Homeowner, Moi

------The wonderful view of English Bay from the pool/roof deck of MY new West End, Downtown Vancouver apartment------


What you say? Apartment? I thought you were moving to Kerrisdale in an old ladies garden? Ah, yes...that. Well, lets just say what a strange turn of events this week has been. First a job and now a home of my own. It's been a real rollercoaster though, and nothing is as easy as it seems.
But yes. Back to this homeowner thing.
Friday was my first deadline rush at work. I had a million things going on at once. Then my mom phones. She says "I bought you an apartment"....I say, "Uh huh, I'm busy." I hung up the phone and went back to panicking about my work.
As I walked to my car, after staying a half hour overtime, I remembered my mom calling. I called her back. Didn't she say something about an apartment?
Apparently, she was flipping through the newspaper and came across an ad for a studio apartment in the West End of Vancouver. The price was unbelievable. She called up the real estate agent and demanded to see it, even though the open house was on sunday.
To make a long story short, she loved it and put in an offer.
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Saturday rolls around. The real estate agent phones. Acting as our buyer, she informs us that another apartment in the building has just become available, a one-bedroom only for 17,000$ more. We get excited. A studio is great but a one-bedroom is even better. And we can see both apartment's tommorow. I'm so taken aback by all these developments, that only after slamming back a few ceasers at Scruffy's in New West, does it all hit me. I might just be a homeowner. Then we start arguing about Israel, Palestine and WMDs and I forget all about the apartment.
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Sunday greets us with groans. Nursing a massive hangover, I wrangle Ross into accompanying me to the open house.
I park on Pacific Avenue and notice the beach is steps away, framed by a grove of suspicious palm trees. We walk up the hill two blocks and turn on to Burnaby Street. Busy Burrard Street is a few blocks East. Happening Davie Street is one block North. And in front of us is the building, recently white-washed and looking clean. While waiting for my parents to show up, we learn we aren't alone. There are Russians interested in the apartment...a group of gay men....a young couple...I feel like fighting them all off and yelling "IT'S MINE!" It doesn't help that all of us nearly get stuck in the elevator together.
But the apartment is nice...me likey...it's small, of course, a 430 sq. foot bachelor, but the way its laid out makes it livable. It has hardwood floors, bright walls, open windows, new counters and a really cool vintage phone that I'm hoping is included in the price.
Then we are wisked upstairs to the other apartment de jour. It's also nice, much bigger obviously since its more than one room. But it seems darker somehow. And Ross points out theres no way he could fit in the shower...unless its some sort of glorified nipple washer.
Then we go to the roof. Oh my God. The roof. There is a pool...some palm trees and fancy chairs. And a view that stretches forever. Surreal. Forget the apartment, I'll just live up there.
But we don't forget the apartment, and despite some shifty Chinese real estate agent thats hanging around listening, my parents make their 2nd offer in as many days, this one for the one-bedroom, while still having the studio by default. It looks certain.
A few hours later I get a call from my mother. The shifty real estate agent had heard (eavesdropped) our offer, went to his client and bid ELEVEN THOUSAND MORE than what we offered, which was the asking price. There goes the one bedroom. I spend the evening knocking back pitchers of beer at The Cambie and trying to forget the shaky situation I'm in. One minute it looked like we had everything. Now it looks like we might walk away with nothing but just a taste of what could have been. Bring on the beer.
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After the 6th pitcher my mother calls back. The one-bedroom is gone. The studio is mine.
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My mother calls me today while I'm driving (more like racing) home after work. The studio going in my name. I'm getting a mortgage too, co-signed by my Dad. I'm going to be a property owner, a homeowner. The real esatet agent just left my house after having us sign the papers.
I wonder when it's going to hit me that this is kind of a big deal.