Condo ownership involves other people, part I

So we wandered in and out of the building yesterday, dropping off paint, unloading Barbara's painting equipment, moving in a few other more fragile things that needed to be transported by car. Suzanne and I had a scruffy and deeply satisfying little breakfast in a cafe just below my window, complete with excellent coffee and earnest slow service. Then we did some shopping on Queen East and found me a teak coffee table (sold to me by a one-eyed Jack Russell named Fred), a place to indulge my bag fetish -- I needed it, really, my recycled bike tire and vintage vinyl one is falling apart! I dropped S off and went back and managed to cram the table into my tiny car and moved it in. Furniture that's arrived so far: tiny off-kilter ottoman; vintage teak coffee table that resembles an awful lot of the ones I ate chips and french onion dip off while watching The Love Boat in my teenage babysitting days; antique typesetting box I keep crap in near my desk.

Sum total of the above: all good. A few minor things about the flat -- the wiring is kinda wonky in a few places, which is fixable (am in search of an electrician through the usual "I know your friend Dmitri's Aunt Margot" channels), and Barbara found an awful lot of oily handprints on the wall in places that conjure up the kinds of ghostly narratives you probably don't want to imagine about the former owner of the place. But all good -- we managed to move the kitchen island a few inches inward, I think my office will work fine in the kitchen area, I cajoled the good, unused medicine cabinet that's been on the floor of my office here out of J&S to replace the crappy mirrored thing in there now.

And... Parking Space Drama. Sigh. How Urban Mundane does it get. My ownership deeds say spot #52 is mine, arrived there yesterday and an ancient yellow sports car was parked there, left what I thought was a politely worded note, guy in the car comes to find me (only B was there) and is all pissy that it's been his spot for 3 years, blah blah blah. SO don't want to have to deal with this. Will call property manager, selling real estate agent (who lives in the building), the guy. Whatever. I am assuming this will end up resolved (i.e., that there are spots that belong to each of us) but it is so not where I want to put my energy. Also, this makes the whole "zipping in with a car full of things to unload" all the more complicated, because there's no visitor parking. This plus my tiny car is conspiring to make me feel like I'm making this move on the subway one toothbrush at a time.

POSTSCRIPT: many phone calls later, I've discovered the arcane truth that my actual SPOT is #53, but the LEGAL term for it packaged with the locker is #52, so in fact I do have a spot, Mr. Yellow Car has the spot he thinks he has, and I'll be parking right next to him for-evah. Let's hope he'll take my sweet "sorry for the confusion, I've figured it out" message as an entree into buying me a latte or a papaya instead of glaring tersely at me for the next several months when we encounter each other...