Posts filed under 'Real Estate'
I recently rented Michael Clayton and as intently as I watched it (and I watched it very intently, because there is not a lot of levity in Michael Clayton), I kept getting distracted by Tom Wilkinson’s apartment. I appreciated his breathless voice over at the beginning of the movie, I found his character tragic and compelling, I was interested in his bond with Michael Clayton, but even so, I was completely distracted by his apartment. His obscenely large loft. Which appeared to be an entire floor, and was big enough to carry an echo. This might be a sign one has lived in the city for too long; I couldn’t stop thinking, Could we possibly pull the camera back so I can see exactly where the sleeping area is? I know there is a plot-critical bit of action occuring, but geez, would it kill someone to turn the lights up because I’m interested in the tile backsplash below the wall of open shelving, there, in the kitchen, DAMMIT SCENE OVER…
I think my all time favorite movie for Real Estate Porn might be Melinda & Melinda; I would sell my organs for Chloe Sevingy’s downtown loft. Important organs. Critical ones. Maybe also for the DiRty SeXXX Loft inhabited by Olivier Martinez in Unfaithful, and I recently added the townhouse shared by Julianne Moore and David Duchovny in the terrible Trust the Man to my Fantasy Real Estate list. This is what I fantasize over: exposed beams, airy rooms, antique rugs, the farmhouse sink in Meryl Streep’s West Village apartment in The Hours. I happened upon Bridget Jones’ Diary on Friday night and got all tingly over Daniel Cleaver’s house, with the wrap-around library shelving. Oooh baby, is that a clawfoot tub I spy? Come on, gimme a peak at those wide plank floors, just a little glimpse…
This is maybe what happens in your thirties: you can walk past Sephora and Club Monaco and Intermix and think, Hmm, I really like that leather bomber in the window but I don’t need it, you can keep on walking only to find yourself with an armful of Thomas Paul throw pillows telling yourself, But my couch neeeeeds a splash of color…
Hello, my name is Molly and I cannot stop obsessing over all things apartment.
I shop the real estate sites for apartments to buy AND MY OLD APARTMENT HAS NOT EVEN SOLD YET. I scour Craigslist and Etsy and eBay for things I absolutely do not need. I have lived three months in an apartment with no mirror (save for the medicine cabinet) because I can’t decide what I want, and I’m pretty sure it shows each and every day, when I leave my building and then check my reflection in the window of the restaurant two doors down. When it’s too late.
If I could live anywhere, it would be in a Tribeca loft, on a quiet street well west of Broadway. You know, like where Tom Wilkinson lived in Michael Clayton.
Two of my friends and I joke about moving in together and becoming a modern-day Three’s Company. I am the Crissy in this joke. But seriously, we then say, think of what we could afford…
I like my little apartment very much, and I am feeling pretty pleased with the way it’s all come together. But there is something utterly exhilerating about all the Possibility surrounding real estate in the city. What’s the saying? New Yorkers are always looking for either a better job, a better relationship, or a better apartment? I could use all three, to be honest, but it’s only the idea of a Brand! New! Space! that makes my tummy flutter. I don’t like being a renter, not after owning a home (well, condo), but I have to say: it’s liberating. Renting can be like ordering a whole bunch of appetizers at a restaurant: why commit to any one thing when you can try the dumplings, the stuffed zucchini blossom, the Upper West Side, Chelsea…
But I swear to you all, here and now, someday I will live in a loft, and it will be fantastic.
I realized by obsession might be crossing the line when I recently found myself lecturing a friend on changes I thought he needed to make to his apartment. Which I don’t live in, on, or near. An apartment that has nothing to do with me, yet I was all, “OMG GIVE ME A WEEK AND A TRIP TO ROOM & BOARD AND I CAN FIX YOU I MEAN YOUR APARTMENT AND TOTES LAND YOU A WIFE.” Forget making over an ill-dressed boyfriend, I’m ready to launch a consulting service devoted to Adult-ifying the Male Apartment. Lesson One: ladies no likey the golf ball collection.
It’s a disease.
