Rent

Today I found out what happens when your rent checks get lost in the mail. That's right. Checks, in the plural.

On Monday night I came home from a lovely happy dinner with my dear friend Hayley to find a big obnoxious notice masking-taped to my door. An eviction notice. Basically, it gave me 72 hours to prepare for a sheriff's arrival at my door (Do we have a sheriff in Larchmont? Insert your Blazing Saddles joke here) to lock me out, get rid of my stuff at auction, etc. Every bad thing you could possibly think of. Worst of all, I had no idea why this was happening to me.

You'd think that a broken toilet is bad enough. That's what I came home to on Friday night, after another lovely dinner with a dear friend. In both cases, on Friday and Monday, I'd had this wonderful time, gotten to catch up with two very dear people, and came home much lighter of heart. On Friday night, I arrived home to an inability to flush. By Monday night, it felt like my life was going down the toilet.

Two days of phone calls (unreturned) to the management office revealed nothing. No one called back, and so I assumed everything was OK, that it had been a mistake, that they had the wrong guy, whatever. This morning, however, my angel of a super called to let me know that something was indeed very wrong. He let me know whom I had to call at the central office (and gave me a direct line), but had no idea what was happening. And being the nice person he is, was quite upset at the notion of having to let someone lock up my place and take all my stuff.

So I called. And the woman was totally responsive once I had her direct line: but -- imagine finding out that not one, but TWO of your rent checks have gone missing. Suddenly, the notice from the sheriff seemed appropriate.

I know what you're saying. Believe me, I can hear you yelling from my office, which doesn't even have any windows. I'm an idiot. Don't I check my bank statements? Didn't I notice more funds in my checking account? The answer, dear friends, is no. Because I am not really good at keeping track of stuff like that. They say that creatives are hopelessly impractical, and yes, even THIS hopelessly impractical. I was at a funeral recently where during the eulogy someone said that the deceased - a highly successful, functional, creative individual - was unusually bad at things like opening mail, checking bank statements, and keeping files current. I know it might sound bizarre, but I felt entirely relieved that I wasn't alone in my organizational disability.

Unfortunately, I never thought it would come to this. I figured that my rent was paid because, well, I didn't have any reason to think it wasn't. I mean, no one called, no one emailed...but I'm assuming perhaps that they might have sent a notice in the mail, which is, in all likelihood, sitting in a pile with my unopened bank statements.

But I never for one minute imagined that the management office was missing, counting January, three months worth of payments. So the very nice person at the management office - and believe me, the niceness meant a LOT to me today - having realized that this was an honest mistake (or being struck by the panic in my voice) - said I could get a bank check for everything including January's rent (which they haven't gotten either - oy) and a crapload of late fees, costs, etc., and if I could pay it by 5:00, they'd call off the dogs, and the sheriff, and the auctioneer, and presumably the executioner, the jester, the clam goader and the angry crowd of taunting peasants hurling rotten vegetables imported from some medieval street market five hundred years ago.

My mother, the single, rational, calm voice of reason over the course of the past three days, could not have been more supportive or smart. When I told her what happened - that I needed an emergency bank check - she helped me pull it together, did a transfer, and made sure everything was covered.

So I got my coat on, hustled right the hell out of my office, got my bank check, boogied it over to the office, and at last, was able to breathe for the first time in days. I mean I was pretty much literally unable to breathe all afternoon, from the moment I found out that they meant it, for real, and that if I couldn't pull this huge amount of money together, I was going to be homeless in the morning. It's times like this I am so glad I don't have an addictive personality (well, except for Rice a Roni, sometimes) because this scariness would have driven me to a crack den at the very least, and quite possibly into some kind of permanent, panic-induced substance abuse. As it was, today I drank a Coke for the first time since last May. My first, and hopefully last, for 2009. Why? Because I don't have any controlled substances or alcohol in my office, and I really needed some kind of comfort, big time. And if sugar and caffeine could provide that, even for a moment, it was worth the elevated blood sugar.

So that is today's saga. While I'm still shaken, and upset, and I obviously need to go to the bank tomorrow to figure out what the hell happened to three month's worth of rent checks, oh and by the way figure out how to cope with the nearly $800 I had to pay in late fees and costs for calling off the medieval torture hour tomorrow, along with trying to devise some method for me to be less of an idiot and slightly more on top of my finances (Good lord, who did I get this freaking lack of organization gene from? Why do I suspect the Rosenthal side in this?) I am still utterly and completely relieved that I have a home to go home to, and a mom who could provide a bailout package - much of a sacrifice as it was to her - without even batting an eye. "We're family," she said earlier this week, as I sat in her living room, wondering why this was happening to me and scared that something was really wrong. "If something happens, we help each other. That's what we do."

So I'm a very lucky girl. Lucky to have family and friends that care. Lucky to have a roof over my head. And lucky not to have been separated from my stuff, and subjected to mockery and pelting with rotten vegetables.

I guess this means that I need - really need - to get organized. And start being a grownup. Even if that means being a creative grownup. I'm just hoping being one doesn't necessarily mean sacrificing the other. But hopefully it won't. I don't ever want to go through an experience like this again.

The lesson for today - live, learn...and be grateful. And check your bank statements.

Peace, y'all.