If It Seems Too Good To Be True, It Probably Is

Tuesday evening, 6:30. Beautiful prewar doorman building, 74th and Amsterdam. I loved the prewar, Art Deco doorman building with the Spanish fresco in the lobby. There was no view, except for other tenants’ windows, meaning the apartment was probably dark. I loved the giant wooden door to the apartment. I loved the white crown moldings next to the pale yellow paint. I loved the black and white kitchen floor, tiny as it was. There was no counter space in the kitchen area, but there was a black breakfast bar with black cushioned stools. I tried to ignore the bucket, which was catching a leak from somewhere. The bedroom was a nice size, and the walk in closet was out of a fairy tale. It was painted sky blue, with rainbows, flowers, birds, and cumulus clouds. A tiny crystal ball anchored the light pull. To enter the en-suite bathroom, you had to step up, an accident waiting to happen. I couldn’t trust myself to remember to step up, or down. “Who designed this bathroom, an orthopedic surgeon? I’ll never be able to have a cocktail or take cold medication. My health insurance isn’t good enough for this.” The spacious bathroom had a big window and sconce lighting, although the wiring looked ancient and the medicine cabinet was falling off the wall. “How much is the rent?” I asked. “$1,850.” “Why so little?” “It’s a co-op.” My lawyer friends warned me that if a building was a co-op, New York law would force me to move in 2 years. “What about the NY provision that states a co-op can only be rented for 2 years?” She looked stunned. She never heard of it. “I’ll ask the owner.” Like that matters. The owner will say anything to get the apartment rented. “I like it, but I wish there was a better view. Is there any light during the day?” Despite the flaws, for the first time, I was excited about an apartment. Had this been my first apartment, I would have taken it. Now that I had furniture and possessions, moving was a huge, expensive pain in the butt. I wanted to love my next apartment, and stay there for many years. I was cautiously optimistic. “There’s another unit in the building. I can’t get in there tonight, but on Saturday we can look at it, and see if the view is better. Also, we can return to this apartment to see if there is light.” “I’ll think about it. “

An Architectural Marvel

The following Saturday, 67th and Columbus, dangerously close to Godiva and Magnolia Bakery: The good news: Amy was on time, aka only 15 minutes late, broker time. Broker motto: Always arrive at least fifteen minutes late; the time you waste can’t be your own. More good news: all the buildings on the block were beautiful, except one dump at the end of the block. The bad news: we were meeting in front of the dump. We entered the apartment, which was a square, cookie cutter bore with tiny closet, tiny bathroom, exposed brick wall (hated), faux fireplace (hated more), dark kitchen with horrible bicycle and dog stickers plastered to the first refrigerator ever invented. The stickers gave me the creeps. “I’m really excited; this is the biggest studio for the money; it’s really a one bedroom.” said Amy. “What a marvel! A one bedroom, without the bedroom. What architectural pioneer came up with that idea; Frank Lloyd Wrong?” “It was his Asian influence. He designed other houses on this block. The faux fireplace is the perfect place to put your gohunsun. There’s plenty of room to hold meetings.” “I’m glad I have magic belongings that disappear when I snap my fingers and say 'Buddhist meeting.' I’ve been hoping for an occasion to bring out the imaginary chairs. I’d love to fill the apartment with a pack of strangers. I’ll cook a faux dinner in the fireplace. We can invite Frank Lloyd Wrong!” Amy pulled out her cell phone, and called Evelyn, who had the good sense not to answer. “Hi, Evelyn. It’s Amy. I’m here with Cheryl. Do you want to chant? Call me!” As I debated Amy’s level of insanity, a nosy New York City neighbor barged in from across the hall, offering living proof that this urban legend really did exist. She looked like Cosmo Kramer in drag. Her shabby chenille bathrobe flew open to reveal more sags and wrinkles than a litter of Shar-pei puppies. Fuzzy slippers and 1950’s hair net completed the ensemble. She was carrying a bottle of Tide. “Are you moving in?” “Maybe” said Amy. I smiled. Not on a bet, but thanks for the entertainment. Lady Cosmo babbled for a half hour, complaining about maintenance, noise, the elevator, and other assorted problems. She was a realtor’s Anti Christ. “If you move here, you’ll already have someone to talk to. Do you want to grab a coffee? Maybe Evelyn will call.” We arrived at the real estate office before I could respond. “What a great coincidence. Susan, this is Cheryl. We just came from the apartment. This is my friend Susan, the broker I work with. It’s her building.” I tried not to stare at the short, stocky woman clad in leather jacket, black jeans, white tube top, silver studded belt and black cowboy hat. Her lips were shiny bubble gum pink; her eyes lined in black, accented with thick false eyelashes. Her poufy yellow hair, peeking under the hat, looked like frosted straw. Skull and crossbones necklace, silver hoop earrings and black nail polish completed the ensemble. Interesting outfit, considering she was 65 years old, if she was a day. Another NYC stereotype. I had to be dreaming. Too many New York movies and pizza close to bedtime. This could not be happening. “So, d’ ya’ lahhhk the apaaahtment? Ah ya’ gonna take the apaaahtment?” asked Susan, cracking her gum for emphasis. Did she pick her gum to match the color of her lip-gloss, or vice versa? If I hadn’t been too stunned to speak, I would have said, “Cyndi Lauper called. She’s sending the fashion police to arrest you for bastardizing her style.” “I rented an apaaahtment on tha Eeeeeast Side this mawning. They got a helluva good deal. So ah ya’ gonna take the apaaahtment?” “I guess Evelyn isn’t going to call. Do you want to apply? It’s perfect for you.” “I’ll let you know.” When gohunsuns fly.

