There are still a lot of questions marks regarding Yiayia’s situation. They’ve crossed gallstone off the list, which is unfortunate, as we were all rooting for gallstone (The image in my head: everyone in my family wearing baseball hats with large, green Gs embroidered on them, waving “G” banners at my grandmother’s bedside). A gallstone would’ve been easily identifiable and correctable and then we could’ve crossed off everything else on the list, including cancer, which is the one I want to cross off most of all – with a big, fat, black Sharpie marker.
In situations like this, I tend to numb my emotions – and trust me, they need numbing as otherwise I would be unable to function – by throwing myself into something that will occupy my mind, something that will sweep out the negative thoughts to make room for newly acquired knowledge.
Usually, I throw myself into work. However, as I am currently what M calls a “short-timer” at this gig and am no longer interested in anything remotely related to it, I have decided to immerse myself in New York real estate.
It began on Friday when M and I – in a moment of spontaneity spurred by my 5pm release, still blissfully unaware that we would spend the entire weekend in a hospital – visited a newly renovated building that M has been interested in checking out. You see, when one writes a book and gets a very large advance for that book, one finds oneself with a large sum of money that is perfectly suited to a down payment on an apartment.
Me? Oh I’m just along for the ride and the “ohh! We can put that gorgeous book shelf of mine along this wall!” decorating advice.
The building was absolutely beautiful – fully renovated with sleek name brand appliances and a balcony off the living room, yet nestled in the heart of Greenwich Village, which upped the “quaint” ante considerably. The best of both. However, the minute I saw the model (someone of that height and that build with those lips and those aviators and that luggage could be nothing else) prance through the lobby doors on the arm of her shorter, stouter but most likely more financially secure boyfriend, I knew it wasn’t for us. A subsequent tour of the available apartments confirmed my hunch. It was…pristine. It was…that hotel that you splurge for while on vacation. It was…characterless. It was…not home.
And now, now begins the search for “home.” Which is unbelievably exciting because, as much as I love my current apartment, home is where M is and to have our stuff coexisting, side by side, in the same drawers, in the same medicine cabinet, in the same refrigerator, just seems like the natural next step come August, when our leases simultaneously expire.
All morning I have been poring over listings and, in doing so, I have been forced to confront the fact that I am, apparently, one of those “luxury building” people. Someone who checks the “doorman” box during a search and drools over rooftop pools and stainless steel appliances and pretty lobbies stocked with fresh flowers.
I want to like the cozy pre-war walk-ups on shady, tree-lined streets, I really do. But I just can’t stop myself from clicking on the shiny new buildings, with the terraces and the amenities and the elevators and the square footage and the 360 degree virtual tours.
Truth be told, I am currently investigating the very tip of a very large, very complicated iceberg. Only time will tell where we end up come late summer 2007 and, at the moment, I’m just thankful for a distraction that has absolutely nothing to do with elevated liver enzymes.
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