Are you gunna run tell yo' mommy too?

On Sunday I return a call from a tenant saying that there is a small drip coming from the ceiling above her bathtub. She said she had noticed a spot on the ceiling, but that it had just started dripping today. She admitted that it wasn't too bad, just annoying. I assured her that we would be out first thing in the morning to figure out what was going on.

Monday morning the maintenance guy goes to asses the situation. He opens up part of her bathroom ceiling to get a look. We then call and arrange for our plumber to come out on Tuesday to fix the problem stemming from the apartment above. We notify both tenants of the proceedings.

Tuesday morning the plumber fixes most of the problem but needs a few parts.

Wednesday the plumbing is finished and the hole in the ceiling is patched.

This is really boring, is there a point to this?

Yes, I'm getting there. Then, in Wednesday's mail is a letter from the Health Department. It is from the tenant that originally had the leak in her ceiling. Apparently she reported that she had mold on her ceiling. WTF? Sunday was the first I heard of it. We couldn't have rendered the problem any quicker than we did. I look to see what the date was that she called it in: the previous Wednesday. That was five days before she called me.

Now this seemed shitty and confusing, until I thought back to what also happened on that Wednesday. That was the day that I scolded her for all the noise and disruption complaints I had been getting in regard to her apartment. I had also handed her a letter threatening her with eviction if things didn't change.

So, what does this mean? It means that I can almost picture her going, "Oh yeah, well I'll show you."

By the way, did I mention that this is The Pot Head Tenant from a few posts back? Why yes, yes it is. Now, I've not smelled a thing or heard a peep since she got my letter, but the damage has been done. We may be beyond eviction and into missing person territory. You didn't hear that here.

"WAAAA, he won't let me smoke pot, scream cuss words in the hall and outside the building, or blast my music at 2am! He is soooo mean!"

Happy Flung Monkey Poo

I have touched upon this in the past, but due to a barrage of forwards I received today, I felt it was worth another look. I think it's funny that you can always tell when someone first gets into e-mail. They quickly become the forward sender. I don't mind since some of them are neat to look at, or are funny. The only time I don't like it is when the e-mail threatens me if I don't do what it says. "Send this to everyone you know or there will be a pox on your first born!" Seems a little extreme just to pass along a waiving monkey picture.

It's not even the pointless time it would take to send it to everyone I know. It is more the principle of being threatened by a faceless person who the only thing I know about them is that they enjoy monkey humor. In fact, whenever I get one of those e-mails, not only do I not pass it along, I take a moment out of my day and try to visualize the person who started it in the first place.

Normally they are pathetic little people, just barely above those who send out computer viruses. Sure they don't go after my hard drive, but they go after my lineage. And that is just wrong. They only differ from the evil of virus spreaders with the fact that they have some sense of humor. Now, normally I would be the last person to browbeat someone who is both evil and funny, but they cross the line when they threaten me and mine.

So, once I have them firmly in mind, I send them a little hex. "No, no, a pox on you sir!" Then I realize that I'm not even sure what a pox is. The only thing that comes to mind is chicken pox and that seems a little weak. Besides, maybe he already got them when he was young and it wouldn't even work.

So, then I sit back and try to gear up for something better. Let's see, not an insult, a curse... "May your love of funny monkeys someday come back to haunt you in a way you never dreamt. May you one day be at the zoo, enjoying your beloved monkeys at their exhibit when you notice a beautiful girl standing near you. This is the type of girl who would never be interested in you, but as it so happens she catches you looking at her. But, instead of the normal look of disgust you have grown accustomed to, she sends you a smile. You think to yourself that maybe this is your day. Maybe hell has frozen and a girl like this is into geeks. Then, just as you start to slip into fantasyland and your eyes begin to glaze over, you are snapped back into reality when a glob of poop slaps you in the head. You quickly realize by their hoots of laughter and chatter, that the monkeys who were the perpetrators of this action think that it is hilarious.