The Search Continues. . .

virgo/ cheryl, A chance to shift gears and embark on a journey is upon you. Your current responsibilities should not deter you from embracing this opportunity. This excursion will expand your experience and, if possible, should not be turned down. “Hi, it’s your broker. Sorry I missed the meeting. I wasn’t feeling well. I’m glad you went. An apartment is available in the building next to me, it’s not yet on the market. I thought of you. . .” My vacation ended, but not my desire to find an apartment. I called her back and arranged to meet her at 8:45 on Saturday morning, in front of the building. I woke up early on Saturday, and ran 5 blocks to catch the crosstown bus. I didn’t want to keep her waiting. 8:45 came and went, with no sign of her. I decided to call her. It would have been nice if I’d remembered to turn on my cell phone yesterday. “Sorry I can’t meet you in the morning, I couldn’t get the key. Please call me.” Oh,crap. I called her, and we agreed to meet at 9:30. I killed the 45 minutes in Zabars. I managed to find the most expensive chai tea ever made. For $12.50 this tea should fly me around the city on a magic carpet. We finally entered the apartment after walking through another trash filled entryway. There was a small brown kitchen to the left, as soon as we got through the door. No dishwasher or microwave, even less counter space than my doll sized kitchen. Directly across from the kitchen was a powder room consisting of a sink, small mirror, and toilet with plunger. Nothing like having the opportunity to spray fecal matter from the powder room into the kitchen. Eww. As if. The living area was small with a tiny closet, but had good light. It had a real staircase, with industrial type carpet so hideous that even Helen Keller would find it offensive. Upstairs, beautiful white French doors led to a small bedroom. A tiny balcony outside the bedroom attached to the adjoining balcony provided uncomfortable proximity to neighbors. A four by four indentation in the in the wall masqueraded as a closet. The bathroom was large and well appointed, but windowless, dark and gloomy. “I’m a klutz, I don’t like to climb steps.” “You won’t have to go to the gym. You have a built in Stairmaster.” “I love the French doors and location but I need more closet space. If I rid myself of all possessions or join a nudist camp, I’ll reconsider.”

Is Chanting the Answer? What was the Question?

Nothing else has worked. I don’t need three bedrooms; one bedroom will suffice. Maybe if I chanted for one hour a day. Is it ok for a Jewish person to chant for an apartment? Nam myoho renghe kyo. Nam myoho renghe kyo. Nam myoho renghe kyo. Nam myoho renghe kyo. Nam myoho renghe kyoh who the hell am I kidding?

