"Nearly a quarter of renters pay more than 50 percent of their incomes for housing." -- Gotham Gazette's Campaign 2005 Mayoral Grid. Someone tell me how a city can sustain itself like this?
Yesterday’s post landed me a few calls and emails. You’re leaving your 1000 sq foot apartment? Why? You’re leaving your apartment by the park? Why? You’re leaving your quiet neighborhood? Why? When are you planning to go? You’re going to subject yourself to another move? Why? Where are you moving to? Can I have your shoes?
Yes. Ask my husband. Yes. Ask my husband. Yes. Ask my husband. As soon as my husband finds a place he likes, applies and gets board approval. Yes. Ask my husband. Somewhere within walking distance to Chelsea. No. If I have to hang my shoes on pot racks, I’ll do it.
There is a time for everything. Change doesn’t necessarily mean bad. I’ve got to have a leap of faith. Heck, Monty Hall could give me another kick ass apartment in an equally kick ass neighborhood or I could go home with a lifetime supply of squid in a can. Can you tell I tivo'd the weekend marathon of Odd Couple? Speaking of which, how much do you think Felix and Oscar paid for their gigantic pad?
If I find I hate it living in a box, we’ll move again. I’m not married to wherever we move. So yes, I’m leaving a lot but I hope it leads to better things.
My family is frustrated. They've suggested I just leave everything in bloody boxes and live out of them. Forget furniture, everything will be matching because it’s in a brown box labeled, ‘This Way Up’.
We’ve amassed a lot of stuff during this last move. I’m not sure how Lrudlrick thinks we’ll be able to keep it all. Plus everything is fairly new. There’s no way we’ll fit a roll-top desk anywhere. The dining room table I keep for Thanksgiving will have to go.
Great. I’m beginning to panic again. I need to relax and breathe. Where the hell am I going to put my shoes? My pretty shoes.
The dogs are not going to like this. My in-laws are not going to like this. On Tuesday evening, without even mentioning a possible move, my MIL ended our biweekly call dejectedly, “I guess this will be another year without babies, right?” Moving to a tinier apartment will only lead to another line of questioning that I’m not ready to answer.
Excuse me as I find solace in a sweet roll or two.