By the way, so does the girl. This extreme embarrassment causes you to piss yourself. O.K., now the girl gives you the look of disgust you are more familiar with. You are so stunned by this series of events that you can only stand there and cry. Some of your tears mix with the poo dripping down your head and gets into your mouth. Then, a few weeks later you die from a rare strain of monkey pox." There, I guess I did get to work in the word pox. I'm still not sure what it means, but it sounds better this way. I suppose the moral of the story is this:

e-mails from loved ones = great
forwards = O.K. to a certain extent
forwards that threaten = infuriating
originators of these threatening forwards = death by monkey poo.

Wow, I can't believe I made it through an entire post without a movie quote. I'm really proud of myself, I mean it.

Anybody want a peanut?

Damn.

You can put your weeed in there

So I recently moved a new tenant into an apartment that shares the hallway with my leasing office. She is young, cute, soft spoken, and pleasant mannered. She had just moved into town from Chicago and this is her first apartment. She has a decent job and is the niece of one of my other tenants. He is a good guy and has been a great tenant, so this is a nice reference to have. Still, my spidy-sense was tingling about moving her in right by the office. I have learned to trust my instincts in this job and it normally serves me pretty well. But, as it turned out, this was the only apartment I had ready at the time and she was in somewhat of a hurry to move in. So, in she went.

All was well. For the first few weeks I didn't hear much out of her and very rarely saw her. This is a good thing by the way. Some of my favorite tenants are the ones that I barely know their names. Why? Because I don't have to hound them for their rent and they don't complain about crap.

Back to my story. La la la, life is good. Then one day I smell it. It starts to creep under my office door at first. Then, when I open the door it punches me in the nose. The smell of pot is undeniable. I have never partaken myself, but I lived in a college dorm long enough to know it well.
"Dude, he's rockin' the ganja!"

Now, I'm no prude. Far be it from me to get in the way of a little "relax time." But across from the leasing office, and in the middle of the day? Come on for crap's sake!
Hello and welcome to the apartment community. That smell? Why, that's just the way we roll around here.
I opened the hall window, spayed some odor neutralizer and hoped this would be an isolated occurrence.

About a week later the hall fills with what smells like burning shit. My maintenance guy, who was a user in a previous life, informs me that the smell is Jamaican skunk grass. Who knew? Remember the time when I told you this job teaches me things I never wanted to know? Well, this was one of those instances.

Now, the maintenance guy can speak to the tenants from an "unofficial" standpoint; whereas I am seen as a direct representation of the company. So I have him mention the situation to her in a casual way. He informs her that the smell is going into the hallway. She seems surprised and almost embarrassed. He even gives her tips on making it less obvious. Does this solve the situation? Hells no. Next comes the following letter from me:

Dear (tenant),

This letter is regarding the smell of an apparent illegal narcotic coming from your apartment and filling the building hallway on a repeated basis. This occurrence must come to an immediate end. Please know that this is taken very seriously and is putting your tenancy at risk. We enjoy having you as a tenant and would hate to see you lose your apartment for this reason. Thank you in advance for your prompt attention to this matter.

The next phase is for Captain Brilliant (aka The Pot Head Tenant) to... stop smoking weed in her apartment you ask? No, no silly reader. She sticks a lit stick of incense in the doorbell outside of her door. That's right, lit on the outside of her apartment. That way it can ash down onto the hallway carpet below. After a quick bang on her door she opens with a surprised look.
"You can't do this," I say holding up the incense.
"I'm sorry, I wanted it to smell better," she says sounding all hurt.
"I appreciate that, but I'd rather not burn the building down in the process," I scold back.

Her days are numbered.

All work and no play makes one healthy, wealthy, and w...wait that's not how it goes

Friday started off in my office. Most of the day was going to be spent out of the office, so I was busy wrapping up loose ends before I departed. As I sat at my desk, I realized I was going to have to drop the kids off at the pool before the day went any further.

Oh my, what a crass euphemism.

Now, my landlording office is a small one. It is basically one of the studio apartments with an opening to the attached utility room for the building. My desk is in the front room. Then there is a kitchen, a bathroom, and the utility room which is separated by a cubicle divider. The latter is where the company accountant's and owner's desks are. So, as part of your visualization, keep in mind that the bathroom and the accountant's desk is about an arm's length from each other. Therefore, unless I have the office to myself when the catcher calls for the #2 pitch, I choose to take care of business elsewhere.

