living space

I put down a deposit on a place to live. It's with a 43-year-old Swiss woman whose job is arranging cultural exchanges - as J says, "So... no house parties?" Well, no, but the room is cozy and homey and allows me to have something I have always secretly wanted (not so secretly anymore since I'm blogging about it): a loft! It's a queen-sized bed and the ceiling is high enough that you can easily walk under the loft (maybe 7 feet high) with space enough above it to sit up on the bed. There is a nice window and a door with a window to the backyard, which is shaded by a big magnolia tree. It's on a quiet street in Clinton Hill, Brooklyn, and I love the neighborhood. It's full of beautiful, well-kept old brownstones, giant trees, and people of all ages and races.

Best of all, there is a washing machine in my new kitchen.

I am moving in on Thursday, assuming that the Financial Aid office has bothered to give me my loan money. They have it. Oh, they have it, because Cit.ibank (which owns my life and my future and that of any offspring, dependants, heirs or assigns that I have or may one day have) has sent it to them, but they have not bothered to send it to me. My regular bank account is down to $13. The other one has a tiny bit more, but I can't access it because I don't have the debit card because of a whole situation involving a fraudulent charge on that card and the bank being a meanie-head. And you thought it was only in Africa that banks could cut off all your access to your money without even trying.

S's kitten, which I like to refer to as "small kitten" even though its name is Birka, is currently trying to hop into my very large blue plastic suitcase. She managed it a minute ago and clung with her little claws to some random souvenirs made of wire and I had to pick her up (souvenirs dangling beneath her feet) and pry her off them one claw at a time.