Tuesday: I make a list

So, last week, my property management company told me that my landlord was putting the condo I’ve lived in for the last 2 and a half years on the market. I was shocked, mostly by the asking price, which was $525 000 for 624 square feet. At that rate, my own house should be worth over 3.5 million dollars, but it’s not in the heart of the big city, but in a small town where people aren’t insane. I woke up last Saturday morning to approximately 40 emails in my inbox about showings that weekend. I was super-pissed off and full of anxiety because I hate it when people touch my stuff. Especially when I’m not there. In fact, I regularly have panicky episodes after our new cleaner has been here, because she moves everything and doesn’t put it back. Then I have to spend ages restoring order to my life, and re-re-arranging all my sh*t. Now, I know that this sounds like a first-world problem, but imagine if all my stuff was a goat, and someone…No, the goat analogy doesn’t really work here, but still. I had a minor panic attack on Saturday, imagining people wandering around my private space and silently judging me. And to make things worse, the photographs that went with the internet listing were taken when the previous tenants lived there, and they were total slobs. So now, people would think I lived like a hoarder. Here’s a quote from My Week 18, where I describe the experience of seeing my own condo for the first time over two years ago, just in case you think I’m exaggerating:

“The actual listing showed this pristine, empty apartment, so none of us were prepared when we opened the door and the place was crammed from top to bottom with someone else’s crap. And I mean CRAP. My dad and brother had come with me because Ken had to work, and they were both like “Oh, look at all the light” and “It’s so roomy” (it’s 624 square feet and costs more than the mortgage for my house), at which point the door to the second bedroom opened and a half-dressed woman peeked out. We were all taken aback, and the agent said something like “We have an appointment—is it OK that we look around?” She kind of nodded, then disappeared back into the room and shut the door. You couldn’t really move around to see much—they were getting ready to move out, but it was like that show Hoarders—there were little pathways between all the stuff (use your imagination), and you couldn’t get to the periphery of anything, plus the half-naked lady was in the one bedroom and we had to ask her if we could look at it. She kind of stood to one side, and there was underwear everywhere, and I was having major doubts about the whole thing. Then my brother was like, “Look—what a great balcony—it runs from the living room all the way to the bedroom!”, and then I realized that we were on the 27TH FLOOR, and there was no way I was EVER going out onto that balcony. I don’t have a fear of heights; I just have an intense fear of falling FROM THEM. But it was the only place left in town, and it was right across the street from my office, which meant no commuting, especially if I launched myself off the balcony and parasailed down to the street (which would only happen if I was, in fact, a secret agent trying to elude enemy agents).”

The pictures were from THAT tenant. And just for the record, here’s what MY condo looks like–calm and uncluttered (some of you might recognize the leather loveseat that I got for free in the big garage downstairs):

I emailed the real estate agent, who basically gave zero f*cks about my angst that people would think I lived in a metaphorical and literal sense of turmoil. Then, when I got back on Sunday night, I was even more upset because my bedroom cabinet and my bedside table had both been opened, and someone had very obviously been sitting on my bed. So even more anxiety for me, but it didn’t much matter because on Tuesday afternoon, I got an email telling me that the place was sold, and there was an eviction notice attached which gave me until the end of May to move out. I was simultaneously furious and sad. Then I had to go home and tell my roommate, S. But at least I didn’t have to move until her co-op term was over. She’s a great kid, easy to get along with, and a hard worker, which makes me think that all the people who whine about “millenials” haven’t actually met one, because any of the ones I know, S included, are just lovely, super-informed, and have no sense of entitlement whatsoever. Anyhow, we had a long discussion about my options and she made me feel a lot better in the way that only sensible young people can do. Later, I went to take my laundry out of the dryer, and I got yet another shock from all the static that having the heat on causes:

Me: Jesus! That’s the fifth time since I’ve been home that I’ve gotten shocked. This place is merciless.
S: See? That’s something you won’t miss about living here, right?
Me: Absolutely. I also won’t miss the fact that there’s only one knob to control the washer AND the dryer, and you have to switch them back and forth.
S: You should make a list of all the things you won’t miss. Then you’ll feel better.

So here’s my list:

1) I won’t miss the extremely dark hardwood floors that show every speck of dust. I clean them ALL THE TIME and they still look dirty. And if you walk around barefoot, the next day you can see where you’ve been, like some insanely complicated dance instruction chart.

2) I won’t miss the refrigerator that makes a knocking sound, like there’s someone at the door. For the first few months, it would make the sound randomly, and I would jump up and look through my peephole, but there was never anyone there (except that one time—see number 5). The refrigerator is a dick, and I won’t miss it.

3) I won’t miss the scuffed walls that the previous tenants left behind and that my landlord refused to paint. I also won’t miss the peeling veneer on the bathroom cabinets that my landlord refused to repair. I guess the new owners get to deal with that sh*t now. Suckers. You paid over half a million dollars to live in a box, and the first thing you’ll have to do is paint and renovate.

