What You Get For a Grand (Besides Bullied)

Yes I'm back in boxes and stressed to the point of passing out.
When I first moved back in the building (where I lived seven years ago), I was assured by the superintendant that I could have my old apartment as soon as it was vacant. In the meantime the apartment I got was as bright as a basement, the livingroom's single window directly over the dryer vents. I longed for a balcony for my little old dog, a bit of outside as he slowed down more and more.
Somehow my old place came up and went without me. So again I asked. And kept asking. And when another apartment became vacant, I put down a deposit, which was promptly cashed. I was told they were fixing the kitchen and was regularly assured how beautiful it was. But funnily enough, everytime I went upstairs to check it out, the door was locked and there was no sound of any work.
First the super was away on vacation, then the landlord, then they couldn't find anyone to do the work.
Two weeks ago, it finally started. Then a day later, finished. When I was finally allowed to see the place, I saw they'd cut a hole in the kitchen wall. That was it.
There was no counter, only a piece of varnished wood the width of the wall, barely wide enough to balance a coffee cup.  All of the other counters were damaged, the kitchen faucet coming away from the sink  and because of that, water damage to the wall behind the sink. The super wasn't pleased to see me taking notes. Or using my power bar to see if the electric outlets actually worked.
 I'm paying a $70.00 increase--which makes it nearly a grand. I have no idea what the previous tenant paid because they refuse to tell me. ( Landlords increase the rent every year and jack it up again between tenants. There's a space right there on the lease where the landlord is supposed to write down "the lowest rent paid for your dwelling during the 12 months before the beginning of your lease".  This is almost never filled out. You can ask and suffer the consequences. I ask and I do suffer the consequences.)
The week before the move, I'm told to keep the apartment I have or leave. I'm astounded. I'm booked off work, half-packed, friends organized to help me move. Instead, I'm  kept running day after day after day to see if I actually have a lease. The landlord makes me sweat it out; I'm sat down in the office on Monday, eager to iron out any misunderstandings.  (I am a good tenant: I pay my rent, I'm quiet, I help out my neighbours.) But for an hour I'm grilled like I'm a bad girl.When I'm told I'm not allowed to complain about anything,(yes, it's pay and shut up), I remember that an elderly neighbour was at the rental board just that morning. The landlord tells me to come back the next day. And I do. When  the secretary tells me to come back later, I do, for a repeat performance. On the third visit, the office is merely locked. And it's a repeat the next day and the rest of the week. I can't really plan anything, much less call Bell or Hydro. When I finally track him down, the landlord doesn't have time, he hasn't decided if he's actually going to let me have the apartment.
When he finally does decide and a lease is produced, I go to the super's to sign. It's the first of the month, what's supposed to be the first day in my new apartment. I don't really understand what all this was about. Moving is stressful enough without being jerked back and forth and I haven't been able to sleep.
  The super brings both copies to the office and the landlord leaves for the weekend. Without signing the lease.

Losing Momentum

It's been three months since the move and I'm ashamed to say that I have lost all momentum. To do anything. Partly because I am deep into the back-to-school/Christmas season of work but mostly because I've simply run out of steam. Major road repair is taking place right outside my home with the resulting noise and dirt pervading everywhere, even through the necessarily closed windows. I am shaken awake in the morning by the gathering of workmen and the start-up of monster machines. 
But also because I have the prospect of moving back to my old place in the building. I'd lose my lovely walk-in and still have a kitchen from hell but I'd gain a balcony. A little piece of outdoors where my old dog can lie and watch the world go by. 
The problem right now is unpacking. Why bother if I'm going to move again in a couple months? On the other hand, the stacks of books and boxes, piled up in closets or against the wall, is driving me around the bend. I'm slightly abashed when anyone walks by my open door. While my friends have snuck in one by one for a drink or dinner, they know there's no way in hell there's room for a housewarming in a cracker box of a place. 
Right now there's only room for me and Eddy in one messy bedroom of an apartment with a Nespresso machine. It's summer and maybe that's all I need.

