While planning for the rapidly approaching nuptials, a concurrent search for a place to call home is under way.
What I know is this: There is no such thing as a housing slump in New York. Not in Manhattan, not in Queens, not in Brooklyn, not anywhere we want to live. That pretty much sucks. Regardless, we forge on. Urban pilgrims in search of a larger life that includes two bedrooms and some closet space. That and mass transit so we can retreat back to our apple oasis.
The last two weekends were filled with open house meet and greets, mostly through Forest Hills (which we pretty much like more than any other place besides Manhattan), where we did a lot of walking, and hoped we would find our affordable Shangrila. Much like bananas, each place had it's bruises. Some were light (small bathrooms, weird wallpaper) and some were slimy brown mush-fests (maze-like backwards set up, no stand up shower in tub). Opening up closet doors was like discovering new geometric shapes.
We are hardly disheartened after two weeks (except for the fact that some unnamed and recently married couple admitting they loved the first place they saw and bought it) but we long for a place we fall in love with. A place that we walk into and a picture of the future is painted before our ambitious eyes. Our room, our office, the exactly perfect place to put our cake holder. I know that no one gets a break, but we did look at 21 different reception halls. Can't the law of averages see-saw in our direction?
A new address. A place where magazines can be delivered. A place of our own, full of the overwhelming amount of stuff our parents want vacated from their houses. We'll live there. You can visit.
But we have to find it first.
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Side note: Was out looking for a Pop's Day card for Glenn and noticed an inordinate amount of cards related to how much gas dad passes. What gives with all the Farters Day Cards?
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