I’m finally moving to Brooklyn tomorrow having spent months going through the process of buying a ‘Cooperative’ apartment. One would think that the seller would just want to take my money and be done with it, but alas, no; buying a co-op is like making croissants- it’s a long and painfully drawn-out process. Before you hand over a large cheque and say your thank you very muches you have to be approved by The Board (oh, yes, there’s a Board of neighbours- who decide your fate; a new reality TV series is coming to mind). To be approved by The Board you have to hand over copies of every document that pertains to your very existence and then go to an interview where they can ask you any questions that they choose. If I had a shrink, which currently I do not, I doubt that they would know more about me. I do not know as much about me. In fact the only thing that The Board don’t now know about me is what I eat for breakfast but then again they probably worked out from my bank statements, that I regularly swipe my plastic on cooking equipment and food. Hopefully, they do not know about this blog. Purchasing this apartment could either be a very savvy investment or a hell of an opportunity for a member of The Board to steal my identity.
In any case, I passed the interview and a couple of weeks ago I signed many more legal documents than my life has had years and signed cheque after cheque in order to became the proud if mentally-drained and bankrupt owner of a one-bedroom apartment.
That is, proud of everything, except perhaps the kitchen. If you’ve heard me complain previously about the state of my current kitchen, then be prepared for further kitchen lamenting from Brooklyn…the 1960’s metal cupboards, which would be better suited as office filling cabinets, the practically disintegrated laminate floor peeling away at the corners and the matching counter-tops stained from nearly fifty years of spills and drippings. Oh, and then there is the retro (but not in an Urban Outfitters way) oven, which is yet to be tested and with only two weeks to go until I host Thanksgiving- I may be forced to hand over the cooking reigns to my sister and her snazzy all-inclusive corporate apartment. I would post pictures but I do not wish to deface the pages of blog. Having picked up the keys to the apartment last week, I resolved, teary-eyed, that I would either require that shrink after all or I would need to look in to remodelling the kitchen. I opted for a trip to Home Depot but when the consultant punched some figures into a calculator and said quite frankly: “it will cost you about $15-20,000″, I groaned and walked away with my design in hand. My dream kitchen fantasies had been shattered with the flash of a calculator and I suddenly had images of myself lying on a sofa reeling off my woes to a little man peering at me over his specs.
I took a trip to IKEA. Having previously snuffed at the idea of an IKEA kitchen when my mother said ” Your father and I’s first two kitchens were from IKEA”, I decided to go along, with no intentions other than to cross it off my list of possibilities. But, I have to concede that having viewed the showrooms, I was rather impressed- and it wasn’t just the ‘bargain’ sign lighting up in my head. It won’t be until the New Year that I can start tearing the rusting cubes of metal off my walls- and like a child waiting for the summer holidays, it will never arrive soon enough. In the meantime, I’ve got to get the move out of the way. I’m surrounded by boxes- and they appear to be breeding….