After a long day, I returned home at 9:15 to be confronted by the acrid aroma of polyurethane in the hallway of my apartment building. Opening the door to my second floor unit, I inhaled and detected another offensive odor, that of exhaust. Exhaust? I could not identify the source but it was unmistakably different from the smell downstairs. I microwaved some dinner and quickly ate it, but I was beginning to feel lightheaded from whatever molecules were invading my airspace. I opened the windows, turned on the ceiling fans and then headed out for a walk, hoping that I'd be able to air the place out before bedtime.
As I was leaving, I met some of the other tenants who were complaining about the smell. Had they contacted the landlord? No.
I strolled to Whole Foods, purchased a poppyseed hamentashen to cheer me up, and when asked by the pony-tailed checkout clerk how my evening was going, I told him, "Not so well. My building has fumes in it and I'm here while I'm airing out my apartment. If it doesn't work, I might have to spend the night in a hotel. By the way, do you know of any hotels nearby?"
He suggested I look off of I-25, heading north, for a Hampden Inn.
When I returned to my apartment the situation had not abated and I left a message for the landlord, letting him know that I did not feel safe sleeping there and that I'd like him to pay the cost of a hotel. Within minutes he had called back and, after discussing the situation, said he'd reimburse me up to $60. Fine, I said, even though that would probably not cover a room at a hotel I'd feel safe staying at. I did not feel like haggling over the amount, I simply had to get out of there. Already, I had a headache. I grabbed my purse (containing the hamentashen), laptop and toothbrush - what else does a gal really need for an unexpected adventure? - and started driving north. While I was on the highway the landlord called again, asking me if I had found a hotel. Not yet, I said, but I told him that I was in my car, in search of lodging. He said he was on his way over to the building install some exhaust fans to help clear the air. He also seemed very apologetic and sympathetic - in his words, he said that I must have an allergy to polyurethane. No, I've been blessed with a sensitive nose that alerts me to anything that might harm me.
As I pulled off the highway I told him I had spotted a "La Quinta Inn" and would check for a room there. He said that was OK and agreed to pay whatever the rate was. It turns out to be more than $60.
Showing posts with label Housing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Housing. Show all posts
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Tuesday, June 24, 2008
Invasion, Industriousness, Indictment
Ants have invaded my apartment. These industrious insects have climbed up and clambered into my 3rd floor abode, making themselves a little too at home. At first I just noticed a handful of ants scampering about and I let them go about their business. They weren't harming me so why should I harm them? But then their numbers started to grow, as did my irritation, especially when I noticed several of them slumbering in my cat's food dish. Perhaps the ants had overindulged on tuna fish and were enjoying a siesta?
It was time to retaliate. I tossed the food, avec ants, now scrambling in a panic, into the trash. A few of them managed to extricate themselves from the metal garbage can before the lid banged shyt. Placing the now empty cat dish into the sink, I noticed a few ants checking out the scene. Were they an indictment of my less than immaculate housekeeping, a reminder to not leave any dirty dishes in the sink for even a moment?
Meanwhile, my cat roused herself from a nap and was suprised to find that her dish had disappeared. I put a small amount of tuna in a fresh bowl, hoping she'd finish it before the next wave of ants discovered it. She has licked it clean. If only she had an appetite for ants.
It was time to retaliate. I tossed the food, avec ants, now scrambling in a panic, into the trash. A few of them managed to extricate themselves from the metal garbage can before the lid banged shyt. Placing the now empty cat dish into the sink, I noticed a few ants checking out the scene. Were they an indictment of my less than immaculate housekeeping, a reminder to not leave any dirty dishes in the sink for even a moment?
Meanwhile, my cat roused herself from a nap and was suprised to find that her dish had disappeared. I put a small amount of tuna in a fresh bowl, hoping she'd finish it before the next wave of ants discovered it. She has licked it clean. If only she had an appetite for ants.
Monday, October 15, 2007
Illegal immigrant
Today Juan (not his real name, as it turns out) returned to finish some repairs at my apartment. Remembering that I wrote that I would be kinder when he came back, I got up early enough to meditate for 30 minutes before the agreed arrival time of 7:30 a.m. Since the contractor and Juan had appeared promptly the week before, I even skipped a shower so that I'd be sure to hear them arrive (I have no doorbell...yet) and be able to let them in.
As 8:15 rolled around, my impatience and stinkiness growing, I called the contractor to find out when I might expect them.
"Oh, it's just Juan who is coming today," he told me. I was relieved.
"OK, but I'd like to take a shower, so could you find out when he'll show up?"
"Don't worry, he won't get there while you're showering," the contractor said. "He's at least a half hour away."
I was not reassured.
The phone rang again after I had finished bathing and dressing. It was the contractor letting me know that Juan probably wouldn't make it until 10 a.m. I started to get annoyed - I could have slept later, showered sooner....my mind could have generated a list a mile long about how things "could have" been.
"Well," I huffed. "I'm not sure I can stick around much longer than that."
"OK," he said. "I'll tell him to hurry."
Part of me was eager to get agitated and pissed and scream at this guy but I remembered kindness so I didn't bite his head off. I also realized that even though contractors have made me feel crazy in the past, I do have a choice about how I am going to react NOW. I didn't have to get angry all over again. I sighed and tried to figure out how to rearrange my plans so that I could get something accomplished while waiting.
The following e-mail shows up, one of a few daily inspirational quotes that I receive:
I wasn't feeling cheated, per se, but it was a good reminder to not let other people's behavior determine how I feel. Getting upset is, actually, a choice (one that many people make).
At 11 a.m., engrossed in creating my jewelry newsletter, I hear a faint sound down below. I go to my hallway, open the window to peer out and see Juan standing patiently in his New England fall "uniform": blue jeans and a grey zipped hooded sweatshirt.
"Just a minute!" I say, scampering down the steep steps in my sockfeet.
"I owe you a big apology," he says in Spanish while handing me a bag of tostadas. "These are for you."
"Muchas gracias!" I say, trying to let him in. The hallway is so narrow I need to back up the stairs so that Juan, who's somewhere between "husky" and "a few extra pounds" can enter. It is hard to be too upset with a handyman who comes bearing authentic Mexican snacks, even if the guy is nearly half a day behind schedule.
He quickly fixes one of my kitchen lights, reinstalls the window pane in the bathroom and hangs up my coatrack. When he's finished we get to talking about his boss ("Esta un poco loco, no?" he says, almost smiling. I agree that the contractor is a bit crazy, but I'm grimacing). But Juan is not bothered by the man's kookineess. He's grateful to be working at all. His previous patrones, a couple who flew him to Boston from LA to live in their house while fixing it up, left the country without paying him for three months of his labor. They also sold the house, giving him little time to find another place to stay. All he got was $200 and a note that said, essentially, "Sorry! We're outta here".