A Colorful Experience

“Oh, sorry. I’m lost. I just got so caught up in the meeting, I got confused.” “No problem; it’s the other way. Can you manage?” “I’m fine.” I walked back, but spotted a set of open double doors leading to a room large enough to land a plane in. Each wall was a different color. The outburst of Barnum and Bailey crayon red, sky blue, green, and yellow dwarfed the beauty of the crown moldings. A six foot tall clown sculpture stood in the corner, between another fire place and set of tall French windows. The centerpiece of the room was a round table with a red and white checked tablecloth that looked like it came from a pizza parlor. A plastic pig wearing a chef’s hat sat atop the table. Bizarre sculptures made from plastic toys and dolls were scattered throughout the room. A black and white diner clock was sandwiched between two large clown paintings. When Amy said the apartment was like a circus, I thought she was kidding. I wondered if they ever tried to shoot anyone out of a cannon, or hung trapezes from the chandelier. “Who decorated this room, Ronald McDonald? Paintings by Grimace? Is this the Mayor McCheese dining salon?” I mumbled to myself. “Excuse me?” Oh,crap. “Whose artwork is this? It’s spectacular.” “It’s mine.” “Evelyn, you have a gift. I’ve never seen anything like it.” What a waste of a beautiful room. “Your apartment is gorgeous. You’ve done so much with it.” Too much. “Brandy and I chanted for 3 hours a day, for 3 months, to get it. We needed a place to hold the meetings. We got in under a special artists deal. This is a three bedroom. The rent is only three hundred dollars a month.” WHAT?! The others filtered into the room and started saying their goodbyes. I didn’t get to see the kitchen or bedrooms. Darn, darn, darn. “We’re having another meeting Thursday evening, 6:30. Can you make it?”asked Evelyn. “I’d love to.” I had to see the other rooms. I said goodbye to my new Buddhist friends, rode down the elevator with my new elevator attendant friend, took one last, longing look at the tragically unoccupied courtyard, sighed, and exited the building of my dreams. Did they really chant for three hours a day for three months? I believe they did. These people were deeply committed. Or just nuts.

Post Meeting Roundup

I rang the gong and chanted again with Brandy. The meeting ended, and everyone gathered to plan Buddhist get-togethers and future meetings. “Will you join our Lincoln Center chapter? It’s great having someone so enthusiastic about Buddhism.” “Absolutely. I’m over the moon. I look forward to seeing you all again.” What a great way to see more apartments. No need to tell them I’d only attend meetings that were held in landmark prewar buildings. That would be mere coincidence. I listened politely and attempted to join in the conversation, but I was distracted, obsessed with seeing the rest of the apartment. “Excuse me, Brandy, may I use your bathroom?” “Oh, this isn’t my apartment. It’s Evelyn’s. It’s the second door to the right.” Evelyn was a divorced musician, once married to someone famous, who she refused to identify. She looked the part, with funky dark glasses, long hair, and relaxed clothing reminiscent of the seventies. Did she get this apartment as part of a property settlement? I was dying to find out, but didn’t want to appear pushy. I settled for a quick tour of the bathroom and additional snooping. The bathroom was white, with a large French window that looked out on the sun-drenched courtyard. A marble bathtub and sink with antique art deco fixtures stood proudly on a gleaming floor featuring giant black and white tiles. A bud vase containing a pink rose hung on the corner wall that separated the toilet from the bathtub. White wicker shelves held various perfumes and cosmetics. Missoni towels and washcloths hung from a heated towel bar. A small pink, sea green, and white framed floral painting hung opposite the ornately carved mirrored medicine cabinet. “I could live in this bathroom.” I thought. I looked out the window and sighed. I should have returned to the meeting room, but temptation took over. I tiptoed down the hall to a closed door. “This has to be the bedroom. . .must see bedroom!” I put my hand on the doorknob. “What are you doing?” asked Evelyn. Oh, crap.

The Meeting - Part Two

I returned to the sofa, zipper halfway down, button popped, but otherwise my pants remained unscathed. Mary leaned over and showed me the book, which was entirely in Chinese? Japanese? Buddhist? Is that a language? I still have no idea. Everyone introduced themselves and a discussion followed. Interesting points of discussion: Brandy’s dad was a Protestant minister. April, a heavy set brunette with whom no one dared to disagree, rambled on about how she used to work for Jerry Falwell and Scientology, that Buddhism is nothing like religion for dollars, and it is not a cult. Nor is Tom Cruise as short as everyone says he is. Marcia and Evelyn kept trying to make an appointment to come over my house and set up the gohunsun (not sure of spelling), aka magic box that centers your spirit. I didn’t want to spend money on this item. I tried to tell them that my apartment was too small to hold three people, and there was no room for the box. Maybe a matchbox. Couldn’t I use a box from my Manolos? I stand in front of Bergdorf Goodman and that centers my spirit just fine. While everyone read from the book and discussed the origins of Buddhism, goals, etc. one of the words sounded like “Chicken lo Mein”. I longed for the day I would order delivery to my new apartment from the best Chinese restaurant the Upper West Side had to offer. I tried to pay attention, but kept sneaking glances around the room, taking in every detail, pretending that I lived there. When they got very involved in the chanting, I full out stared. I craned my neck toward the door, hoping to see inside the other rooms. If I snuck around the apartment, would someone miss me? Before I had the chance to find out, Brandy asked me to help her end the meeting.

