THIS SPACE FOR RENT

Here are the things you need to get a new apartment in DC metro area – truckloads of money, a clean credit record, and a complete and total lack of dogs. My wife and I have issues with all three, in that we have no money, we own a dog, and my credit record has more red marks than a masochist with herpes. Hard to believe that anyone would hold that against us.

The dog seems to be the biggest problem. People don’t really care if you can pay the rent, they just want to be sure you’re not going to get their carpet dirty. Anyone who knows my dog on a personal level knows that he is the quietest, friendliest, cleanest dog on the planet when he’s not barking vociferously at nothing, trying to bite the heads off things, or having green apple squirts on the living room rug. But you try explaining that to a potential landlord, and they take it all wrong.

We had originally planned on buying a house, but those of you who live anywhere near DC know why we opted out of that. The closest house we could afford was in Nova Scotia, and that was missing two walls and most of the roof (they called it a “fixer-upper”). They also have this fancy new thing these days called a “credit report,” which apparently prohibits me from getting any sort of loan from any bank in any country. It’s a dark age we live in where a man must pay such a harsh penalty for writing a series of bad checks, avoiding $30,000 worth of student loans, and financing several trips to the Belgian Congo on a Citibank card with no intentions of paying it back. (I actually tried to get my insurance company to pay for it, arguing that the Congo was the only place in the world with witch doctors qualified to give me the “brain-tilting” I need to fight migraines and constant hemorrhaging. They didn’t buy it. Where’s the trust these days?)

We actually did find a place, but they want a $2,500 security deposit. That sounds like a lot, but when your dog has inflammatory bowel disease, and for that matter your own grooming and eating skills aren’t that great, $2,500 is a bargain. We’ll go through $2,500 worth of carpet in about three weeks. The problem now is that the complex we chose won’t answer their phone. You’d think they’d strive harder to get their $2,500, but apparently they just like telling people to give them money but have no desire to go through the motions of collecting it. This will be a problem when the movers we’ve hired want to know where they should deliver our things, as we don’t know our address, but I figure we can just move into the main office of the complex since no one ever seems to be there.

The great part about the move is it coincided with my wife being out of town. My wife doesn’t react well to change, as evidenced by her crying like a teething baby after everything from a bad haircut to losing a limb. When we first moved to DC from Massachusetts she nearly had a nervous breakdown. So this will be a good chance for me to set up the new place the way that I see fit, i.e., like a dingy sports bar. It seems almost inconceivable, but my wife has some sort of problem with my hanging nothing but sports pictures on the wall. Nice ones too – I’ve got a PERSONALIZED autographed picture from Bobby Orr – THE Bobby Orr. It’s that picture of him scoring the Mother’s Day, 1970 overtime goal against St. Louis, and it says “To Justin, Best Wishes, Bobby Orr.” My wife didn’t want it on the wall. She’s right though, it shouldn’t be on my wall – it should be in the friggin’ Louvre. It’s the greatest picture in the world. But no, she thought pictures of little red hearts would look better. Suffice to say she’s in for a surprise when she comes home to the new place, as the motif is not going to be “hearts,” but more likely “A Bennigan’s Somewhere Near Quincy.”

My wife also has a penchant for putting pictures or some other form of tchotchkes in every single nook and cranny of the house. Packing is going to be a baffling ordeal since we can fill six boxes with tiny frames, ceramic penguins, and miniature snow globes with Eeyore in them. (But I try to display an autographed hockey puck and I get that “I don’t like that there” look, which is very similar to the “I think I just ate raw pork marinated in lemon juice” look.) I’ve got this funny premonition that something will “happen” to some of those boxes, though; an “accident,” like me “throwing a bunch of it away.” That way there’ll be more room for mature decorations, like toy zambonis and Hot Wheels.

I’ve gone through the motions of hiring a mover, which is much like throwing darts while blindfolded. I’ve gotten quotes ranging from $345 to well over $1,000 for the same move. We’re only going about four miles down the street, so I’d love to know how someone can justify charging $1,000 and then getting upset with me while I laugh at him. “I think you’ll find we’re very competitive in our pricing,” the guy said. “Possibly,” I replied, “if you’re moving to Guam.” Of course, it makes me worried that the $345 place is going to load our stuff in the truck and drive it to a pawnshop (which is why I’ve refrained from packing the dog). Frankly, if they take only the boxes with ceramic penguins and snow globes, it's all theirs.