Juan said he was glad to be in the US, even if illegally, as back home he found his job, as a member of the presidential secret service, demoralizing and degrading. Lacking connections, he had to pay a bribe to be considered for the job, which often entailed keeping an eye on presidential offspring who were drinking, drugging and vomiting. And he was on call nearly all the time, a life without structure or much sleep. Or respect.
"If you don't know the right people in Mexico, " Juan said. "Then you're nothing. People will treat you how they want. I have studied and have a few degrees but it made no difference. It's much better here."
Juan seemed to harbor no bitterness towards the couple who fleeced him. He embodied the message in my inbox, a walking example of how to let go and move on, to be happy regardless. He might be somewhat naive but he seems to be living in the moment, not living with a grudge.
I hope I can remember his example the next time I start to feel cheated. Certainly, I'll think of him for as long as I can make the tostadas - in this case they are round, flat and slightly sweet biscuits - last.
As 8:15 rolled around, my impatience and stinkiness growing, I called the contractor to find out when I might expect them.
"Oh, it's just Juan who is coming today," he told me. I was relieved.
"OK, but I'd like to take a shower, so could you find out when he'll show up?"
"Don't worry, he won't get there while you're showering," the contractor said. "He's at least a half hour away."
I was not reassured.
The phone rang again after I had finished bathing and dressing. It was the contractor letting me know that Juan probably wouldn't make it until 10 a.m. I started to get annoyed - I could have slept later, showered sooner....my mind could have generated a list a mile long about how things "could have" been.
"Well," I huffed. "I'm not sure I can stick around much longer than that."
"OK," he said. "I'll tell him to hurry."
Part of me was eager to get agitated and pissed and scream at this guy but I remembered kindness so I didn't bite his head off. I also realized that even though contractors have made me feel crazy in the past, I do have a choice about how I am going to react NOW. I didn't have to get angry all over again. I sighed and tried to figure out how to rearrange my plans so that I could get something accomplished while waiting.
The following e-mail shows up, one of a few daily inspirational quotes that I receive:
If someone cheats you, they cannot diminish your experience. They only diminish their experience. You cannot be diminished by someone cheating you unless you get all upset about being cheated and push against them.
I wasn't feeling cheated, per se, but it was a good reminder to not let other people's behavior determine how I feel. Getting upset is, actually, a choice (one that many people make).
At 11 a.m., engrossed in creating my jewelry newsletter, I hear a faint sound down below. I go to my hallway, open the window to peer out and see Juan standing patiently in his New England fall "uniform": blue jeans and a grey zipped hooded sweatshirt.
"Just a minute!" I say, scampering down the steep steps in my sockfeet.
"I owe you a big apology," he says in Spanish while handing me a bag of tostadas. "These are for you."
"Muchas gracias!" I say, trying to let him in. The hallway is so narrow I need to back up the stairs so that Juan, who's somewhere between "husky" and "a few extra pounds" can enter. It is hard to be too upset with a handyman who comes bearing authentic Mexican snacks, even if the guy is nearly half a day behind schedule.
He quickly fixes one of my kitchen lights, reinstalls the window pane in the bathroom and hangs up my coatrack. When he's finished we get to talking about his boss ("Esta un poco loco, no?" he says, almost smiling. I agree that the contractor is a bit crazy, but I'm grimacing). But Juan is not bothered by the man's kookineess. He's grateful to be working at all. His previous patrones, a couple who flew him to Boston from LA to live in their house while fixing it up, left the country without paying him for three months of his labor. They also sold the house, giving him little time to find another place to stay. All he got was $200 and a note that said, essentially, "Sorry! We're outta here".
Juan said he was glad to be in the US, even if illegally, as back home he found his job, as a member of the presidential secret service, demoralizing and degrading. Lacking connections, he had to pay a bribe to be considered for the job, which often entailed keeping an eye on presidential offspring who were drinking, drugging and vomiting. And he was on call nearly all the time, a life without structure or much sleep. Or respect.
"If you don't know the right people in Mexico, " Juan said. "Then you're nothing. People will treat you how they want. I have studied and have a few degrees but it made no difference. It's much better here."
Juan seemed to harbor no bitterness towards the couple who fleeced him. He embodied the message in my inbox, a walking example of how to let go and move on, to be happy regardless. He might be somewhat naive but he seems to be living in the moment, not living with a grudge.
I hope I can remember his example the next time I start to feel cheated. Certainly, I'll think of him for as long as I can make the tostadas - in this case they are round, flat and slightly sweet biscuits - last.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Ick! Incompetence
After posting under such esoteric words as isagogics and irritatory, I thought I'd simplify to a three letter word.
Ick! was my reaction to the "contractor" who showed up bright and early this rainy morning (yes, I had chosen the time - 7:30 a.m. - but had overslept), his fly unzipped and his pants sitting just a bit too low on his hips, his jacket and shoes dripping water into my apartment. Having just rolled out of bed, I was not in a good mood, nor had I meditated. My only preparation for this appointment (aside from putting on a pair of pants) was that I removed something from above the sink so that they could install a light.
What was this something? A sticky note that said KINDNESS, as a reminder to be more kind to myself and others.
I efficiently pointed out to him and his assistant what needed to be done (pipes to be insulated, lights to be fixed, replaced or installed) and proceeded to make myself a cup of tea.
"You know," he said, "I was at Home Depot at 8 o'clock last night getting things for your job."
Did the man want a medal for his heroic efforts? A pat on his unkempt head?
"OK," I said, starting to wish he'd just do the work and get the heck out of my space before he polluted it with his sulky attitude.
It quickly became apparent that this disheveled man had absolutely no clue about basic home repair.
I had told my landlord to install a heat lamp in the bathroom, and this fellow dutifully went to Home Depot and tried to find a heat lamp that ... get this ... wouldn't vent, because he figured the landlord wouldn't want to pay to have a vent put into the bathroom.
Well.
Mr. Disheveled had found the ugliest possible contraption for a heat lamp which, according to his assistant, a Mexican fellow, could not be properly hooked up without ventilation. Duh! And he didn't quite get that I wanted to keep my regular light fixture in the bathroom, not replace it with a heat lamp. Had he been a licensed contractor, he would have either asked about this or assumed that both a normal bulb and an infrared bulb were needed.
"You know," I practically spat, "they do sell combination heat lamps with regular bulbs that can operate on a single switch."
"Don't worry," he replied,"we'll solve the problem."
Unconvinced, I retreated with my tea to the living room.
He came in and said, "I'm here trying to help you. I've never done business with you before and you seem to have a bad attitude. I was getting stuff for you late last night!"