Getting Involved- In What?

Flashing back to reality, I focused on the small circular 3rd floor lobby. There were only two apartments. Outside 3B was a large collection of shoes. Was this a sample sale? I rang the bell and a petite blond woman came to the door. “I’m Brandy. Welcome.” “I’m Cheryl. I’m delighted to be here.” For what, I still had no idea. Brandy led me to a reception area that was bigger than my entire apartment. A large antique mirror decorated one wall. Across from the mirror, I sat on a plush white sofa and took off my Uggs. “You can put them outside.” “But I don’t want to put them outside.” I screamed silently in my head. “I just got them; they aren’t even messed up yet. What if someone else likes my Uggs? I’m supposed to walk across the park barefoot, like in that movie?” Note to self: you really want to see this apartment, put the Uggs outside and shut up. Brandy led me down a long wide hallway. I tried to get glimpses of the rooms we passed, without seeming obvious. “NAA-A-WOOOOOOH!!!!” I jumped 6 inches off the carpet. What the heck? Were they sacrificing an animal? Was this a Santeria meeting? Wicca? “Go on in. Imelda’s chanting; we’ll start in about 10 minutes. I’ll see you in a bit.” Start what? I entered what appeared to be an exquisitely decorated Asian temple. The room had peach walls, off white crown moldings, giant French windows, large Oriental rug, crystal chandelier, plush art deco chairs and sofas over a salmon carpeted floor. A box was hanging on the wall between the windows. A picture of an old Asian man hung above the working fireplace. The participants were sitting in yoga positions, chanting. One woman who looked like Meryl Streep was wearing a skirt and sitting on the sofa. “I’m Mary. Welcome. You can sit here and read with me. I’ll explain it later.” Thank heavens for that sofa. My jeans were tight (too many multigrain chocolate chip pancakes). If I’d sat on the floor, my butt would have exploded. Flying denim would have definitely clashed with the decor. “How do you know Amy?” What was I supposed to say, that she’s my real estate broker and I’m here to see the apartment? I still wasn’t sure what I was doing here. Was this a cult? “She’s a friend. She was supposed to be here today, I wonder what happened.” What chutzpah I had, wandering into an unidentified meeting, not knowing anyone, just to see an apartment. What kind of person does this? Brandy tiptoed into the room and sounded a large gong, causing me to jump again. “We’ll have our opening prayer, then our discussion, then our closing prayer. We have a new member. Cheryl, welcome to Buddhism.” Holy Moses! What would Moses have to say about this? I guess it depends on whether he ever tried to get an apartment in New York City, on the Upper West Side. “Cheryl, since you’re new, please come up here and help me lead the chant.” Oh, no. My parents are probably rolling over in their graves. May they rest in peace. I approached, and Brandy gave me a small card that said Nam Myoho Renghe Kyo In a surrealistic moment, I tried to chant with Brandy. It was fun ringing the gong, but I’ve blocked out the chanting. I knelt, fearing for the future of my pants, while stealing glances out the windows to admire the courtyard view and wondering what the rent was on this place.

A Touch of Nostalgia

A smiling attendant with manners and an excellent grasp of the English language made me homesick for my apartment in Philly. I lived in a doorman, wonderfully staffed, 2-bedroom apartment on a high floor in a prewar high rise gem with a beautiful western view, 2 baths, 2 walk in closets, and washer dryer. I paid less than what I pay for the dump I now call home. The closest I have to a doorman is a hairy fat man who wears a stained wife beater, pretends not to speak English and curses loudly at his wife in a foreign tongue. He curses even louder after someone calls, needing a repair. After he fixed my ceiling, it took 3 weeks and hundreds of air fresheners to remove the stench of his body odor. In Philly, I could count on my door to open. I never thought it was possible to be locked in your own apartment. The day I moved here, the lock stuck and I had to call the police. They came in minutes, and asked me to crawl out my window and throw my keys down from the fire escape. They introduced me to my congenial super, who didn’t start the stream of foreign curses until after the officers had departed. “Why didn’t you call me?” asked the super. “I just met you. I didn’t have your phone number.” Two years later, it happened again. The outside doorknob came off and fell to the floor. It wouldn’t have been so bad, but I was inside when it happened. When I finally made it to work my boss said that had to be the greatest excuse he ever heard. The next day, I brought him the doorknob. What was I thinking? All I ever wanted was to live in New York. I never thought I would miss my old apartment so much. Until now.

