Well, that’s it. A done deal as they say. The legal papers have been signed, the keys have been handed over, and I’ve officially lost my mind. Again. Sounds a little like I’ve been committed, and perhaps, in a way, that’s true. Certainly my mortgage provider would see it that way.

The Canadian Condo Caper (henceforth known as the CCC) has begun and there’s no room or time for error. Some lovely folks came to view our current digs and, after a brief inspection, a lease was signed on the kitchen counter. They move in September 15th and I’m assuming, as lovely as we are, they don’t see bedding down with us as part of the apartment’s charm.

That husband of mine has also been committed. We have movers booked for September 13th, a Friday, naturally. Alors, let the games begin. He has less than 30 days to bring the grotty condo into a palace fit for a queen. I’m not asking for a 5,000 square foot closet—Celine Dion I am not. All I’m looking for is a home free of construction debris, a place to hang my clothes, and a functioning kitchen, for him, obviously. An altruist I am not, I just need to eat.

Now to be fair, the CCC is less of a renovation and more of an refresh. Still, we’re seasoned professionals, so what seems light to us is probably heavy to most. For those remotely interested in my tedious exploits, here’s what will be happening:

  1. Kitchen: Haul out the old floor, backsplash, counters, appliances, sink, faucet, and light. Replace with new everything I just said, plus a garbage disposal, under cabinet lighting, and maybe a new apron for Neil.
  2. Living and dining rooms: Two floor to ceiling walls of mirror out. Repair wall behind mirrors when half the wall comes out with them. Repair giant ceiling crack, followed by 4 days of vacuuming up plaster dust. Guess who does what in that scenario.
  3. Deal with first unanticipated disaster.
  4. Bedrooms: Steam clean carpet (yesterday, carpet discovered to be beyond recovery, see #3), hang closet doors, install new closet organizers to organize my clothes properly, throw 2 new garbage bags in a corner to hold his. Find a room darkening blind that fits a 94 inch by 40 inch window for less than 2 million dollars.
  5. Deal with second unanticipated disaster.
  6. Replace circa 1976 radiators with slick wireless ones that are controlled by a programmable thermostat. Repair smoke and water damage from the fire that inevitably results when fancy electrical doo-hickeys get installed.
  7. Remove glass enclosure from balcony and rip up glued down carpet, which will come up one thread at a time, and then spend the next 340 days scraping up the glue.
  8. Disaster #3 (to use the word unanticipated at this stage would be less than intelligent).
  9. Paint every wall in the place so that they’re dry just in time for movers to bash every box and piece of furniture into them.
  10. Try and convince the condo council that the mess and noise and the general mayhem will one day cease.

That of course does not include foolishness like hanging light fixtures and cleaning, and the packing and moving, and making our old place ready to receive its new tenants. It also doesn’t include the time and energy of nagging and arguing and starving to death because apparently renovation for 12 hours a day somehow interferes with food preparation. How? How?? I just don’t get that one.

It also doesn’t include number 11: On September 15th, because apartment will be far from finished, check into ocean view hotel room, open mini bar and call husband to say I told you so.

 

 

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