Jaysus, Mary and good Saint Joseph, me nerves are rubbed right raw. Translation for those not lucky enough to be Newfoundlanders: Oh my god, the stress of this last week exceeded my capacity to cope. In case you forgot, we were waiting to hear on our application for the much sought after, supposedly quiet, too expensive, but likely worth it apartment.

As the week wore on, it’s safe to say we were both wrecks. Me, because the neighbour shenanigans have hit new heights (or lows, depending on your perspective). Neil, because he’s had to put up with a wife running low on sleep and high on irritability. But really our wreckage reached the red zone when we noticed that the apartment was no longer listed on the rental agency’s website and we hadn’t heard a word.

From there I descended into the 5 stages of grief and loss:

Denial: Apartment? What apartment? Pour the wine, pass the chocolate, and let the Downton Abbey marathon begin.

Anger: If they don’t give us that apartment, I swear to god, all hell’s breakin’ loose. I’m tellin’ that rental agency woman where she can stick her lease and that fool upstairs, well, she can just bite me. And YOU, yes you Neil, if you know what’s good for you, you’ll bring me a steak and keep your yap shut. This whole mess is everybody else’s fault and ye can all kiss my arse.

Bargaining: Okay. Look. I apologize. I’m desperate here. If I can just find a way out of this place, I’ll do anything. I’ll study that French, I’ll learn to cook something, I’ll shave my legs, I’ll…I’ll give up…the Internet.

Depression: Gloom and doom. Endless replaying of the apartment viewing, blaming myself for coming across as too desperate, too foreign, too tall, too something. Three days in tatty sweatpants, gorging on Coke and potato chips, staring into space, almost mute from despair. Only energy enough to admit to Neil that, for once, something actually might be my fault.

Acceptance: You know, it’s not so bad this 3-4 hours of sleep a night. Think of all the work I could get done. I could hit the gym, conjugate a load of verbs, scour the bathroom and have 3 loads of laundry done by 8:00. Maybe I’ll take up needlepoint, start making my own pickles and jams. Pottery! Mountain climbing! Professional yodeling!

Then, late on the sixth day, a phone call. “Of course we’d love to rent to such a fabulous couple. How happy we will be to take all your money every month,” or something to that effect. Now I don’t want to come off as cocky, but I’m pretty sure it was me who put us over the top.

Come December 18, it’s back to stage 1. Moving? What moving?


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