My elsewhere of choice is the model apartment I keep across the hall from the office. I have adopted this method because it is clean and close by. Therefore I can normally be done and back before anyone even realizes I was gone. When I go I take the key to the model (which is normally sitting on my desk) and my cell phone--> just in case they realize I'm gone and a panic ensues. I go over, lock the apartment door behind me, and commence with the task at hand. Now, just as things are wrapping up, I get a call from the office on my cell. I don't answer because, well, things are wrapping up and I'll be there in a second. Then, just as I'm crossing the main room to leave the apartment, the owner unlocks and opens the front door. He apparently had gotten the secondary key out of the key box. He hits me with a surprised look (as I'm sure I did him) and says, "someone is here and wants to see the model." CRAP--pun intended--of all the damn times to get a walk in showing appointment! The prospective tenant walks into the model and I take over acting like nothing is out of the ordinary. Why yes, I often lock myself into the vacant, unfurnished apartments. And that odor? Why it is the Ode De Ass colone we spray in each unit for that comfy, lived in feel. The owner shoots me a knowing smile as he leaves the room. It is never spoken of again.

Now, to change the subject, I don't want you fellow readers to think my days are all working and pooing. I realize I hit you mainly with work stuff here, but I assure you I have my enjoyments too. Case in point, the rest of the day Friday was spent on the golf course. This doesn't happen all that often, but from time to time we put together a golf outing for the construction guys as a type of morale booster. Now, me on the golf course is sort of along the Happy Gilmore "I'm a football player playing golf today" lines. But even though I can count the number of times I've actually played on two hands, I can usually hold my own. I did in fact hit my very first birdy ever (A birdy is when you shoot one under par. Par is... well never mind. If you don't know you probably don't care).

"Step right up and take a look at the amazing golf-ball-whacker-guy!"

Then, that evening the wife, some friends, and myself went out to one of our favorite Mediterranean restaurants for good food and belly dancing...

She was enthralling, and the whole sword balancing on the head thing was pretty cool. So, from pooping to eating, it was a pretty good day.

"I eat pieces of shit like you for breakfast."
"You eat pieces of shit for breakfast?"
"NO!"

An ass chewing? Well, your house or mine?

So, it's Wednesday morning and I head to court. This is one of my least favorite ways to start the day. It's five 'till nine in the morning and I'm about to stand in line waiting to enter the courthouse. Most court sessions start at 9am, thus making the pre-nine line a long one. I know this, and I realize that getting there earlier would make the line shorter, but that still doesn't mean I do. So, here I stand with the dregs of society. The lawyers and cops don't have to stand in this line. They get to cut through a special entrance. Everyone else gets to wait and go through the metal detector. This means the prosecution and defense stand side by side as we slowly move our way through the cattle-style procession. I am surrounded by the smell of body odor and pot. I get the occasional dirty look as my preppie little outfit has a way of standing out in this scene. No matter though, this is far from my first time here. I'm not new to the game, and my demeanor over-rides my look.

I finally make my way through the metal detector...

"the man with the rubber glove was surprisingly gentle"

and up to the room where eviction court is starting. After a quick look at the docket hanging in the hall to see how far down the list I am (damn-near the bottom, great), I make my way inside. It is a relatively small room crammed tightly with chairs. People are packed in and there is a quiet sense of discontent in the air. I quickly scan the room to find an empty seat, for there will be NO STANDING IN THE ISLES. Apparently standing in the isle is almost as bad as talking, but not quite. The courtroom is treated like a classroom where the judge is the teacher, and this teacher is definitely in charge of the class.

As the cases are called, the defendants and prosecution make their way to the front of the room to stand in front of the judge. Occasionally one or the other is accompanied by an attorney. The rest of the room has nothing to do but sit back and watch until their name is called. It is generally a pretty cut and dry routine. The prosecution runs through their little list of things to say (basically this is my name, this person lives there, they haven't paid rent, I want them to leave). The defense is then asked, assuming they are even there, if they have anything to ask or say. Then, regardless of their response, they are given 7 days to move out. What can they say really, if they haven't paid rent there is very little defense (which is why many don't even show up).

