And ladies, let me tell you, at times our apartment quest has been pretty darn scary. We've seen plain. We've seen expensive. We've seen, well, the slums. Take this place for instance. It could be cute, emphasis on cute, if it hadn't been for the bars on all the windows and the cracked out neighbor slumped in the hallway smoking a cigarette. I think the word the landlord used was 'potential'... which I translated to, "slaughtered in your sleep."
The kitchen needed painting and about three bottles of bleach, which is fine, except I kept sniffing the air and yelling, "Do you smell gas?"
The bathroom again, needed a gallon of paint and some bleach, not to mention duck tape to secure the pipes that clanked like the ghost of Bob Marley (b/c the clanking reminded me of the beat from Stir It Up, not to mention the, ahem, herbal aroma drifting down from the second floor).
But what finally cinched it with me was the sight of this toilet. Shuddersville right here. I just started shaking, Rebecca tried to stifle her dry heaves and we ran, our skirts flapping and fluttering behind us in disdain.
In short... this place was a dump.
And just when we thought all hope was lost, we found duplex perfection.
A little cottage with charm and toilets that DON'T look like they've been barfed in, beaten with a tire iron, and barfed in again. The kitchen has its original bead board back splash that makes me jealous, cute orange counter tops, wood floors, and nine foot ceilings.