Everything I need to know about how lead a successful life in our modern, millennial age I can find out on Buzzfeed.
One may not agree with this statement, least of all as pertains to me. But I recently read an article on the popular social news and entertainment site that had all the answers I presently seek.
This an article is helpfully titled 15 Tips That Will Trick Your House Guests Into Thinking You Have Your Shit Together.
I take great joy in planning my summers every year.
Even if I’m not expecting to do anything noteworthy or conventionally exciting, the thought of longer, warmer days and a bit of time off to do as I will to fill them is invaluable in helping me make it through the winter.
Admittedly, winter in Vancouver is mildest that Canada has to offer. I really have nothing to complain about by comparison.
The last little bit to move at my old place.
In life, there are moves and there are good moves.
A “move” is often the term used for a given course of action, particularly one involving bravery or bravado and occurring after a prolonged period of inaction.
Similarly, one’s approach with a romantic interest may be referred to as his/her “move”.
Most people, I think, agree that moving is the pits.
This even includes moves that one has planned well in advance and will ultimately result, like the Jeffersons pictured above, in a move on up.
Imagine then, the perspective of one forced to move against his/her will. This is the very situation I now find myself in. Not because I threw too many parties or trashed my apartment or was otherwise a horrible tenant.
Rather, they call it “renoviction” – a practice that occurs often enough in Vancouver, British Columbia to warrant its own regionally-specific Wiktionary entry:
A few weekends ago, on a rainy Saturday afternoon, the fire alarm rang in my apartment.
I was dressed typically for me on a rainy Saturday, which is a step up from still being in my pajamas, although an admittedly small step.
In this case: fleece pants, a faded tank top, and merino wool lumberjack socks, with my hair, inasmuch as my dreads are always “done” since they don’t really change, hanging lank down my back from an earlier shower rather than pulled back or pinned up as I normally wear it.
Needless to say, I hadn’t been planning to go outside anytime soon, let alone to stand huddled amongst my neighbours while my building potentially burned to the ground.
And my building has had a fire in during the time I’ve lived here … the very night I moved in, no less.
In some ways, living in an apartment is worse than living at home with your family.
Not exactly movin’ on up.
Admittedly, apartment living isn’t all bad: it makes it possible for those not blessed with boatloads of money to live in urban areas.
As well, as an environmentalist, I’m definitely in favour of the densification that results from apartment living, as well as the concentration of resources like transit and amenities like shops and cafés that tend to spring up around apartment buildings.
However, when you live in an apartment (or condo, or university residence, or any other such non-detached living space), compared to living with your family, you can’t tell the people living among you what to do.
Correction: you can, but your family is far less likely to tell you to go f*ck yourself.