If a cow ever got the chance...

It is beginning to seem that I used up all my apartment-finding luck on my current apartment, three years ago. This was right after I moved to Chicago; I had just graduated from college and had a lovely case of social anxiety and (after two months of temping) a job as a customer-service type with a company that financed extended warranty plans for General Motors, and I was staying in C's parents' basement. Eventually this became untenable, so I Made A Positive Change by going to the free apartment-listing service (the landlords pay to be listed, all it costs the tenant is a credit check) and basically saying "Hi, I need an apartment for next week." The nice, bubbly, pushy chick said "All I have left is this one studio." We drove out to it and I had no idea what I was looking for. I even asked her, "What do people look for when they look at apartments?" She said, "Uh, you pretty much got it all covered." Eventually we were standing on the sidewalk outside the building and she said, "You have to say you want this studio before 9 tomorrow morning or someone else will take it, so it would be better if you just came back to the office and signed the lease now." I managed to fend her off and after a largely sleepless night, called the office at 8:59 a.m. and said I would take it. It was the first and only apartment I had ever looked at...

By some weird stroke of luck, it was actually a beautiful apartment. Vintage, big windows, good early-morning light, large kitchen, walk-in closet (okay, so the bathroom can only be entered through the closet, it's still a good layout), hardwood floors, etc. etc. The only problems I've had were mice two years ago, but that was mostly my fault. I also had a deal with the innumerable tiny ants: that I would not kill them or impede their progress in any way as long as they kept to the kitchen floor and stayed off the table. Sadly, they made a hollow mockery of their promise and I had to have them exterminated, which I still feel guilt over. Perhaps this is proof that ants and I can never really communicate.

Anyway, this year's apartment search has been much less pleasant. Tonight I looked at a nominal one-bedroom with less space than my studio (but which cost over $100 more), and a huge five-room apartment in some godforsaken remote corner of the city--this one had a broken lock on the front gate, a building front door that didn't lock, and a four-story unlit stairwell. Around the third flight of stairs (which smelled like smoke for no good reason) I knew I didn't really need to see the apartment itself.

The problem is that the amount I can afford to spend right now would get me any of the following: a really nice studio (but would it be better than this one?); one-half of an acceptable two-bedroom in a trendy neighborhood; one-half of a fabulous two-bedroom in a quieter neighborhood; or the absolute crunkiest one-bedroom you could think of. Guess which option I have been exploring? In this price range, one-bedrooms are "garden apartments," the new euphemism for "basement". Meaning they feature mold on the walls, bars on the windows, and cat-sized roaches that want to be your pet. The ones that are not garden apartments always have something blatantly wrong with them: either they're the size of my current bathroom or the previous tenant is on the way back to get his crack pipe. Or something.

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