Poor fellow...had I ruined his weekend?
"You're working for my landlord, not me, and I've been waiting a month for you to show up. It was your choice to go to Home Depot last night." I retorted, as calmly as I could.
"Well, I'm trying to be helpful," he repeated, as if his good intention would be enough to accomplish the list of chores he came to perform. "Sounds like you are annoyed at the landlord."
One of the things my last therapist tried to convince me of is that, believe it or not, the Universe (even in the form of a disheveled, unzipped and incompetent contractor) is friendly helpful. If only I can learn to see things that way.
Remembering the sign I had taken off the kitchen wall just a few minutes before, I wondered if I could I show some...uh...KINDNESS to this, um, incompetent idiot?
I realized that I could sit there, sip my tea and stew in self-righteous anger and frustration, or I could try to do what I've been learning in yoga for the last few years - drop the fight and accept that these were the guys I'd have to deal with. After all, this was not my house and I couldn't send them away and call another tradesperson, even though I know several.
"So, are you happy here?" he asked, looking around my funky apartment.
"Yeah, it's a great place," I said, deciding to accept his idle presence. My apartment is small, and there wasn't a place for me to go and shut the door. His assistant, Juan, was doing all the work while he tried to make nice.
"Except it's not properly heated. That's why I wanted a heat lamp for the bathroom."
"Not heated?" he exclaimed. "No wonder why you're upset. Don't worry - we'll take care of that. Juan, guess what? She has no heat!"
Mr. Disheveled had sat down on my one chair, sort of reclining and running his hand through his hair, making himself a little too at home. Did he now think that he was my swank superhero, about to save me from a cold winter?
Ick! Ick! Ick!
"So, how is your jewelry business?" he asked, attempting friendliness. Somehow, I must have told him about it when we were scheduling the appointment.
"I'm probably going to wrap it up, " I said, but not wanting to talk about myself, quickly countered, "So, do you work with licensed contractors? What is it that you do?"
"Well, sometimes. It depends on the job," he said. "I'm in charge of customer relationships. Bad customer relationships," he chuckled. "Basically my business is about fixing up rentals and homes to get higher rents or sales prices. I don't usually do repairs," he confessed.
No kidding.
"But I try to make people happy," he added. "And I do some management consulting. Tomorrow I'm going to the Pentagon to see a client."
The Pentagon, eh? Assuming that is true, I wonder if he'll show up in Washington looking like he did this morning.
Mr. Disheveled became obsessed with my inadequate heating situation and insisted that Juan take a look to see what could be done. By this time, some of the repairs had been accomplished, I was in a better mood and Juan and I were chatting in Spanish. It turned out that when it came to home repairs Juan really did know what he was talking about, unlike his patron. He also recommended some Mexican restaurants in Chelsea and helped me install some storage racks on my walls.
I hope Juan learns enough English to start his own business and get away from this man. And I plan to be kinder when they come back.
Ick! was my reaction to the "contractor" who showed up bright and early this rainy morning (yes, I had chosen the time - 7:30 a.m. - but had overslept), his fly unzipped and his pants sitting just a bit too low on his hips, his jacket and shoes dripping water into my apartment. Having just rolled out of bed, I was not in a good mood, nor had I meditated. My only preparation for this appointment (aside from putting on a pair of pants) was that I removed something from above the sink so that they could install a light.
What was this something? A sticky note that said KINDNESS, as a reminder to be more kind to myself and others.
I efficiently pointed out to him and his assistant what needed to be done (pipes to be insulated, lights to be fixed, replaced or installed) and proceeded to make myself a cup of tea.
"You know," he said, "I was at Home Depot at 8 o'clock last night getting things for your job."
Did the man want a medal for his heroic efforts? A pat on his unkempt head?
"OK," I said, starting to wish he'd just do the work and get the heck out of my space before he polluted it with his sulky attitude.
It quickly became apparent that this disheveled man had absolutely no clue about basic home repair.
I had told my landlord to install a heat lamp in the bathroom, and this fellow dutifully went to Home Depot and tried to find a heat lamp that ... get this ... wouldn't vent, because he figured the landlord wouldn't want to pay to have a vent put into the bathroom.
Well.
Mr. Disheveled had found the ugliest possible contraption for a heat lamp which, according to his assistant, a Mexican fellow, could not be properly hooked up without ventilation. Duh! And he didn't quite get that I wanted to keep my regular light fixture in the bathroom, not replace it with a heat lamp. Had he been a licensed contractor, he would have either asked about this or assumed that both a normal bulb and an infrared bulb were needed.
"You know," I practically spat, "they do sell combination heat lamps with regular bulbs that can operate on a single switch."
"Don't worry," he replied,"we'll solve the problem."
Unconvinced, I retreated with my tea to the living room.
He came in and said, "I'm here trying to help you. I've never done business with you before and you seem to have a bad attitude. I was getting stuff for you late last night!"
Poor fellow...had I ruined his weekend?
"You're working for my landlord, not me, and I've been waiting a month for you to show up. It was your choice to go to Home Depot last night." I retorted, as calmly as I could.
"Well, I'm trying to be helpful," he repeated, as if his good intention would be enough to accomplish the list of chores he came to perform. "Sounds like you are annoyed at the landlord."
One of the things my last therapist tried to convince me of is that, believe it or not, the Universe (even in the form of a disheveled, unzipped and incompetent contractor) is friendly helpful. If only I can learn to see things that way.
Remembering the sign I had taken off the kitchen wall just a few minutes before, I wondered if I could I show some...uh...KINDNESS to this, um, incompetent idiot?
I realized that I could sit there, sip my tea and stew in self-righteous anger and frustration, or I could try to do what I've been learning in yoga for the last few years - drop the fight and accept that these were the guys I'd have to deal with. After all, this was not my house and I couldn't send them away and call another tradesperson, even though I know several.
"So, are you happy here?" he asked, looking around my funky apartment.
"Yeah, it's a great place," I said, deciding to accept his idle presence. My apartment is small, and there wasn't a place for me to go and shut the door. His assistant, Juan, was doing all the work while he tried to make nice.
"Except it's not properly heated. That's why I wanted a heat lamp for the bathroom."
"Not heated?" he exclaimed. "No wonder why you're upset. Don't worry - we'll take care of that. Juan, guess what? She has no heat!"
Mr. Disheveled had sat down on my one chair, sort of reclining and running his hand through his hair, making himself a little too at home. Did he now think that he was my swank superhero, about to save me from a cold winter?
Ick! Ick! Ick!
"So, how is your jewelry business?" he asked, attempting friendliness. Somehow, I must have told him about it when we were scheduling the appointment.
