*Free Rent

My friend Carolyn and I are signing a lease tomorrow to move at the end of the month, so it seems appropriate that I blog about finding an apartment in New York City, the difficulty/stress level of which lies somewhere between passing a kidney stone enveloped by porcupine and destroying a horcrux (happy Harry Potter 7 premiere, ya'll!).

Let’s begin with my search for a temporary sublet this past spring.  The only other places I’ve lived are Iowa City, Iowa and South Bend, Indiana so I was a little too optimistic in budgeting rent.  Trying to rent a bedroom in Manhattan for $900/month or less is like trying to buy organic avocadoes at Whole Foods with food stamps.   But I learned this the hard way.  With my Craigslist search parameters set to a $950/month max, I sent out a flurry of e-mails and set up my first sublet viewing.  How exciting!  The hellhole I entered became my Rosetta Stone for translating Craigslist real estate advertisements:

“Ideal location on the Lower East Side.” 

If this is advertised as $850/month, it isn't a real apartment.
Unless rent includes giving mandatory lap dances.

Translation: Welcome to scenic Chinatown.  I got off the subway and within a couple of blocks was surrounded by the stench of dirty refrigerator and feral cats. 

“Safe neighborhood”

Translation: Don’t mind that the building has no locks.  That’s right, these folks are so confident in the security of their home in Far East Pleasantville, that when I was outside the building and reluctantly called the Swedish exchange student from Craigslist so he could buzz me in, he said “Oh you can just walk in and come upstairs.” (unspoken understanding: don’t touch the banisters or breathe through your nose on your way up.)

“Perfect for students!”

Translation: You’re poor so you don’t mind sharing a room and living in what was or will be a crime scene, right?  I walked into the apartment and the “tour” consisted of the kitchen/living room/orgy pit, and three bedrooms.  I was then informed that I would have “at least” six roommates and was asked if I like to “drink lots of beers” on the weekend.   I said I preferred hard drugs but would be in touch, walked out the door, and called FEMA on my way to the subway.

Discouraged, I texted my mom that the first apartment was a disaster but that I was considering starting a blog because I was sure I’d collect lots of good material in my search.  She responded: “Do it!  Dad and I have some great stories from househunting in Westchester when I was pregnant with you including ducks in an attic.  Alive!”  I think those ducks migrated to Chinatown and died under the floorboards of that shitpit. 

Some Craigslist advertisements need no translation.  One guy advertised a sublet for “free rent.”  He was looking for a female roommate who would live there for free in exchange for getting naked any time he wanted.  Sex was optional but not required.  Just nakedness on demand.  Free rent in Manhattan?  It probably would’ve been worth taking to the negotiation table.  What about toplessness and homemade mac-n-cheese on demand?  Or bra-and-panties and pumicing your feet on demand? 

Anyway, I ended up moving out of my bachelorette pad at Grandma Rita’s into a fantastic 3-bedroom in the East Village with two awesome gay roommates who don’t really care to see me naked so the search paid off.  But alas, the sublet was temporary and it was time to hit the pavement once again.  This time, though, there were new players added to the mix.  First of all, I was moving with Carolyn so I had someone else to appreciate these amazing stories with.  And second of all, there were brokers.  

What do you mean, south of 68th Street?
So you live in... Brooklyn?

The broker we were going to use was a friend of my cousin.  I met him at a bar, and when I explained I was looking for apartments with my friend, he gave me his card and said he’d help us out and give us a discount on the broker’s fee.  Done.  He was very nice, but reminded us every 10 minutes that he was a male model and name-dropped like a beeyotch.  Congrats, you’ve met Blake Lively on two separate occasions.  And you ran into Janeane Garofalo in Union Square which is so weird because you did a movie together.  A)  Janeane Garofalo?  Was that worth mentioning?  B) Just because you were Asian Guy #4 doesn’t mean you two “did a movie together.”

Again, though, he was nice and told us he was going to give us the discount he gives family and ex-lovers.  Carolyn then asked me to hook up with him so we could get the discount he gives current lovers.  Speaking of which, his greatest contribution to our real estate tour of New York was the bedroom on Rivington and some street I’d never heard of which had one wall covered in 10”x10” mirrors.  This might have been the moment where totally tacky meets totally awesome – like a denim thong or Branson, Missouri.

