My wife and I are beginning to look for our first home. While our one-bedroom apartment suits us well today, we’ve decided that once one of our heirs comes into this world, it’s time for a bigger place and best to start looking early.
First off, house hunting sucks. If you think that you will find the perfect house (location, price range, intangibles) without first seeing 100 lemons, you sir, are sadly mistaken. We have narrowed our search to a handful of towns, but no end in sight.
We have been searching for a month so I shouldn’t be complaining yet, but it’s already starting to eat away at me. The visits to Zillow and the magic of photography that show the perfect house in the neighborhood of Pleasantville and culminate in a house with wall-to-wall carpet in the bathroom that matches the wallpaper. It was shit brown so at least if you miss the toilet, no harm, no foul.
When you start going through the houses, you begin to catastrophize. What if the water heater bursts or are we in a flood zone? I thought of the worst scenarios imaginable. But nothing compares to the plight of some fathers and husbands in this Brooklyn Apartment.
Appalling. I haven’t been able to sleep through the night since I read this. Every night at 3 am, I wake in a cold sweat hoping Tommaso is able to survive life surrounded by topless co-eds. I mean I can’t stop thinking about this quote from him, “There were girls sunbathing topless up there,” said a tenant with a young child. “My wife was like, ‘WTF?!’ There are a lot of families [here].”
Disgusting. Just when I think I’ve imagined the worst, I’m reminded of Murphy’s Law.