Living Out of a Suitcase Is Not the Vibe
At the moment, I’m living with my mum. And yes, it’s sweet and supportive and full of love, but also… it’s a lot. I haven’t lived at home for a very long time, and suddenly I’m back under the same roof, sharing space, snacks, and control over the Alexa. I love her, truly, but let’s just say the dynamic of two adult women with very strong opinions living in one small house is not exactly peaceful bliss. Add in the family pets and my poor little Lulu having to deal with dogs stealing his treats? Chaos.
Everything I own is either in storage or stuffed into one overworked suitcase. My shoes, my handbags, my favourite scarves and silly little accessories that made me feel like myself? All packed away, taped up in boxes somewhere I can’t access. I’m currently rotating between the same three outfits and pretending it’s minimalist chic when in reality it’s a laundry cycle of doom. Thankfully, my skincare is my saving grace. I literally shipped it up in a massive box beforehand because a girl has needs. I can live without my gold Gucci Marmont platform pumps, but I can’t live without my PDRN.
But the real kicker? The mozzies. Mum lives near a creek, and these blood-sucking monsters have decided my ankles are the local all-you-can-eat buffet. I cannot go outside without becoming a human smorgasbord. The combination of itchy bites, clingy cats, shared bathrooms, and no access to my own wardrobe has broken me. So yes, I am looking for a rental. Which is fun in the same way that stepping on a lego is fun.
The Inspection Games: Chaos, Cancelled Keys, and Crushed Dreams
You’d think finding a place to live would be simple. You check the listings, go to an inspection, apply, and ta-da! Keys in hand. Except that’s not how it works. Not even close. First, you find a place that looks decent. Clean bathroom, a bit of natural light, maybe even aircon that isn’t held together with electrical tape. You get excited. You book an inspection. And then the night before? Cancelled. Someone else saw it privately and got approved. Game over.
Then there was the one I turned up to, all optimistic and caffeinated, only to be told the property manager had forgotten the key. Amazing. It’s giving high-level planning. My only option? Apply sight unseen and hope the inside doesn’t look like a haunted sharehouse from 2007.
And let’s not forget the one where I did apply, sight unseen, because I was told it was my best chance. I included all the things. My perfect tenant ledger. Stellar references. My new salary. I even wrote a cover letter explaining I’m 42, single, quiet, and my only flaw is that my cat is emotionally needy. And they still rejected me. No reason. Just a casual soul-crushing no. Honestly, I would have preferred ghosting.
The Unicorn Listing: Walk-In Dreams and Balcony Manifestations
But then. Oh, then. I found her. The unicorn. A two-bedroom with an ensuite. A walk-in wardrobe. A massive, covered balcony that practically whispered, “you are the main character.” I could see myself living there. Late-night prosecco under the stars, giggling with a handsome man (handsome man pending, but vision board ready). Avocado toast and coffee the next morning as the sun rose over Brisbane. Just the right amount of space for Lulu to rule over and for me to finally unpack my life.
I want to live on that balcony. Host little cocktail moments. Sip green tea while journaling (well, writing these blog posts) about how far I’ve come. Reclaim my space, my independence, and most importantly, my bloody wardrobe. It’s the kind of place that makes you want to invest in linen robes and become the type of person who makes their bed every morning. You know the one.
But like everything in the rental game, it’s never guaranteed. It doesn’t matter that I earn well, have excellent references, and treat every home like it’s a rented palace. It all comes down to timing, luck, and some property manager’s mood that day. Did they have a good breakfast? Did they vibe with your email tone? Is your cat too much? You’ll never know. It’s roulette with added admin.
The Rental Roulette: Logistics Are My Love Language
As a Taurus, I crave stability like other people crave bottomless brunch*. I want to lock things in, plan my move, get my little kitchen sorted with herbs and vintage mugs, and get back to a routine that doesn’t involve living out of a suitcase and swatting mozzies off my legs like it’s a sport. I love a spreadsheet. A checklist. A plan. And the rental market laughs in my face every day.
Looking for a rental is an emotional rollercoaster. One minute you’re visualising your new sanctuary, the next you’re sobbing into a matcha latte because someone beat you to it with an earlier application. And there’s no closure. No rejection letter with feedback. No “we loved your vibe, but someone had a better star sign.” Just radio silence and another week of hitting refresh on realestate.com.
And yet, I keep going. Because somewhere out there, my next home is waiting. A place with warm light and room to stretch. A spot for my incense and crystals. A wardrobe to hang all my dreams, not stuff them into creased bags at the foot of the bed. Somewhere Lulu can reclaim his throne without being harassed by a fluffy white Swiss Shephard with no sense of boundaries**.
*Which, lbr, as a Taurus I also crave.
**To be fair, I love Dei the family dog. He is the best dog.
Manifesting the Move (and the Balcony Life)
So here’s what I know. I’m going to get approved for something*. I don’t know when, or how, or whether it’ll be the unicorn or something else entirely, but it will happen. Because I refuse to believe the universe is leaving me and Lulu in this state of limbo. We’ve got too many shoes and dreams to be left in a creekside holding pattern.
In the meantime, I’m doing what I can. Applying. Manifesting. Wearing the perfume that smells like success. Checking listings like it’s a full-time job. Trusting the timing, even when I want to scream into a pillow. And yes, still living with my mum, who sometimes remembers to make me a cup of tea but does not understand my skincare routine at all.
To anyone else out there navigating the rental rollercoaster, I see you. It’s exhausting, uncertain, and slightly traumatic. But one day you’ll walk into a space and it’ll feel like a yes. Not a maybe. Not a compromise. A proper, spine-tingling, soul-calming yes.
And when that happens? Balcony prosecco’s on me.
*By the way… I was approved for the Unicorn Property!
We Need to Stop Clapping for Basic Decency – Chaos, Crumbs and Clarity
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