Adventures in Real Estate

The time had come to begin apartment hunting with my trusty friend and former college roommate, a one Ms. Brenna Hogan. Brenna is currently teaching at a school in Brooklyn while staying with Erin. Erin so graciously offered her couch for Brenna to stay on while we looked for
a place but it's getting cramped. She compared them to a lesbian couple, like Ellen and Portia. My question is though...whose Ellen and whose Portia?

So on Saturday (as I vomited profusely), we began our valiant quest to find ample living space in New York City this past weekend. And it did NOT go well. After respective nights out, we grabbed breakfast and headed to Brooklyn. With stars in our eyes and money in our bags, we just had a feeling we'd find our new home.

The forty dollar cab ride should have been our tip off that the day was not going to go as planned. We headed through beautiful Brooklyn Heights, Cobble Hill and Park Slope. And we kept going. To the ugly side of the street, to the ghetto-ish part of the Brooklyn often seen in Spike Lee movies (or joints, as he calls them). We finally met up with our broker, who was nice even if she was large and with questionable fashion and music taste. I'm not one to make fun, but a 4X Unisex coat doesn't flatter the figure the way you'd hope.

The first apartment that we saw would have been fit for a drug dealer, working his way up through the ranks of the system. Or maybe a journalist undercover, studying the disgusting living conditions in New York City. It was a ground floor railroad style (one room led into the other). The street wasn't bad, but all you had to do was stick your hand in the window and you'd touch one of our sleeping heads. It was not suitable for more than one person, at the very least.

The next place was one hundred times worse. We pulled up and noticed the distinct smell of chicken poop. Turns out the apartment was across the street from a live poultry shop. I nearly called PETA and became a vegetarian, but then I remembered my love of fried chicken.


We walked past the chicken butcher when Brenna gave me the eye. I looked over and saw a nice, normal, hearse. Except it was "tricked out" and it had "GOT BODIES?" written on it. I thought I was leaving this kind of stuff when I left the Bronx, but apparently not.

After the hearse, and the dead chickens, and the rotting smell of what I hope was dead chickens, we got on the subway and headed back to Jersey, the land of suburban dreams. My parents fell in love with Brenna for some odd reason, going on and on about her manners, her quick laugh, her willingness to ignore the fighting (kidding). I told them she was stoned the whole time....but they didn't believe me (Kidding, Brenna). Why else would she eat a whole bag of my favorite chips?? (Stupid mouth sores!)

On Wednesday we look at more apartments, and hopefully no hearses will be involved. Although a fried chicken store so conveniently located would be nice. I love me some chicken wings!