Our lease is up in the middle of November and our rent is going up again--from high to ridiculous. We spent Saturday apartment hunting, which sounds, going into it, like success means something will end up dead at the end of the day. And that's pretty much what it felt like, minus the "success" part.

Low point #1: Tiny apartment with carpet stolen from some poor grandmother shown by Mr. ReallyOld and his wife, Cranky ReallyOld, with the fantastic selling point of my being able to choose my own stove. Because it didn't come with one. And we would be buying one.

Low point #2: Being greeted by a brassy manager (in the movie version of my life, she'd be played by an over-tanned Jean Smart) who, upon seeing two people, said, "Oh...is it for both of you? Oh, no. That won't work." She then proceeded to show it to us anyway, while regaling us with lovely stories of couples whose marriages had fallen to pathetic bits at the feet of this teeny hole, which was currently occupied by a sullen-looking artsy lady with a shiny gray leather couch covered with purple velvet pillows and a furry thing that I think was a blanket.

Low point #3: Today I visited a building that is literally in the shadow of a new behemoth of an apartment complex. The new building is gorgeous and contemporary and probably has a pool on the roof. The building I was looking at was short and squatty and I actually worried that the wooden staircase was going to collapse with me on it. Oh yeah and the apartment was #13. They didn't put a number on the door though, so the doors were numbered 11, 12, blank, 14, 15. Surely no one will notice, right?

Labels: apartment.

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