For some reason, I’ve been thinking of my first apartment lately.
It was awful, but I was so proud to have a place of my own.
In an old house that had been divided into 4 apartments – mine was a 1 bedroom on the first floor, right off a freeway and in a somewhat sketchy neighborhood.
The flooring throughout was linoleum. Old, crappy linoleum – but it meant I didn’t need a vacuum – a broom would suffice.
A small living room, tiny kitchen, a tiny bathroom (which I painted bright pink), a very dark bedroom.
There were mice in the walls.
That kept my cat Billie thoroughly entertained.
I thought they were contained to the walls until I went to use a loaf of bread and found that the loaf was now a hollow tube – the mice had eaten everything but the crust!
It was within walking distance to my job – a long walk, but doable in nice weather.
And best of all, it was cheap! Dirt cheap.
My furnishings were minimal to say the least.
I had a comfy chair and ottoman in the living room and a TV, some folding TV tables (for fine dining on things like mac & cheese, and PBJ sandwiches and soup), a dresser, and a double bed.
That was it.
And how does a young hip single woman on her own keep herself entertained? I did jigsaw puzzles on the floor. I have no recollection how I kept the cat from carrying off pieces. And since I had nothing to decorate my walls, I was one of those people who got glue to put on the completed puzzle to preserve it as “artwork”. (Yes, I was once that young and stupid – though, to my credit, I do not believe I ever actually put up one of my masterpieces on a wall.)
I wasn’t there very long, moving to a duplex to share with someone (who then bailed on me – after I had gotten laid off).
After that, I ended up moving back in with my Grandma (thank you Grandma for always being there to save my stupid young ass) for a couple of years before moving to California.
But I was able to move to California knowing that I could live on my own and deal with life in general, thanks to that little shit hole of an apartment.