Several months ago and in the middle of a whole lot going on, the dogs and I loaded up and moved back to downtown Salt Lake City. I mentioned a week or so ago that I’ve moved five times in four years, but I failed to count some more and extend the time to a more reasonable five year—bringing the grandish total to seven moves in five years. In case you were wondering, that is something that is very, very wrong.

The last time I lived on the Hill was back in the beginning of 2004. It was my first solo apartment, except in a house filled with awkward relationship—the landlord wasn’t married to his wife, but instead lived in an apartment in the upstairs of her home. But he was the landlord? Sounds like someone has some authority issues. Also, apparently had some issues with leaving dirty workgloves in my apartment atop a load of CLEAN UNDERWEAR on my couch without notice or follow-up of any kind—except, you know, until I tenderly placed the gloves at his doorstep with a note on which was written a hastily-scrawled, “YOURS?” I managed a raised-brow lowering of the eyes my coworkers call the “Ashley Look,” when he messily attempted to explain the circumstances which allowed him unannounced access to my apartment and, apparently, my drawers.

(They call it the “Ashley Look” and laugh, but are wondering if maybe someone else can go to get lunch next time because they’re downright tired of eating spit. I just tell them to stir up their soups real good, and that maybe someday, the service industry WILL RECOGNIZE WHO IS WRITING THEIR PAYCHECKS.)

(I get that from my Mom, FYI.)

My situation has changed a bit since that first apartment alone. For example, I no longer have unlimited credit and no longer expect several boxes from GAP.com to flow from UPS and find themselves upon my doorstep at any given point in the week. I do still, miraculously, have my car, even with the bumped-up door and pole-cracked bumper, but it hasn’t seen the light of day minus dog food on the floor in quite some time. I’ve changed jobs thrice, and find myself on top of my own contentedness more often than not. I don’t dread phone calls from my family, and seek out conversation from my mother several times a week. I still struggle, but can find my way out more often than not.

It’s a good place to be.

I’m far from coming full circle in four years, but it seems just about right to be back in the neighborhood at this stage in my life, leaving lots of baggage behind and bringing two pups along for the ride. Besides, Ethel just downright giggles every time I let her loose on the Capitol lawn.

I am not sure I’ll ever be quite ready to talk about what happened a week ago on Wednesday-thru-Friday. I will, however, share something I came to know, intimately. I don’t think you ever quite know how a loyal pet can affect your life until you are suddenly struck with the unequivocal realization. I looked frantically around the room Wednesday morning, sobbing, and trying to think of the least painful way to downright end it all, when my eye caught Ethel’s—and I knew she knew things were bad, by the way that wrinkle above her left eye was creased against her brow—and I shuddered and cried aloud, “But then who would take care of you?”

And she saved me. She flat-out talked me down from the ledge and I buried my head into her puppy mullet, knowing I’d never have the courage to do anything so final, but also finding myself acutely aware of how not alone I would always be with her burrowed in the covers at my side.

The new landlord told me I could pick up the keys anytime and start bringing boxes, even though I don’t start paying rent there until the last Saturday this month. I would very much not like to open a calendar to find out what day that is, but it is more than several days away, and I don’t have to pay rent. That is nice.

So, since such smooshedness was inflicted upon my car earlier this week, and the estimate cited five days worth of repairs, I’d talked all week about how awesomely great it would be if I could score a rental SUV to help me move. I knew secretly, and told myself in preparation, that instead of lining up my choices from eleventy pristine SUVs, they’d probably take me out back and ask me my color preference on my rental Schwinn. “At least it’s Enterprise,” I’d sigh, “and they picked me up.”

So Friday afternoon, I walked into the local Enterprise office around 2:00 p.m. and prepared myself for the worst. I was met at the desk by a long, tall drink of a good-looking man, who was concurrently answering several phone calls from Enterprisey hopefuls. He asked me if I might do him a strange favor, and I’d already blurted out that I like princess-cut diamonds best of all and yes, yes I would marry him, when he interrupted and asked if I wouldn’t mind picking up the phone and placing callers on hold. I’m thinking an Autumn wedding.

The phones answered, calls resolved, my fiance asked what vehicle I’d like to be mine. It obviously couldn’t have been that easy, so I said, “Well, what can I have?” He answered, all-too-quickly, “Whatever you see,” and I was staring suspiciously when he finally spoke the truth—in Utah, as it turns out, insurance companies really only have to provide reliable transportation, and, get this—it doesn’t have to be pretty. The horror. In fact, I was kind of actually wondering where I might find a good Schwinn when he turned and pointed to the several Chevrolet Aveos lining the fence. Aveos. An Aveo. Have you seen an Aveo? My Camry likes to eat Aveos for dessert sometimes. I prefer cookies.

I asked what he had in something that didn’t rely on foot-power. I have arthritis, you know, and the running might could do something awful to the pedicure to which I have been desperately clinging since my birthday, 2005.

He promised to “take care of” me (read: give me beautiful babies) and promised the shiny new Ford F-150 outside the window, before he discovered that it’d already been rented. To make up for it, and to further “take care of” me (read: I think we’ll call our first-born Henry), he promised the truck price on an SUV that was, at that time, out joyriding. My fiance kindly phoned the occupants and they promised a five-minute turnaround.

Except for 25 minutes later, I was kind of still sitting there with lover-boy. Which, yeah, so totally great, but wasn’t it time he went out for a drink with the boys or something? I need some alone time, for pity’s sake. Quit breathing my air.

Mr. Ashley S. (he took my name) promised that he’d make up for the delay. I said that by the time they “made up for” the delays, they’d be paying me to rent the car, and what did he think of the name Elsie for a girl?

Eventually, this lovely specimen of an automobile was presented in all its 1/2-tank glory. For a 4′10″ driver of a full-sized sedan, I feel somewhat out of place, driving up in the clouds and all. My mother has this thing against white cars. I told her it’s orange.

I had all these grand schemes, plans, delusions that I’d somehow accomplish so much, what with an Escape sitting in the driveway and all, just waiting to, well, escape with loads full of my possessions. It’s just that convenience doesn’t always equal accomplishment. Actually, it mostly never means accomplishment.

However, the vehicle is good for driving. Driving to places like Ace Hardware to have keys made.

To my new apartment. Full of glory. And flowery polka-dots.

And even though the landlord whines about “such short notice” and “the dogs” and “blah blah blah.” And even though the insurance company is giving me the runaround. And even though the check-engine light came on in the Escape tonight. And even though I feel so very overwhelmed, the keys are everything that is right in the world at this moment.

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.

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.

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.