April 28th, 2008
I like my apartment a lot. It’s cute and has five large windows and a big kitchen area and high ceilings and it’s quiet and it’s mine. But, it’s small. Really small. I don’t mind it so much (usually) but there is no denying that I am paying a lot of money for a very small amount of space. But there are benefits to living small: I can clean the entire apartment in 20 minutes, I know where everything is, I am forced to edit and get creative, I can always – ALWAYS – watch TV from the bed if I am so inclined. And there is another benefit:
For the past two months, my utilities bill has been $28.
Sure, I wish my bathroom was not akin to those on trains I took in Europe and sure, I would like very much to have my bed in its own room, but I’m half a block from the park and my monthly Metrocard costs more than my gas and electric. Small can be quite nice, thank you very much!
And, to all of you who have been emailing and commenting with lovely thoughts, I feel I should make the formal announcement that I AM HAPPY REALLY REALLY HAPPY! Thank you all so much for being there while things BLEW GIANT CHUNKS OF ASSMONSTERS but I am happy to announce that I am doing really, really well.
April 3rd, 2008
…is that when stories like this appear on-line, you can say, Oh, hey, remember when we bid on the garden apartment in this building?
January 21st, 2008
Apartment living means making certain concessions. I don’t have a backyard. Or a spare room for storing items not in use. I share walls with people I don’t really know, and usually I am a-okay with all the adjustments one makes when living in the beehive. But oh sweet jesus, if you live in an apartment building – even one that seems to have thick walls – and you go out of town, please remember to turn off your alarm clock. 4B has been beeping at me since Thursday and the audio Chinese-water-torture has nearly broken me. Almost. 4B, the next time we meet in the hall, don’t expect me to hold the elevator. IHATEYOUIHATEYOUIHATEYOU! Love, 4C
November 24th, 2007
The washer-dryer in our new apartment intimidates me. It has a sticker on it that says, APPROVED BY COMPUTERS! and appears to speak German, but I can’t get my clothes dry yet. It’s one small machine; you put your clothes in, you push buttons and turn dials, then it washes your clothes and upon completion, immediately begins drying them. At least, if you are not me, these things happen. If you are me, the clothes end up semi-dry and imprinted with the divot hole thingies from the inside of the washer-dryer, and you get frustrated because you cannot find the lint trap and are not sure what temperature to set the dryer and find yourself wishing you spoke (or at least read) German.
We have a little trash room down the hall with a garbage chute and various recycling receptacles. The last time I had a trash chute was in the dorms, and back then it was perfectly acceptable to take trash to the trash chute wearing pajama bottoms and socks and no bra. I’m not sure if that is considered appropriate in my apartment building, but it’s what I’ve been doing. The trash chute is a new thing for me.
So is the doorman. Or, so are the doorman, I should say, and that includes one doorlady, which makes me hyperaware of how gender-specific the doorman field is…you rarely hear about doorpeople. Tuesday has a crush on one of our doormen, the weeknight shift one, and loves going downstairs to visit him. He’s usually reading, which means I now have three things to say to him: How’s the book, The dog is so excited to see you, and Brr, it’s really cold outside. I’ve realized that if I were ever to become a doorperson, it wouldn’t be the packages or door-holding or the yapping dogs that would drive me insane, it would be the non-stop weather chitchat. Yes, it probably is cold enough for him. Or her.
How late is too late to vacuum? Or too early? I’m terrified of making any unnecessary noise before 10am or after 9pm. I’m also obsessed with keeping the bathroom floor (shiny and white!) clean. It’s a full time job.
Our dishwasher has a “Pots & Pans” setting on it. This may be completely ordinary, and possibly even outdated, but the last dishwasher I had was mustard orange, took two hours per cycle, and had trouble getting peanut butter off a knife, so the Pots & Pans options feels straight out of the Jetsons to me.
Natural light? Not the most flattering. Hello pores, good morning to you!
Our next-door neighbors, a cute couple who go by Dave and Eileen, are getting married this weekend. They have a little dog named Maxie and it’s taking all of my restraint not to go over and hug them and give them wine and offer my help handing out programs at the ceremony. Considering they don’t even know my name yet, that is probably overstepping the neighborly bounds. Still, I feel like the proximity means we should celebrate too.
Although I’ve taken to staring at the dining room/area ceiling and wondering why the light fixture couldn’t be a little more centered, we’re ridiculously happy. I finally let a night go by with dishes left in the sink, which seems like a sign that we consider the place ours.
