Category Archives: Life

Pour a glass and drink to wisdom – it’s time for a few more hard truths.

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This post could just as easily be entitled “people who are pissing me off this week,” but let’s face it- none of us has the kind of time it would take to read/write that post in its entirety.

But this week, short lived as it has been, is already stacked to the ceiling with people righteously deserving of a stabbing. In no particular order are the preeminent experts in social retardation. Congratulations! You’ve earned a scholarship good for one free lesson in my hard truths lecture (no actual cash value).

A lack of planning on your part does not constitute a need for urgency on mine.

Despite all my advice, recommendations, documentation and general hand holding, you’ve decided to ignore me and dance around with a thumb up your ass for the past 6 months. Now the heat is on and you need some results fast. Too bad, Scooter. That ship has left the harbor, and I’m the asshole at the stern waving bon voyage and toasting your inevitable failure with a lovely glass of champagne.

Here's to you...going down in flames.

Shifting blame to others isn’t very effective when you’re still left holding the bloody knife, but if you’re looking for sympathy, feel free to build yourself a cross and climb onto it. Just keep in mind that the sympathy won’t come from me. I’m an atheist.

 

Knock it off with the melodramatic displays of insecure vanity.

There’s nothing wrong with wanting to look good, but much like the People of Walmart, you’ve gone too far to the opposite end of the spectrum. Stop pestering your friends, your family, your roommate, and random strangers about how you look. You already know the answer. When you put yourself together in front of a mirror every morning, you are well aware of the point at which you look at yourself and say “good enough.” If you then spend another 15-20 minutes fretting over your physical appearance within earshot of people who would rather be ANYWHERE ELSE, then you’re going to get stabbed. And you’ll probably still worry that the spreading blood stain makes your ass look saggy.

Gravity happens to everyone. Deal with it.


You are not important enough to have enemies.

One of my tenants dropped off a sublease form so that she can move out because her roommate has become her “arch enemy.” Where do I even begin? How about a quick definition of terms:

en·e·my, n.: One who feels hatred toward, intends injury to, or opposes the interests of another.
You are not running for political office, heading up a major drug cartel or crime syndicate, and unless your rampant binge drinking and lack of showering are an attempt to mask crushing greatness, you have no useful superpowers. These are the only people who would feasibly have enemies. You, on the other hand, are 20 years old and your biggest beef with anyone is that your roommates enormous boobs stretched out your favorite sweater, or some whore wore your same outfit better at the last Sigma Chi kegger. But if you see that bitch on the street, do not make the mistake of referring to them as your mortal enemy or I will stab you and show you the correct meaning of that phrase.

 

Yo, Malibu Bitchy! Slap some sunscreen on!

We had our first official warm day of spring yesterday, but the Fake ‘n Baked Oompa Loompa squad has been out in full force since March. You silly bitches look fucking ridiculous. Or to put it in terms you’ll understand: You are clearly not an Autumn. Lay off the tanning bed. You’re 22 years old and you already have the leathery skin of 45 year old. Keep this up and your most important contribution to society will be as the model for Malibu Barbie: Skin Cancer edition.


And DAMN IT, KEN! Sea otters are not a fucking myth!

They are real, they are fuzzy in a slimy little greaseball sort of way, and they are motherfucking adorable, even when they’re bashing mollusk against rocks.

 

Actual Sea Otter

 

Mythical Creature

 

That handles the non-physical stab triggers. The other part is my hip, for which I started physical therapy this morning. For anyone unfamiliar with my situation, I’ve very recently acquired a condition known as trochanteric bursitis. It can come about from any number of situations, and in my case it’s because I cannot vacuum in a tight space without breaking one or more of my toes. I’ve treated it in my massage clients hundreds of times and know the whys and hows, but it becomes a different kind of understanding when it’s your own body.  My therapist confirmed what I already suspected – my right leg is 1/2″ longer because of added strain from compensating for the broken toes/sprained ankle in my right foot over the past year. We’re aiming for treatment with over the counter NSAIDS, special exercises, and ice/heat, and she’s confident that I’ll notice an appreciable difference in the next 4-6 weeks. Meanwhile she advised against any more vacuuming.

So I bought a Roomba. Woot.com, FTW!

