It's a Super Model

Like death and taxes and UConn in the Final Four, looking for an apartment has become an annual event, and so -

Ok, scratch that part about UConn. Go George Mason.

- and so we hit the streets with our floor plans, our measuring tapes, our hopes and our dreams in order to find where the Condons will call home next. It’s not the living practically on top of Wegman’s has been a bad thing, and other than our neighbors, the Pindrops, we’ve really enjoyed living in a relatively new building with high ceilings and great sets for Oscar Sunday. But as Mark and Roger so eloquently put it – how we gonna pay next year’s RENT?

As per most standard lease agreements, the leasing office reserves the right to increase or decrease rent at the time of renewal. And while we may have this place through the end of June, we got served. With a renewal letter. Of Impending Doom.

The only time I’ve ever stayed in the same place for two consecutive years was at Random Run, and the dreaded renewal letter was practically a joke. Nervously removing it from its ominous envelope, I could hardly believe my eyes – when they raised the rent 14 dollars. Why even bother? The funnier thing is that with a roommate, that makes it 7 dollars for my residential troubles. Man, I guess I’ll really have to cut back on my spending to soften the impact of this massive hike. Like go to Taco Bell one less time each month. Sheesh.

I wish this letter was remotely that funny.

Since our leasing office has dialed into raising the rent $130/month, and I haven’t won the lottery in the past, eh, eleventy billion years, it looks like it’s time to hitch up the wagon and move 1.4 miles down the road. (We haven’t picked a place yet, but there’s 37 apartment complexes within that radius, so I’m sure we’ll find something.)

Going in to check out a new suburban apartment complex is the same no matter where you go. You walk in to a ridiculous club house that houses the leasing office. Clubhouses could quite possibly be the largest waste of real estate there is. It’s big, it’s spacious, and other than potential residents mulling about, it’s COMPLETELY VACANT. They put things in these clubhouses like full kitchens and big televisions, but in my four years of apartment living, I’ve never thought to myself: “Hey, let me call up some friends and meet them down at the clubhouse to watch the game. Maybe I’ll cook up some hot dogs on that stove over there that may or may not be plugged in. And at the most crucial down of the game, I could field questions from strangers about how often I use the pool, or is the visitor parking ample?” We might as well convert these clubhouses into covered parking garages.

With monkey valets.

And from our latest round of apartment tours, I’ve decided one thing for certain. No matter the availability, or the floorplan, or the amenities, or the monkey valets, I would like to live in the model.

Think about – you don’t have to worry about moving your old stuff, because it already furnished. Granted, it often is in the décor of West Africa or Cajun New Orleans, but hey, I can deal. In addition, the model is always very close to the front of the complex, so you have easy access in and out. The newest features are always in the model first (think appliances), and they have it professionally cleaned. During the day, leasing agents may bring people through to see the place, but that’s okay – I’m at work. Oh, and one other key point: no one pays rent on the model. Free.