Category: apartment

A new twist on Sleepless in Seattle

We are all tired today. My mom has been selling or giving away most of her possessions. She says, “As long as I’m buying a condo I will have a nice place to live. And the sellers left me a bunch of beautiful furniture to get started.”

So yesterday she sold the bed to a very nice man who drove all the way up from Olympia. His brother is coming to visit for a month and they need a bed. The mom was ready. Last time she showed the bed, two cats were sitting on it and then I jumped up to snuggle when the new buyer tried out the bed. So this time she shut the door and she got lucky: I was out with my Aunt Sara, playing happily in the dog park.

As the man was taking out the box springs, a cat’s head poked out the bottom.

“Creampuff!” my mom exclaimed, trying to act surprised. “What are you doing under there?”

Luckily the man had a sense of humor and was probably desperate. “Is the cat included? Good thing I took my allergy pills this morning,” he said.

My mom admits she was ready to say, “Sure – take the cat too!” Alas, Creampuff jumped out as he was leaving. Cats will always be part of our lives. .

I heard about all this when I got home and saw a big empty space where our bed used to be. Where are we supposed to sleep tonight? I asked in my own nonverbal way.

Well, I found out. The mom took over the couch, which we are still trying to give away. She didn’t have much room because I had to sleep at the other end.

“Tonight we are going to sleep in the new place,” my mom said firmly, as she creaked her way out of bed. “Two dance classes in a row and now this…I’m exhausted.”

Our wonderful painter, Mark, says he’s just about finished. My mom said she’d rather deal with a few paint fumes than another night on the couch. And hopefully by tonight there won’t be any couch. She just re-posted her giveaway notice on Craigslist.

Getting ready to move: Surrounded by boxes

My mom Cathy decided, “This move will be organized. I will start early.”

So she did. Lots of packing has been accomplished. But she’s going nuts: she can’t find anything. “I think I packed the bills I was supposed to pay yesterday,” she said.

Fotunately, we both got a good rest yesterday. I was finally allowed to return to the park for an outing with my Aunt Sara.

My mom has been throwing out lots of things. She’s determined to move with less than what we had when she moved here from New Mexico.

Hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s lose one cat. We could pack Ophelia in a box and…

Relax, Mom. Just kidding. I know: Ophelia’s a family member, along with the ditzy Creampuff. I’m just trying to help you think outside the box…moving boxes, that is.

Zumba for the mom, crate for the dog

Yesterday my mom Cathy was operating in frazzle mode. She was trying to make a recording for her blog and the system wasn’t cooperating. She wasn’t hearing from the guy who promised to paint our new condo. “We need to paint before we move, if at all possible,” she said.

A normal dog owner would pour a tall cool drink and collapse on the sofa with her dog. Not the mom. She looked at her watch, shoved me unceremoniously into my crate, and changed into her workout clothes.

“George’s zumba class starts in twenty minutes!” she said, as she tossed down some crunchies for the cats. (They eat only when I am out or in my crate. Otherwise I eat their food. Frankly, I don’t see why that’s a problem.) “If the bus doesn’t come right away I’m calling a cab. I need a workout!”

When she returned home two hours later she was humming a little tune and shaking her booty in time to mysterious Latin rhythms. I averted my eyes and focused on communicating an urgent, “We need a walk” message.

“Not only did I get a great workout,” Cathy told me, “I found a place where I can take my box to be shredded. We have way too much for a home office shredder. One less worry.”

We all went to bed early. Sure enough, today we’re getting names of other painters. I’m feeling strong and feisty after weeks of being under the weather.

And a one and a two and a cha-cha-cha….

Finally…some good news for all of us

Friday Mom’s purchase was scheduled to close. At the last minute, she got an urgent message.

“The sellers are out of town! We have to wait till Monday.”

So today Mom was relieved to get a message saying that all is well and she is now the proud owner of a condo in Belltown, a dream she had cherished since moving to Seattle.

“I’m still nervous about the whole condo idea,” she says. “But our ceiling is leaking and we will have to move sooner or later. At least we got a good interest rate and we are in a nice place.”

Even better: that nice Dr. Clare said my pancreatitis is better. However, she wants me to eat the bland diet for another two weeks. Yuk. Bland is not beautiful. I never thought I’d miss my ordinary food but this stuff is tasteless.

Worst of all, I can’t go to the park with my Aunt Sara. Too many tempting things for me to eat, mostly unmentionable in a blog censored by the mom. So I”m totally bored and forced to eat tasteless food. What a life.

“It’s your own fault, Gracie,” the mom says unsympathetically. “You get your pointy little nose into everything.”

Uh oh. Time for another pain pill. I need a nap.

Finally…there’s a condo in our future

After wrestling with our first mortgage company, the mom finally iistened to our stellar real estate agent, Sarah Odegaard. Her paperwork landed on the desk of Jeff Bell at Cobalt Mortgage. That was just two weeks ago, to the day.

