Although I almost always begin with the best of intentions, I’m usually derailed fairly early, which is why I so often throw up my hands and say “fuck it” or “of course it’s fucked” or “why wouldn’t it be fucked?” We’ve now been in Seattle for a full week, and while things are not entirely fucked (I actually like this city very much), some things are fucked in some ways, and obviously, I should have expected it.

First, we had to sell the dishwasher. This house is just too small and we have no storage space anywhere, so if we wanted a kitchen table – and we Graham did, because of Risk – we wouldn’t have space for the dishwasher, bar/dish/recycling cart, cat food, trash can, and pet bowls. I loved that dishwasher almost as much as I hate doing dishes, but $250 later, I’ve made peace with the fact that I’m going to have to learn to appreciate the Zen moments that occur when I’m wondering why I live with a man who fills gross dishes with cold water and leaves them there instead of rinsing them out with hot water and maybe some soap.

Second, we’ve had to get rid of a few other things, too, and again, it’s because this place is a lot smaller than we expected and how on earth do two people live with two tiny closets? I’ve taken a couple of loads of old clothes to the Northwest Center truck (which was always going to happen, because that’s how I wrap dishes for a move), as well as some things that Graham carted across the country for reasons I still don’t understand. And we still have a pile of his things in the spare room, too, including totally useful things like obsolete gaming systems, about a hundred tarps, and a tow rope, so I guess anything that doesn’t get put away in this afternoon’s Great Closet Reorganization is getting either donated or just thrown the fuck out tomorrow.

Third, I think our house is haunted, or at least the lock is fucked up, because although you’d never know it from how the knob turns on the inside or the direction of the lock itself, our door can be locked without appearing locked, and if you’re trying to move a futon frame outside so someone from Craigslist can come pick it up and you close the door behind you so The Cat doesn’t escape (again), you’ll lock yourself out of the house pretty easily, and without a phone, keys, or even non-pajama pants at your disposal, your only recourse will be to just kick the motherfucking door in.

Um, I kicked the motherfucking door in.

I came into this place with the best of intentions and my eye on the security deposit prize, but then I locked myself out and Graham wasn’t home and I don’t know how to jimmy a screen out of its frame, so I remembered what Ice-T said in an episode of Law & Order: SVU and I aimed for the lock and kicked the motherfucking door in. I immediately felt a rush of exhilaration – I kicked the motherfucking door in! – followed by a sick surge of guilt, which, if you grew up Catholic, is a feelings combination with which you’re quite familiar.

The first thing I did was text Graham to apologize in advance about the very minor damage to the doorframe (really just the thin, anyone-could-break-it inside of the doorframe) and assure him that both locks were still functional. I then reminded myself that we can’t afford to move anywhere else for at least two more years and that a wonky doorframe is just another thing we’re going to have to deal with in addition to washing dishes, going to the Laundromat, and figuring out what to do with these piles of stuff we can’t store.

I’m still trying to decide how to feel about losing the deposit – which I always kind of knew would happen, since we have light beige carpets and white walls and like those ever stay in like-new condition – but at least I know I have a whole new skill in my arsenal, and that if I ever meet Ice-T, we might have something to talk about.