"I'm probably going to wrap it up, " I said, but not wanting to talk about myself, quickly countered, "So, do you work with licensed contractors? What is it that you do?"
"Well, sometimes. It depends on the job," he said. "I'm in charge of customer relationships. Bad customer relationships," he chuckled. "Basically my business is about fixing up rentals and homes to get higher rents or sales prices. I don't usually do repairs," he confessed.
No kidding.
"But I try to make people happy," he added. "And I do some management consulting. Tomorrow I'm going to the Pentagon to see a client."
The Pentagon, eh? Assuming that is true, I wonder if he'll show up in Washington looking like he did this morning.
Mr. Disheveled became obsessed with my inadequate heating situation and insisted that Juan take a look to see what could be done. By this time, some of the repairs had been accomplished, I was in a better mood and Juan and I were chatting in Spanish. It turned out that when it came to home repairs Juan really did know what he was talking about, unlike his patron. He also recommended some Mexican restaurants in Chelsea and helped me install some storage racks on my walls.
I hope Juan learns enough English to start his own business and get away from this man. And I plan to be kinder when they come back.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Ironic, Illegal, Icy
I am sitting at my desk, which I've situated beneath the 42"-square skylight that attracted me to this apartment, contemplating the irony of my housing choice.
One reason I am renting is to take a breather from the responsibilities - real and imagined - of owning a property, especially after having fixed up and maintained a three family dwelling for more years than I expected. I decided to rent in order to relax, in order to not feel the weight of decisions that come about with ownership, in order to not feel my internal pressure to create a perfectly decorated space, in order to not be in charge of contractors.
I rented this place after taking a very quick look at it to ascertain: Did I like the layout? Does it get enough light? Was it in good condition? Did I like the location? Did I get a good feeling about the landlord? Was the rent appropriate?
Why Yes to all! That's why I am here.
What I failed to notice (in addition to not seeing the paint colors!) was that neither the bedroom, the bathroom nor the kitchen have a heat source. Of course, on a hot day in the middle of August, verifying the existence and whereabouts of radiators was not my top priority when checking out this place. It wouldn't occur to most people that this man - a real estate lawyer, developer and landlord - would even show a place that lacked a heated bedroom. Having rented out apartments before, I know that the lack of radiators in such key places is, shall we say, a bit illegal. I also know that getting heat into converted third floors can be a challenge.
I happen to like this apartment and the owner, so I am not going to raise a huge fuss. At least not yet. But, rather than experiencing a carefree rental I've been sending the owner e-mails with instructions for what his handyman needs to do to begin to resolve the situation. I've asked that he insulate the hot water pipes that run, through my stairwell, to this apartment so that I am not paying for heat to disappear before it's made the arduous climb from the basement to the two radiators that do exist up here (in the living room and in the entry hall). And I've asked that an electrician install a heat lamp in the bathroom. Freezing on the toilet in the morning is an adventure when camping, but inexcusable at home. The landlord has indicated that he'll send someone over to take care of these things. Electrician #1 did not contact me so now I am waiting for someone else.
For now, that should satisfy, although it still leaves me in a position of dealing with contractors, a position I hoped to avoid by renting. And I'd like to take some more time to develop a strategy for addressing the lack of heat in my bedroom. I'm not interested in raising hell over it, but I might be willing to not notify the authorities in exchange for, say, a rent reduction that would cover the cost of keeping an electric space heater. Yes, in this case I would not refuse hush money. At the moment I am leaning towards being pragmatic rather than self-righteously pointing fingers. I will see how I feel (assuming I haven't gone numb) when the outdoor temps get really icy.
Something to contemplate.
One reason I am renting is to take a breather from the responsibilities - real and imagined - of owning a property, especially after having fixed up and maintained a three family dwelling for more years than I expected. I decided to rent in order to relax, in order to not feel the weight of decisions that come about with ownership, in order to not feel my internal pressure to create a perfectly decorated space, in order to not be in charge of contractors.
I rented this place after taking a very quick look at it to ascertain: Did I like the layout? Does it get enough light? Was it in good condition? Did I like the location? Did I get a good feeling about the landlord? Was the rent appropriate?
Why Yes to all! That's why I am here.
What I failed to notice (in addition to not seeing the paint colors!) was that neither the bedroom, the bathroom nor the kitchen have a heat source. Of course, on a hot day in the middle of August, verifying the existence and whereabouts of radiators was not my top priority when checking out this place. It wouldn't occur to most people that this man - a real estate lawyer, developer and landlord - would even show a place that lacked a heated bedroom. Having rented out apartments before, I know that the lack of radiators in such key places is, shall we say, a bit illegal. I also know that getting heat into converted third floors can be a challenge.
I happen to like this apartment and the owner, so I am not going to raise a huge fuss. At least not yet. But, rather than experiencing a carefree rental I've been sending the owner e-mails with instructions for what his handyman needs to do to begin to resolve the situation. I've asked that he insulate the hot water pipes that run, through my stairwell, to this apartment so that I am not paying for heat to disappear before it's made the arduous climb from the basement to the two radiators that do exist up here (in the living room and in the entry hall). And I've asked that an electrician install a heat lamp in the bathroom. Freezing on the toilet in the morning is an adventure when camping, but inexcusable at home. The landlord has indicated that he'll send someone over to take care of these things. Electrician #1 did not contact me so now I am waiting for someone else.
For now, that should satisfy, although it still leaves me in a position of dealing with contractors, a position I hoped to avoid by renting. And I'd like to take some more time to develop a strategy for addressing the lack of heat in my bedroom. I'm not interested in raising hell over it, but I might be willing to not notify the authorities in exchange for, say, a rent reduction that would cover the cost of keeping an electric space heater. Yes, in this case I would not refuse hush money. At the moment I am leaning towards being pragmatic rather than self-righteously pointing fingers. I will see how I feel (assuming I haven't gone numb) when the outdoor temps get really icy.
Something to contemplate.
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
Insomnia, II
One would think that after a week of intense physical work - painting, moving cartons and containers from an attic to a car and then carrying them up another two flights of stairs (repeat 5 times), culminating in today's mattress move - that I would have fallen fast asleep tonight on my reassembled bed.
Alas.
My body is exhausted beyond belief, my fingers and forearms aching from effort, but my mind is going a mile a minute. So, here I am, finding some solace at the keyboard, hoping to fake out my brain a bit and convince it to slow down enough so that it will let me rest. Luckily, there is a wireless network I can hop onto.
My apartment is conveniently located, within walking distance of a post office, a few grocery stores, thrift shops and a small downtown area with a bakery, UPS Store and some restaurants. All this convenience comes with a price - the house in which my apartment is located is on a busy street, and even at 3:42 a.m. there are still cars speeding by. I might need to stock up on earplugs (perhaps buy stock in earplugs?) if I am going to be comfortable here.