Rusty Hedgehog: Modern Art, or Depraved Sex Act?

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Ah, long weekends! The delightful lack of responsibility. The languorous passage of time. The metric assload of work you end up having to catch up upon your return… So in case anyone actually wondered where I went or actually missed me, I decided to take a week hiatus after our Dubuque trip. With everything at work last week, plus hip pain and doctor appointments, I wasn’t feeling terribly entertaining.

But I’m feeling better now, so let me tell you a small tale about a small podunk town on the Mississippi River…

I’d like to start by saying that Dubuque, Iowa is a lovely city with a lot of fascinating history, beautiful architecture and a unique setting along the Mississippi River. You also can’t turn your head 45 degrees without seeing at least 2 church steeples on the horizon. Dubuque: Land of a Hundred Thousand Lutherans. Seriously, this town is like, 29 square miles and I counted at least 12 churches in the parts of the city I actually saw.

And this one didn't even appear to be in use anymore.

Of course, we stayed on Sunday night, so we arrived at the hotel around 2:30 on Sunday afternoon. Immediately, we noticed that EVERYTHING was closed. Upon checking in, the front desk clerk was pointing out the lounge and the restaurant, both of which were closed at the time. At one point, we tried to stop at the city welcome center to get a brochure to find a coffee shop, and it was closed too. Apparently, idle hands are as much God’s fault as the Devil’s work, particularly when they are confounding tourist plans.

When I said before that we were staying in a swanky hotel, I was mostly kidding, because seriously? It’s Dubuque – how upscale can it really be? But this place was GAWgeous! The lobby of any given hotel is usually fairly well decorated, but even the suites here were perfection right down to the $2.00 honor bar candy bars. My only complaint was that there was no jacuzzi tub in the room, but there was a hot tub and we were the only people in it.

Now most people, when they think weekend getaway, think about dining out. While we did do plenty of that, it wasn’t really spectacular. I stopped at a little local chocolate shop and bought 6 truffles in different flavors but for $7, I would rather have bought a couple bags of Dove chocolate. They used the same kind of molds that I use when I’m molding chocolate, only they didn’t tap the air bubbles out of their molds, so the chocolate was all bubbled and a little streaky. I ate my chocolate, but I didn’t enjoy it!

We went to an Italian place for dinner that was a Mom & Pop version of a Macaroni Grill. (Nothing wrong with that – I love Macaroni Grill.) The bruschetta was pretty good, but I prefer mine (naturally). Ken got a pizza, and I did the make your own pasta for our main course. Ken enjoyed his pizza, but my pasta was terrible. It’s like the bucatini wasn’t drained before they slopped unseasoned sauce on it. It was so bland and flavorless that I actually added salt and I NEVER do that in a restaurant. Not even the generous serving of wine (which was also rather uninspiring and lacking in complexity) could make up for the mediocre food. It’s a good thing that we had a bottle of champagne in the hotel room that I brought from home…

Our hotel stay also included at $25 dining credit at the restaurant downstairs, so we tried our hand there for breakfast. Whatever salt had been missing from my dinner the previous evening was clearly added to my biscuits and gravy. I didn’t even bother to finish it and then I spent half an hour after breakfast laying down in our room fighting off tummy rumbles. At least the orange juice was good, and we ended up finishing the rest of our champagne in mimosa form.

Being that we were in the most industrious little city on the Mississippi, and because the husband and I are the biggest nerds, we decided to take a tour of the Mississippi River Museum.  They even had some river wildlife on display in giant tanks throughout the building and it was both awesome and terrifying at the same time. Some of the wildlife even posed for us.

Catfish are even uglier when magnified.

We followed up our two hours of educational recreation with a stroll along the Mississippi River Walk where we were treated to some of the most bizarre “art” I’ve ever seen in my life. At one point, I’m pretty sure we were the victims of a mile long trolling, but if that’s the case then they’ve been doing it to the locals every year for the last 5 years. Art on the River is apparently a big deal there.

Seriously, if anyone can tell me what in the actual fuck those were about, you have my complete and undivided attention.

We capped off our stroll with lunch at the Star Ultra Lounge and Brewery, and let me just say that it was the best food I ate all weekend. Their sweet potato fries were sublime and the peach infused iced tea was delightful. It was the first meal I walked away from not feeling stabby and or queasy. Ken had red snapper tacos or something stupid like that. Whatever, mine was better.

