If my brother and I were twins, this is how we'd start our birthday house fire.

But I just barely broke into my 30s! That’s not old, right? Despite my abject hatred of most people under 25 I’d like to think that I’m still young enough to be relevant, but when it comes to the kids’ musical interests, or movies, or hobbies, I find myself increasingly NOT GIVING A SHIT.

The TV Show Glee was probably my first rude awakening. I actually heard one of my tenants talking to her roommate about a song on the show and she *actually said* “I think it’s great that they make these songs more popular with everyone and they can even make up new songs too!” The song she though they were making up? Fat Bottomed Girls. Freddie Mercury is a unicorn, and the beautiful, mythical creature is spinning in his grave right now.

Freddie Mercury owes you a cunt punch, whore.

People in their 20s don’t even realize it when songs they listen to are actually covers of songs that were done before they were born. Newsflash, asshats – Fred Durst was not the master poet behind the song Faith. Alien Antfarm did not spawn Smooth Criminal. The Brittney Spears atrocity that you know as “I Love Rock & Roll” was not her creation and she is a butcher. Don’t even get me started on all the Bob Dylan covers that no one knows are covers, or the whole David Bowie/Nirvana “The Man Who Sold the World” thing.

Speaking of Nirvana - I was growing up in the greater Seattle area at the time Nirvana was popular and judge all you want, but I was a child of the Grunge era. I skipped school to go to the guy’s memorial service in Pioneer Square* in April of 1994. Wait, 18 years ago? No fucking way…

*Mom- This is probably the first you’re hearing of this, but that’s cool because I’m a grownup and the statute of limitations is UP. 

The Grunge Era: That transitional phase where not only was it easier for bands to ditch the hairspray, it was just easier to quit washing your hair entirely.

Other generational disparities that make me want to swan kick anyone born after 1985:

• “I wanna be like Mike” An independent survey of every tenant who came into my office since Wednesday revealed that NOT A SINGLE ONE of the people surveyed who were born after 1988 know who the fuck this statement is about. And that’s sad.
• I find nothing in this world more stabby-making than the sound of 20 something girls getting bent the fuck out of shape about trivial drama. Except the sound of 13 year old girls of similar disposition.
• I hate these little twats whose biggest worry in life right now is that they exceeded their clothing budget for the month that their parents set for them. Bitch, please. I’ve been paying for my own clothes since I was 14 and working a summer job to afford that day-long shopping trip with mom.
  

  I hope you kick yourself in the face with that stiletto.

My Uncle Todd mentioned on Facebook that he realized only recently that is one of those cranky old men who yells at the kids to get off his lawn. Now, the guy has just slightly more than a decade of years on me, but he’s been that cranky old man as long as I’ve had memories of him, and I have always thought that was awesome. I recommended that he embrace that fact and use it for his financial gain. Then I recommended that he invest in low voltage taser mines for his front lawn.

I finally realized after a conversation thread in a blog regarding pedestrians that I have turned into the exact same “get off my lawn” person that good ol’ Uncle Todd was alluding to earlier. Working in the middle of campus, it’s a daily near-miss with the throngs of undergrads wearing headphones like social interaction causes cancer; who barrel through crosswalks and the campus mall like Ray fucking Lewis with a lock on a quarterback. They have absolutely no regard for the oncoming traffic they’re frogger-ing through and I wouldn’t be able to summon enough fucks to give if one of them did step in front of me one day. The only thing worse than those little assbags are the effervescent shit stains zipping through traffic on the two-stroke dildos they like to call “mopeds,” but we’ve all revisited that little diatribe enough this academic year.

Suffice to say, I demand that you little fuckers get off my lawn, my sidewalk, and my general zip code.

 
The little sociopaths that constitute my tenant base are wrapping up finals and leaving town finally, but not before they stop in to be assholes, mostly just for the sake of being assholes. Seriously, some little dipshit stopped in to drop off his keys, looked in my candy dish and said,

“Man, why don’t you ever have anything good like M&Ms or Skittles?”

“Because they’re not individually wrapped, and children are filthy creatures.”

“We’re not children! I also happen to think I’m pretty clean compared to most people.”