One of my insomnia strategies is to change venues, to try to sleep somewhere other than the place where the insomnia climbed into bed with me....I figure, maybe if I quietly go somewhere else, I will leave it behind. I plopped down on my futon couch and covered myself with a colorful throw that my aunt made for me a few years ago. My relaxation was interrupted by unmistakable snores from one of the two guys who live in the apartment below me, despite the fact that my apartment is carpeted (I hate carpeting, but thought - on the bright side - that it might create a sound barrier). It is a bit odd to be hearing such an intimate sound from someone I've met just once. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "noisy neighbor".
Do I bang on the floor so that he'll turn over and possibly stop?
I am going to go back to bed and ponder that question, hopefully falling asleep in the process.
Alas.
My body is exhausted beyond belief, my fingers and forearms aching from effort, but my mind is going a mile a minute. So, here I am, finding some solace at the keyboard, hoping to fake out my brain a bit and convince it to slow down enough so that it will let me rest. Luckily, there is a wireless network I can hop onto.
My apartment is conveniently located, within walking distance of a post office, a few grocery stores, thrift shops and a small downtown area with a bakery, UPS Store and some restaurants. All this convenience comes with a price - the house in which my apartment is located is on a busy street, and even at 3:42 a.m. there are still cars speeding by. I might need to stock up on earplugs (perhaps buy stock in earplugs?) if I am going to be comfortable here.
One of my insomnia strategies is to change venues, to try to sleep somewhere other than the place where the insomnia climbed into bed with me....I figure, maybe if I quietly go somewhere else, I will leave it behind. I plopped down on my futon couch and covered myself with a colorful throw that my aunt made for me a few years ago. My relaxation was interrupted by unmistakable snores from one of the two guys who live in the apartment below me, despite the fact that my apartment is carpeted (I hate carpeting, but thought - on the bright side - that it might create a sound barrier). It is a bit odd to be hearing such an intimate sound from someone I've met just once. Gives a whole new meaning to the phrase "noisy neighbor".
Do I bang on the floor so that he'll turn over and possibly stop?
I am going to go back to bed and ponder that question, hopefully falling asleep in the process.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
Interiors, II
Tonight is my first official night in my new apartment. I spent an "unofficial" night here on Saturday, sleeping on the futon couch after a friend dropped me off quite late. This evening I will sleep on my bed, albeit unmade, as the mattress cover got rather filthy during its traumatic transition today. Miraculously, a mover and I managed to cajole, squeeze and tug my queen size mattress up two flights of very narrow stairs. Pushing this unwieldy item through the passageway of the staircase, trying to get it to contract enough to make it over just one more step, and then our relief that we actually succeeded in this ludicrous endeavor, brought to mind the birthing process (even though I haven't experienced it personally).
On a lighter note, I present a catalogue of items left in my apartment by the previous tenant, in the order in which I discovered them. Can you figure out which I kept and which I've tossed?
White fan
Ironing board
Iron
Orange vacuum cleaner
Cleaning supplies - many
Comforter, faded and worn
Three frozen chicken entrees (2 Barber Foods, 1 Stouffers)
An extra plastic shower curtain
One stick of salted butter
One bottle of Heinz Ketchup
Clear rectangular glass vase
Starbucks Mug, "Barista" series
Four sheer purple drapes
One sheer white drape
Wooden rolling pin
Red teakettle
Two chenille throw pillows
Toaster oven - working and reasonably clean
Bags of round silver balls from the Christmas Tree Shop
Scented candles
Faux crystal candle holders
1.5 liter bottle of Advanced Listerine, 80% full
Equaline value pack Douche, package of four, three remaining
On a lighter note, I present a catalogue of items left in my apartment by the previous tenant, in the order in which I discovered them. Can you figure out which I kept and which I've tossed?
White fan
Ironing board
Iron
Orange vacuum cleaner
Cleaning supplies - many
Comforter, faded and worn
Three frozen chicken entrees (2 Barber Foods, 1 Stouffers)
An extra plastic shower curtain
One stick of salted butter
One bottle of Heinz Ketchup
Clear rectangular glass vase
Starbucks Mug, "Barista" series
Four sheer purple drapes
One sheer white drape
Wooden rolling pin
Red teakettle
Two chenille throw pillows
Toaster oven - working and reasonably clean
Bags of round silver balls from the Christmas Tree Shop
Scented candles
Faux crystal candle holders
1.5 liter bottle of Advanced Listerine, 80% full
Equaline value pack Douche, package of four, three remaining
Saturday, September 1, 2007
Inventory
I went to Pier 1 Imports today, armed with a list of items I hoped to purchase for my new apartment: Sheer curtain panels; decorative chair covers; a small bench; a coatrack for a wall. I had seen all of these items for sale at Pier 1 in recent years, spotting them during my many, many visits to this colorful emporium.
The helpful salesman informed me that they no longer carry the sheer cotton curtain panels, nor decorative chair covers, nor coatracks. Savvy retailers that they are, they turn much of their inventory quite frequently. Disappointed but not discouraged, I asked this man where I might find what I was looking for. "Linens n' Things," he suggested.
Moving is a time to clear out my own inventory, deciding which items will make the cut and accompany me to the new place, which items will remain in storage, and which items will be discarded into the ashbin of my personal history. It is first and foremost a psychic sorting, an evaluation identity, values and direction in life that determines the physical objects with which I'll continue to associate. Before leaving for Israel, I did a massive purge of my personal property, unburdening myself of belongings that no longer suited who I thought I was becoming. I relinquished an eight foot couch; it was a beautiful piece of furniture but keeping it in my life would have required finding a large enough apartment or paying to store it, and I didn't want either constraint in my life. With much relief, I put it on a truck to California, where it now resides in my older brother's home. The fellow on the first floor of my former house bought several bookcases and lamps. A toothless man with a van adopted two chests of drawers that I had posted on Craigslist. I schlepped carloads of "stuff", mostly clothes and most of which I cannot even recall, to the local Goodwill.
You'd think that after such an unloading that I'd be done, but I am still finding opportunities to cull my collection of clothing and things. My goal for my new place is to bring only things which I use frequently and/or bring me pleasure. If something is in good condition, but I no longer like it or use it, or if there is no happy memory associated with it, out it goes. I'm no longer carrying things with me "just in case" I might want it in the future. I'm willing to take the risk that one day I might regret having given something away; my days as a packrat are over.
The reward for periodic purges of one's stuff, as exhausting as it can be, both mentally and physically, is that it clears room for the new. The reason I am looking for decorative chair covers is that the woman who used to live in my new apartment left me two wooden chairs....among other things.