And then we took some more pictures of church spires and spent the next hour and a half driving home. Happy Birthday To Us!

I also promised you kids prizes or some such thing, so hubby drew a name at random from the Badger Hat of Win and Awesome.

Without further adieu, the winner is:

MISTY!

I have your address but I’m pretty sure the post office wants a last name or something, so send me a secured cipher or something later. The other 3 of you that actually participated are fabulous too, and I already have everyone’s address but Jana, so make with the deets, woman. Everyone else, watch your mailbox.

Happy Monday: all uphill to Wednesday.

WTF Friday: Adventures in Landlording Part 3 – Threats of Violence as Currency

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In addition to the falsely entitled twenty-something twats I work with in the course of my average day, I also get stuck working with some difficult/high maintenance property owners. Oh, who am I kidding? I have exactly one difficult AND high maintenance owner, and today, we salute you, Mr. PenisHead von Fuckertwat!

Most property owners who hire a management company do it because they have too much property to handle and/or not enough time and resources to manage it themselves. This guy hires us because he’s been sued so many times by residents, contractors, and commercial lessees that he can’t afford not to let someone else run his show, only he won’t give anyone full control. He loves to micromanage the shit out of people and he’s made every person in my position for the last 7 years cry and/or quit. Not this cast iron bitch. My first encounter with him was a 2 hour meeting wherein he verbally abused me, a scant 2 months on the job, because he hates my company as a whole. I responded calmly but firmly by telling him to shove it in about a dozen different ways, and told him he’d live to regret it if he didn’t back off and let me do my job. Then I charged him an administrative fee for the meeting.

I may have gained his respect, but he also views me as a verbal sparring partner now and we argue about EVERYTHING. The guy thinks his tenants are amazing, mystical unicorn people one day and then hates them like little tenant antichrists the next. Despite a million tenant and consumer protection laws that come with being a landlord in this state, he has no qualms about violating all of them in one fell swoop.

“Put #1 on notice that they can’t park in that space anymore. I’m tired of their gas guzzler creating an eyesore in my parking lot.”
“Dream on, sugar britches. That spot is legally theirs for the next twelve months.”
“But–”
“NO.”

“I don’t want to renew to *tenant*.”
“Oh? And why is that?”
“She yelled at me for coming into her apartment without knocking yesterday and I don’t appreciate being verbally abused by people living in my apartments.”
“Number one, that is HER apartment first, then MINE, and yours LAST. Number two, if you go into any of those apartments without so much as a by-my-leave one more damn time, I will give you a whole lot more to deal with than just yelling.”

“So-and-so did construction work for me this month in return for rent.”
“I’ll credit his ledger.”
*3 months later* “Why didn’t so-and-so pay rent in February?”
“Because you eat babies. You also gave him a credit for his work. Duh.”

This cycle repeats several times a week. He’s so squarely up everyone’s ass that tenants hate his guts and I end up charging him my annual salary every summer to re-rent 8 out of his 10 apartments. I’m pretty much the only one he will deal with and I am the only one in this office who will deal with him.

Unfortunately for him, he wore on my last nerve all month and then the dentist went and obliterated the rest of it. What’s that thing called when a tree branch breaks under your foot? Yeah, my brain did that yesterday.

A contractor attempted to get into the basement to perform routine service on the water softener, but his key didn’t work. Come to find out, neither did mine. And that’s hilarious, because I just got a new key 6 months ago when the basements were rekeyed. So I talked to my friendly locksmith who confirmed that the owner had it rekeyed and told him that no one else is allowed to have a key – including me.

Bitch, say what? I called him from the key shop.

