STRANGER THAN FICTION: APARTMENT-HUNTING TOUGH ON THE NERVES

In the words of the famous lyricist Billy Joel, I'm moving out.

You may remember my apartment: La Casa de la Cucaracha. I've bombed them, sprayed them, trapped them and let my cat eat them, but the pesky little critters keep coming back.

Now they can have the place to themselves. Ramses and I have had all we can stand.

It's a combination of things, really, not just the cucarachas.

First of all, some of my neighbors are a little strange. Sure, the one who had his door kicked down in broad daylight by some unidentified person is gone now. But I'm still getting 4:30 a.m. visits from folks looking for another neighbor.

I understand not everyone operates on the same schedule I do. But 4:30 IN THE MORNING?

There are other reasons for moving, too, but that's a future column. The point is, Ramses and I are looking for a new home, and we need one badly.

A friend of mine suggested calling the real estate companies, so I did. Bad thing to do if you work for a newspaper. Real estate companies don't mess with apartments that rent for less than $300, and they REALLY don't mess with pets.

If you beg and beg, swearing that your cat is a declawed, neutered 10-year-old with no teeth, they might just let him in. But you'll have to put down a massive pet deposit and sign a contract that states if your cat so much as breathes in the time you live there, you will forfeit the deposit and another $500.

So real estate companies usually don't work for me.

The next step is whipping out Southeast Missourian classifieds, which are full of the items you want at prices you can afford. (Can I have a raise now?) There's a huge section of unfurnished apartments with ads like:

2-bdrm. apt., appl. furnished, $300/mo., no pets. Call 555-1234 after 5 p.m., ask for Ralph.

You'll note there is no address in there. Ralph knows that if he put the address, decent, God-fearing folks wouldn't come within 50 miles of his rental property. But if you call Ralph, he is able to talk you into at least taking a look at it.

Looking at rental property is the most depressing activity in the world, except weighing yourself. The landlord always swears the carpets have been cleaned and the walls painted, despite crayon marks on one and mysterious stains on the other.

You walk around with a poker face, hoping your expression doesn~'t say, "I wouldn't live here if it were the last shelter on Earth."

At the end of the five-minute tour, you promise the landlord you'll call, then throw his phone number out the window and look through the ads again.

After a week of hunting, you can't stand it anymore and end up in something like La Casa de la Cucaracha. At least that's what happened to me.

One of these days, I'll be a homeowner. The Publisher's Clearinghouse people will knock on my door with a dozen red roses, balloons and a massive check for $20 million.

The first thing I'll do is purchase rental property.

~Heidi Nieland is a staff writer for the Southeast Missourian.