The helpful salesman informed me that they no longer carry the sheer cotton curtain panels, nor decorative chair covers, nor coatracks. Savvy retailers that they are, they turn much of their inventory quite frequently. Disappointed but not discouraged, I asked this man where I might find what I was looking for. "Linens n' Things," he suggested.
Moving is a time to clear out my own inventory, deciding which items will make the cut and accompany me to the new place, which items will remain in storage, and which items will be discarded into the ashbin of my personal history. It is first and foremost a psychic sorting, an evaluation identity, values and direction in life that determines the physical objects with which I'll continue to associate. Before leaving for Israel, I did a massive purge of my personal property, unburdening myself of belongings that no longer suited who I thought I was becoming. I relinquished an eight foot couch; it was a beautiful piece of furniture but keeping it in my life would have required finding a large enough apartment or paying to store it, and I didn't want either constraint in my life. With much relief, I put it on a truck to California, where it now resides in my older brother's home. The fellow on the first floor of my former house bought several bookcases and lamps. A toothless man with a van adopted two chests of drawers that I had posted on Craigslist. I schlepped carloads of "stuff", mostly clothes and most of which I cannot even recall, to the local Goodwill.
You'd think that after such an unloading that I'd be done, but I am still finding opportunities to cull my collection of clothing and things. My goal for my new place is to bring only things which I use frequently and/or bring me pleasure. If something is in good condition, but I no longer like it or use it, or if there is no happy memory associated with it, out it goes. I'm no longer carrying things with me "just in case" I might want it in the future. I'm willing to take the risk that one day I might regret having given something away; my days as a packrat are over.
The reward for periodic purges of one's stuff, as exhausting as it can be, both mentally and physically, is that it clears room for the new. The reason I am looking for decorative chair covers is that the woman who used to live in my new apartment left me two wooden chairs....among other things.
Sunday, August 19, 2007
Interiors
For the last month or so much of the interior of my head has been filled with musings, concerns, fantasies and doubts about where I'll find myself living.
When I returned from my trip, my main preoccupation was whether I'd stay here or pick up and move somewhere else. A not insignificant part of me wants to be somewhere else, anywhere else, as if the Boston area is just one large toxic waste dump that is poisoning my soul (the truth is more likely that a part of my psyche, a voice whose job is to be sure that I'm not enjoying myself, is poisoning Boston for me). Of course, without a clearly defined "somewhere else" (this voice was not terribly helpful about suggesting another place to live), it made some sense to stay until further clarity emerges.
Having decided to stay here, the next decision was whether to buy or to rent. Having been a homeowner for half a dozen or so years, the thought of paying to live in someone else's space made me wince. "No way, Jose!" said my inner property owner, not wanting to reduce its status to that of a lowly renter.
I began looking online at condominiums for sale. But my heart wasn't really in it, and each day I'd come up with new criteria or a new neighborhood in which to look. Focused I was not. Different scenarios appeared in my head. There was the minimalist scenario of buying a studio or small one bedroom apartment, paring down my belongs even further (last winter I sold, donated or got rid of a ton of my things), and having a tiny stake in the real estate market. There was the maximalist scenario of buying the largest house or condominium I could afford and getting roommates to help pay the mortgage, giving me the possibility of expansion as time goes on. There was the vulture scenario, where I'd descend on a pre-foreclosure sale and, benefitting from another's bad luck, snap up something big for cheap.
These scenarios had a logical appeal but didn't feel right. I don't want to purchase a tiny apartment to live in, and I don't want to take on the responsibility of maintaining a larger property. And there was no single neighborhood that beckoned, that had my name on it. I wanted to feel excited about possibly having my own home and yet the thought of owning something made my stomach clench. And then there is that nagging feeling that, maybe, I really do belong somewhere else, even if I don't yet know where that somewhere else is.
I realized that I might be better off renting, either until I leave (a possibility) or can feel happy about buying here. It could also be the case that the real estate market will soften further, making it a financially wise move for me to wait before locking myself into a property. But that is my analytical brain talking. It's yakked a lot in my life and I'm trying not to listen too much to it anymore.
Somewhat reluctantly, I began looking at rentals in July. After the irritation of working with rental agents, I started to look at apartments rented by owners. If I were going to be paying rent, at the very least I wanted to meet the person who'd be cashing the check. Some of these people were renting in-law apartments in their homes, usually on the top floor (my favorite).
I fell in love with a large-ish studio with sleeping loft in the Victorian home of a Brookline couple. It had some drawbacks - not a full kitchen, the entrance was through the house, parking was a bit like musical chairs - but the view of the Boston skyline and the serenity of the space won me over, as did its location: just a few steps away from my synagogue and less than half a mile from Coolidge Corner.
"I'm interested!" I exclaimed.
They told me to think it over. I told them I really liked it. They chose someone else.
I tried to blunt my disappointment by telling myself that this, too, is for the best.
A woman in Newton showed me her in-law apartment, a basement level space which contained a lot of furniture, including a hideous couch.
"Would the furniture stay?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "Why, do you have your own?"
"Yes, I was planning to bring my bed," I said.
She didn't seem very happy about this, nor did she seem willing to empty the single closet down there for my use.
This, too, I told myself, is for the best.
I briefly considered renting a room in someone's apartment for a few months. An acquaintance from my synagogue offered up a room in her condo, then retracted it after deciding that she didn't want to live with my cat after all. Another person at my synagogue put me in touch with her neighbor who rents a room in her JP apartment. The place was extremely well cared for and nicely decorated, to the point that I didn't feel at home. The woman had been there many years and had clearly left her mark. The room itself was small and, as she pointed out, somewhat noisy.
Next.
A voluble woman in Brighton showed me her top floor apartment. The entrance was through her kitschily decorated Victorian house but the apartment itself was spacious, with a full kitchen. A possibility. She told me that she'd be painting it before the next tenant would move in, including adding some color accents to some of the shorter, funky walls under the eaves. My gut contracted - what if I didn't like the colors she chose?
Still, the rent was reasonable and she seemed like a decent person, if I didn't like her taste, so I kept open the possibility of staying there. She reassured me that she and her husband would respect my privacy and that I could come and go without saying a word if that is what I wanted. I told her I'd think about it. Ultimately, I realized that I didn't really want to be traipsing through someone's house to get to my own place.
Back on Craigslist, I posted my own ads indicating that I - a quiet and responsible person with a car and a cat - was looking for an apartment in Newton or Brookline. A surprising number of people responded with apartments in Winthrop, Quincy and Medford. Would I consider those communities? Um, no.
