And I'm still getting screwed

Despite keeping this blog, and the outward illusion that I am open and free with details of my personal life, what I project couldn’t be further from the truth. People who are intimately acquainted with me understand that I am very private about my thoughts, feelings, personal space, and anything else that could offer a glimpse into the cracks of the carefully crafted persona that I present to the world. Which is why, I have been a complete anxious mess since giving the realtors keys to my apartment for viewing.

Part of the reason why NYC has such exhorbant rents is because of our vacancy rate. I think it hovers somewhere around .8%. For you econ geeks out there, the fact that the real estate economy operates at a ridiculous “efficiency” throws off the whole supply and demand chain for us lay people. So, you have people like me who live off of an advertising industry salary paying $2400 for an apartment within earshot of several bars, a bedroom that is about 6x6, and with a window facing a brick wall. This is all a product of “market efficiency,” courteous of Adam Smith. I thought only the third world was supposed to get shafted.

Although I make fun of my apartment, and my roommate, and my landlord, and my neighbors, and hell, even the location, the truth is, it is my home. When I climb the two flights up, step into my hovel, I relax a bit because I am home, even if I haven’t gotten a good nights sleep since I’ve moved in because of the bar two doors down. When I notified my landlord that I was going to give it all up at the end of July (I wonder the fuck why—see above paragraph) she told me that I should make arrangements with the scumbag (my word, not hers) realtor who conned (again, my word choice) me into taking the place, as he is the realtor who she is in cahoots (I mean, work) with.

As a current tenant I have two options when showing my apartment. Either I can rearrange my schedule and be ready at the drop of a dime to let prospective renters into my home or I could trust all of my worldly possessions to the con artist who duped me into taking the shit hole that I call my home.

Once again, my laziness even astonishes me. And I don’t have renters insurance. Luckily, my most valuable items are a two year old laptop and various six inch stiletto shoes.

I make arrangements to give mike the realtor my keys so he can show the apartment unencumbered by my schedule. I knew I should have questioned my choice when he started to bother me before I dropped them off. We agreed that I would give him the keys during the last week of June, so I would have time to clean up a bit and also to procrastinate the fact that my life will be on display until the landlord finds a new tenant.

I drop off the keys later in the week, surrendering my privacy with it.

Coming home one day after work, a day after I give him the keys, I notice something is amiss when I insert my key into the door where I find it unlocked. I assume that my roommate must be home, but when I walk in, her door is closed and her shoes are gone. Which means that my door is unlocked without anyone being home. I’m pissed, but I just want to get out of my sweaty clothes. I go into my room, turn on the air conditioner and change into my running shorts. Mid change, I notice how much cuter my waist line looks, and I decide to go out into the living room and check myself out in the mirror.
Damn, I am looking good! This calls for my booty shorts, and pretty bra, reserved for strip class. I begin to writhe in the air, and shake my booty, trying to impersonate Shakira.

Mid-shake, I hear the door open and turn around and see a two strange women.

“Who are you?” I ask, grabbing my boobs, but already knowing that it is the realtor.

Before she can answer, “You know you should knock.”

“I didn’t realize anyone was home.”

“Excuse me? It’s fucking six pm. People who work usually come home around now. You had no right walking into my apartment without knocking!!!!”

“You should not leave the door open. This is Manhattan.”

“Don’t tell me how to live!! I don’t like keeping my door locked. You should have knocked! I am so embarrassed, Look at what I am wearing!! Why didn’t you call before you came here?”

She then goes on the offensive, “You made your point. You don’t need to make such a big deal out of it. Drop it.”

Oh no, the bitch told me to “drop it” in my own fucking home? My hovel?!

“Don’t yell at me in front of your client! First you walk in when I am semi-nude and now you are yelling at me. Give me your bosses phone number, I am calling him.”

She ignores me, and proceeds to show the apt.

As she is discussing the merits of the location of Greenwich Village, I interrupt her.

“Give me mike’s number now. You don’t knock and now you’re being rude to me in my own home!”

She turns around and tells me to “chill” and that she will give it to me when she is ready.

This goes on for like ten minutes. I interrupt her for her bosses number, and she answers my request by telling me that I am making a big deal and she will give it to me when she is ready.


Not only is she rude to me in my own home, but she is also lying to the girl, telling her how great the landlord is, and how responsive they are to requests.

This is too much for me to handle, so as she is telling the prospective tenant about they are such wonderful people, and how they care so much about their tenants, I stand behind the realtor and shake my head mouthing the words “horrible” “Psycho”.

Fucking bitch, if you were nice to me, I would have played along with the charade. I mean, you want to earn your commission ASAP and I want to stop having my life on display.

When she leaves, I call Mike, her boss, and tell him that I expect phone calls if someone is visiting my apartment after regular business hours, and my experience with the bitch.

Like he gave a shit.

But that is the problem with letting realtors show your apartment. They don’t understand that it is almost soul baring having strangers come in and see you in your natural habitat, the one place where you aren’t governed by the shoulds, the woulds, or any other conditional phrase that forces us to act the way we do from the moment we lock the door behind us every morning at 8:55am. Strangers see you on display. The books with the perfect spines indicating that you still haven’t read them, the pile of underwear on the floor from coming in drunk the night before, even the woman who still sleeps in my bed after I left that morning. And let’s not talk about the closet and how each time I see it ajar, I rush to it and double check that my secret corner of “stuff” hasn’t been disturbed.

I can’t wait to fucking leave my shit hole.

Seriously.