“For starters, I’m old enough to have birthed you, kid. Granted, it would have been into a toilet bowl at prom, but I’m still old enough. And you forget that I’ve seen your apartment. A prom toilet full of afterbirth is still cleaner than anything in your place.”

I wish I could say the reference to birth at prom was the first one this week. Ken and I went to the last symphony performance of the season this past Saturday and we stopped at Cold Stone for dessert beforehand. Of course we got there and then a group of teenagers walked in looking like a bubblegum quinceanera. I’ve never seen so much tulle outside of a Joann Fabrics. Tis the season for prom, I suppose. As we were walking to the car, Ken asked, “Can you imagine chaperoning for those kids?”
“No. I wouldn’t be caught dead at another prom.”
“I would! I’d be the one outside the bathrooms asking, ‘Young lady, did you leave a baby in that toilet?’”

So then we get to Overture Center for the performance and find that the other half of the center was rented out for a special event: prom. Only there were security guards to stand outside the bathrooms and ask inappropriate questions, instead of my husband who would probably wind up on a sex offender registry for telling dead baby jokes, knowing our luck.

If she's allowed to wear the joke in public, then I'm allowed to say it out loud.

Moving on to classier subjects (hah!), I’m a good sanding and another coat of paint away from refurbishing Jana’s crackhouse mannequin. Since this is going to be a fabulous gift for the Queen of NATurally Inappropriate herself, we decided to turn it into a wall mounted planter for her herb garden. The most inappropriate thing about her after that will be the placement of the pots. And if we’re being honest, it wil be more clothes than she was wearing when I got her.

And of course, I’m going to have to deliver this thing to her personally in Texas when it’s done because I’d cry if it broke in shipping. Which led to this conversation:

Me: So I think I’ll put a wide pot around her legs. I’ll leave the midriff bare so you can write on it, and I’ll add two smaller, round titty pots.

Nat: It’s going to be legit.

Me: Jana is going to be jealous that she didn’t accept my offer of a kid’s craft station. I be talented, yo.

Nat: So you’re going to have to carry that on a plane. And pretend like nothing is up. And get pics.

Me: Yes. Epic blog post coming in July.

Nat: Like, just stare at peeps like you’re just holding a shopping bag. It’s soooo fabulous.

I will, too. I may be getting a cavity search, but it will be my greatest blog ever.

I'll have to do something to commemorate such an important milestone.

Our weather has gotten very nice in the past week and for the rest of the office, this is the season where they start taking the odd day off here or there for golf, fishing, long weekends, etc. The accounts manager decided on Wednesday evening to take Thursday off for golf. No biggie – I had 4 appointments and enough time to be in the office for coverage. Our boss refuses to answer the phones even when he can see that it’s the name/number of someone returning his call that he wants to talk to. It’s an image he tries to project – he’s so busy he can’t even answer your call right away. If I leave for an appointment and the phone rings, he won’t answer even if he’s the only one in the office and I will return to half a dozen voice mails that I have to write messages for and hand to him.

Yesterday, he was in and out of the office constantly before my first appointment and I had to lock up before I left. I came back about an hour later and he must have gotten into the office just after I left because the first words out of his mouth were:
“What took you so long?”
“I had to go to Middleton for a showing. I was signing a lease there. Then I took a quick break to grab lunch.”
“That shouldn’t have taken more than 15, maybe 20 minutes.”
“And then I went to grab lunch.”
“Well I’ve been the only person here this whole time and the phone is ringing off the hook. If someone wants to sign a lease badly enough, they will come to the office to do it. You need to be answering phones. Now you’re going to be gone all afternoon and there’s no one here.”
“I can’t schedule phone calls around showings. *Coworker* scheduled his day off after these people made their appointments. I can’t call and reschedule them because someone decided to go play golf today and you don’t like talking to the general public. I just signed one of the hardest spaces to lease and you’d rather focus on the fact that the phone rang while I was gone? I’m really starting to feel like I just can’t win with you and if that’s the case, let me know, because I’ll make sure to prevent myself from getting stuck in that situation.”
“Oh! You signed a lease?”

I know where the god damn bodies are buried and if this shit keeps up, one of those bodies will include his own.

