Dear, Sweet Everyone:

I haven’t felt much like writing, really. Life’s activity overwhelms me into silence. There has been no lack of drama, much of it involving the inability of my residence to properly respond to the weather, at any moment, ever.

Remember over the summer, when the air conditioning broke? And then the tub refused to drain? And, despite my kind and loving pleas, the landlord didn’t ever do anything about it.

Well, there comes a point when it’s just not any fun, anymore. Not that it was a riot to begin with, but maybe there’s some novelty in sticking your hand into day-old shower-water to try to discern what’s blocking the water’s way to freedom? Maybe. But now the novelty is gone. It has vanished, along with my ability to ignore the way this rental has sunk to even lower lows, lows which may very well be the lowest of lows, of all time.

It continued about a month ago, on a Saturday night, when I went into the bathroom to wash my hands. Which is a normal thing to do. I like to wash my hands. I enjoy, greatly, the bottle of Cool Citrus Basil antibacterial kitchen soap perched atop the porcelain. I buy a new bottle every semi-annual sale. They’re usually $4.

And then I started for the towel, which had somehow found its way to the floor—who knows, how, really, because my life and home are the picture of pristine cleanliness, usually. And when I touched the towel, it was already wet. Quite wet, in fact. Sopping, if you will.

Then I beheld the soppiness of most everything else on the floor (not that there was a lot, maybe). And in a dramatic turn of discovery, I peeled back the shower curtain, to find the tub perilously full of water. Swaying, as it were, from the sheer stress of having the curtain moved. The water, not exactly glistening from its own pristineness, swept itself overboard and onto my already-soaked and very favorite pair of brown flip-flops, which I bought at Cato with Lauren when I was in South Carolina last year. We don’t have Cato in Utah, at least I don’t think we do, and it’s not like it’s really even flip-flop season and how am I supposed to find another pair, especially with the little rainbow tags? Those are the thoughts that flew and fled.

The water wasn’t running. It’s not like there was anything I could do, except kind of stare at it and think about flip flops and, “There’s nothing I can do.” Well, there was nothing I could do except awaken my mother at 1:00 a.m. and ask what to do. Because, apparently, that’s what you do, when you’re me and when you’re 2000 miles away from home when something goes awry. I called my mom. My mom said, “Talk to Blair.”

I ended up plunging the ever-clogging goodness out of the sucker and left it for an hour. When I returned, feeling better and in possession of a crisp new Diet Coke, the water had lowered itself and over the next few hours, in the most unfunny game of limbo, EVER, it slowly drained.

But the water hadn’t been on during any of that. It was a Saturday, after all, and it’s not like I showered. Saturdays are for slothfulness. That is why they begin with the same letter. And the horror that struck my very soul upon discerning what exactly was making its way up the pipes and onto the very floor where I was standing was the kind of horror that one might imagine would accompany one’s realization that it was toilet water.

Just so you know, too, during the whole thing and in a show of the most consistent inability to care, the landlord never once answered his phone or an email throughout the entire debacle. A month later, I’m still in talks with the insurance company regarding my claim.

Then? Oh children. Then, there was this:

As it turns out, the landlord was unaware that the heater in my apartment on the top floor in my 600 square foot apartment is unable to heat the entire 2000 square foot house beneath me. And look, I’m sorry for all the rich-text emphasis and stuff, but really: I am quite emphatic when I am saying this to you. Because, oh my hell, what an idiot.

News flash: heat rises.

The pipes inevitably froze last week. And then they broke. And then there was an ice rink in the backyard and I went an entire week without water in my apartment. At all. Ever. Does renters insurance happen to cover the 15 miles each way I had to drive to get to someone’s house to SHOWER? Or the bottled water I had to purchase for the dogs to drink? OR THE UTTER RIDICULOUSNESS OF IT ALL?

And for good measure and to up the drama a few thousand notches, I HAVE NO MORE WALLS.

Exhibit F: The gargantuan hole IN MY APARTMENT THAT LOOKS DOWN INTO THE OTHER APARTMENT. Also on exhibition? The absolute ABSURDITY.

Then there was this morning.

In a fateful turn of event—during which fate decided she wasn’t being quite the bitch she ought to have been as of late, this morning I readied myself to leave for work and upon doing so, found this scrawled item of curiosity shoved through the quite large and drafty, draughty, and otherwise inhabitable space between the plexiglass and wood frame of the front door:

She met me outside, where it was made quite apparent that her Dodge Ram SuperHeavyMassive-Duty truck had made mad, passionate love to my Camry, in front of the entire neighborhood.

These two things used to be attached. They are now separate. Violently divorced, one from another.

Thankfully, though, even fate realized that in light of recent events, she’d dealt a low, low blow and worked it out that having my car smooshed was as pleasant an experience as could have been managed: the woman who hit the car (Anne, the neighbor lady, who has a penchant for lending me her Volvo wagon and for growing babies inside of her) assumed immediate responsibility, went out of her way to take responsibility, involved her insurance without hesitation, uses the same insurance company I use, and feels really, really badly about the whole thing. Also a plus is that she has rental car coverage, which is something I opted out for on my end and was musical dewdrops as it fell on my ears as she announced it from across the street this morning—and the having-a-car-present-in-my-life-right-now requirement becomes clearer if you make it to the PS below, with much joy and celebration.

For my lunch today, I took a drive down to the collision-repair center to have the damage appraised and documented. Left-merging? Not so swell. Without even peeking inside the door, the damage is estimated at $1500. And I am kind of thinking looking in the door may magically inflate the already tripped-out number. Heaven help us all, I am so finished with the drama.

Love,
Ashley

PS: Oh and also, I am leaving in an hour to sign a lease. At a new place. I am finally moving.