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I got the bug that's been going around New York. Not the one that makes you cough and sneeze for weeks. Nor the one that pops up unexpectedly in your kitchen or bathroom from time to time. This one seizes everyone once the move to the city or need to move again in the city. It's the New York real estate bug!! When I first came to New York 10 years ago, I found it entertaining to see how rentals creeped their way into every single awkward conversation at parties with people who had just met each other.

Following right after the natural capitalist starter question, "What do you do?", stranger A would assess stranger B's income level and try to estimate - without moving fingers and toes - how much of a broker's fee they might be able to pay. Then would come the second, softer question, suggesting growing intimacy between the two strangers: "Where do you live?" And finally, the final blow would come down "How much is your rent?" Depending on the answer, stranger A might say "Wow, is that rent controlled?" (and curse under his breath at B's undeserved luck) or share his high rent to offer consolation to B.

My conversation would trail in a slightly different course. A would go into shock after hearing I own and then assume I am a Middle Eastern sheikh's daughter who obviously had to come down a step or two in Brooklyn, but still fared better than others. Then A would spend the rest of the evening thinking I am a distant cousin of richie rich and coil in jealousy. The truth of the matter is, I ain't no richie missy. After a bad experience with a crAzY landlady, I calculated that it would be cheaper to move once than to move a million times every time I had a problem with a place. So I took a reasonable plunge, putting down a modest amount in a top-floor walk up in an up-and-coming but you-better-not-walk-around-alone-too-late-at-night corner of Brooklyn.

I loved my apartment. I decorated it bit by bit with relics I carried on my back from Turkey. Over time, like any beautiful bride or handsome groom, it lost a little bit of its luster. I started noticing cracks in the walls. I tried to ignore the icicles in the fridge. Hey, the bathroom door swelled up from humidity and the window panes needed filling in, but that was normal after so many years of wear and tear. Inspired by false broker promises to lend me wads of cash, I willingly swallowed the real estate bug. I decided to cheat on my apartment and get a new place.

I searched high and low. I went into neighborhoods invented by condo developers. I saw apartments situated across from graveyards or on top of highways. (Have you heard of RAMBO? It's right after Manhattan Brooklyn overpass...please stop laughing...) Nothing... I found nothing on this imaginary, but sold as reality, Brooklyn Monopoly board.

So I came back home. My curtains looked whiter. My kitchen and bathroom had pulled themselves together. My rooms seemed bigger. My walls gave me a warm welcome, indicating that I was safe now.

I still get email updates from Streeteasy and Trulia - the automated dealers - but I am mainly over the obsessive state caused by the bug. Delusional, no more. At least temporarily. You know, it's New York... you can't snooze for long.