“What in the bleeding blue hell do you mean I am not allowed to have a key to the basement?!?”
“Who is this?”
“You know god damn well who this is. I am registered with the city as your building manager and emergency contact, and I am legally required to have access to every serviceable area of that building. You will give me that key.”
“There’s nothing but a water softener down there. No one is getting a key to this basement until I’m done with my work and that’s going to be at least 2 months.”
“You asshole. There are water heaters, boilers, half the building electrical panels and a water softener down there. If something breaks, bursts, leaks, or sparks, you’re not the one who has to fix it. GIVE ME A COPY OF THAT DAMN KEY.”
“If something happens, they can call me, and–”
“SHUT UP. This is NOT up for debate. Holy hell, I fucking HATE you right now.” *deep breath* “This is what’s going to happen and there will be no compromise- You will give me a copy of your key by the end of the day, or my next phone call will be to tell you that your key doesn’t work anymore because I will rekey that lock myself, so help me god.*”

*You know I’m pissed when I start invoking the name of a god in whom I do not believe.

“That doesn’t work for me.”
“Would it work for you if I stabbed you with this useless basement key I’m holding? That’s where you’re heading.”
*laughing* “Well, can you at least do me a favor and snap your fingers at me while you’re telling me what to do?”
“This is me verbally ordering you to snap-to, buddy. My office, end of the day, or stabbings ensue. Do we have an accord?”
“I will see you before 5:00. Thank you for keeping me on the straight and narrow.”

I swear, it’s like autoerotic asphyxiation, and I’m force choking the shit out of him… Was it professional behavior? Maybe not by some standards, but professionalism is a two way street, and street is riddled with craters. Our relationship works, we all get paid, and everything stays more or less copacetic. If that’s not professional, well, you need to adjust your definition.

REMINDER–
I will be out of town this weekend, and I expect some clever poems when I return! I will draw for fabulous prizes on Monday night when I return!

Burning and aching are reserved for loins only.

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Every six months, I find myself in hell, asking myself the same question. Now, I surely don’t know the answer to this and I’d love for someone else to enlighten me –

 Why can’t I go to the dentist and have it be a simple procedure?

Examples:
Eight years ago, I had to have wisdom teeth removed. They were bony impactions, nudging my sinuses, creating an infection in my jaw, and apparently wrapped in a nerve because to this day I can’t feel part of my lower lip. I ended up having to go under general anesthesia for the procedure. They had a hell of a time waking me up and when they did, I vomited for 3 days straight. I didn’t go back to the dentist for years after that.

Last April, my nightly grinding resulted in a broken back molar necessitating a root canal and a crown. My root canal failed because apparently, a day isn’t enough time for antibiotics to combat swelling from infection. (Duh.) I had to go in a week later to finish the root canal, and then my temporary crown fell off 3 times while waiting for the permanent one to be finished.

In October, I went in for 3 fillings on the lower left and I got a burned lip, stabbed in the cheek, and punched in the nose inside of a 5 minute period. Clearly, I was all but ecstatic for yesterday’s visit.

Thanks, I'll just grab a pair of pliers instead...

 

I was in the chair and the topical numbing agent was starting to kick in -my lip was good and tingly- so he gave me the first injection of novocaine. It nicked my jawbone at first, but I was pretty numb and he changed course so the rest of it was fine…

 Until he gave me the second injection….right into my trigeminal nerve.

 

For those of you who haven’t had anatomy in a decade or so, that’s the nerve which has three branches in your face to control things like chewing, scowling, blinking, and in my case, howling like a banshee. If you’ve never experienced a similar kind of torture, it’s like having someone set one side of your face on fire and then pour gasoline on top of the blaze.

 

On top of that, the nerve also innervates your eye, and mine was more numb than a Titanic casualty. My eye had no feeling and could not track properly, so I was cross-eyed with double vision for 3 fucking hours. I walked into Target to fill a prescription and people looked at me, concerned that I didn’t have a grown up escorting me. “Can I help you find something?” *mumblemumble* “What?” “I just need a prescription!” *drool and run away in shame*

I went home and grabbed some ibuprofen, sat down in my recliner, and woke up 3 hours later on the couch with no recollection of how I got there. This morning, my face was red and streaked with veiny bruises. I look like Darth fucking Maul, and it is NOT awesome.

 

 I have to wonder if being a toothless hillbilly would really be all that bad…

All I need is a banjo and some moonshine...

Happy Birthday! Have Some Untimely Death by Moped.

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The weather has been nicer and more spring-like lately*, so I’m trying to walk to more of my showings within 4-5 blocks of my office.

 *Except yesterday when it was so windy I got choked with my own hair every time I opened my mouth to speak. Even Mother Nature wants me to shut the fuck up.

