The Hunt For The Kitchen Cabinets

My friend Vince informs me that Nick and I should be demanding a rent decrease from the landlord due to all the TLC we're putting into this place, but I have a feeling that won't go over too well. As is, we've got a pretty cheap rent for the neighborhood. But sometimes I think about approaching Mr. Henry and asking if he could help out with the whole "one single kitchen cabinet" issue.

But likely I won't.

I've spent the past few days studying the websites of places such as Target, Ikea, Pottery Barn, Crate & Barrel, Overstock... and still have yet to find a kitchen cabinet I like. Who knew it was so hard?! But we need one. Or three. So I think in the end we'll just have to buy something from Target and make due.

I guess that's the quandary... do we buy something more sturdy/fancy, even though we might leave in a year, or do we just get something that will do? That's been my question all along. I've been good about staying in a sort of middle-ground area, but it's proving hard with kitchen cabinets.

Garrr.

The Obamas: Just Like Me!

Looks like I'm not the only American giving their abode a facelift. Gawker reports that the Oval Office has gotten a fancy new makeover. I like the new look myself. Though I have to admit I'm jealous... the President's office is about the size of my entire apartment.

Spring Cleaning

So during every move I've ever made, I've thrown some things out. Not just cheap stuff either, valuable goods. I remember how when I was packing up my freshman year at Butler all my things to send to my new school USC, I ran out of boxes and ended up throwing out a small television and a twin-sized duvet. When I moved across the country to New York, I ironically let go of the least amount of stuff-- just some hats and mugs. Oh, and some furniture that ended up going to my brother's first apartment. But that furniture was originally my parents', it wasn't mine.

This time, for this move from my one bedroom in Prospect Park to the one bedroom apartment in The Pink House, I'm getting rid of a lot. A lot a lot a lot. For one thing, there are only two (relatively large) closets. For another, it's a one bedroom that has to house both me and the boy.

Poor Nick is such a trooper. While he goes for a minimalist approach to keeping things, I've inherited my father's hoarding traits. I save almost everything. Old copies of stories I've written? Saved. Old textbooks? Saved. Clothes? Definitely saved.

But that was back in the luxury of only having to worry about me myself and I. So, in a grand gesture of LIVING TOGETHER, I've thrown out/donated/mailed to my younger cousins a great deal of things. Martini glasses, some old plates. Dresses, dresses, dresses. Board games. More dresses. Some sweaters. Stacks of my old stories. Dresses. Bookcases. Dresses.

But even I have my limits. While I've gotten rid of a great many of my books-- or rather, set them aside to sell back to Strand -- I'm still keeping more than we'll outright have room for. Shelves will need to be built. Books will be stuffed in my closet. And Nick is being a dear about that.

What's Nick's biggest collection? His impressive records. And they only take up one small bookcase.

I'm embarrassed about how much crap I have. Sometimes I look at the pile of boxes and wonder what the hell I'm doing with so much junk.

The furniture I can't really be blamed for. My mom, when I first graduated college and was striking out on my own apartment wise, took me to Ethan Allen and bought me a bed set and a desk. There's no way they are going anywhere. And we split an armchair from Pottery Barn that I will be buried with.

The chair.

So, considering I have furniture that I can't part with, in the process of planning the move I've come up with ways to make these space-hoggers more couple-friendly. For one thing, the desk I never use save to house my random pens and crap will be used by Nick, who actually needs and uses a desk. And the blue hutch that housed all my DVDs? It can house plates, or books, or something more useful.

Perhaps the hardest thing I had to do was take most of my DVDs (save Criterions, etc) out of their cases and put them in one big booklet. But let me tell you, it's quite the space saver.

And yet still, STILL I have well over twenty or so boxes. It's disgusting.

Nick has gotten rid of some typical "bachelor" things, however. His futon, for instance, has passed.

And I guess he'd joke that he's lost some of his independence.

But here's the thing, and I hope Nick knows it. If I needed to get rid of all my books or even the expensive furniture to live with him, I would. Because I love him. And it's totally worth it. No apartment or house can hold our love.

Paint

So, after a week of emailing Nick a variety of possible paint colors with impossible names like "serenity sky" and "key lime pie," with the help of the AWESOME painter Lynn (anyone needing an affordable and awesome painter contact me for his info) I chose Soft Chinchilla for the den (a soft blue a la Ben Moore) and Violetta (a new offering from Ben Moore) for the bedroom. Below are the results. I am quite pleased.