Adventure at the Apthorp

I hadn’t heard from Amy for awhile, until Sunday, February 15, 2009. The first Sunday morning that I got out of bed with a purpose other than opening the front door to accept delivery of chocolate chip multigrain pancakes with a side of scrambled eggs, soft. In New York, unless you order eggs soft, you get a plasticized, brown tipped yellow mass with the consistency range of Frisbee/hockey puck. Plus you pay extra to account for the additional electricity/gas they use to overcook your food. That fateful morning, I was on my way to my first adventure in real estate. I was going to the Apthorp. I had no idea why I was going; all I knew was there was a meeting and I wanted to enter the Apthorp. I had absolutely no chance of living there, but it didn’t stop me from wanting to see what I was missing. After I indicated my interest in the beautiful prewar architecture of the upper west side, my CitiHabitats broker offered to invite me to the next meeting at a fantastic apartment that would never be available but “was like a circus and really something to see”. She invited me. I’d go. Why not? As I approached the intersection of 80th and Broadway, I realized I had no idea what to tell the Apthorp doorman. I didn’t know whose apartment it was, or why I was there. The guard had just told a madras-wearing, camera snapping, fanny pack toting tour bus brigade to move along, that this was private property. How could I gain access, with this lack of information? Darn Amy. She was supposed to meet me here. Should I retreat? Hell, no. I was going to see this apartment. No matter how stupid I might appear. I went inside the pharmacy to think. I didn’t want to stand outside the building, looking like one of the buffoons who stand outside the Dakota, blocking the sidewalk, gawking and looking up. It was only a matter of time until a pigeon with my sense of humor crapped on one of their heads. To be mistaken for a tourist- how humiliating! I channeled my club hopping days. Must appear confident. I belong at the Apthorp. Most important, keep moving. Two headbands and a tube of Clarins moisturizer later, I walked up the courtyard path, smiled at the guard, and said, “Good morning, I’m here for the meeting at apartment 3B”. “To your left, the man will take you up in the elevator.” I congratulated myself. “Well played.” I wanted to stop and sit in the courtyard, but coolness prevailed. I could only glance fondly out of the corners of my eyes at the sculptures, fountain, marble benches, and foliage surrounded by this high rise palatial prewar masterpiece. I found two elevators, but no attendant. I entered the prewar looking elevator, and hit the 3R button. The door closed but the elevator didn’t move. Panic stricken, I hit the open door button. After the longest 45 seconds of my life, the door opened and the attendant was there, grinning. “I feel like a jerk. Can you please take me to apartment 3B?” “Don’t worry; you’re not the first one to do that. First door to your left.” “If someone’s stuck later, you’ll know it will be me.”