Of course, being a pedestrian in any city comes with its own challenges. Let’s face it- no matter how many laws exist giving you the right of way, everyone else (including those smug, reckless cyclist bastards) considers you the conveyance-free low man on the totem pole.

It's almost a daily occurrence for cyclists in Madison to blow off a stop sign and almost get hit by a car or plow through a pedestrian.

I’ll admit it- I’m a fickle bitch. When I’m a pedestrian, I hate motorists and when I’m a motorist I hate pedestrians, cyclists, other motorists, children, old people, and anyone wearing a t-shirt with Bob Marley or Che Guevara.

I wasn't jaywalking, and FUCK YOU.

Why all the hate? I’m sure you all remember my candid, well-worded, and perfectly reasonable diatribe against mopeds.  Well, I had 3 different showings at a nearby building yesterday and I was almost mowed down by one of the little dildo-driving cum puppets at every single showing.

The first time, I was crossing with a damn walk light and the dumb motherfucker came barreling down the turn lane with no regard for my right of way, and no intention of stopping. My potential lessees may have shouted some highly inappropriate but Mandi approved epithets at his fleeing form.

On trip number two, I was returning to the office and crossing the parking lot behind the apartment building when some cum receptacle on her hot pink sex rocket darted between the two parked cars I was walking toward. I ended up having to jump out of the way while she turned hard to miss me. After which, she had the nerve to give me the finger and I threw a rock at her.

My final near death experience was also on the return trip to the office where I was crossing University Avenue (which is a one-way street, for you non-locals). It’s already a terrible crossing because there’s a marked crosswalk that no one pays any attention to, even when you’re traveling in it. In this case, I lucked out because all the traffic was stuck at a red light for at least another 30 seconds and I can cross all 4 lanes of that hell in 12, wearing 6” stilettos and doing an Irish jig.

My luck ran out as I was in the last lane when a moped came tearing toward me, driving THE WRONG WAY ON A ONE-WAY STREET. See, in this state, mopeds are treated like fat bicycles for parking purposes, but still have to obey the same traffic laws as motor vehicles. EXCEPT that you don’t need a driver license to operate a moped, so these dumbfounded dipshits don’t even know what the traffic laws are.

Like this, only imagine me giving him the finger.

When Mr. No-Way-But-the-Wrong-Way made his debut, I’d already resigned myself to death before my 31st birthday, so I stood in the middle of the lane, hand on one hip, head cocked to the side with a look on my face that I hope conveyed the sentiment best described as “try me, motherfucker.” It must have worked, because he ended up having to swerve around me into oncoming traffic that had escaped the red light and then ran his moped up the curb before ramming it into a concrete retaining wall. Karma is a BITCH, sweetheart.

And speaking of birthdays! I’d like to wish a happy birthday today to my old-ass husband, who will always be 1 year and some odd days more decrepit than I.  This is also my birthday week and we will be celebrating by spending a night in a swanky hotel in Dubuque, IA (motto: we have riverboat gambling) for some well-deserved R&R.

I’m not much for celebrating my birthday with parties or attention whoring. Hell, I’m not even going to tell you when it is. However, to show that I’m still a good sport, and because I much prefer giving gifts to getting them, I’m giving one of you the opportunity to have a very merry un-birthday with some fabulous gifts.

First, these stylish refrigerator magnets for the house full of munchies:

  

And because pie is no good without coffee:

 

Busy day of being stunning indeed…

Or perhaps you don’t have much of a sweet tooth, but you are someone who enjoys the finer foods in life, I have this:

To win, you must chose your favorite among my many ranting, frustration-fueled posts and write me a poem in any format of 31 words or less. I’ll also pick 2-3 runners up and give them a smaller, but still fabulous consolation prize to be determined later and shamelessly plug your mastery of poetry and/or the English language in a follow-up post. Leave me a comment or email me at Mandi (at) everything Ertel (dot) com by Sunday, April 22nd .

Give me your best shot – a hateful review in masterfully crafted iambic pentameter, a dirty limerick in homage, or a flowery soliloquy – just make it good. Use of profanity is acceptable, and even encouraged, if used sparingly and done well.

Happy word-crafting!