Tiny Kitchen From Hell

To say my new kitchen is a challenge would not begin to describe my frustration. It's a kitchen to make coffee in, to reheat take-out (which could be why the first thing the concierge demonstrated was the shelf for the microwave). But I actually like to cook and the oven's too small for any of my baking sheets. The counter's barely big enough for a dishrack let alone a breadboard and there's simply no place to roll out dough (well, except for where I'm working now).
Which makes me dream of the island, kitchen island, I had four apartments ago. 12 feet long, I could lay out catalogues, roll dough for perrogys and still have room at the end for a couple friends to hang out for drinks. No such luck, or room, now.
But I picked up a cool little dishrack at Au Printemps that's perfect--less than 8" wide--and a cutlery holder from Wilfred & Adrienne. That's a start and without spending a lot of money. Of course the big test is baking. I tried making donuts but didn't get past the dough.Even with everything cleared to the diningroom table/office, there just wasn't the room for the fill-and-flip. My donut making choreography is still set for the old kitchen space.    
My tried and true banana cake worked better--at least I hope it's working better. 15 minutes past its baking time, it looks decidedly white; it's obvious I haven't figured how hot this oven actually is. (With my last, I knew to keep turning the heat down by 5 degrees.) I may end up buying dessert for tomorrow's dinner but at least the apartment smells good.

Still Unpacking

Yes it's going on week three in boxes. It makes me laugh when friends say "So now that you've moved..." What? I'll finish my novel? Open a bakery? Travel round the world? I have moved but not unpacked. I moved boxes I hadn't unpacked from my last move and that was seven years ago. I must say those were the first boxes I opened. Found a first edition of The Shining  and all my old Classic Comics as well as my board games. (Risk anyone? I did unpack the tequila.)

But I'm dreading going down to the storage locker to get the first boxes I moved. Even though those boxes have my books. Because this place is filling up fast. My walk-in closet is more like a crawl-in. (I actually managed to fit my bike in there.) Thank God for the long weekend so I can clean out that closet. And hang up pictures. And organize the kitchen.

At least the bedroom and bathroom are done. To make up for the lack of a linen closet, I moved an old Ikea bookcase next to the tub. (I've got the make-up and assorted cleansers on top, then the hair appliances and my towels on the bottom.) 
Unfortunately, like most apartments I've lived in, the tub looks like the original one. This doesn't mean it's a nice deep clawfoot, then I wouldn't mind the chips or the brushstrokes of an amateur repaint job. Or the constant drip or the lousy drainage which means I'm showering ankle-deep in water. (Did you know landlords aren't required to use a real plumber? Yet more and more leases require the tenant to take responsibility for plumbing or at least blockages.) Still, it's a step-up from the last place where the bathroom vent looked like a Louisiana swamp. Remember when landlords cleaned air vents on a yearly basis? Now even if it looks like a Louisiana swamp, good-luck in getting anyone from the city or the Regie to do anything. Even though the health ramifications of indoor air pollution are on the rise. But that's another blog...

18 Apartments

 The latest is number 19 though my brothers, who've helped me through many moves, would claim I've lived in many more. Actually it only feels that way especially after a scant two weeks after the big box-up. 
After 7 years on the waste island, waking up in the city feels like waking up in Paris. I walk Eddy to the Second Cup for a latte and a croissant then down Greene to his old haunts. Funny how he remembers who to hit up for cookies. He stands inside the bank and barks and people come running. I have to warn them not to pet him or even put out their hands--there's something about flapping fingers in front of his face that sends him absolutely ballistic--but they're oddly forgiving. "He's old. He's allowed to be crabby." (Uh no, the word actually is psycho but even that's okay. Westmounters are a lot like Parisians when it comes to their dogs which means almost anything goes. People are a different matter.)
It's because of Eddy that the boxes have to go and soon. He's a tiny dog and the boxes lining the wall, piled five high, threaten to topple and crush him. With a new season of bookselling on its way, more boxes are on their way.
The problem in a tiny place is there's no place to put things while unpacking. The kitchen is the worst and for now, I've had to give up cooking. I have enough counter space for a cutting board or dish rack. And the cutlery tray is taking up half the space I thought I created by moving in a little table. I know it's going to come together--I envision the dishrack above the sink (oh where are you, handyman of my dreams?) and another shelf above that. But right now I'm gnashing my teeth and stashing the knives away.