I can't say I haven't enjoyed my little eyrie above enchanting Ramler Park, with my beloved nook...


But I don't love it to the tune of over thirteen-hundred bucks a month.  Sorry, bitches.  I mean, I'm down with shabby chic.  But this is like Saint Vincent de Paul charging Bergdorf Goodman prices.  And it still smells like a second-hand shop — that heady, indescribable odor of cigarettes, stale piss, and rat poison.   

So when I got the notice from Fineberg Management, the company that owns the building I live in, alerting me to a rent hike and demanding I either renew my lease for September by April 20th or submit to constant showings through August 31st, I started making phone calls.

I'm not a huge fan of moving house every few months.  And I have exhausted the goodwill of my more settled friends and will have no choice but to hire movers this time around.  But that's not all bad.  Brazilians, anyone? 

Truth is, it's sort of a no-brainer at this point.  I've got a studio now and could upgrade to a one-bedroom in the same neighborhood for $150 to $200 more a month.  I'd lose my view, but a Northern or Southern exposure or a corner apartment with a bay window would make up for it. 

I mean, I like Ramler Park, but the visitors it gets aren't all that interesting.  Stoners, mostly, from the student housing across Peterborough Street.  What's especially boring about them is how they look about surreptitiously, as if there weren't about two hundred apartments with views of the park.  I'm not a big fan of acting sneaky when everyone can see you doing it.  It seems to defeat the purpose.

And, speaking of boring, all they performed there — the place is like a little theater — and all they performed all last summer was folk music.  Somebody call Ryan Landry — let's get him to do Medea down there.  Make it worth the cost of the skybox, for cripesake. 

Truth is, what I need in my life right now is a coffee table.  You don't really miss 'em until their gone. 

I have this whole scenario in my head, where I come home from work, the late afternoon sunlight honey-gold through the white chiffon curtains, gently undulating in the summer breeze.  I toss my pants on the club chair, sink into the sofa, and put my feet up... on the coffee table.

And... scene.

My life's complete.

And frankly, I also think it's important, as an adult, to have a room in your home that's not your bedroom.  To put your coffee table.

Like coffee tables, it's very adult to have a room that's not your bedroom.  It gives you options, you know?  Not only to entertain your friends without benefits, but to have somewhere to go when your friends with them drop in on you.  

I mean, rooms just make things more interesting.  Especially when there are doors on them and hallways leading to and from them.  The longer the hallway and the more doors the more interesting, except in hotels, where they're just further to go to the elevator and ice machine.

Thank goodness there's still room in my life for change, so long as there's a room in my life to change in.