March 6th, 2007
10. You can fit an 8′ x 11′ rug in the trunk of a New York City cab. The driver, however, may be less than thrilled when you ask for his help getting it out of the trunk and into your apartment building. Offering money helps.
9. Unpacking is surprisingly rough on the hands. I am bleeding and chapped and chafed.
8. Living in a large(r) building has many benefits, including not having to deal with utility workers tromping around and hooking up cables and wires. The cable and phone companies just flip a switch somewhere, and PRESTO you have service!
7. Dogs don’t like change. Or elevators, possibly.
6. An all white bathroom is incredibly unforgiving. So is natural light streaming in from your east-facing windows. These are things we never learned living in a cave with a gilded blue bathroom.
5. Champagne hangovers are still the worst kind. Ow.
4. You will absolutely find yourself on hands and knees picking and scrubbing and wiping every little mark you think you see when you become a homeowner. Sort of in the way I don’t mind picking up my own dog’s poo, and parents don’t mind changing their kids’ diapers…when it’s yours, it’s different. I almost cried when Kent leaned something against the wall and scratched the paint ever so slightly.
3. You will also be terrified of hanging things on the walls. I don’t want to ruin my pretty walls with HOLES, do I???
2. Not all tub drain stoppers are intuitive. Shut up, they’re not.
1. Red Bull + 4 seasoned movers = a very efficient and impressive moving day. Because we’re in! It’s over! And it only took six hours!
(Well, 10 years and six hours.)
((My apologies to Nora Ephron, Harry & Sally for stealing Sally’s line.))
February 19th, 2007
We went over to the new apartment tonight to check out the first coats of paint, and things are looking MUCH better than the last time we ventured over. We took the dog this time, and she 1) whined, 2) pooed on the floor, and 3) barked at a neighbor. We are off to a smashing start!
(For real, we met our next door neighbor — well, we met her dog, Maxie, and forgot to exchange human names, but right next door to us is a cute, nice young couple with a small black dog! Kismet!)
February 8th, 2007
We closed on our apartment Friday morning, which means that soon — very, very soon — I will be able to control my own heat. In the meantime we are having the apartment painted and avoiding all packing-related tasks. We’ve decided that the theme of this move is “Outsourcing,” so not only did we hire a painter, but we are paying movers to pack us as well as move us (the movers were non-negotiable; the packing is a delicious new option I’ve never before exercised). I had a dream the other night that I ran into my friend Beck on the street, and when she heard that we hired movers she refused to hang out with me. “We’re move-it-ourselves people!” she said. “We can’t be friends with the likes of you!”
But, but, but…outsourcing! It’s not that big of a deal! It’s a totally reasonable expense and really makes nothing but sense in the long run!…I tried to explain to her. In my dream, Kent started to see Beck’s point, and was on the verge of cancelling the movers when I luckily woke up, relieved to find that Yes, someone else was still going to take care of the packing and heavy lifting for me.
We hired a painter because doing it ourselves seemed sort of like walking down the red carpet in a designer gown with a last-minute ponytail; sure, we could manage, but after spending all this money on an apartment, why not frost the cake properly?
Which means that in two weeks, it will really be ours, in spirit as well as the eyes of the law (and bank and mortgage title company and condo board and property management firm). We actually did it. The closing was both anti-climactic and exhausting — I have not bought property anywhere else, so I can’t attest to how closings generally operate, but ours took three hours and involved 11 people — us, our lawyer, our broker, the sellers, their lawyer, their broker, the title insurance person, the bank’s lawyer, the property management representative…all squeezed into one small, hot conference room with poor air circulation. When the keys finally changed hands, Kent and I just sort of looked at them, and at each other, and at the roomful of people offering weary “congratulations,” and with ‘is this it?’ shrugs, took the elevator downstairs and hopped in a cab, both needing to get to our respective offices. We celebrated that night with champagne and a pepperoni pizza.
I’m currenlty consumed with spice rack and utensil drawer options; I guess this is what it means to be a homeowner.
February 4th, 2007
For Kent’s birthday, his sister sent him a pair of very cool, very delicate, very lovely tumblers. They were an excellent gift, as Kent loves his scotch; they are Danish and sleek and very lightweight, they were thoughtful and appropriate as well as aesthetically pleasing. They have one fatal flaw, however, which is that they do not have a flat bottom, and instead are designed to roll around on a little “knob” at the base of the tumbler, aerating the scotch and impressing dinner guests. Needless to say, now there is one.
