My New Home Sweet Home

I, along with my girlfriend recently moved into a beautiful new home in the Toronto neighborhood of Parkdale. It's nestled between pregnant lesbians, elderly Asian beer can collectors and childless professors and of course we fit in quite nicely. Mostly because we all ride bicycles. Our new home spans the top two floors of an old Victorian, decorated with crown moldings and wainscoting, creaky wooden floors and a clawfoot tub in the master bath. So yes, it's basically a Pinterest board.

Of course getting an apartment of this calibre wasn't easy. We braved a line of over 50 people who trotted in and out of our soon to be home (shoes ON, might I add), commenting on how their dining room set would fit perfectly into the space or how they lived just down the street so they "already knew the neighborhood", as if that was some kind of bonus. Most had their credit reports in hand, neatly filed with their bank statement and references; Clearly they had been looking for some time, just as we had. And let me tell you, it was slim pickens. It's no wonder you could cut the eagerness with a knife.

I remember standing shoulder to shoulder with these hipster couples, all within our age group (I'm the ripe young age of 32, if you must know), everyone filling out their applications. Name, date of birth, current address & previous address, current landlord & previous landlord, current employer & previous employer. We had filled so many of these out already, I could have completed it with my eyes closed. Bank account numbers, personal references, bra size (kidding - just making sure you're paying attention)... it seemed to never end. We filled one out because, hell - someone had to get it, right?

Well, someone did. This someone. And why? How? Out of all the applicants, why would this gorgeous, young, busty jew get it and not them? It's simple really. Because the landlord printed old applications that didn't ask for contact information and I was the only one to follow up. Seriously. No phone number. No email address. Nothing. They had the rights to my first born - but if they wanted to text me? Nope, sorry.

But YAY!! In the end, the apartment was ours! And therefore the moral of the story is? Look for homes that have stoners for landlords! Always follow up!

Yes! Following up = success. I can't provide any examples to that equation other than the above story but trust me on this one.

The. End.

Ok.

Ok, FINE.

The truth is, I initially set out to write about a very noisy dog. A dog I could hear from a far, causing quite a raucous during our initial visit to the apartment. While we filled out our application, this dog barked his face off like a fucking champ. I cheekily commented "does that dog come with the place?" and yes, I got a few laughs - or so I remember. But in the end, that dog DID come with the place. And he is SO FUCKING ANNOYING. My girlfriend Googled what to do about noisy neighborhood dogs but that didn't provide much help - Also, perhaps she is just a lousy Googler. Sometimes I bark back, but that too is ineffective. Go figure.

So yes, I initially set out to write about the dog. But after second thought, I felt that maybe it was best kept secret. Because if we end up kidnapping him and driving him up north and leaving him at some farm and never speaking of this again, well then I wouldn't want it to be out there on the internets or anything. So i'm not going to talk about the dog.

Now, where's that delete button? Is it the one that says "Publish"? I'll try that...