Who Gives A Shit: Park Slope Real Estate-n-Bedbugs

Even though I've lived in the same apartment for all four years since I've been in Park Slope, I'm always looking for a new place. I don't know where the compulsion to move comes from - perhaps too many hours watching House Hunters and Property Virgins on HGTV. Whatever it is, I'm hooked.

I cannot walk past a real estate agency without stopping to view their listings. I'll search Craigslist for apartments at least three times a week. And if a friend is looking to move into the neighborhood, I'll insert myself into that search whether they like it or not. "Surprise! I'm coming to look at that place with you, and I'm probably going to dominate the conversation with the broker."

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Who Gives A Shit: Best Kept Secrets [Summer Edition]

I'm feeling slightly guilty for saying summer in the city stinks last week. I didn't mean figuratively.

Because, despite the fact that I am not coming back until after Labor Day if I can avoid it, summer in the city is a bounty of awesomeness.

First off, it is possibly the only time of year that you can actually find a parking spot without spending a half hour circling.

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Who Gives A Shit: Dirty Little Secrets of the Work-At-Home Crowd?

Now I know that there are benefits of working from home but I found something out yesterday so appalling that I've decided to break with my limited anti-embarrassment clause to bring it to your attention this fine morning. For the record, yes, those Christmas boxers ARE clean.

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Mid-Year Check-In: How're Those Resolutions?

Because you're not totally fucking over fireworks already.  (Photo: NY Mag)

Maybe I spent too much time around my folks this weekend (or the Tea Lounge stroller brigade has really done a number on me), but I'm feeling the urge for a motherly check-in: How are those New Year's Resolutions going, gang?  We've officially been fucking around for half of 2010 (how the hell did that happen?) so, accordingly, you should be halfway done with your self-improvement projects.

I, for one, didn't comment with my resolution (in my desperate but futile attempt to keep my love life off the internet), but I'm spotless on my keep-your-exs-as-exs vow to self.  The other shit's still a work in progress.  And now the spotlight's on you, you supermodel-body-wanting, Diet-Coke-addicted Slopers: How are you all doing?  And is your 2010 blowing way less so far than 2009?

Let's chat, since it's Tuesday but sort of Monday but actually Tuesday oh god where's my desk calendar I'm useless this morning.

WHO GIVES A SHIT, BREEDER EDITION: Where Did You Pop Out Yer Kid?

Because all natural births should be immortalized in stone.  (Photo: Gawker.)

I hate to break it to you guys, but the secret's out: the inhabitants of  Brownstone Brooklyn like to breed.  (That's us, in case you're keeping score.)  Gothamist's reporting that our BREEDERS are so fancy-ass, we refuse to pop our babies out in this borough, despite the fact that we carry around our Coop groceries in Brooklyn tote bags, and tell everyone how so over living in Manhattan we are.  (Truth, if you still have that scorecard handy.)

So, your Q of the day: BREEDERS, if your spawn entered the world in this fine city, where was he/she/it born?  And I suppppose if you're joining the legion of Park Slope Parents soonish, you're welcome to respond, too, since lately I'm getting the feeling every fucking person in this city besides me is pregnant.  (Yes, I give up my seat on the F...but do YOU?)

As snarky as I'm dying to get on this one, I suppose I'll have to step back and let you all steer the ship; the closest I've ever gotten to a Brooklyn hospital is my daily walk past Methodist.  (Side note: I do have a few friends--mostly native New Yorkers--who carry around cards that read, "If found injured in Brooklyn, transport to Manhattan hospital for medical treatment.")  Fire away in the comments.