Expectations

“Remember, you must lower your standards. What features are you looking for?” “Prewar, preferably doorman, definitely elevator. Good light, good closets. White kitchen. Must have quiet, Live in super. Clean building, no bugs.” Was she looking at me cockeyed, or was it my imagination? Blackberry in hand, she started for the door. Miraculously, it stopped raining. 1st apartment. Price: $2100. Location: 82nd and Columbus. Post war dump, walk up. 1st floor. Broker rationalization: “It’s on the 1st floor, so you’re not really walking up.” Brown kitchen cabinets. Half a fridge. No closet space. No light. It was a tiny room, yet there was a step down. You could barely see where the step originated. A broken ankle waiting to happen. The bathrooms on Amtrack trains are bigger. Brick walls. No sign of a super. “I’m not a fan of brick walls. Barbie has more space in her dream house. I have boot boxes with more square footage than this, which, by the way, is awful. If I wanted half a refrigerator, I would have saved the one from my college dorm. When I told you my preferences, was I speaking in foreign tongue?” Why did she waste my time showing me this apartment? Next apartment. Price $2150. Location: 80’s, somewhere between Broadway and West End. One bedroom, post war, walk up dump. Same brick walls, same brown kitchen, and a lovely “sleep loft.” No light. Heavy wooden shutters making the dark exposure even darker. No sign of a super. “I’m afraid of heights. That’s not a bedroom. It’s a shelf. I don’t want to climb a ladder to get into bed. What if I sleep walk? I could fall and kill myself. Are you kidding? What’s next. . . OOOh, this one’s got doorknobs. And the toilet is inside the apartment. There’s no on site super, but a plunger is included with the deal. Why did you bring me here?” Next apartment. Price $2100. 1 bedroom. Postwar, walk up dump. Same brown kitchen, same darkness, same tiny bath. It defied the laws of physics; how could a place with 3 big windows remain so dark? Good news: there was actually a bedroom. Bad news: it was so tiny, could it really fit a bed? “You can fit a twin bed there.” With Vaseline? “Don’t tell me; the advantage is that if you roll out of bed, you roll into the wall and can’t possibly fall on the floor.” Final apartment: prewar, elevator, 12th floor of mid rise building. Ornate lobby, but filthy. Newspapers and debris everywhere. Not a doorman, super around somewhere but did not live in building. Called a one bedroom but more like a large studio. Entry hallway so narrow that anyone larger than a size 6 would get stuck between walls. Cute art deco bathroom with floral printed tiles and window. Kitchen area, brown cabinets, window with view of rooftop and garbage dumpster. Would be lovely as just a kitchen, but this was ¾ of apartment. Tiny bedroom, but great view out 1st bedroom window. Other bedroom window: same view of rooftop and dumpster. In corner of bedroom, large pole. One small closet that wouldn’t even house my shoe collection. “I like the view, but it’s too small. The pole would come in handy if I was a stripper or practicing to be a firefighter. And if I ever have friends, I don’t want to have to tell them I’m sorry but you’re too large to enter my apartment.” We parted. I wondered how irritated I would have been if I hadn’t been on vacation, and had any expectations other than this would be a complete waste of time. Why do they bother asking you what you want, and then try to convince you to take something not even close? This experience reminded me the time I ordered Chinese food from Pig Heaven. It was tasty, but none of it remotely resembled anything that I had ordered. I still have no idea what I had for dinner that evening. I could have called and said “Please send a soup and entrée for one; surprise me. I’ll adjust my taste buds and appetite accordingly.” At least the Chinese food had been good. These apartments weren’t even average. Somehow the idea of paying 700 extra dollars a month to live in another dump, albeit in a better part of town, had lost its appeal.

Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid.

Lesson: Be careful what you wish for. . .they’ll show you anything but. . . January 5, 2009. Weather: rain. Mission: Tour first set of apartments with broker. What better time to walk the long city blocks across the west side, than in the dead of winter, in freezing rain. Before we got started, I filled out a very long application. I knew I was signing a ludicrous adhesion contract, but didn’t see the harm since I assumed I was looking at no fee apartments and probably wouldn’t find anything anyway. Broker’s pre tour pep talk: “The economy is not bad. The market is not bad. People are still renting. Don’t believe the New York Times. There are no deals on the West side. People still want to live here.” Right, and Nixon was not a crook. What they say “What features are you looking for?” What they mean “I’m just making conversation. I don’t give a rat’s ass about what you are looking for. I’ll try to unload any box of crap on you. I get my commission. I don’t have to live there. I’ll double talk and walk you around in circles until you’re so desperate and confused you’ve forgotten what you asked for. Incidentally, you do not have a prayer of getting what you want from me. Ever. Not a prayer.” What the disclaimer should say on the broker agreement Be afraid. Be very afraid.

One Nasty Woman

There’s nothing more pathetic than being looked down upon and hearing that you’re worthless from a smelly, slovenly idiot with an IQ of ten, who can barely speak English. “With crap credit, there are thousands of people ahead of you who will get the apartment.” This coming from a nasty woman whose only other decipherable words were “Location good. Right near park.” I heard you the first twenty times you said it. So what if you kept me waiting all day, lied, said you were the owner, posted an ad about an apartment that had already been rented, and showed me 3 more expensive, tiny hat boxes with views of brick walls? (more about that later) The bright side of this situation: I finally found a profession more contemptible than mine. Now, when someone gives me the distasteful look after learning I’m a lawyer, I can proudly say, “At least I’m not a real estate agent!”

