Finding a home... argh
So check this.
One thing about life in a boomtown is you never know where you're going to live -- literally. The housing market is that ferocious. Don't get the picture? Think Jaws-style. No, better yet, think Arachnophobia-style. No, no, no. Think trying to squeeze onto a train in India. It's more like that (plus, it has something to do with people trying to fit into places that simply don't fit).
The rental rate is 100 percent, the vacancy rate is zero. People come here to work in the oil patch, gas fields and coal mines because the money is good. Great, really, after you work 70 hours at $16/hour starting pay. As a result they end up living in some pretty odd places:
Hotels.
Campers.
On friend's couches.
Sharing a double wide in shifts.
Or just driving a couple hundred miles a week for higher wages.
That is just life in a boomtown.
It's insane and stressful. Once you find a place, you cling on to it for dear life, unless, of course, you're me.
This morning, I once again found myself doing the boomtown equivalent of a normal residential business transaction. That means trying to balance manners with need by being the first person to respond to the highly unusual Sunday morning apartment ad. This one was a beaut, indeed: Dishwasher, balcony, two bedrooms, $600.
It was 9 a.m. -- if they weren't at church, hopefully they were checking in on the Broncos pregame. We (being my girlfriend, Angela, and I, who are moving in together as of now) called. Set up an appointment for 11. Toured around, checked everything out, then told Sandy, a 40-something blond with bleach blond hair and a well manicured fake tan, that we'd call in an hour.
The discussion on whether to take the place lasted about 15 minutes once we (remember Angela?) got our respective Starbucks drinks to the shade of cottonwoods in a nearby city park.
We called. Lease would be ready at 1 p.m. We got there. Signed. Oh, by the way, Sandy said, there have been seven callers since we left. Are you kidding me? That's one person every 17 minutes who wanted the space Ang and I now can call our own, i.e. 703 Vivian, Apt. 7 with the scenic vistas of grass, a tree, and several concrete cooking slabs.
You think finding a place in your town is hard? Come to Gillette. We'll show you hard. Hope all is well out in cyberspace. Keep me posted... hahaha.
Peace.
One thing about life in a boomtown is you never know where you're going to live -- literally. The housing market is that ferocious. Don't get the picture? Think Jaws-style. No, better yet, think Arachnophobia-style. No, no, no. Think trying to squeeze onto a train in India. It's more like that (plus, it has something to do with people trying to fit into places that simply don't fit).
The rental rate is 100 percent, the vacancy rate is zero. People come here to work in the oil patch, gas fields and coal mines because the money is good. Great, really, after you work 70 hours at $16/hour starting pay. As a result they end up living in some pretty odd places:
Hotels.
Campers.
On friend's couches.
Sharing a double wide in shifts.
Or just driving a couple hundred miles a week for higher wages.
That is just life in a boomtown.
It's insane and stressful. Once you find a place, you cling on to it for dear life, unless, of course, you're me.
This morning, I once again found myself doing the boomtown equivalent of a normal residential business transaction. That means trying to balance manners with need by being the first person to respond to the highly unusual Sunday morning apartment ad. This one was a beaut, indeed: Dishwasher, balcony, two bedrooms, $600.
It was 9 a.m. -- if they weren't at church, hopefully they were checking in on the Broncos pregame. We (being my girlfriend, Angela, and I, who are moving in together as of now) called. Set up an appointment for 11. Toured around, checked everything out, then told Sandy, a 40-something blond with bleach blond hair and a well manicured fake tan, that we'd call in an hour.
The discussion on whether to take the place lasted about 15 minutes once we (remember Angela?) got our respective Starbucks drinks to the shade of cottonwoods in a nearby city park.
We called. Lease would be ready at 1 p.m. We got there. Signed. Oh, by the way, Sandy said, there have been seven callers since we left. Are you kidding me? That's one person every 17 minutes who wanted the space Ang and I now can call our own, i.e. 703 Vivian, Apt. 7 with the scenic vistas of grass, a tree, and several concrete cooking slabs.
You think finding a place in your town is hard? Come to Gillette. We'll show you hard. Hope all is well out in cyberspace. Keep me posted... hahaha.
Peace.
posted by Pedro_in_Wyoming at 10:56 PM
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