Dear lord.

I moved in yesterday. Slightly more stressful than I was thinking.

I drove in from Chicago; traffic was pretty light considering the hour, which I took to be a good omen. As I approached Champaign, I started to get excited. This was to be MINE, and MINE ALONE, to decorate as I pleased, and to be persnickety over as I chose! I felt powerful, like I was going to be a real adult sort of!

I decided to drive directly to the realty office to pick up my keys. I told the receptionist that my lease started today and told her my address. After shuffling through a large stack of envelopes a few times, she told me to sit in the waiting area because she needed to call "Larry" out to help me. I figured (ever the optimist) that Larry just wanted to talk to me since the company had just acquired this property. A new tenant thing, maybe.

That would be a negative, Ghostrider. Larry came out and told me that they didn't have keys for my new place. They had been assured by the former landlord that the former tenants would be giving the keys to me in person. Which they didn't, so I was keyless. Fabulous.

I should probably give some background to this story. The landlord I signed the lease with earlier this summer decided to move, so turned the property over to a local realty company. I was assured that everything would be taken care of by the new realty company as soon as the change of ownership had taken place.

Caught up? Aaaand... back to the action!

Larry must have seen the panic in my eyes, because he quickly told me that a maintenance guy had been there right before the former tenant left. He could call him, and perhaps he had the keys? In the mean time, I called my dad who was waiting in the driveway of my tentative home. While there were no keys in the mailbox and the front door was locked, the back door was open, probably courtesy of the maintenance man. While I am grateful that we could get in and start moving furniture, I am not so happy that the duplex was left open the entire weekend.

Larry apologized profusely for the mix up, and I, not wanting to seem like an asshole, assured him that it wasn't his fault, he couldn't have known, yadda yadda, etc. I drove to my new address, still feeling okay. This was the worst the day would get, right?

I walked in and looked around a bit, then I had to work really hard not to cry.

The last guy who moved out (who shall henceforth be referred to as "Shithead Charlie") hadn't cleaned before he left. Had, in fact, probably not cleaned the entire four years he had lived there. I question Shithead Charlie's personal hygiene habits based on the state of my new home. The cabinets were sticky with grease, spiderwebs and egg sacs festooned the walls, and dirt was ingrained in the hardwood floors.

At this point, Larry, who had gotten the keys from Maintenance Man, stopped by. He was surprised that the property hadn't been cleaned; the former douchebaglandlord had told him that it would be clean, pristine even, and that he would personally check it over. KIND OF HARD TO DO WHEN YOU'VE BEEN IN NEW MEXICO FOR A MONTH, JERKFACE. I probably should have made the new realty company responsible; who owns a property for a month and doesn't send someone out to check it over?? But my first reaction is generally not to blame someone else. Instead, my parents and I spent the day scrubbing floors and walls, cleaning windows, vacuuming out vents, and just trying to make it habitable.

Thus begins day number two. Wish me luck.