I crash facedown on the couch. After a long day of apartment hunting, even my calves have blisters. This is the third Sunday in a row where I’ve walked so far and taken so many subways that New York City feels like it has thirty-five boroughs. Despite my good solid job and corporate salary, I can afford none of it.

My cell phone rings and it’s my grandmother in South Carolina, the one with whom I share a name. “Hi honey, how are you?” she drawls.

“Hoping the couch swallows me whole,” I answer.

“Oh, dear. You’re not that tasty, I’m afraid,” Memah continues. “That couch is going to spit you right back out.”

I decide that falling victim to a starving couch is not on the agenda today and sit up. “I’ve been apartment hunting again,” I tell her.

“And it really is a hunt, isn’t it? You’d be better off with a bow and arrow or something.”

“Bless my heart,” I pre-empt her.

“I was going to say, bless New York City’s heart,” she corrects me.

“Tell me again where you lived when you lived here,” I prompt her as I take off my shoes and stretch my toes.

“Oh, honey, I don’t want to torture you with that,” she says. “It was so long ago, we could only go out when the dinosaurs were hibernating.”

“Park Avenue and 29th street, was it? In Manhattan. Do you know I have lived in New York for ten years and I never lived in Manhattan?”

“Well, I lived in New York for six years and I never took the subway. I walked to work at the hospital. With my umbrella, rain or shine.”

“To keep the dinosaurs away?”

“Not on the way to and from work. During the day you were safe from the dinos. No, the umbrella was for establishing my personal space. It had a long spiky metal point and if anyone got too close, I stabbed them in the toe with it.”

I have heard this story a million times but it never gets old. I have four umbrellas, each about three feet long, all with very pointy metal tips sticking out of the end. “My dad gave me a baseball bat when I moved here, remember?” I ask her.

“And I told your father, that is ridiculous. You can’t bring a baseball bat into the theater or on a date! People will think you are insane,” she proclaims.

“Mace doesn’t work because you might spray it on yourself and the dry cleaning bill would be a horror. I’ve seen some of these key chain gadgets like a dog whistle… well, that’s fine but every dog I ever saw in New York was more scared of me than I was of him.”

“Because of the umbrella,” I chime in.

“And my attitude because of the umbrella. I will stab you before you can bite me, little pooch,” her cadence hasn’t shifted a beat. She could have been talking about petits fours for the church picnic or her magnolia tree out back. “You know, New York is just like those dogs. A dog may bark and bark, but if you bite before he does, New York is the kind of dog who will heel.”

“I just wish I could get rent prices to heel,” I say. “Otherwise I will end up living in the Bronx.”

“Well, the Bronx is lovely. I went a few times to the Botanic Garden and the Zoo. Arthur Avenue is a gastronomic delight.”

“It’s a four hour commute, Memah.”

“Read a book.”

“It’s a wild place, Memah.”

“Every place is wild, honey. The Bronx doesn’t hide anything while other places do. What do they say in New York? FUGGHEDABOUTIT! You know, the rent problem is easy to solve. You won’t have to move to the Bronx if you don’t want to.”

“I’d love an affordable clean apartment in a decent location, so I’m all ears,” I respond.

“Mug people,” she says.

I have to stare at the phone. “Pardon?”

“Better yet, mug your real estate broker. Then mug a few others. Get a good sampling.”

“Memah? Did you just say – ”

“Yes, honey. Mug people. Rob them. Preferably with a weapon but we can discuss that. No guns. Now, you hear me out,” she says. “If word gets out that the neighborhood is crime ridden, no one will move there, and rents will go down.”

I burst out laughing. “You’re not serious?”

“Serious as an umbrella in the rain.”

“That’s crazy! Even for you. What if I didn’t mug people but just sent out some tweets about muggings?” I ask. “Creating some propaganda. Would that work?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about but you need actual evidence. Involve the cops. All NYPD cops are very handsome.”

“In 1942 I’m sure they were.”

“You mean 1492. I’m very old, honey, don’t forget that.”

“What about some drug dealers? Make the neighborhood a little sketchy?”

“Drugs won’t deter anyone, honey. They usually attract some – what word did you use? – sketchy types.”

“Maybe a little organized crime? Brothel and money laundering?”

“Honey, I love you, but how stupid are you? That’s all of New York City. There was a brothel on the corner of Lexington and 29th when I was fighting dinosaurs on Park Avenue. How’s that for a fancy Manhattan address?”

“I thought the dinosaurs were nocturnal?”

“They are, but of course I went out to dance on Thursdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. You got a pastrami sandwich on the way home, ate half with a root beer, threw half to the dinos, kicked off your shoes, and ran for your life.”

Suddenly I’m in tears from laughing so hard. Hearing me laugh makes my grandma laugh, too. She gets the hiccups and we laugh even harder.

“Oh, my abs,” she intones as the hiccups subside.

Now I’m the one with hiccups.

“Thanks, Memah,” I say as we calm down. “I needed that.”

“Everything will work out just fine,” she says. “You just stay the course. Bite the little barking dogs. And don’t forget your umbrella.”

My other phone line beeps. I glance at the number. “Hey, I’m sorry, I gotta go, that’s my broker.”

“I hope it’s good news! Love you, honey. Buh bye.”

She hangs up and I click over the lines. “Hello?”

“Yeah, hi, I know you were interested in that one bedroom in Jackson Heights?”

Queens! “Oh yes, is it available?” I try not to get too excited.

“Yeah, you’re in luck. The previous tenants have to break their lease and the landlord isn’t interested in anyone who can’t sign for a full year, so…” he trails off.

I stand up on sore blistered feet. “I will take it if the landlord agrees not to raise the rent for two years.”

There’s a pause on the other end. “Uh, okay, I think we can make that work. Just remind me, when can you move in?”

I juggle the phone and dance a little happy dance. That’s how you get this dog to heel, I think to myself.