I eyeballed the place and dated it (correctly, according to the property records) to the 1920s, based on the fact that there are so many layers of paint on everything that the frou-frou trim is starting to lose its detail, and the elevator is a tiny thing with decorative grilles at the ceiling, an electromechanical call system, and a brass accordion door that you have to heave open and closed by hand. There is a linen cabinet in our hallway, as if we are adult enough to own actual linens, and a proper double-hung window in the shower that has had several layers of privacy frosting applied to it. The interior layout of our apartment was done by someone who had never so much as heard the words 'fire code'. We have been irresponsibly daisy-chaining surge protectors on the only three-prong outlet not in the kitchen or bathroom until we can get to Microcenter and pick up a large bin of adapters. The interior of my closet has several sets of twisted-pair wires and some unprotected screw terminals along the door frame, and I think it may have once been the telephone nook. We have an intercom by the front door that works and can be used to buzz people in through the security doors, likely because it would have been more expensive to yank it out than to keep it fixed.
The property company is also based out in Wellesley and is unlikely to ever see the inside of the apartment, never mind any of us, unless we try to burn the place down. This is a great comfort to me. I get along much better with maintenance workers than management. Maintenance could not give two shits about what we're doing in there as long as they don't have to fix any of it in the middle of the night.
The building is so very in Brighton that our 'new tenant' circular contains a few pages outlining how to be a good student resident. We live across the street from a place that I can only describe as The Compleat Stoner's All-In-One Food Emporium. They serve:
- Things that are deep fried;
- Things that go on hoagie rolls;
- Things that involve pizza crust;
- Ice cream;
There are two laundromats within spitting distance of the building, and one of them has big signs in the window announcing that they have free wifi. BPL Brighton is about a fifteen minute walk away.
My roommate got a new mattress for Allston Christmas this year. I personally decided that the last time I moved a goddamn dresser would be the last time I ever moved a goddamn dresser, and bought a clothing rack that comes apart for transport. I do not want drawers badly enough to load them into a truck, ever. (Although I do own a nesting 8-piece luggage set, and a collection of duffel bags, for exactly this horrible purpose. I bought most of them for moving across the country in the first place.) The only piece of actual furniture I own anymore is the cage stand the rats live on, and I suppose you can also count their cage.
The critters are dandy. They hated riding in the truck closed into a cardboard box, but I assembled das Rathaus and inserted them back into it as soon as we got to Brighton, and within an hour they were so utterly fine that I was dropping loud clangy chrome pipes in my attempt to put my clothing rack back together, and they didn't even stop eating. I've moved rats before, and this is standard operating procedure: As long as they have their mommy and their house, they really don't care where they live. They did cleverly manage to dye themselves purplish in blotches, by rolling in the grapes I gave them in lieu of a messy water bowl for the ride over.
The only hitch is that Comcast refused to send a henchcritter out to hook up our internet until Jazmin went down to the office in person with a copy of the lease. Seems the previous residents neither called to have their service properly turned off, nor paid their damn bill. All is well now and I'm told the Googles will work again soon, but until then I'll be AFK a lot.