Welcome to My Oven . . . I Mean Apartment

Danny and I love our apartment. We've lived there for over a year. I haven't had to take pictures off the wall in over a year, and that makes my heart just skip a beat.

We live close to DTS, close to my work, right next to Swiss Avenue (which means I can run and feel ritzy all at the same time), and we enjoy the bustle of the urban life.

Sure, there are a few bums pushing their "borrowed" grocery carts down the street every now and then, and the fire trucks are a weekly occurrence at the apartment complex next door, but you have to take the good with the bad right?

Well, this week the bad reared it's ugly head, and I just had to stare at those lovely photos on the wall that I haven't moved in almost 18 months to remind myself that I really do like it here.

It's been INSANELY warm the last few days. As in, I've been sweating buckets on my morning run, and I get back from my run before the sun rises. Yesterday the thermostat in my car flashed 85 at me in bright green letters.

When we signed our lease in August 2007, management gave us the spiel about "community" bills right as they handed us the asbestos addendum to sign. In our naive inexperience, we assumed that "community" bills wouldn't be that big of a deal.

Let's just say, "We've grown wise in our year of residency here."

For one thing, we are only one of eight units (out of 20-some) that are two bedroom. Meaning, we pay WAY more for our electricity than the little efficiency apartment next door due to the sheer vastness of our apartment in comparison.

Second, and the kicker, we have no control over when we can use our heater or air conditioner - only one is turned on at a time. The apartment managers decide when they will bless us with air conditioning in the Spring and the heater in the Fall.

In any other state this set up would probably work JUST FINE. But, we live in Texas folks. That means that yesterday it was 85 degrees and tomorrow it will probably be 51 degrees. You cannot deprive people in Texas of their A/C or their heat.

Being that's it only February, the apartment dictators have not deemed it "air conditioner" season. So, we sweat it out. Danny calls it our little Communist Apartment.

On Wednesday it was slightly uncomfortable, but we opened all the windows and the front door. Every now and then a little trickle of air would limp through, but mostly we just got to meet our neighbors as they walked by. (Our apartment is built in a square, like a fortress, with all the units facing inward. It's great for security, horrible for air circulation.)

Thursday after work I walked in the front door and was greeted by a gush of stale, humid, stifling hot air. I worked up a sweat just trying to unload the dishwasher, all while writing this blog post in my head and saying to myself, "We're going to 'remember this as the good old days,' one day." Then, when one of our neighbors walked by and informed us that it was 92 degrees in his apartment, I wasn't even shocked. In fact, I was a little relieved that I wasn't just a ridiculously profuse sweater, and that it was actually hot in our apartment.

And so, tonight, as I lay in bed, on top of the covers, underneath our sole ceiling fan, I'm going to stare some more at my pictures on the wall and the matted carpet (because, YEA, we've lived somewhere long enough to wear a path on the floor) and remember why I love our little imperfect home in Dallas.