For those of you who've been keeping up with this blog, you know that looking for an apartment in the Bright Lights of NYC was giving me sweatier 'pits than usual. Even though we seem like a stable married couple in our 30's, landlords considered us high-risk for a few reasons including our dogs (Chihuahua's are like politicians--some are noisy and annoying and give the rest a bad rep), my job (I work from home), and a couple of credit "issues." Let me just tell you that if you opened a Gap credit card in 2009 but forgot that you opened it and then moved so you therefore paid the bill a month late--New York City landlords will find out about it. (Totally hypothetical situation, of course.) I'm so glad I opted to never hold- up a convenience store or beat an ex-boyfriend, because that would have made the application process much trickier.
So because we were not ideal candidates for living in a basement apartment facing a brick wall (I mean, really?), we needed to find a co-signer. Can you imagine how awkward the conversation is when you have to call friends and relatives and ask if they make a quarter of a million dollars and have another 6-figures in liquid assets, and if so, if they're willing to turn over all their financial paperwork from the last year? It made me wish the process was this difficult for people before they procreated. We'd have a lot less stupid in this world. (But I would miss the Maury Povich show. That moment after the DNA test when Maury proclaims, "You are the father" gets me choked up every time.)
Now we just have to figure out how to stuff all of our furniture and clothes into an apartment that is half the size of our Chicago apartment. Any suggestions? We may have a repeat of the move-in disaster of 2009 when I exclaimed to Mike, "Yes, it all fits! We got everything into our 660 square foot apartment!" He then reminded me that we hadn't moved in any of his stuff yet.