When I had to move apartments the first time, I screamed and cried and wrote yards of bad poetry.
Now when I have to move, I handle it coolly and calmly, and seldom come out of it having written anything worse than a sonnet.
Finding a new home isn’t very easy. And it’s even tougher when the options are all sleazy.
See what I did there?
As far as places to live go, I have simple, modest requirements.
My apartment must be well-lit, quiet, and comfortable, old-fashioned, but with modern amenities, cheap, but not looking like it, within walking distance of public transport, a supermarket, and a gym, and preferably on this planet.
I’d say I have a shoestring budget, but I don’t know what a shoestring is. Perhaps my budget is two shoestrings. Possibly three.
Sometimes you are lucky as an apartment-hunter. You just stumble into a place where the landlord has a Ph.D. in English literature and the stove doesn’t start smoking when you turn it on.
Other times, you are obliged to do research. For me, what it boils down to is flexibility.
For example, some landlords establish they will take no animals of any size, shape, or description, in-laws included.
Yet my neighbors always seem to be preparing a troupe of tap-dancing elephants for the circus.
When I am bold enough to lodge a noise complaint, I am told I am needlessly interrupting their rehearsals.
Besides, my landlord reminds me through a bullhorn, quiet time is only from 3 to 3:30 a.m.
This is not the sort of flexibility I admire.
On the other hand, once I had a ceiling fan that an inspector said was not up to code.
The inspector noted that since my ceilings were rather low, the fan might accidentally decapitate anyone who came to visit.
It was a nice ceiling fan. It was a worthy ceiling fan. It had almost accidentally done its duty on many a pivotal occasion.
Despite my protests, the inspector ordered it taken out the day before my extra-annoying cousin (not to be confused with my very-annoying cousin) was due for a social visit.
My super duly took out the ceiling fan and replaced it with a light. The inspector came back and approved it.
Twenty-seven minutes after he left, the super put the fan back in. That, right there, is the right kind of flexibility.
Perhaps I shouldn’t make such a fuss about housing.
After all, if there’s a roof over my head and food on my table — even if the table wobbles every time I take a breath—it should be good enough.
But I aspire to something higher. Ah, there’s another rhyme. But I digress.
I’d like an apartment where my neighbors are quieter than the local ambulance.
I’d like an apartment where the dryer doesn’t spit my clothes out wetter than they went in.
I’d like an apartment that my extra-annoying cousin and my very-annoying cousin can’t find, but my friends can.
The minute I find a place that fits, I’ll sprint right to it… if I can make it past my ceiling fan.
Copyright 2025 Alexandra Paskhaver, distributed exclusively by Cagle Cartoons newspaper syndicate.
