I am on the hunt.

Most will stop reading after the first sentence, thinking yet again I am trying to find the perfect mate or martini. Sound the buzzer, because you are wrong. As much as you think you know me, it is not all about boys and booze in this gal’s life. There are much bigger and more difficult things out there to locate besides a man who is employed, with no criminal record and a sense of humor in this mill hole.

I am on the lookout for a place to call home. This is not my first apartment hunt, and it probably will not be my last, but each time it gets more difficult. In this case, experience does not make things easier.

We’re getting a bit ahead of ourselves here. Let’s take a step back and re-evaluate the situation.
I have no desire to have the smell of curry wafting through the ventilation system when I turn on my air conditioner. Nor do I want to write monthly checks that match the annual income of factory workers in Guatemala to a slumlord who will not fix a leaky dishwasher no matter how many times my heel goes through the rotted floor in the kitchen. Not in the slightest.

True story. I had a stiletto lodged in my kitchen floor for a couple of days until my friend suggested to use olive oil as a lube. Slid right out after that.

Nope, I don’t miss that at all. I would rather tough it out at my parent’s house for just a little while longer, but I am starting to get the sense that I have worn out my welcome.
I get it. I moved back in, the third time, with the plan to save money to buy a condo within a year. Two years later, still no condo or down payment. Whatever, there is a recession. Who would buy a house now? Not I. Stimulus package — smackage.

I began delving into the classifieds and Craigslist looking for ads within my price range. I learned quickly that a young, professional woman like myself can live just about nowhere. If I stretch the dollar a bit, survive on Ramen noodles, steal cable, try to pick up the neighbor’s WiFi signal and use candles instead of lamps, I could just afford to live in a basement studio in an alley off Appleton Street.
Very tempting. The landlord would not let me have a cat, even though the carpet smelled like the litter box for multiple felines of yore.

Someone told me the new apartments in the “up-and-coming” Hamilton Canal District, around the corner from the cat box, were reasonable and very nice. I thought I would give them a shot.
I parked my car at the first open spot I could find, three blocks away and fed the meter. I told the man asking for change that I put the last of it in the meter. I then avoided eye contact, putting my head down and picking up the pace when a car full of teenage boys began to cat call. I stepped over the sleeping homeless person in the alley to the front door.

Inside the model unit the building manager said there were plenty of units and models to choose from. I explained I wanted the cheapest. I didn’t even get to see any of the apartments — $1,200 for a one bedroom with no parking?!?! Later.

I woke up the homeless person when I asked him to move out of my way, flipped off another group of young men and told the beggar to get a job. When I got back to my car I was greeted with a parking ticket.

Nice, now I can tell my parents I need to pay the ticket before I move out. That buys me another 30 days. There was a happy ending to this story.

To share your housing woes, e-mail lowellita@lowellsun.com.