My building is now officially in escrow, so this morning the real estate agent came by to take some pictures of my place (to make sure that I’ve got water-saving fixtures in the bathroom and smoke detectors in all the rooms) and I took the opportunity to pump him for information.
Turns out, the buyer isn’t going to tear the place down – he’s restored several other apartment buildings and houses in the area, and apparently came to court (because the building’s been in conservatorship since the landlady went nuts, so the sale had to be approved by the court) with photos of the other restoration jobs he’s done and an assurance that he intends to return the building to it’s full Jazz Age glory.
Because of Los Angeles’ rent control laws, he can’t throw me out just because he restores the building. Right now I’m very, very happy.
I’m so happy that the knowledge that I hurt myself last night through sheer stupidity doesn’t even bother me.
Somehow, I got on the list for a party held at Prada in Beverly Hills. Since I’ve never actually purchased anything at Prada, how I got the invite is a complete mystery to me, but I’m certainly not going to say no to free drinks, so off I went – wearing heels, which I’m not supposed to do anymore because of my knee. Of course, I was also wearing the obligatory Very Short Skirt which prevented my from being sensible and at least wearing the knee brace with my heels. Hey, I never said I had any sense.
Sure enough, this morning my knee is swollen and painful. I don’t care. Gallons of free champagne (good stuff, too – not the canned kind), an endless stream of tiny hors d’oeuvres and the assurance that I’m not going to get evicted means today is wonderful even if I am limping around the house with an ice pack taped to my leg.