The Shoebox Attacks!

For as much as I complain about the shoebox apartment, I've generally accepted that we will probably stay here for the rest of law school. It's less expensive than most other places (at least in DC proper), it's in a nice neighborhood, fairly close to school, and is generally habitable. I haven't seen a single cockroach or other vermin while living here, and I am very grateful for that.

However. In the past month or so, we have lost electricity for almost a full day, twice. We've also lost hot water a few times, including today.

I really don't expect miracles from this place. I can deal with the occasional wafting scent of cigarettes. I've accepted the occasional moans of conjugal bliss that pass through our walls. I can find fun shapes in the peeling paint. I'm less afraid of the bathroom now. Some quirks have almost grown on me. I'm not horribly prissy or picky, I swear.

But I do have basic standards. More than a few hours with out internet and I get twitchy. When night falls I appreciate not trying to make my way about the apartment using a few tealights that are much better suited for ambient lighting than the practical. Quickly opening and slamming the fridge shut to avoid cold air leaking out and food spoiling doesn't make mealtime very fun.

But above all, do not mess with my nice, long, hot showers. I relish those 10 minutes of sinking back into the steam and letting go. They make me human. Trying to jump in and out of an ice-cold stream, staying just long enough to get most of the soap off is just not the same. Boiling pots of water for the saddest, shallowest bath ever is also not acceptable.

I don't want to deal with finding a new place to live. I don't want to deal with moving. I promise shoebox, I want to make this work. Be good to me, and I'll be good to you. But I warn you, one more strike in the next week, and I'm out of here. Got it?

Handy Hints for Apartment Living

I whine and complain about my apartment far too frequently. It fully deserves most of the abuse thrown its way, but in fairness, it's not really all that bad.


I've started to grow fond of some of the studios little quirks. Like the old lady who screams "Shut the f!@& up!" whenever anyone makes the tiniest tinyest little noise. Seriously, I've put down a box with a little too much force and gotten screamed at. At first it was annoying, but now I just kind of chuckle at her oversensitive, profanity ridden ways. I actually get a little concerned when I don't hear her after something really loud happens.

However, some inconveniences just can't rise to the level of "cute little quirks" no matter how Pollyannaish I try to be. The people who smoke in their apartments, thus polluting the hallway with smoke, which then leaks into my apartment is one of them. Sure, we can always open a window and air the place out when the air is so polluted that its hard to breath, but that's not entirely pleasant when winter rolls around. It hurts my Oregon environmentalist soul to have the heater on and leaking its dead dinosaur fueled product out into the wild.


I have a feeling that smoke oozing in is a fairly common problem in many apartments. solution. Just pick up some weather stripping and stick it onto your door jam, like so. When you close the door it makes a nice, tight seal which keeps almost all of the smoke in the hallway where it does not belong to begin with. 


Notice the beige fuzzy thing  peaking through the crack. That's our bed. I wasn't kidding when I complained about the small studio thing. But at least its now a smoke free studio.



And that's my Martha Stewart, cigarette related, homemaking tip of the day. You're welcome.

Matilda, you hurt me so

When I am in a procrastination lets-dream-about-the future kind of mood, one of my favorite things to do is look at houses online. Ever since I was a little kid I've loved houses; I would draw up my own design plans, go to home shows, and page through design and architecture books. I still waste way to much time drooling over design blogs, wishing and hoping. But hey, I accept that I'm in law school right now, and in a fit of craziness have located myself on the opposite coast from my beloved Oregon. So buying a house just isn't anywhere close to reality right now.

But every now and again I come across a house that just breaks my heart. This house is one of those. I named her Matilda - she's just a tad old fashioned and quirky but all she needs is a little love to shine. She's all I could ever want in a house, with her big open porch, retro stylings, and forested backyard. Sure the place could use a little help to recover from some poor choices in its past, but ist nothing we couldn't work out together. And the part that just twists a knife around in my stomach? The monthly payments for this beauty are just about how much we pay in rent for our shoebox studio. This lawschool thing so better be worth all this.

Wishes and a Wall

I have no style. None, nada, zilch. I try, I really do. I've been ooing and ahhing over beutiful hoem since my first Street of Dreams at the age of 7. I read design blogs like apartment therapy compulsively, I even blog stalk strangers in the hopes that I'll see another picture of their perfect home. I keep hoping that I'll learn something from all this - that someday I will awake full of creativity and the ability to create beauty out of a . So far it hasn't gone quite like that.

Which leads me to this wall.


What on earth am I supposed to do with this wall? Its a big old blank focal point. I am fond of the clock, but its so sad and alone. It needs friends. Cheap friends. Oh and Zach should probably like whatever ends up there too. It's quiet a conundrum. (Ideas more than welcome)

Our whole apartment is a conundrum. I want it to be a beautiful, comfortable refuge from the world, but I have no idea how to do it. And our apartment really doesn't help.

See this?



Yup, that and the aforementioned wall is all I have to work with. Well and a closet kitchen and a bathroom, but they don't really count. I have added another bookcase behind the blue chair, a few fun throw pillows and a nice blue duvet cover for the bed since then - as well as all of our IKEA spoils. They've helped - a little. But with as much stuff as we have in such a small space its hard to make things look nice.

Now, I don't entirely hate our apartment. I've grown somewhat accustomed to it - indeed I am rather fond of some small elements. The pictures we hung are very nice, and I kind of like our little sitting nook. But lets face it, our apartment is a tiny one room box that is overflowing with random things that we are very grateful to have, but it in no way resembles a stylish, put together home. There really is only so much that we can do when we need to fit everything we need into one room and are trying to not end up in more debt for our educational endeavors than in absolutely necessary. In an ideal world Zach and I will be able to find a slightly bigger apartment, perhaps even one with actual rooms, and move over the summer. And then my imaginary great uncle Alfred would die a peaceful death and leave his fortune to me because he likes my spunky spirit or something. And then I would hire a decorator. Or possibly become batgirl in a crappy batman movie that has mosly been erased from the public consciousness by Christian Bale. Anyways...

The best thing to do in this scenario (my actual scenario, not Uncle Alfred) would be to learn the value of gratitude. I should end this post with an inspirational tale about watching a documentary about refugees and how I learned how much I really have been blessed with. Or a cool scripture about the fleetingness of physical things. At the very least some sweet thought about how Zach and I will surely look back at our first apartment with a lovely longing for simpler times. But you guys, gratitude is hard. I'm working on it, I really am. But mostly I want to live in a lovely, just the right size, old restored craftsman home with built in bookcases, lovely woodwork and inviting yet stylish decor. Or at least a dishwasher. I could settle for a home with a dishwasher.