Today, the mom shoved me into my crate right after we went to the vet for more pills for me. “I’m off to sign the loan papers, Gracie,” she said, clicking the door into place. “You just had a pain pill and you’ll be so sleepy you won’t notice I’m gone.”

True. That nice Dr. Clare gave me some powerful stuff that knocks me out.

My mom came back humming a funny little tune. She showed me a big stack of papers she had signed. She took off to go see a movie to celebrate. “Who can concentrate on work?” she asked me.

She’s asking the wrong person…er, dog. Work is not a word I use often. I’m definitely feeling better, though. And I need to get on my paws fast so I can supervise this move. Mom was on the phone with her friend Pam Ellis, who will be choosing colors for her living room. But so far I have heard no discussion of where my crate will be.

“Probably the bedroom,” my mom said. “Right next to my bed.”

We have to check this out. Don’t I get to approve the decorating scheme as it applies to dogs?

Dogs don’t do real estate,,,

Thank goodness! I have a small castle known as The Crate. I have a few vacation homes, otherwise known as dog beds. I also take over the cat bed since Ophelia has usurped my spot on the couch. That’s as far as we go.

My mom, on the other hand, seems determined to get herself into a condo. I had to listen to her swearing over the paperwork (which wasn’t too bad, thanks to her awesome dog-loving real esetate agent Sarah Odegaard). And I had to go along for the inspection. The inspectors immediately recognized my role.

“She gets to decide where you live,” they said seriously.

My mom went out for coffee with Sarah while they gave the place the once-over. It was a nice day, although a little warm. They had to sit outside because coffee shops don’t take dogs anymore. All this fresh air was too much. We were exhausted the next day.

My mom has started thinking about hiring a mover. “We’re very close,” she told me. “She muttered something about title and negotiating on items to be fixed. Fixed? You lost me there, mom.

We’re getting rid of a lot of stuff so the movers wll have a lighter load. I’m nominating a new home for our housemate, Ophelia. Mom put her on a diet but it’s not working. At this rate we will need to rent a whole truck just for her.

Do we need a separate truck to move this cat?
Do we need a separate truck to move this cat?

Our real estate life

My mom has entered me in this blog challenge created by her friend, colleague and mentor, Connie Green. So now we have to blog every day for a month. We forgot this weekend because we were back looking at condos.

My mom fell in love with one in Belltown, a trendy neighborhood. “This building has been around awhile,” she said. “It’s not going anywhere. The people are nice. It’s well managed. Oh yes…it’s two blocks from the dog park and two blocks the other way from my favorite coffee shop in Seattle. And iti s pet-friendly!”

She found a 2-bedroom condo at a good price. “Never fear, Gracie,” she said. “There will always be money for treats and dog walks. We’ll find a place for your crate, too.”

Now, she says, she can have a proper office with windows and light. One bedroom is built like a corner.

Some places just allow two pets per unit, which seems like just the right number. We could lose Ophelia or that ditzy Creampuff. But the mom will never let that happen. “I’m a 3-pet person till the day I die!” she says proudly.

Given the way she works out that’s not any time soon. However, her favorite bakery will be very close by in Belltown. Either we will have more walks or the mom will need to develop some willpower.

“It’s still up in the air,” she says. “We have inspection, financing, and worst of all, moving. I may have written the book on moving but my stomach hurts just thinking about it.”

Real Estate Interferes With This Dog’s Life

My mom has got it into her head, “Maybe this is a good time to buy a condo.” Never mind that for years she swore, “Never buy a condo. It’s like having fifty landlords. All the other owners influence your life. The Board can be kooky. Who needs it?”

Well, now that condo prices have come down in Seattle, she’s looking. I think she’s 70-80% serious. She has a great real estate agent, Sarah Odegaard. We know she’s great because Cathy met her in the Regrade Dog Park.

Sarah has a big dog and lives in a high rise herself. She was single for a long time. So she understands the whole scoop (pardon the expression) on single urban living with dogs. She is remarkably patient with Cathy’s requirements. Must be on multiple bus lines because Cathy refuses to drive in Seattle. Must allow me and the two cats legally. Must have lots of sunlight. Must not be at street level. Must be in a neighborhood where our dog sitter, Sara Kimmel will come and take me for walks. (Sara said my mom is not the first client who refused to move outside her service area.)

The mom gets on Craigslist and emails a dozen suggestions to Sarah the real estate agent. (Never mind that Sarah has already promised to look through MLS, which is much more comprehensive and up to date than Craigslist.) Then she emails again to say she changed her mind or found more listings. Then she starts to feel like this is too much work and she says, “Let’s go for a walk, Gracie.”

Yes! Especially when she remembers to grab a handful of treats before we head out the door.

Just thinking about all this is enough to give a small dog a big headache. But it gets worse. My mom feels that I should be part of this experience. “After all, Gracie,” she says, “you have to live there too. And if somebody frowns at us when you’re with me, we know it’s the wrong place for us.”

