moving, voicemail, and potentially living in a brothel

So I’m moving out of my apartment in two days. Which, obviously, means someone else is moving in. But really? I fucking wish it were that simple, me moving out and them moving in, like ships passing in the night.

Instead, it has gone something like this:

It’s 1:45pm. My phone rings. I’m napping. I don’t answer. My landlord leaves a mildly coherent voicemail of “Nicole, this Mohammed, tenant come to view apartment at 2:00. Okay. Bye bye.”

I listen to the voicemail, curse, get out of bed, walk to the closet to put pants on, hear my front door open as Mohammed walks in with the potential tenants after what has only been like 35 FUCKING SECONDS, shriek, run in my closet, frantically put on sweatpants, come out, scurry around the room picking up clothes and throwing them in the corner, attempt to exchange pleasantries with the people who are walking around my apartment, step back, look at the apartment from their perspective, decide that empty wine bottles, condoms, and a 40 pack of Rice Krispie Treats are totally things that scream, “WELCOME TO YOUR NEW HOME,” say goodbye to Mohammed and the tenants, momentarily wonder if instead of feeling warm and welcome, they’re gonna be all, “I DON’T WANT TO LIVE IN A BROTHEL,” decide that I don’t really care, and get back in bed to finish my nap.

Last week though, Mohammed and his wife finally rented the apartment, which is awesome, because now I can pack and move out without worrying that it looks like a tornado came through overnight. I can also stop worrying about the fact that since I gave away all my dishes and cookware, I’ve been living on wine and Rice Krispie Treats. Because really? if no one is walking through to judge me, it doesn’t even count.