We made the biggest mistake of our lives last week—we accidentally let our apartment know that we’re moving. Within twenty-four hours of the big slip, our bedroom light burned out, our bathroom vent fan stopped working, and the house imploded on itself. We’re trying to pick up the pieces now, and move them bit by bit to the newer, bigger apartment. Aaron’s looking forward to having his own office room, where the baby’s screams cannot penetrate, and where the birdie’s ravaging cannot reach. Okay, well, maybe not; but it’s nice to dream of a sound-proof room anyway. I’ll be starting my official duties as a mean, green resident-managing machine on Monday, when “I really don’t have time to do that," will no longer be a lame excuse, but rather a very frustrating reality. Just wait till this apartment finds out that we’re moving because it is no longer adequate for us—that’ll really burst its bubble, won’t it. I’ll bet the stove will instantaneously combust or something.