There was a tempting ad for an apartment in someone's home, but with a separate entrance and a private deck overlooking a brook. The photos looked attractive, so I e-mailed and expressed my interest. A day or so later the owner called me. She seemed to know who I was, or had at least heard my name, and told me that the apartment had a drawback that might be a dealbreaker for me. She explained that because the owners have a teenage daughter, they only want a married couple living there or a celibate single, or a single who is willing to not have overnight guests. Feeling uncharacteristically optimistic about my romantic future, I told her that yes, this scenario would be a dealbreaker. I hung up, feeling discouraged.
With the summer coming to a close and the number of apartments dwindling, my anxiety was rising. A few days ago I did a final search on Craigslist and found a listing that was a few days' old for an apartment in a two-family home in Newton. I e-mailed, realizing that it was quite likely that the apartment would already be rented. I received a response from a man whose last name is the same as mine, except with another six letters tacked on. I asked him about the place. He told me to contact the tenant to set up a time to see it. Annoyed but not showing it, I told him I wasn't comfortable doing that, that I wanted him to show it to me.
He agreed.
I was pleasantly surprised by the place, which met many of my criteria: top floor, skylight, dedicated parking spot, non-exorbitant rent, clean and in good condition. Those were enough to outweigh two major demerits - wall-to-wall carpeting in most of the apartment and an electric stove, neither of which I would tolerate in a permanent home.
And I had a good feeling about the owner himself. As I told him, I wanted him to show me the place so that I could see who I'd be dealing with - he's an athletic Jewish man, a real estate attorney and developer, a husband and a father. He had a relaxed air about him. He must have had a good feeling about me, too, because he decided not to request my credit report, trusting me at my word. It was odd to sign a lease as a tenant, not as the owner, but I am glad that someone else will be taking care of home maintenance for a change. I had a good chuckle when I signed the addendum in which I agreed to not throw a keg party. So much for continuing my mid-life crisis by acting like a college student. I hope none of you are disappointed by the fact that beer will not be flowing freely on the premises.
I move at the beginning of September.
When I returned from my trip, my main preoccupation was whether I'd stay here or pick up and move somewhere else. A not insignificant part of me wants to be somewhere else, anywhere else, as if the Boston area is just one large toxic waste dump that is poisoning my soul (the truth is more likely that a part of my psyche, a voice whose job is to be sure that I'm not enjoying myself, is poisoning Boston for me). Of course, without a clearly defined "somewhere else" (this voice was not terribly helpful about suggesting another place to live), it made some sense to stay until further clarity emerges.
Having decided to stay here, the next decision was whether to buy or to rent. Having been a homeowner for half a dozen or so years, the thought of paying to live in someone else's space made me wince. "No way, Jose!" said my inner property owner, not wanting to reduce its status to that of a lowly renter.
I began looking online at condominiums for sale. But my heart wasn't really in it, and each day I'd come up with new criteria or a new neighborhood in which to look. Focused I was not. Different scenarios appeared in my head. There was the minimalist scenario of buying a studio or small one bedroom apartment, paring down my belongs even further (last winter I sold, donated or got rid of a ton of my things), and having a tiny stake in the real estate market. There was the maximalist scenario of buying the largest house or condominium I could afford and getting roommates to help pay the mortgage, giving me the possibility of expansion as time goes on. There was the vulture scenario, where I'd descend on a pre-foreclosure sale and, benefitting from another's bad luck, snap up something big for cheap.
These scenarios had a logical appeal but didn't feel right. I don't want to purchase a tiny apartment to live in, and I don't want to take on the responsibility of maintaining a larger property. And there was no single neighborhood that beckoned, that had my name on it. I wanted to feel excited about possibly having my own home and yet the thought of owning something made my stomach clench. And then there is that nagging feeling that, maybe, I really do belong somewhere else, even if I don't yet know where that somewhere else is.
I realized that I might be better off renting, either until I leave (a possibility) or can feel happy about buying here. It could also be the case that the real estate market will soften further, making it a financially wise move for me to wait before locking myself into a property. But that is my analytical brain talking. It's yakked a lot in my life and I'm trying not to listen too much to it anymore.
Somewhat reluctantly, I began looking at rentals in July. After the irritation of working with rental agents, I started to look at apartments rented by owners. If I were going to be paying rent, at the very least I wanted to meet the person who'd be cashing the check. Some of these people were renting in-law apartments in their homes, usually on the top floor (my favorite).
I fell in love with a large-ish studio with sleeping loft in the Victorian home of a Brookline couple. It had some drawbacks - not a full kitchen, the entrance was through the house, parking was a bit like musical chairs - but the view of the Boston skyline and the serenity of the space won me over, as did its location: just a few steps away from my synagogue and less than half a mile from Coolidge Corner.
"I'm interested!" I exclaimed.
They told me to think it over. I told them I really liked it. They chose someone else.
I tried to blunt my disappointment by telling myself that this, too, is for the best.
A woman in Newton showed me her in-law apartment, a basement level space which contained a lot of furniture, including a hideous couch.
"Would the furniture stay?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "Why, do you have your own?"
"Yes, I was planning to bring my bed," I said.
She didn't seem very happy about this, nor did she seem willing to empty the single closet down there for my use.
This, too, I told myself, is for the best.
I briefly considered renting a room in someone's apartment for a few months. An acquaintance from my synagogue offered up a room in her condo, then retracted it after deciding that she didn't want to live with my cat after all. Another person at my synagogue put me in touch with her neighbor who rents a room in her JP apartment. The place was extremely well cared for and nicely decorated, to the point that I didn't feel at home. The woman had been there many years and had clearly left her mark. The room itself was small and, as she pointed out, somewhat noisy.
Next.
A voluble woman in Brighton showed me her top floor apartment. The entrance was through her kitschily decorated Victorian house but the apartment itself was spacious, with a full kitchen. A possibility. She told me that she'd be painting it before the next tenant would move in, including adding some color accents to some of the shorter, funky walls under the eaves. My gut contracted - what if I didn't like the colors she chose?
Still, the rent was reasonable and she seemed like a decent person, if I didn't like her taste, so I kept open the possibility of staying there. She reassured me that she and her husband would respect my privacy and that I could come and go without saying a word if that is what I wanted. I told her I'd think about it. Ultimately, I realized that I didn't really want to be traipsing through someone's house to get to my own place.
Back on Craigslist, I posted my own ads indicating that I - a quiet and responsible person with a car and a cat - was looking for an apartment in Newton or Brookline. A surprising number of people responded with apartments in Winthrop, Quincy and Medford. Would I consider those communities? Um, no.
