My whine

Roomie and I have a fabulous apartment. It’s a third floor walk up and has two bedrooms, two baths, kitchen, dining cum sitting room.

We have a narrow foyer with a tiny coat rack closet. Big eat-in kitchen with tile flooring; white cabinets; semi-granite countertops; double sink; reach in pantry, great appliances, a laundry closet that is a storage for us because we don’t need no stinking washing machines for we have we have laundromat in our super apartment complex.

Our dinning cum sitting room has a very simple, elegant mould all across the top where the wall and the ceiling converge/become one/meet.

A big light fixture with a chandelier complex marks our dining room. Our big wooden dining table sits right under it.

A lovely wooden balcony with a barbecue storage attached juts out of our living room.

Our rooms are in separate corners of the apartment with private baths.

My rectangle room has three single-hung windows on one wall. There is a long window that is right next to my dark chocolate colored, wooden chair with extended arms that I got at a midnight sale during my Target internship.

The other window is high up and unreachable and is right opposite my bathroom. At night, the light from that window reflects off full size wall mirror in bathroom and creates a nice soothing effect for me and leads the way for me to pee.

Then there is the walk-in closet, which is big enough to have three shelves on the three walls. In it I could sleep and feel very Carrie Bradshawish sans the fab shoes.

This is the nicest apartment I have lived in in this country. I love it when I sit in my big wooden chair next to my long window that opens out to well-kept lawn reading my lovely and tasteful fashion mag or the other one that makes me sound smart or any of the lovely books from the quaint library down the road.

But when I have to go out and drive through flat terrain with buildings that only reach to the fourth floor, and where pedestrians are rare and the suspiciously cheery type passing out Mormon Bibles, and when getting Indian spices mean a two hour trek through winding roads, I cry and wish I was living in a cardboard box in New York City or any other city.

Congestion, cramped living & ethnically diverse crowds, I miss you.