Of course, just owning a dog has cut out many potential locations for my mom. That’s fine with her. “If they don’t allow dogs they’re probably uptight, nasty people,” she says. “Who needs them?”

She still loves living in this beautiful rental apartment, even with the ceiling that’s getting repaired. “People sneer at one bedroom apartments,” she says. “But this one is so well laid out. I even have a separate office alcove. There’s more than enough room. The location is phenomenal. It’s close to perfect.”

I agree. I have plenty of choices: cat bed, dog bed, Cathy’s bed and more. I would have the corner of the sofa but Ophelia has completed her takeover. I have been officially displaced.

And we really don’t want a huge space. “In New York, Philadelphia or Seattle, the city is your playground,” my mom says. “I don’t want to feel I have to spend all my time in my home because it cost so much. I want to spend money on ballet, symphony, Storm games, theatre, coffee shops and taxicabs.”

I agree. When Cathy’s not working, we should be in the dog park or walking around upper Queen Anne. Or I should be out playing with my Aunt Sara while Cathy goes to the gym or works in a coffee shop.

Meanwhile, I am exhausted. We looked at five places yesterday. Cathy didn’t get excited about any of them. However, she and Sarah the real estate agent were very impressed with my car manners. I sit in back very quietly, looking out the window. Well, why wouldn’t I? It’s better than being left behind. And Cathy needs to remember we need LOTS of room for my crate.

It’s COLD out there!

Winter has come to Seattle. Yesterday my mom tried to take me to Regrade Dog Park in Belltown. “You need exercise,” she said.

Me? My mom is terrified that I’ll have trouble sleeping because I’m not tired enough. So we hopped a bus and arrived at the dog park to find just a few other dogs. The other owners were too sensible to be out there in the cold. After just a few minutes, I marched over to the gate with that unmistakeable look: Time to go home now.

“Gracie, we just got here!” my mom said. “Don’t you want to play some more?”

Nope. So we walked to our usual bus stop and just missed a bus.

“Let’s keep walking,” my mom said. We ended up walking all the way hone, just over a mile

My mom realized that along the way she was chilled, despite wearing her heavy-duty, newly-cleaned parka. She worked as long as she could that evening. Then she announced we were having an early bed time. She took me out for my last walk and it was COLD. I did my business fast, turned around and led us back inside.

A normal person would turn up the heat, but not my mom. She has three heavy comforters and she piles them up. I sleep on my cushion at the foot of her bed. As usual, my mom tried to impress me into heating pad duty. No way. I curled up in a tight ball on my cushion and wouldn’t budge.

Then my mom tried Ophelia, who’s nice and plump and furry.  Ophelia has a really ugly growl when she chooses. I wish she would teach it to me.

Finally Creampuff stepped up. She’s so ditzy she thinks my mom is a big cushion. She’s small but she radiates heat. She just purrs so loud she keeps us all awake.

No problem, said my mom. “With all I do for this family, the least you could do is keep me warm on these cold nights.”

I pointed omy sharp little nose in the direction of my mom’s electric heating pad. Mom’s afraid the heating pad will catch on fire. Dogs are non-combustible, she says.

I say it serves her right. Next time we have a cold snap, we can skip the dog park. I have a feeling we’re headed for another long walk today. My mom goes a little wild when we see a glimpse of sun.

Holiday Gifts: Save my mom (and me, too)

My mom Cathy has been determined to declutter our humble home. We love living here. We don’t want to move to a bigger place. I think I once had a yard to hang out in and I hated it. I was born to be an indoor dog. Give me a bed anytime.

So as we get ready for the holiday season, my mom shudders at the thought of getting gifts from people. “More STUFF,” she says. My Uncle Lance reminded Cathy she has an Amazon Wish List, which she keeps forgetting to update. “That’s different,” she says. “It’s STUFF I want. Anyway, books are fine. They’re easy to sell or give away if I don’t want them.”

I have to admit she is right. It seems like every year we get junk. Calendars. Subscriptions to publications my mom doesn’t have time to read. Little statues of cute cats and dogs. Food we don’t eat. And more.

One year my mom spent $17 to ship an unwanted gift to her colleague in Canada. She had no use for the gift but didn’t want to give it away. “I think the people who gave me the gift really wanted it for themselves,” she says. “It’s sad.”

“This year,” my mom says, “I am hoping people will not give us gifts. They can make a nice donation in my name to an animal charity or cultural place. (NOT the US Humane Society, though). They can go to my Amazon gift list. They can give me gift certificates.”

Okay, mom, but don’t get too carried away. I need a new leash, remember? Something fit for a princess.

My mom read my mind. “Gracie, I’m giving just a few gifts this year. You get a leash. You don’t need a coat. Everybody else is getting pottery I made during my first term at the Community Center.”

That’ll teach ’em. My mom is the worst potter on the planet. They will never, ever reciprocate. And that’s good. We’re getting a little crowded here. I would like more space in front of my crate.

What’s your gift story?