There was a tempting ad for an apartment in someone's home, but with a separate entrance and a private deck overlooking a brook. The photos looked attractive, so I e-mailed and expressed my interest. A day or so later the owner called me. She seemed to know who I was, or had at least heard my name, and told me that the apartment had a drawback that might be a dealbreaker for me. She explained that because the owners have a teenage daughter, they only want a married couple living there or a celibate single, or a single who is willing to not have overnight guests. Feeling uncharacteristically optimistic about my romantic future, I told her that yes, this scenario would be a dealbreaker. I hung up, feeling discouraged.
With the summer coming to a close and the number of apartments dwindling, my anxiety was rising. A few days ago I did a final search on Craigslist and found a listing that was a few days' old for an apartment in a two-family home in Newton. I e-mailed, realizing that it was quite likely that the apartment would already be rented. I received a response from a man whose last name is the same as mine, except with another six letters tacked on. I asked him about the place. He told me to contact the tenant to set up a time to see it. Annoyed but not showing it, I told him I wasn't comfortable doing that, that I wanted him to show it to me.
He agreed.
I was pleasantly surprised by the place, which met many of my criteria: top floor, skylight, dedicated parking spot, non-exorbitant rent, clean and in good condition. Those were enough to outweigh two major demerits - wall-to-wall carpeting in most of the apartment and an electric stove, neither of which I would tolerate in a permanent home.
And I had a good feeling about the owner himself. As I told him, I wanted him to show me the place so that I could see who I'd be dealing with - he's an athletic Jewish man, a real estate attorney and developer, a husband and a father. He had a relaxed air about him. He must have had a good feeling about me, too, because he decided not to request my credit report, trusting me at my word. It was odd to sign a lease as a tenant, not as the owner, but I am glad that someone else will be taking care of home maintenance for a change. I had a good chuckle when I signed the addendum in which I agreed to not throw a keg party. So much for continuing my mid-life crisis by acting like a college student. I hope none of you are disappointed by the fact that beer will not be flowing freely on the premises.
I move at the beginning of September.
Sunday, July 22, 2007
Irritation
I am looking for a place to live.
I hate looking for a place to live.
I don't hate looking at places, I hate dealing with so-called real estate "professionals".
They advertise an apartment. It looks appealing. I call to inquire about that particular apartment.
"So, what are you looking for?" they ask, wanting to know the neighborhood or town I want to live in, the number of bedrooms, the rent I am willing to pay.
"I am looking for information on the apartment you advertised," I reply, trying to keep my irritation in check. "Is it still available?"
"Can you tell me what you are looking for?" they persist.
"I am looking for something that matches the description of the apartment you advertised," I seethe.
We are at a standoff.
A friend has loaned me a tape about "going with the flow", and clearly I am not doing that with these rental agents, whose help I need unless I can find someone to rent from directly. I hate the bait and switch tactics they use, advertising one apartment only to show you others, and the fact that many apartments are listed by several agencies, each employing a different highly creative writer to describe these places, making it hard to figure out what you've already seen. For example, I was shown an absolute cave of a 1-bedroom apartment on a ground floor of a brownstone on Beacon Street, across the street from my synagogue. The location, location, location was perfect, perfect, perfect, but the unit itself was dark and smelly with paint chips dangling precariously from the living room ceiling. A few days later I saw another ad for the same place touting its "retro screen door" (e.g. piece of crap on hinges that needs to be replaced!). I have to admit, part of me admired the genius of the 20-something year old rental agent who coined that phrase; at least this person was thinking outside the box and possibly having some fun.
My irritation occasionally extends to myself for forgetting about the "art" of renting and selling real estate, of which I've done both, and how you can't believe anything that you read about a piece of property. Except, of course, that everything I ever wrote about the apartments I used to rent, and then sold, was accurate, and my naive self wants to believe what it reads.
But my irritation turns to wrath when I encounter incompetent real estate agents, grown ups - not recent college graduates - who have licenses and, me thinks, are supposed to know most things about the properties they are listing and showing. Earlier today I drove over to Brookline to check out a non-astronomically priced 1-br condominium, just to see. The agent who hosted the open house was very attractive and pleasant yet wasn't able to tell me what similar apartments in that building rent for. Considering that most of the units in the association are rented out, I figured she might have done her homework. But she, and many other agents who do open houses, are like gameshow hosts and hostesses who look pretty while pointing out the features of the property or giving suggestions on how to renovate it, as if you'll have extra money on hand after closing. If you want the facts, you have to follow up with a phone call, during which time they'll ask you what you are looking for......
I hate looking for a place to live.
I don't hate looking at places, I hate dealing with so-called real estate "professionals".
They advertise an apartment. It looks appealing. I call to inquire about that particular apartment.
"So, what are you looking for?" they ask, wanting to know the neighborhood or town I want to live in, the number of bedrooms, the rent I am willing to pay.
"I am looking for information on the apartment you advertised," I reply, trying to keep my irritation in check. "Is it still available?"
"Can you tell me what you are looking for?" they persist.
"I am looking for something that matches the description of the apartment you advertised," I seethe.
We are at a standoff.
A friend has loaned me a tape about "going with the flow", and clearly I am not doing that with these rental agents, whose help I need unless I can find someone to rent from directly. I hate the bait and switch tactics they use, advertising one apartment only to show you others, and the fact that many apartments are listed by several agencies, each employing a different highly creative writer to describe these places, making it hard to figure out what you've already seen. For example, I was shown an absolute cave of a 1-bedroom apartment on a ground floor of a brownstone on Beacon Street, across the street from my synagogue. The location, location, location was perfect, perfect, perfect, but the unit itself was dark and smelly with paint chips dangling precariously from the living room ceiling. A few days later I saw another ad for the same place touting its "retro screen door" (e.g. piece of crap on hinges that needs to be replaced!). I have to admit, part of me admired the genius of the 20-something year old rental agent who coined that phrase; at least this person was thinking outside the box and possibly having some fun.
My irritation occasionally extends to myself for forgetting about the "art" of renting and selling real estate, of which I've done both, and how you can't believe anything that you read about a piece of property. Except, of course, that everything I ever wrote about the apartments I used to rent, and then sold, was accurate, and my naive self wants to believe what it reads.
But my irritation turns to wrath when I encounter incompetent real estate agents, grown ups - not recent college graduates - who have licenses and, me thinks, are supposed to know most things about the properties they are listing and showing. Earlier today I drove over to Brookline to check out a non-astronomically priced 1-br condominium, just to see. The agent who hosted the open house was very attractive and pleasant yet wasn't able to tell me what similar apartments in that building rent for. Considering that most of the units in the association are rented out, I figured she might have done her homework. But she, and many other agents who do open houses, are like gameshow hosts and hostesses who look pretty while pointing out the features of the property or giving suggestions on how to renovate it, as if you'll have extra money on hand after closing. If you want the facts, you have to follow up with a phone call, during which time they'll ask you what you are looking for......
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