Oh Life, you cheeky thrower of curve balls...

In 11 days my girlfriend and our two cats and I (and all of our crap) will move from a 1400 square foot home in the heart of Houston's Museum District to a 30 foot RV (with a 14' "bump out"...I have no idea what that is).  It's the 21st century, when something wacky happens the wisdom of the masses suggests you blog about it. Consider this my attempt at catharsis.

I have covered most of the stages of grief.

1. Denial. 

This cannot and should not happen. I am urbane! I have 40+ pairs of heels...each in a plastic shoebox. And labeled. With a label maker for godssake. I am 100% certain this disqualifies me from living in a place with wheels. I love the city. I can't live outside the city and maintain my sanity. I made the sunroom off of our bedroom into a meditation room, dammit! There must be another way. How else will I seek enlightenment in pajamas? 

2. Anger.

Here's the story of how we got here: our current landlord decided that he could update our 1920's home, furnish it, and rent it for 3 times as much. He decided this would be a great thing to do in 30 days. I. hate. him. I also hate his furniture. I anticipate hating any future tenants. Other things I hate right now: apartments in general, low ceilings, the Houston real estate market, everyone who moves to Houston for the bustling economy and job market and is willing to pay East and/or West Coast prices, urban sprawl, anything I own that will need to be bubble wrapped, storage units, litter boxes, humidity, and moving boxes. Some of my denial remains as I have not yet packed one single thing.

3. Bargaining. 

I looked everywhere for another solution. I considered the suburbs. I was willing to commute. I was willing to trade some of the best museums in the country for strip malls and parking lots. The Universe would not have it. The Housing gods would not budge. Bargaining would not be had. Which forced me into stage four.

4. Depression.

Ok, so I'm gonna live in an RV park for a while. With another human and all of her things (both material and emotional) and our two cats. When we reserved the space at the "resort" they asked if we liked each other. We said we did. Then, a voice from a backroom said, "for now". And everyone laughed. I may look back on that moment and remember it differently someday. I'm worried about several things. First, I think the threshold for "crazy cat lady" is in direct relation to the amount of space that you occupy. Two cats in an RV = instant crazy cat lady. If you see me in the near future, don't be embarrassed by picking cat hair off my clothing. I will consider it a service. Second, I'm a little claustrophobic. Like, literally, I don't like small spaces. Sometime when I camp I wake up freaked out and have to unzip the bag and tent to hang an arm and a leg outside just know that I can escape. But also figuratively claustrophobic. Does living in an RV park for any amount of time -like actually have my mail delivered there- obligate me to anything? Have I unwittingly painted myself into a corner? Must I now get full sleeve tattoos? Take up smoking or stop wearing makeup? Or wear a lot of make up??? Will I now consider American Cheese fit for human consumption? After I have all of these fearful thoughts I usually just settle on feeling like an asshole. Who runs around judging and stereotyping like that?! People who are forced to live in RVs, that's who.

5. Acceptance 

This little attempt at blogging is a testament to my hopeful acceptance. If nothing else, it will someday be an interesting story. And here's where a little gratitude comes in: my grandfather has given me this giant recreational vehicle which I will soon call home for a spell. My people were gypsies: immigrants, migrant farmers, travelers, explorers. My family has given me the means to do this. So, with an newly inherited RV and a sense of adventure I will hope for the best.