Culture on the Cheap
Miss Heather’s New Pied-a-terre
Yesterday we learned how utterly crass real estate marketing can be after taking a sojourn to Central Avenue and Stockholm Street. Perhaps I am simply clueless, but the appeal of bloated McMansions (as either a selling tool or an actual residence) eludes me. In addition to being bereft of any character whatsoever, these edifices are obscene in size— and while this might strike a chord of “luxury” to some, to me it is only that much more square footage for our herd of cats to vomit upon.
As I type away in my little apartment I occasionally lament the total lack of privacy. When I find myself in the position of having to write while the Simpsons (a favorite of Mr. Heather) is being blared at (seemingly) 100 decibels I remind myself of one very important fact: inasmuch as I dislike such “working conditions” there is one thing I despise more. This thing happens to be work. The way I see it, by reducing square footage I have also reduced the number of venues either my husband or our cats can despoil.
Bearing the previous in mind, dear readers, the reasons why I am smitten with the following pied-a-terre (located on Willoughby Avenue), should be self-evident.
First off, it has a rather large front yard.
While modest in size, it is lavishly appointed with those little things that make a house a home:
- Extra storage under the stairs
- A handless mannequin making what appears to be a Nazi salute
- Ghouls hanging from the rafters and most important of all…
Lucy with a brewski.
Who do I make my check out to?