The Joshua Tree

So yesterday I had one of those random free association thoughts I get when a) tired b) hypoglycemic. Incidentally, at the time, I was looking at houses with my mom and my parents' realtor, all HGTV Househunters style--except my parents are buying, not me, because at this point I could afford a cardboard box under a highway somewhere. Maybe).

Any way the random thought was, "Hey! Where's my Joshua Tree cd, man?!" And then that was followed by, "Hey! Where aremy Dave Matthews cds?!"

This is why I hate moving, because every goddamn time I move, I lose or inadvertantly leave behind important stuff. Like cds. And my passport. Seriously. I think I left it with some stuff that didn't come with me.

Don't ask, and I promise I won't tell how it happened.

Any way, I just got to my travel assignment apartment. It's very nice, with a neat little loft and balcony (I get a swell view of the parking lot!) and while it is nicely appointed (in addition to a fully furnished kitchen, they even have those little French soaps and extras like sample Cascade and shampoo laid out) I just realized I now live about six to eight hundred miles from any one I know on this side of the east coast. Ergo, I'm a little depressed.

I don't even know where to go to get simple take out food, and the stupid git I called half an hour ago for Chinese take out just called me back to say "I'm sorry, you are too far away to deliver." You'd think she'd have realized that little logistical snafu when I called thirty minutes ago, the stupid twit. I'm not aware this town is a metropolis in disguise, but I have a bad feeling I am going to starve while figuring out what mid-Atlantic folks call "too far away to deliver" which, if their crappy rude driving is any indication probably means, "we're next door, but fuck you."

I have no idea where I am relative to anything except there seems to be some storage company in between these and the next set of apartments. I can tell, because I live on the top floor of my apartment building, four floors up (non elevator buildings). I am not complaining, because it is nice and quiet up here, with the sky lights in the loft (which Piper loves, the loft I mean) but four floors of stairs.

Once again, for the record: I am not complaining.

However, I somberly predict that by Monday they are going to find my starved carcass curled up in the fetal position somewhere in this apartment, with a list of about a hundred fast food take-out numbers on my cell phone, none of which would deliver to my apartment because somehow the metaphysical layout of this suburb makes it impossible, for reasons I have yet to divine.

Also, while I'm on the subject, I must add this is a very, very, very nice corporate furnished apartment for the DC area, eg I get the feeling if I weren't a travel nurse, I could only otherwise afford it if I was an ambitious White House intern shagging some Congressman, but apparently he doesn't like me very much, because he housed me somewhere far away from take-out restaurants, knowing how codependent I am on same. Perhaps he is hoping I starve to death before I cause him a career-ruining scandal. Nota bene: for the record, I am not having an affair with any one, Congressman or otherwise. I would however, have a fling with the pizza man if he'd deliver a small mushroom pizza to my apartment, stat. Just kidding).

However, I just left an apartment I love, which was even nicer, and had my own stuff in it, like my books. And now I'm in an apartment with like, two suitcases of stuff and no books.

At least I have the dog, or I'd probably get right back in my car and drive back to my home, because I'm lonely and all sad. You should see me. With the sad face and hypoglycemic twitching and diaphoresis. Maybe after a nap I will try to find food, before darkness falls, and the wolves start howling at the moon, or whatever happens here after sunset.