The bedroom. It looks lighter in the daylight, but as poor Lynn worked eight hours trying to make our warn-down walls look pretty (and he succeeded) it was around 8:30pm when I took this photo.

The bed will likely come out from this wall.

What a calming purple. I just found a duvet cover from Macy's that will go great with this, really class up our joint.

Look at our pretty den! The blue is beautiful.

I am so pleased with this. So is Nick.

A future project is to fix up the kitchen-- which has torn walls with black paint showing through and a fake linoleum floor covering a beautiful old marble one-- and the bathroom. But for now, go us! Huzzah for the miracle that is a fresh coat of paint! Our home is starting to feel like a home.

In The Beginning

First, some background on the apartment building I will be living in in less than 48 hours:

From brownstoner.com:
House of the Day
Rental of the Day


Contrary to popular myth, old Bernie Henry did not paint the brownstone pink because of his dead wife. It was an accidental paint job, done while he was out of town by painters who didn't think to question the pepto-bismol color. What caused him to KEEP the color was Park Slope's various boards' attempts to get him to change it. Ain't no man going to tell Bernie Henry what to do. So really, Nick and I are living in a pink house that's really just a 'fuck you' to the Park Slope establishment.

Excellent.

Let me describe my first experience viewing The Pink House. Nick and I walked up to look at the apartment (his second, my first time) to the sound of Michael Jackson blasting from the basement apartment, where Mr. Henry lives. Nick informed me that the parlor level is kept empty for Mr. Henry's odds and ends, and we have the second floor. The third floor is rented by a couple of women who we have labelled "the lesbians," even though that might not be factually accurate. We have yet to meet them.

The realtor appeared, and with the aid of Mr. Henry who is as stereotypically "old black man" as one could be, we were allowed into the infamous building. The first thing I remember noticing was how dark it was. The entire woodwork of the building is the original Victorian woodwork, aka dark, dark, dark wood. The stairs and the floors were layered in a thick, B-motel in Vegas green carpet that Nick thought looked like astro-turf. The only light emitted on the ground floor was a large circular globe light that barely cast a shadow on the wilting silk plants stuffed in a vase on the mail table.

In other words, it won't surprise Nick or myself if this house ends up being haunted.

We walked up the creeky steps, pushed open one of the three dark wood doors, and found ourselves in an actually very light and airy apartment.

Photos of "Den":

The original fireplace and chandelier. That fridge is now back into the room it's facing out of, otherwise known as our kitchen.

Nick looks out one of the den windows, which faces onto our brownstone-lined street.

More windows in our den. Behind me is the mini-den extension, which will house Nick's office area.

The front door is to the right, a closet on the left. To the right is the area where Nick's records and desk will be. And some books, of course.

You have to walk through the kitchen to get to the bedroom, picture below:

Why yes, that IS another fireplace.

What these photos don't show is how the paint was peeling. And don't get me started on the state of the bathroom, complete with a ceiling that was missing tiles. Nonetheless, the bathroom had character. And was huge, complete with one of those old fashion tubs.

There's nothing us women like more than a project. I knew we could salvage this apartment and turn it into something beautiful.

Once Upon A Time...

Once upon a time there was a happy couple looking for a place to live. As Manhattan was out of the question-- the girl had too much crap, mostly old paperbacks, she was not willing to get rid of; the boy owned an impressive record collection -- they agreed to look for a spacious, hopefully affordable apartment in Brooklyn.

This proved extremely difficult.

Everyone and their grandmother was apparently looking for a September 1st start-date, and after a week of several near-misses and tense tours of run down abodes (including that of a socialist couple who never washed a dish and a hip fashion designer with a closet full of beads) the girl was at a loss and close to tears. Seeing this, the fearless boy took matters into his own hands, and stalked a new set of realtors until they showed him something passable... the infamous pink house on Garfield in Park Slope.

Sure, it lacked a kitchen. And sure, the bathroom wasn't actually connected to the rest of the rooms. But it was on the same floor! And big! And the landlord-- a ninety-six year old African American man who couldn't hear very well and needed everything repeated eighteen times-- promised to install a proper kitchen before the move-in date. The rent was cheap for the area, the boyfriend told the girl she could paint the rooms, and it was an apartment. A home to call their own.

A home that needed a lot of work, sure, but a home nonetheless.