Real Estate Heaven (Parte Deux)

As if the stress and duress of finding a new apartment to call home isn’t enough - no. No, then you actually have to move into it.

I’ll admit, I was pretty psyched. Eh, that’s an understatement: I was ridiculously pumped. I had me a case of the chronic Christmas morning jitters. I was counting down the days, the minutes, the hours until Wednesday April 22nd.

But along with the good so too comes the bad. There are just so many un-fun things that exchanging abodes implies. For example: the cleaning and scrubbing of new AND old digs, the switching over of bill addresses and magazine subscriptions, the plotting and planning of new setups, the dread of not getting your security deposit back, the organizing of jewelry boxes (it took me HOURS), the coordinating with Supers and movers.

Boy, that last one nearly pushed me over the edge.

The Fred Schopp moving company was unavailable for a midweek move so I (gasp) had to hire real movers. At least for my big funiture - for the smaller stuff I hired a moving company called Friends and paid them in pizza and beer (thanks Kelly, Katie L., Kerry & Ri).

Apparently I was so strung out with packing and updating all those damn addresses that in my semi-conscious state of mass confusion, I saved the movers in my phone under “Valon Super” (pronounced Val-en).

When I called Valon (or who I thought was Valon) to ask about fixing the faucet in my tub and to find out whether or not I could cover the ugly gas meter in my kitchen, the man (aptly and not-so-conveniently named Allen), responded with a “Yes, we bring tools and fix better than you can.” But he failed to understand what, exactly, I was talking about.

Our conversation went on for approximately 10 minutes. All the while, Allen seemed super confused - which majorly confused me - why didn’t he understand what I was talking about?? He’d been in the apartment a million times!

Allen said he needed to get keys from me before fixing up the tub. “But you have keys to my apartment,” I said, thinking he must have misplaced them and that I could simply hand off my spare set. He said I needed to be there. “No, I trust you!” I said. And he thanked me - and though I thought that odd, my fuzzy little mind still didn’t put the puzzle pieces together.

When we were ending our conversation, Allen asked if I wanted to move on Tuesday instead of Wednesday. “No, no, you don’t have to MOVE me, you’re my Super! I hired movers!” Lightbulbs exploded. Umm, yeah. He was the mover.

WOW. Really, just wow. I had just had an intensely frustrating, ten minute long conversation with someone I thought was my Super.

Foreshadowing of ill-luck to come?

Wednesday morning couldn’t arrive quickly enough. I felt like a five year old listening for reindeer. Instead of Santa, though, I got two cute Chinese men in a circa 1987 mini-van. They assured me they could fit everything in their van and asked if I could sit in the drivers seat and “You know, drive around the block” if cops came (there was no parking to be had). Umm...OK.

Everything was moving along nice and smooth until the couch. The couch! Ugh. It didn’t wanna go out and it sure as hell didn’t wanna come in. Good thing my father, the hero (/genius), was there to take the legs off at the old apartment.

If only he’d had the foresight to take the door off the new one - man, it was like shoving a square peg in a round hole. And I mean shoving.

My kooky (albeit super sweet) next door neighbor came out into the hallway to see what the ruckus was - apparently they were heaving and hoeing so hard, her pictures were falling off the walls.

Scratches and scrapes and ripped cushions aside, there rest of the day was drama free. It was a long one to be sure - though not quite as bad as my epic Leroy-Sullivan move.

After the unpacking, the organizing, the decorating, the cleaning, the weeding through and throwing out, my new apartamento finally feels like home. I can’t believe how lucky I am! To have a one bedroom in Greenwich Village on the FIRST FLOOR that’s cheaper than my fourth floor studio!

I’m in love, I’m in love and I don’t care who knows it! (As evidenced by my photographic homage!)