Support, Philly Style

Faced with the prospect of having to remain at the nuthouse I call home, I called my best friend Marty for support. Always the compassionate optimist, he concluded, “It looks like you’re screwed!”

Credit Issues

Lesson: It doesn’t matter how horrible you are, if your credit is excellent, you get an apartment. If you’re employed, a good person, have a history of paying rent on time, have had the same job and lived in the city for five years, but your credit is damaged, forget it. “Adolph Hitler, Mussolini, and Mr. Pol Pot applying for a 3 bedroom? Credit, excellent. Thumbs and bank, present. Income, top percentile. Rented.” “Scott Peterson, single, just out of prison, but excellent financials and thumbs. Rented.” “Person with steady respectable job, good tenant, credit is a mess because she was identity thefted. Forget it. Give the apartment to Charles Manson. ”

Faux Fireplaces - What's the Point?

My apartment search was not going well. I was the Groucho Marx of NYC real estate: I didn’t want to live in any apartment building that would have me. What drove me crazy were the faux fireplaces. The broker spoke about this like it is some grand advantage. What is the point? Oooh. Let me pretend to be cold. I’ll buy some fake logs, have them delivered by the fake log delivery service and light a faux fire. Maybe toast some pretend marshmallows and put them into some make believe hot chocolate. I’ll go antiquing in my dreams and buy some faux andirons. What will happen when the Alzheimers kicks in? I’ll walk into it and suffer imaginary 3rd degree burns.

You're Living Where?

I’d been identity thefted and improper evictions on my credit report continued to haunt me. I had no idea how impossible it would be to get an apartment with this roadblock, until I started to look. The broker advised that certain property owners would not take me at all, and the ones that would, required at least 3 months rent in advance, to be held in escrow for a year. Not to mention the 15 percent broker fee, and security deposit and $300 cash non-refundable application fee. I assumed since there were listings available where the property owner paid the fee, she would understand my situation and show me those apartments. I had lucked into my current apartment, which was a desperately needed blessing. I tell people that God was my broker. It was the second one I looked at, a sublet, which turned into a lease. Back in November 2004, I was temporarily living in Piscataway (aka purgatory) New Jersey, until I could find an apartment in the City. About a week into this arrangement, I discovered the person I was staying with had a collection of Adolph Hitler postage stamps. He had an unusually huge refrigerator and I wondered how many bodies he could have stashed in there. My best female friend from Philadelphia called me twice daily, to make sure I was still alive. (I should have known better than to trust a place where you can’t get Chinese food delivered and have to share a taxi with at least 10 other people. Sometimes it took an hour and a half to get home from the train station that was 10 minutes away. Once I nearly peed myself.) My apartment search went into high gear, Craigs list paid off; I found my apartment and OZ movers got me out of there, for which I’m eternally grateful. I had a flashback of my other apartment dilemma past. I’d gotten an apartment in Atlantic City the summer I did my law school clerkship. The place was advertised in the Jewish Exponent, which was the Bible of all things good back in the day. Unbeknownst to me, the building was a whorehouse and the landlady was actually a madam. She was dowdy, old, flabby, boobs down to her knees, and wore a tattered nightgown; who would have guessed? I learned this news the first day at my job, when the other clerks, who were locals, simultaneously gasped. “You’re living where?”

"Lower Your Expectations". . . Why?

January 3, 2009. After walking around the upper west side looking at buildings, I realized how daunting a task this was. I had radar. I zeroed in on the most beautiful buildings, which I later learned were the best ones in the area. The down side of being able to pick out the best buildings was the stark realization that I could never live in them. I fell for the Majestyk (Conan O’Brien’s former abode), the Ansonia (where The Odd Couple was filmed), the Beresford (Jerry Seinfeld lives there- who knew?), and every other spectacular pre-war building in the area. I didn’t want to pay a broker fee, but thought it wouldn’t hurt to see what they had to offer. I didn’t feel bad wasting their time, since I suspected they’d waste plenty of mine while trying to gouge a fee by showing me a series of inadequate dumps. Hoping to be wrong, I walked into CitiHabitats on the Upper West Side. Thankfully, I didn’t fill out any applications, because a couple weeks later, this office became notorious for having left applicants’ confidential documents on the street during an office renovation, where they blew across Columbus Avenue. My broker’s first words were “lower your expectations”. Not exactly what you want to hear from someone trying to earn thousands of dollars at your expense by taking a short walk or sending you to see a super.