The mirror sex room that could have been

Ultimately we went through our lovely broker Phil who asked us what a facial was because his girlfriend was getting one while we were seeing apartments with him.  Umm… yeah…  Anyway, when he took us to our lovely future home just a few blocks from where I live now, we felt that sense of “gestalt” (which 3 celebratory sangrias later, became the word of the day) and pounced on it as these two other turds with braces who were viewing it left to call their parents to ask if they could sign a lease.  Suck it.  You're the Chesapeake Indians and we're John Smith.  We claim this apartment in the name of America!  And powerhours!  Don't forget your smallpox-infested blanket on your way out the door. 

Where the Kisses are His and His and Hers

In case you didn't notice, I updated the page design.  I ripped the picture off some girl's Hipstamatic-heavy tumblr blog, but it tiled well so I'm going for it.

I was in New Jersey/Long Island this weekend for a family wedding so I haven't been around the apartment since I left early Friday morning.  Upon my return this afternoon, I decided it's time to blog about the delicate living dynamics of a 2-month Craigslist sublet.  I'm in a 3-bedroom apartment, and my 2 roommates are gay males a year or two older than me.  When I first told my parents I had found an apartment, my dad started singing the Three's Company theme song..  although that was 2 straight girls and 1 straight guy who was just pretending to be gay and is not really similar to my living situation at all.  Unless my dad is suggesting that I'm a lesbian pretending to be straight which I guess would mean the sexual orientations/sexes of our corresponding characters are just reversed.  Whatever, I don't think Three's Company was even set in New York.

So like I said, I have 2 roommates.  I will protect their identities with fake names.  I will call them Greg and Drew.  I get along with Greg best because I see him the most often since we have similar work schedules.  I really enjoy talking to him, and he has cool friends with names like Amadeus.  I've decided we're going to be best friends.  Drew works nights so I don't see him as often.  He kind of looks like Woody from Toy Story but younger (yes, I'm saying he looks younger than a doll) and replace the cowboy hat and flannel with a Deep V and seersucker shorts.

This could be us :(

I like Drew as well but sometimes I feel like I'm having a hard time getting him to warm up to me.  He seems to like me but that could just be in comparison to how much he hates the girl I'm renting from - we'll call her Emily.  One morning he broke one of Greg's coffee mugs and apologized saying he wished it was Emily's Bat Mizvah mug.  Bitchy/awesome comments like this make me even more determined to make him my friend.

Oddly enough, Drew is a Craigslist find too (Emily and Greg went to college together).  But now that I'm the newbie, Drew seems to have taken this opportunity to pass the rando crown onto me.  And he's really driving the point home.  When the three of us are hanging out, he starts off his comments by addressing Greg.  Weird.  It's an awkward transition living with people you don't know, especially when it's a temporary situation.  Am I supposed to just hang out in my room?  Can I have friends over in the common space?  Are we supposed to all hang out together?  I'm not sure if I'm an awesome roommate because I'm not around much or if I'm a disappointing roommate because I'm not around enough.  Are they secretly longing to be my best friend, too?  Is Drew just acting out because deep down he wants us to snuggle on the couch and Sporcle?  Greg suggested we all go out for drinks and karaoke a night.. When we brought this up to Drew, he basically pretended we hadn't said anything and then started talking to Greg about the Real Housewives of New York.  Why won't you be my friend?!?  I cleaned the shower AND defended you when Greg told you he wouldn't let you in the apartment wearing tank tops from the boys' department at Macy's.  PLEASE LIKE ME.

Last week, we stumbled upon a common denominator that the 3 of us could have a lively conversation about: Glee.  Of course - why didn't I think of that?!  Even though I do like Rachel, I pretended to hate her too because I was reveling in this roommate bonding.  Matthew Morrison's status as a seasoned veteran makes him less likeable?  Sure!  Whatever you say!  Can we be Facebook friends now?!  We even watched a sneak peek of the Fleetwood Mac episode and claimed which characters we would want to be.  It was wonderful.  I thought I had struck gold.  A few days later when I came home, I told Greg that I'd caught up on this week's episode and we started discussing it.  Drew came out of his room, and when he heard what we were talking about he said "Didn't we just have this conversation the other day?"  Balls.  While I thought that our Gleek status was going to be the cornerstone of our budding friendship, apparently he considered that a one-time conversation that could be buried in the unimportant common interest cemetery along with meatless diets and spray tan experiences.

Well, I've been holed up in my room writing this, being a Craigslist leper, and am now going to Netflix Good Will Hunting Easy A and go to bed.  G'night loves.