Ditto

When Dingo Girl and I got back from her walk this morning, a woman with a CSI: NY hat was walking out of our building.  Two things came to mind.  One, did Mr. Dingo finally snap and kill our annoying upstairs neighbors?  Two women moved in about a week ago and have already wormed their way into the darkest, crankiest part of my heart.  They are recent college grads – I know, I did reconnaissance when they first moved in – who apparently majored in walking around on hardwood floors wearing steel stilettos, with a double minor in high pitched squeals and drunken stumbling up stairs.  You probably met many women just like them on your campus.  You know, the ones seeking an MRS degree whose sole purpose for being in college is to graduate to a white gown and veil.

My second thought was that the nosy neighbors in the building across from us called Crime Stoppers.  Because they are nosy.  And they watch all those crime shows.  I know that because I can see their TV from my terrace.  Hey!  There’s a difference between reconnaissance and nosiness.  Reconnaissance is when I ask questions and peek through curtains.  Nosiness is when everyone else does it.  Anyway, one of these neighbors may have been able to peak into our window to see the No Man’s Land that is our kitchen (because no man has been in there to do dishes in ages – no woman either) and mistakenly assumed it was a crime scene. 

Dingo Girl and I made our way upstairs.  There was no crime scene tape and unless there were dead bodies under the piles of laundry, everything seemed to be customarily out of place.  In a few days, when the radiators start pumping thermonuclear heat, if the smell of decomposition fills the air I will have to take a look at the misshapen lump under the largest pile. 

The sorority party upstairs must abate before midnight — or at least during Grey’s Anatomy on Thursday’s — or there will be two misshapen lumps under the dry cleaning.  Their presence just adds one more con to the pro/con list Mr. Dingo and I compile every year at lease renewal time.  For all its faults, I like this apartment.  I don’t want to move.  I think I like this apartment even more because I don’t want to move.  No, not “I don’t want to move” but “I don’t want to MOVE!” Moving in NYC is about as painless as passing a kidney stone.  And expensive.  A one bedroom in a walk-up, no doorman, safe neighborhood, close to mass transit, dog-friendly, with appliances from this century will cost, at a minimum, $2500.  Add a broker’s fee of 20% of your entire year’s rent, a security deposit, first and last month’s rent, movers, blah, blah, blah, and it often ends up being cheaper to stay right where you are.  And buy ear plugs.  So, I think we’re going to stay in this apartment.  That’s the apartment hunting advice from this jaded New Yorker.  If you can tolerate where you are, stay there.  Believe me, the bar for what I can tolerate is pretty low.  I’ve lived in some pretty intolerable places.

When I first moved to NYC umpteen years ago to work for Pathetic Air Lines, I had grand dreams of the ultimate apartment.  I lived in Ft. Worth at the time.  I had a 980 sq. ft. two-bedroom apartment in a gated community, a beautifully landscaped pool, concierge service, a double balcony, and beautiful views of a field of wildflowers.  For that, I paid the outrageous price of $405 a month.  It was crazy to spend that much money for an apartment in Ft. Worth but I thought it was worth it.  So, during training, when four of my flight attendant buddies and I discussed where we would live once we got to New York and how much each of us could afford to pay, I said, “Well, I paid $405 for an entire apartment in Ft. Worth.  I suppose I could spend about $200 a month.” Mind you, many of us had spent much of the early 90s watching Demi Moore make ugly pottery over and over again in her New York city loft apartment.  Hey, if she could live in that loft on what an artist makes, well, so could we.  Especially if there were four of us to foot the bill. 

We scoured Bed, Bath and Beyond and The Container Store for fun and unique ways to decorate our yet to be rented crash pad.  By the way, does anyone else think the phrase “crash pad” is highly inappropriate for people working for an airline?  Anyway, we wanted the apartment to be walking distance from Central Park.  With a terrace.  And a laundry room.  And a gym.  And a doorman.

We didn’t end up near the park.  We didn’t even end up in Manhattan.  We hadn’t planned on landlords telling us that they don’t rent to flight attendants because we would just get pregnant and walk out on the lease.  We hadn’t planned on New York City being so damned expensive and our paychecks being so damned small.  We made just over the qualification for welfare. 

No loft.  No pottery wheel.  The only ghosts were the ones left behind by whatever crack deal had undoubtedly gone wrong resulting in the vacancy.  My first apartment in New York almost made me turn tail and run back to Texas.  It didn’t have a lock.  We had to place a chair against the door to “lock” it from the inside.  It had a gas stove with two burners that you had to light with a match.  Roaches and other multi-legged critters would run from the burners when the flame ignited.  I think that might have been one of the landlord’s selling points.  Pet-friendly, because believe me, those motherfuckers were the size of the cats that scratched at our windows at night to get inside.  Apparently, the mice in our apartment were tastier than anything they could catch on the street.  I lived in that apartment for three months before having enough money to move up in the world.  I moved in with seven other women into a two-bedroom town house.  I was lucky.  I got a top bunk and paid $500 a month for the privilege.

So, annoying noisy neighbors upstairs?  That, that I can tolerate.  And I’m sure they’ll provide tons of blog fodder in the months to come. 

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