Now, in this particular instance the landlord did not have an attorney, but the tenant did. The landlord goes through his little routine speel, and then it's opened up to the tenant. The tenant's lawyer starts in on the landlord as if he is on some daytime court TV show. He starts yelling at the landlord basically saying how dare the landlord put his client out since she has a kid and is also pregnant. After a few minutes of the landlord's shocked stumbling and the lawyer's constant browbeating, the judge finally yells, "STOP! THAT'S ENOUGH!" He then sits there in silence for a moment looking at the lawyer as if trying to make his head explode with telepathy. The judge then calls a recess (weee, dodgeball) and yells to the lawyer to meet him in the hall. When they re-enter the lawyer proceeds to his seat with his tail between his legs. The judge informs the clients that he will continue their case at the end.

"Your honor I object!"
"On what grounds?"
"It's devistating to my case."

For the rest of the morning, the judge is in a pretty pissy mood. He does his job just fine, but god forbid anyone who is not at the stand open their mouth in his courtroom the rest of the morning. At one point someone in the back of the room had the balls to talk on a cell phone. Now, I was closer to the person than the judge and I couldn't hear them, but I thought the judge was going to crap himself. "You had better not be on the phone while this court is in session! Get out of this room!" The judge then turns his attention to the lawyer from before, "I think that is one of your clients. You had better get out there and tell her to stay in the hall until her case is called. You stay out there too, and when you come back in you may need representation yourself the way this day is going!" The lawyer hurried out of the room while sheepishly saying, "yes your honor, yes your honor."

Now regardless of how you feel about lawyers, to see that big of a jackass put in his place so sternly was a beautiful thing to behold. It almost made the whole crap morning worth it, almost.

--sorry, I had Jim Carrey on the brain I guess-- AML

Pardon the mother f*ckin' interruption

O.K., so one of my good buddies got married this weekend. I will leave out the details, but if you search blogland hard enough I'm sure you'll come across some. Let's just say I was in the wedding and fun was had by all.

Hey look, a picture

Anywho, let me back up for a minute (this is coming full circle I promiss). Since the begining of the year I have had to fire two maintenence guys. The first one turned out to be an undependable shmuck, the second one decided it would be a good idea to buy personal groceries and gas on the company credit card (to the total tune of about $700). Helloooo, we cross check the bill with the receipts duuumaaass! He is a deserving canidate for a Carlos Mencia style "DEEDEEDEE" if I ever saw one.

So, aside from me getting to be the hire guy and the fire guy, I am also the trainer guy too. That's right, every time I hire a new person I have to get them up to spead as soon as I can. It's not so much, "This is how you swing a hammer," but pretty much everything else. Then, when I fire them a month or so later, I get to start from scratch. Weeee!

Why don't you do a better job finding someone to hire, jackass?

Yeah, piss off, it isn't that easy. To add to the fun, now that we've been burned twice with the last one effectively stealing money, we apparently can't trust anyone. Or at least that is the adopted mindset. Even yours truely was suddenly under scruteny.

"Hi there, remember me? I'm the same guy who's worked here for years. I'm the one who caught and fired the bad man who was stealing. Oh, but I was also the one who hired him. So, I guess it does make sense to suddenly crawl up my ass. My bad, continue."

In the mean time, I have found another person, seemingly far more suitable than the last two. He has been working for us in this sort of limbo position (don't ask) for a few months now. But, he seems reluctant to sacrifice his first born son, so I don't know if we can actually trust him enough to hire him on.

"Are you pickin' up on the sarcasm? Good, 'cause I'm layin' it on pretty thick"

Until we do actually hire him, I get to carry the emergency pager. Goody! I like doing my rendition of a drug dealer by carrying both a cell phone and a pager!

"Wait, who has drugs?"

Settle down Kate, I said it was just a rendition.

Fast-forward now to me being in the wedding this weekend. Fortunately, I train new tenants comming in pretty well as to what constitutes an emergency, so the pager doesn't go off all that often. That is apparently unless I am in a wedding.

I happened to look at my phone during the reception to see what time it was. It was then that I noticed a missed call. Upon listening to the message, I realized it was a service guy from the gas and electric company. I checked the pager and yep, five pages.

"We smell gas, blah, blah, blah."

"The girl who lives in that apartment may be passed out inside, blah, blah, blah."

Long story short (too late), my night was interrupted by a blown out pilot light. Oh the joys.