The Search Begins. . . Stay Tuned

I had a week’s vacation scheduled for the first week in January. There was no time like the present. I have always liked the Upper West Side. Maybe the ape next door was a sign. It was time. If I had to move, I might as well move there. And so my search began.

Things Could Get Worse

My dad had a plaque that said “Cheer up; things could get worse. So I cheered up, and sure enough, things got worse.” And sure enough, they did. Borat moved into the apartment underneath me. Who wouldn’t enjoy Christmas day listening to 2 men sniffing cocaine, screaming karaoke and dancing to the Beach Boys?

The Missing Link

I wouldn’t have been searching for an apartment at all had it not been for the monstrous, missing link-baboon body-double cretin (hereinafter referred to as MLB) that moved into the apartment next door to me. I apologize to the baboon community; to call the thing a baboon is a major insult to primates everywhere. Maybe Neanderthal/Cro-Magnon is a better description, although he (“it” seems more appropriate) could only hope to rise to that level.  My next door neighbor  the baboon  Aka missing link. Until the missing link lumbered into my building, I thought that hearing other peoples’ earsplitting, irritatingly dull conversations, mating calls and triple x rated moans of delight (ugh), was an urban legend people laughed at during comedies about NYC. Two white noise machines later, the sounds were still there, and repeatedly jarred me awake with hideous grunts of baboon passion. Even the woman across the hall heard him, over her blasting rock concert decibel level stereo. No need to watch Animal Planet: I got to hear the sounds of a rhinoceros in heat. Knowing what Mr. and Ms Baboon looked like- Brangelina, they weren’t- made it so much worse. He exited his apartment backwards, making it easy to imagine a red, hairy baboon butt, draped in a short black parka, every time the door opened. Even his keys made noise. He walked like an elephant; my floor rattled. He banged on the wall; my pictures shook. I complained to the Super who offered the following words of comfort: “He’s a tenant, too.” I thought, “OK pal, when you come around for your Christmas tip, I’ll send you next door to Mr. Tenant too.” The property owners didn’t care what the tenants did, so long as they paid the rent. They refused to evict a lunatic who kept pigeons, roaches and rats as pets. They finally got rid of her when she stopped paying rent after 6 months. With the economy in the toilet, coupled with the management company working with brokers whose acceptance criteria was excellent credit, a bank account and 1 opposable thumb to sign the monthly checks, I didn’t stand a chance of getting rid of this monster.

Adventures in Real Estate, Part One

Adventures in real estate, Part One Or How far someone will go to see an apartment Tuesday, February 17, 2009 virgo cheryl, A need for company (or to visit a decent apartment) might compel you to spend time with people who have a different view of the world. It could be valuable to have an experience outside of the norm. Compromising your own values could be the result if you are too accommodating. ******************************************* It only took 4 years and 2 months. After suffering the many indignities that the city had to offer, I finally experienced the quintessential NYC week. On Wednesday evening, I met celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay. On Friday afternoon, I saw the cast of Gossip Girl. On Sunday morning, as I participated in a gathering that turned out to be an introduction to Buddhism, I experienced total clarity. I didn’t reach the highest state of enlightenment, or feel the need to chant. I realized that, like it or not, I was now a true New Yorker. I smiled enthusiastically and tried not to laugh. The people at the meeting marveled about how excited and happy I was to be there. Unbeknownst to them, I didn’t give a rat’s ass about Buddhism. I wanted to see the apartment. Shame on me. Had I gone too far? I’m proud to be Jewish, and that will never change. I blame it on the city. Who else but a New Yorker would feign interest in religion solely to gain access to a spectacular, five room, pre war showplace at the Apthorp? The Apthorp has tighter security than the secret service. It is easier to get an audience with the Pope or Queen of England than it is to sneak past the two sets of guards. In my wildest dreams, I never thought I could make it into the (sadly vacant) courtyard, let alone enter a palatial apartment that most people can only hope to get a glimpse of in the movies. Not to mention the cast of characters I met once I got inside. I feel like a cross between Carrie Bradshaw and Seinfeld. The best part is I finally have something to write about. . .