Monthly Archives: June 2018

Location, Location . . . something.

As we contemplate leaving the Fun Apartment for a newer, Funner Apartment, The Mister and I have begun to prepare for a transplant. We have responded in different ways to this impending event. He has made a lot of complicated spreadsheets. I have started work on several craft projects. Hey, these dinosaurs aren’t going to knit themselves!

I have also had to resign myself to contact with the world of people who care about real estate. This is not a natural fit for me, despite the fact that this entire blog is dedicated to small space living and other mistakes I have made. Yes, I do know rather a lot about ONE apartment, but this experience, hopefully, will not translate, as our next apartment, I’m certain, will be nothing short of palatial.

However, did you know? It turns out that moving involves shopping around for a new place to live. Apparently, one has to go out to places and actually examine them to see if they could possibly contain all the fun you are planning to put into them!

For some people, this is pure bliss. People who care about real estate, bless you if you are one of them, seem to constitute rather a large percent of the population if HGTV’s popularity is any indicator. For me, it is nothing short of bloodsport. Looking at, shopping for, flipping, renovating or otherwise changing a home is torturous enough when it’s you doing it–watching other people do it seems like pure sadism. But people are into it.

You see, as far as apartments go, I’m really not that picky. As proven by our seven years living inside this Faberge Egg, I can be happy literally anywhere. So I’m not fussed about the details, beyond my list of demands. Would you like to know my must-haves for the Funner apartment? They are simple but they are not negotiable.

  1. TWO Bedrooms. With doors that close properly. And without a giant window negating the purpose of having a wall.
  2. A dishwasher.
  3. Laundry that happens at the same address as the apartment.

Beyond those items, I honestly don’t care about anything else inside.

But I still have to go look at places anyway. And so do the kids. We’ve begun a search for a neighborhood that might suit us. There are many to choose from, but we’ve polled the natives to narrow it down. Results are as follows:

  • Inwood: 2
  • Green Bay: 1
  • Weirdo Face Town: 1
  • Chicago: 148

While we are still waiting for election officials to certify these results, my best friend from high school is appalled by your suspicions that he may have abused the super delegate system to swing the election his way. However, questions of frequency and residency requirements remain unanswered as of press time.

Neighborhood aside, we had always assumed that in order to sell our beloved Fun Apartment, at least three of us would need to move out of it, and it would have to be the right three. I can assure you that NO ONE would walk in here now and express their fervent wish to overpay for this place.

So Plan A has always been to move out, rent some apartment somewhere, sell the Fun Apartment, count our money, and go shopping for the Funner Apartment.

So the search for an apartment to rent began. It involved outright bribery of the children. They complained loudly at the thought of another viewing. But, despite the protests, they are actually fairly good at it. Upon entering, they tear through a carefully-staged home by opening every door they can find, flopping down on any flat surface, and demanding to use the bathroom. Then, they declare each apartment to be the home of their dreams and immediately lay claim to the master bedroom. They are positively colonial. These decisive lads are very put out when we suggest we might look at another apartment and I can’t much blame them. After all, they’ve already found the dishwasher and counted the bedrooms. What more would one need, after one has seen the onsite laundry room? They are not interested in apartments that get great light. Light is free, people.

But Mr. Fun Apartment is an architect. This is really all in his wheelhouse and once my demands are met, he can bother with all the other business like closets, load-bearing walls, and mysterious things called risers.

This division of labor is not infallible, however. Recently Mr. Fun Apartment fell hard for a combined apartment 200 blocks north of all the current fun. Unfortunately he failed to notice that the floor sloped dramatically. If we end up living there, all of our stuff will ultimately end up piled against the eastern wall.

I do not begrudge him an apartment crush. This is not his first. One time his flirtation with a Russian Church almost cost us our marriage. But I learned to avert my eyes with the skill of an English Queen, and go off to find a bar to wait for him in. And I have my vices, too. I have had a thing for Enyclopedia Brown since grade school and the Mister hardly ever teases me about it.

Slope aside, the Mister is so enamored of this place that he wants to try subverting the dominant paradigm by buying first, selling later. His plan B is borrow a lot of money, buy his mistress apartment, move into it, sell the Fun Apartment, and pay back the money. It’s a little unexpected–he’s not usually the rebellious type, but it has been surprisingly easy to convince banks to go along with this wild scheme.

He’s working on convincing me. After all, his apartment crush does tick all (three of) the boxes. It as a dishwasher, a laundry room and TWO bedrooms with TWO doors. It will fit all our current amounts of fun plus a little extra. It is next door to a football field. What more do we need?

I try not to raise my hopes. After all, I’m told this process is not quite as fast as HGTV would have us believe. Apparently it can take somewhat longer than one fast-forward montage with uptempo music. Ah well, we will be patient.

But we will not be on Househunters.

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