I was putting away dishes and without even realizing I had jostled anything, this tiny featherweight balloon of lead crystal just sort of exploded on top of me. And scattered everywhere, in my hair, on the floor, in the dog’s water dish, in the food I was prepping for dinner when I realized that I should maybe empty the dishwasher before getting too involved in dirtying more things (damn you, anal compulsive kitchen clean-as-you-go tendencies!!). Everywhere. Dinner is scrapped and I’m hoping I got all the shards cleaned up and am really hoping more shards are not discovered by my dog’s paws, but it seems I’ve forgotten the First Law of Breaking Glass Things, which is that the amount of broken glass is exponentially greater than the amount of glass in the unbroken object. I’m no physicist, so I can’t explain how that works, but I’m pretty sure it’s true.
Kent isn’t home, so I’m going to break the news to him softly, namely by telling him we should consider it a sacrifice to the Moving Gods; we tithe this one tumbler and are in return granted minimal breakage when we move. Because, Oh yeah, we’re moving!
We close on the apartment this Friday, and my hand is already cramping in anticipation of the signing and signing and signing of my name, but I have to tell you, it feels pretty good to know that by this time next month, if I want to install a trapeze in my kitchen, I can do it.
We’ve lived in our current apartment for six years, so I’ve been attempting to summon up some nostalgia for this place, seeing as it’s been the place that saw us get engaged, get married, get a dog, get in fights and get settled. But the truth is that I am dying to go. I’m not one to get sentimental over Stuff or Things (that’s my husband, he who uttered, “What do you mean, you think I should throw away my college day planners?”) so I’m not feeling especially weepy about leaving this apartment. There are things I will miss, like the access to the garden and the private entrance and the never having to worry if we are being too noisy for our downstairs neighbors. I like our street. I like our neighbors. I like the big hallway closet.
But we’re moving four blocks, so I can still visit the street and the neighbors, and the new apartment has awesome closet space. Instead, I’ve been focusing on the things I won’t miss.
Like, that only two burners work on the [ancient] stove and I have to light the oven with a match.
Like that we don’t have heat very often.
Like the hideous chandelier in the dining area.
Or the blue and white and gold faux marble bathroom.
Or the peeling vinyl flooring in the kitchen.
The heavy iron door that sticks every single time I open or close it.
I won’t miss being unable to have packages delivered because there is no one available to sign for them.
Or the crooked floors which cause any and all floor lamps to list east.
I really will not miss hearing each and every thing that happens upstairs from us, especially not the constant running and pounding and jumping of two dogs and one eight-year old boy.
I won’t miss having to head to the basement to do laundry, or having to feed our upstairs’ neighbors animals (2 birds, 2 cats, 2 dogs) when they travel.
I won’t miss being woken up by the ConEd guy at 7:30am on a Saturday morning because the only access to the basement and the meters is through our apartment.
I won’t miss the noisy, energy-inefficient in-wall air conditioner in the bedroom.
I won’t miss any of the appliances.
Or the mice.
I won’t miss all the duct tape holding things together, like the exhaust vent in the bathroom, or the pipes under the sink.
What I will miss is the feeling of home, because we’ve been lucky in that this apartment has always, for better or worse, felt like a home to us. It’s never felt like a box or a dormitory or a place we were just keeping our stuff for a while. It’s been a place that has always felt like ours, warts and all. Literally and figuratively, we’ve broken a lot of glass and cleaned up a lot of messes here.
But did I mention that our new apartment has central heat and air? And a doorman? And that the building has a gym? And a trash chute? I will not miss having to take out the trash. Not one bit.
January 29th, 2007
In case you were wondering what our life savings looked like, here is a glimpse:
It looks very shiny and sparkly when viewed via the realtor’s Magic Real Estate Porn cam, which hides all flaws with its wide angle lense and special Dumb-Broke-And-Tired filter:
But, come February, it’s ours. Providing the condo board will have us.
…so there you have it. It only took a year, about 100 apartments, nine bids, six letters of recommendation, two meetings with our lawyer and 78 kajillion emails, but we did it. We have an apartment! And I am very, very thankful for it.
November 30th, 2006
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