All-too-real estate

This blog changed today. More than the fact that I updated it. It changed to reflect my relationship with the city, which also changed since last I wrote here.

I live in Manhattan, New York City, New York, probably the second-craziest real estate market in the country, next to San Francisco, which has no excuse. I live with my wife, daughter and two cats, neither of whom have ever lifted a paw to pay rent. That won't change any time soon, but dream big and their learning to scoop their own litter will be a minor payoff.

I never wanted to follow in my father's footsteps as an architect. Words always appealed more, even if they didn't pay the bills all that well. What followed were numerous disparate careers that show no sign of settling down, even if I did achieve some small success in each: trail management, English tutoring, graphic design, network administrator, improvisational comedian and finally homemaker. Some day, I'll shoe horn writer in there, too, but I'm not holding my breath.

What I did glean from a childhood skipping around construction sites holding the other end of a tape measure was some appreciation for buildings before, during and after construction. I see them as living things, and on the island of Manhattan, I see them crowded together more closely than the revelers in Times Square ten seconds before midnight. They feed off electricity, water, money and labor, fighting decay and the encroachment of other, substantially larger buildings. In rare instances, they fall over due to negligence or attack, and that is particularly tragic.

Today, we visited the apartment of our daughter's school friend. The family plans on moving come July. What will happen to the apartment? [Tenting fingers in imitation of supervillain.]

Frankly, I planned this scenario since we moved from Chicago: find a serviceable apartment, sell our condo, forgive ourselves, make contacts, and try to talk or work our way into finding a cheaper apartment.

We liked the building from the start. Nice location, not far from Brandi's work and what we hope will be Simone's school, with two bedrooms, a generous kitchen, living room, decent closet space and light. I did not realize how much I missed light until Manhattan turned me into a Morlock. Smaller than our current place, though, so in the make-believe number in my head I figured rent would be lower.

No, no, no, no and most certainly no. Almost half again more, and our rent is killing us as it is.

Even worse than the letdown of knowing this was not the place I had dreamed was the social fact that we simply did not want to admit we were too poor to rent it. Brandi has a great job. In Chicago, we would live like kings! Or at least... better. But Manhattan real estate has a way of eating wealth away like the acid blood of the xenomorphs from the Alien movies. It never ends.

We want to find a place that can hold two grownups, one child, two cats and enough of our stuff that we can sleep, cook, watch movies and not have to do any of these from the inside of the litter box. It might come someday, but, frankly, I'm not holding my breath.