omMFg

A___ and I saw the coolest apartment today. It's a little pricey although still cheaper than us living separately and certainly normal for the market here in fuckville nowhere CT. The biggest con is that it's far from campus, about 18 miles, which translates into probably about a half hour of mostly country road commute. This will be difficult to adjust to since I've been living only 5 miles from campus for over a year. Being closer to campus means more independence for me. I'm a little squirrely about that since, well, it's been an issue with the health stuff.

However, the amount of time I have lost due to home disaster related stress and mishaps has been considerable since I moved into the 5 miles from campus rat trap where I currently reside. A___ and I knew that looking further out to try to find a nicer place to live would mean a longer commute. I can't say the prospect doesn't give me a little pause, but I've really deliberated on this for a while.

The apartment is on the first floor of a converted mansion. It is just great. 3 fire places, two big bedrooms, a big kitchen with a fucking pantry (yes, a pantry...I haven't had one of those since I lived in my parents' house), wood floors, wood paneling in the living room, did I mention the fucking fireplaces? And the porch? The private entrance on the first floor (no more rickety open wooden steps to climb with groceries)? The washer and dryer in the basement? The heat and hot water included? The fireplaces? Cats are ok, smoking wasn't even raised as an issue, it's walking distance to a downtown (a real town) and a short drive to things which count as urban here in buttfuck nowhere. Contrast this with a picture of a place A___ and I looked at during our last housing hunt a few weeks ago:


The place that we were being shown (the crappy one from a few weeks ago in the picture above, not the cool mansion apartment from tonight) is the lower level "unit" off to the right. It was $1200, no utilities included, and situated under two sets of "bachelors" (the landlord's word for it, not mine). It took about four calls to the landlord to get him to call me back and set up an appointment. When we did finally get there, he was late. When he showed up, it turned out he had the wrong key. A___ and I waited, swarmed by bugs from the farm pond out back, while the landlord went home to get the right key. Except it turned out that was the wrong key too.

The landlord then showed us the apartment, a converted two car garage, from the outside, pointing out key interior features we could see through the big sliding glass doors which were the only means of egress. We had plenty of time to note some of the more remarkable exterior features as well. For example, we noticed the collection of discarded lawn mowing devices lined up near the house, clearly an homage to a bygone time of giving even a sliver of a shit about the redneck jungle that was threatening to engulf the house, shack, and lower portion of the driveway. We saw several garabage cans with packed trash bags not far from them. The top driveway/front yard had a wrecked car parked in one of the two occupied spots. The side driveway, where A___ and I were told we would park, had a huge truck and another wrecked car. Presumably these vehicles were courtesy of the bachelors.

So, I wondered to myself as I looked around the beautiful, well maintained and cheaper but further away mansion apartment this evening, do I pay more than I would to live in a fucking mansion with three fire places, a porch, beautiful woodwork, and room enough for me, A___, the cat, and heat and hot water included in order to live 10 miles closer to campus?

I think the answer is a big fat no.

Now, will we get the place? Having spent all that time teaching my students about mimicry and behavioral convergence, I was going to try to imitate the landlord a bit to foster a sense of happy-good-people like me-ness. It turns out I didn't have to. I was amused and happy to note that the potential landlord kept adopting my posture while we were talking and touring the apartment. Depending on what he finds in A___ and my credit records and bank accounts (you know, the usual checks and shit), I think it's a go. I hope so at least.

We had gone to the mansion place on a sort of whim, but we went with checkbooks. We left a deposit with the applications and hoped all thirteen miles back to our local rat traps with mold encrusted holes in the ceilings, broken windows, and a convicted sex offender neighbor whose entire family communicates through only screams, yells, and hollers.

We reached the rat trap around 8:30. It was dark. It was Something or Another Booze Special Night at the bar on the other side of our driveway. The bar used to be cool, a nice little local bar and restaurant with outside eating and casual charm, but then it was bought by a dickhead (who happens to also live in my current apartment building). The dickhead parties with teens on a regular basis. He's my age, playing beer pong with kids and trying to pick up girls who still talk squeeky voice even when they are buying from their drug dealer (who lived downstairs from me). Since the dickhead acquired it, the bar now caters to undergrads and bikers. Wow. Fun.

As I walked up the driveway, listening to the sounds of drunk idiots misparking their cars and bikes in the bar parking lot behind me, I saw the landlord had left up several of his ladders from today, the latest round of playing "Ropes and ladders" (aka fixing the roof) which involved ropes outside my bathroom window this morning while I was showering and the sound of my landlord not quite breaking through the ceiling.

"Look...his ladders are still up. Maybe he's still up there," A___ and I joked to one another.
"Maybe he fell off."
"Yeah maybe he's around back."
"Fuck. I hope we get that place."
"Me too."