely over the line, about three inches from the back corner of my car.

As I dropped my head sideways as if to say, “REALLY?!,” I happened to look again at the older man standing near the front of my car, and saw why he was standing there. He was “standing guard” as what I can only assume was his grandson, no more than five years old, WAS PEEING IN THE BUSHES NEXT TO MY CAR.

IN FRONT OF A GROCERY STORE.

Not in the back of the parking lot. IN THE FRONT ROW OF THE PARKING LOT.

Is it just me, or is that TOTALLY FREAKING RIDICULOUS?!

So he looked up after I saw this, right around the time that I said, out loud, to the woman parking her truck like a drunk monkey, “You’re just going to leave it like that, huh?” and he thought he’d be all gentlemanly by offering to “wave me out” since she was clearly in my space.

I said, “No, thank you, I think I can handle it,” but I really wanted to add, “I’m a much better driver than THIS HERE LADY.”

But more than that, what I really wanted to say was, “Honestly, sir, I’m not sure right now what I find more appalling — this woman’s horrendous parking job or the fact that you just allowed your FIVE YEAR OLD CHILD (or grandchild, or WHOEVER IT DOESN’T MATTER) to pull down his pants and urinate in the bushes IN FRONT OF A GROCERY STORE DURING RUSH HOUR.”

That’s an excellent lesson to teach this impressionable young child who’s in your care. Please stash away some money for the future public urination arrests this kid is going to pile up under his belt, because you’re teaching him that it’s perfectly okay to just whip it out whenever he gets the urge.

But I didn’t say any of this, because honestly I just didn’t want to start an altercation in public. Because while some believe it’s even okay to let kids pee in public, I draw the line at SCREAMING IN YOUR FACE no matter how badly I want to.

So I took deep breaths, bit my lip, took more deep breaths, and drove home and as soon as I locked the front door I let out the most frustrated, angry, painful sigh of my entire life, because OH MY GOD PEOPLE YOU ARE TOO MUCH, GIVE A GIRL A BREAK.

because i love you & this is as close as i can get to giving you actual cookies.

So basically my favorite part of Valentine’s Day any holiday is the fact that it’s a perfectly good excuse to bake something tasty and then pawn it off on everyone around me so that I don’t wind up eating eleventy billion cookies for dinner like I almost did last night. Thank God I have coworkers who like baked goods.

And because a while back I promised that my next (or a near future) post would include something delicious and then I failed epically at delivering on said promise in a timely manner, I figure Valentine’s Day is as good a time as any to share the love. See what I did there?

Ladies and gentlemen, I give you Chocolate Sweet Hearts cookies. Except obviously you can use whatever kind of cookie cutter you want (or none at all! Take that, conformity!) and they’re perfectly suitable for any holiday or occasion, so I’m pretty sure I need to come up with a better name for them. But regardless of what they’re called, they’re delightful and I want to share them with you.

It’s a Martha Stewart recipe, so you know this shit is legit. And, it’s super easy, and I mean like normal-person easy, not pastry-chef-baking-at-home-for-funsies easy. I didn’t even say any bad words while I was making these.*

The end result is an incredibly rich, but shockingly not super sweet, delightfully salty, simple and lovely crispy chocolate cookie.

Full Disclosure: I realized a day later that I had accidentally used unsweetened baking chocolate vs. semi-sweet, which is obviously why they weren’t super sweet. I have to say, I think I prefer them this way. Happy accidents and whatnot.

Salty-Sweet Chocolate Cookies 

{epic awesome name under construction}

Ingredients

• 1 cup(s) (spooned and leveled) all-purpose flour
• 1/4 cup(s) unsweetened cocoa powder
• 1/2 teaspoon(s) baking soda
• 1/4 teaspoon(s) salt
• 4 ounce(s) bittersweet or semisweet chocolate, chopped
• 4 tablespoon(s) (1/2 stick) unsalted butter, cut into pieces
• 1/2 cup(s) packed light-brown sugar
• 1  large egg

Instructions

1. In a bowl, whisk together flour, cocoa, baking soda, and salt. In another bowl set over (not in) a saucepan of simmering water, place chocolate, butter, and brown sugar; stir frequently until almost completely melted. Remove from heat, and stir until completely melted; let cool slightly.
2. Add egg to chocolate mixture. With a mixer on low, beat until well blended. Gradually stir in flour mixture with a spoon or rubber spatula (dough will form a ball).
3. Divide dough in half; roll out each half on a sheet of parchment paper to a 1/4-inch thickness. Transfer each half (still on paper) to a baking sheet; freeze until firm, about 20 minutes.*Tip: This part is not optional, and the refrigerator doesn’t cut it. This shit will fall apart when you go to cut it if you don’t freeze it first. TRUST.
4. Preheat oven to 350 degrees. Working with one half at a time, flip dough onto a work surface; peel off paper. Using a 2-inch heart-shaped cookie cutter whatever size or shape cookie cutter you want because the world is your oyster and you can do what you want, cut out cookies; place, 1/2 inch apart, on two baking sheets. Bake until firm and fragrant, about 8 to 10 minutes. Transfer cookies to a rack to cool.
5. Eat & Enjoy!

You can always decorate them with frosting or something special like that, but they are just fine on their own, no frills.

So there you have it. Simple, easy, delicious. Try it out and let me know how much you love me them.

Hope your Valentine’s Day was sweet. xo

*That part is actually probably not true, but it’s hard to say for sure. I can say that I didn’t say a lot of bad words while I was making them, but seeing as how f-bombs tend to fall freely from my face even when things are going as planned, there’s a good chance that happened. Sorry, Mom.

i might need an intervention.

A few weeks ago (I don’t remember how it happened), I somehow started watching videos of pygmy goats on YouTube. Let me go ahead and save you some trouble by linking to YouTube search results for pygmy goat videos so that you can go ahead and get educated. I’LL WAIT.

So they’re adorable, right? I KNOW!

And now I’m obsessed.

You guys, I’m not even kidding, whenever I’m in a bad mood about anything ever in the whole wide world, I’m going to watch this video, and it will all go away.

OMG I DIE. Is that not the most adorable thing you’ve seen all day? No? Then please direct me to a video of the most adorable thing you’ve seen all day, because I would really love to see it.

I don’t know if it’s their tiny little bodies, their precious little faces, or the way they dance and hop with all four legs at once. Either way, it gives me the warm fuzzies and makes me giggle and squirm and yell “SQUEEEEEEEEE!”

I’m at the point now where I think that if someone were to show up at my house with a little pygmy goat, I would have a full-on, epic Kristen-Bell-and-the-sloth-style meltdown. My whole body might actually explode.

Someone stage an intervention.

Other favorite pygmy goat videos for your viewing pleasure:

 

some of my favorite boys.

This is my nephew, Evan, with his shirt stuck on his head because I was having trouble with these things called “buttons.” This was about four hours after I got off the plane, exhausted and jet-lagged, but so incredibly excited to see him. And then this happened, and he just sat there looking at me with this face that said, “Really? Really, lady?”

The other photo is what I found when I walked into the family room after brunch on Christmas morning. This is my little brother, Travis, and his incredibly cuddly little monster, Kujo. An hour later, I tied a glittery green ribbon around Kujo’s neck because I just couldn’t resist, and my brother called me a mean name.