Everything is copacetic, as my boss used to say.

So New York City's rental market is filling me with an ill-advised longing to move to 20 W 72nd Street in Manhattan. It's across the street from the Dakota and from the park, a studio the size of my bedroom. Slightly, smaller, actually. Here's the kitchen and the floor plan:

All for $1450 a month, $400 down from a few months ago. The prices are at a 2011 level.  "OOH, LOOK AT THIS," I say to Tom trying to keep from sounding insane. But he recognizes the cuckoo on my breath and says, "Are you kidding me? We've only been here six months."  And then I tell him that I mean nothing by it that I look at NYC apartments every night the same way he shops for doodle dogs every night of the week. "But I'm not buying one!" he says.  "But you would if you could!" I say back to him. And so we continue our psychotic relationship. Everything's OK!