4) I won’t miss the sweet smell of deodorizer that permeates the halls and garbage rooms. It doesn’t do anywhere near a good enough job of covering up the underlying smell of garbage, because when downtown Toronto doesn’t smell like urine, it smells like garbage. Sad truth.

5) I will ABSOLUTELY NOT miss the Serial Killer upstairs who, after an almost yearlong reprieve, chose this past week to begin building another ladybox for his next victim, if the nightlong hammering is any indication. The first time he pulled this crap, I complained to the concierge, who went up at 3 am to make him stop. The second time that I complained about the nocturnal hammering and sawing, he came down to my unit and knocked on the door to explain that he was installing a new floor (at first I wasn’t sure it was the door or the refrigerator, then I looked through the peephole and jumped out of my f*cking skin). Sure, I believe THAT—it doesn’t take three months to install a floor in a 600 square foot condo—you’re not fooling anyone. The previous last time was April 2016, when I complained to the property manager, and she sent him a noise violation notice. The hammering stopped for almost a year, then on Wednesday night, he started around 5 pm, and he was still at it at 4 in the morning. Did I complain? Not me. In fact, my roommate suggested that I encourage him to continue with his “nocturnal emissions” so that the new owners will also have the pleasure of lying awake in the middle of the night and imagining the worst.

At the end of the day though, the list doesn’t matter. I’m still angry and stressed out, because I’ve made the place my home, despite its shortcomings, for the last 2 and a half years, and now I’m in the process of contacting real estate agents about rentals. Transitions are hard for me, but I’m sure I’ll find something else that will become a new “home away from home”. And at least I still have Ken, K, Raven, Titus, and Oscar Wildefish. And who knows–maybe I’ll even luck out, and get a new serial killer upstairs.

Saturday: Buying stools is sh*tty

Yesterday, Ken and I went shopping for stools for our kitchen island. The two barstools we have are old and starting to fall apart, so I decided I wanted new ones. Well, that was easier said than done. Who would have thought that buying two f*cking stools would be that hard?

Store 1: Teppermans

They only sell their barstools in sets of three for some bizarre, nonsensical reason. Also, there are 50 people working there, and they’re too busy flirting with each other to help the customers. Well, it IS a family-owned business, so maybe encouraging their employees to procreate in the mattress section of the store fits into their business model.

Store 2: Homesense

They had the perfect stools, but they were three inches too short. I don’t know if I’m willing to sacrifice style over being able to reach the counter.

Store 3: Pier One

The place was mobbed. Despite that, a sales person immediately came to us and not only offered to show us all the barstools in their catalogue, but to sign us up for the napkin-folding workshop that was about to take place. Ken looked mildly excited (you all know how much he loves crafts) but I was on a stool mission, so no fancy napkins for us today. Then she showed us the stools and they were all like $250 EACH. For a STOOL. I think not, but it explains the excellent customer service.

Store 4: Leons

We asked the sales guy if they sold bar stools, and he said no. Then another, more Alpha Male sales guy said, “Yes we do—they’re back here.” But they all looked too short, at which point, he started mansplaining to me the difference between a “counterstool” and a “barstool”. Turns out they had ZERO “barstools”, but he was “pretty sure that a counterstool would do the trick because our counter couldn’t be THAT high.” Well, it’s a KITCHEN ISLAND NOT A COUNTER, mansplain-y guy, and we measured it, so we know what we’re talking about, but thanks for being a dick.

Store 5: The Bay

They had a stool we liked, but we couldn’t find another one. There were two people working the furniture floor, both like 90, and the one guy was “busy finalizing a sale for a customer” (we looked around and we were the only people even in the place), and the woman in housewares was taking an eternity to wrap a marble cake plate in layers of tissue paper, while she and the purchaser chatted about NOT STOOL STUFF! Then Ken was all embarrassed because I loudly said that it was ridiculous and I didn’t have any more time in my day to wait for someone to wrap and rewrap a stupid cake plate. He claims that “everyone” heard me, and that I made “everyone feel bad” but if it takes you more than 2 minutes to wrap a f*cking cake plate, then you SHOULD feel bad and you should get a job that doesn’t involve wrapping stuff, KEN.

The only good part of the day was that we went to Petsmart and I found the perfect structure for Oscar’s tank. It’s a section of a Romanesque building, and he was thrilled:

Me: Look, Oscar—it’s like the Parthenon!
Oscar: I think you mean the Temple of Athena, sweetie. Still, it has a certain “je ne sais quoi”. Not quite the Aesthetic Style, but a close approximation. Flossie, what do you think?
Raven: Better than Ninja-Fish’s old pagoda.
Oscar: Oh Flossie, you’re such a cheek!
Titus: It has that “Gladiator” sexy kind of vibe. I’m down with it.
Oscar: All agreed then. I shall name it the “Kitchen Coliseum”. Let the games begin!

Hopefully, I’ll be as thrilled with my new digs as Oscar, whose chariot races are keeping everyone occupied at the moment. I’ll keep you posted.