We also just finished our push to collect May rent. As usual, there the few stragglers who are routinely late with rent. Before I send them their “Pack your shit, Skippy” notices, I will give them a courtesy call to remind them that their rent is late and that I file for eviction on Monday.

Usually, I get sent straight to voicemail because they know they’re late and they spent part of their rent money on premium blow. But for one such phone call, the kid actually answered the phone.
“Hi there! Your rent is a few days late and I was wondering when we can expect to see that. We start eviction proceedings on Friday.”
“Oh, you don’t have to evict me. I finished the semester and I already moved out.”
“Well, congratulations on finals, but you still owe rent through August 14th.”
“I’m not paying rent for a place I’m not living in. That’s dumb!”
“It doesn’t matter if you’re living there or not. You have a contract and that contract says you’re responsible for rent through August. It’s like saying you won’t make your car payment this month because you haven’t driven the car. The bank doesn’t let that fly and neither will I.”
“I didn’t make a car payment this month. I left it at my parents’ house. What are they going to do, repo it from my parents’ garage? Do you want to repossess your apartment? Go ahead!” *click*
I spent several seconds blinking and fighting the rage monster that wanted to slam his head into my desk repeatedly. Then I did the next best thing. I called his mommy.

“Hi! I have you listed as a cosigner for *ratbastardkid*, and –”
“Oh, I’m only his cosigner if he stops paying rent!”
“Yes, and that’s why I called you. He said he already moved out and that he won’t pay since he’s not living there. He also tried to justify not making his car payment for much the same reason.”
“What?!? He moved out? He didn’t tell us that! And goddamn it, I cosigned for that fucking car! Don’t worry about your rent – I’ll send you a check today. He’ll be paying for it out of the proceeds from the sale of his car!” *click*
Only phone call where I ever enjoyed being hung up on…

Another conversation with a different parent an hour later:

“My son will be coming home for summer at the end of this month. Now, I know he owes rent through the end of the lease, but I just called to have the electricity shut off and they said you won’t let them do it until the lease is over. What are you trying to pull here?”
“We’re not pulling anything Mrs. *I battle you by phone on a weekly basis*. The lease term is through August 14th, and we very clearly list the electricity as a utility for which the tenants are responsible. The responsibility for the premises includes the utilities.”
“That’s ridiculous! No one will be living there! There won’t even be any furniture, much less electronics! Why should we pay to have power turned on if we’re not there?”
“Because those are the terms your son agreed to when he signed the lease. Now, if no one will be living there your power bill should be minimal. If you wanted to make it as low as possible, you can shut off all breakers except the refrigerator.”
“Oh? I’m supposed to pay for an empty fridge to stay cold?”
“If you shut off a refrigerator and you’re not there to clean it after it defrosts, the whole unit mold and it has to be replaced. I can guarantee you that replacement will be far more expensive than a $10 power bill for the next 3 months.”
“You make some good points. I’ll call our lawyer and get back to you.”

Conversation with girl’s mother after she received her move-out packet:

“My daughter received a lengthy list from you about things she needs to do before she moves out of her apartment. This reads like a Molly Maids chore list. You surely have a cleaning service that you work with. Call them, because my daughter will not be doing these chores!”
“I do have a cleaning service, and if she would like to have me call them instead, I told her that I’d be more than happy to do so.”
“You also told her that she’d have to pay for it!”
“Of course she would. It’s part of their lease agreements that the apartment must be left in as clean a condition as they received it. That includes cleaning up before move out.”
“Well she doesn’t have time to clean and we’re not paying for something that should be provided for free! If you try to send me a bill, I’ll just throw it away. You just try to prove that I ever got it!” *click*

No, ma’am. That won’t be necessary. You see, I have your daughter’s security deposit, and it has more than enough money in it to pay for her cleaning.

And finally, this little gem from the idiot patriarch of an equally idiotic family:

“My daughter said you won’t kick her roommate off the lease even though she’s been stealing from the girls and threatening them.”
“I can’t legally remove someone from a lease without an injunction from a judge. I have recommended that your daughter file a police report and press charges for the stolen items and then either attempt to sublet her room or appeal to that roommate to move out.”
“No! She’s not going to talk to that girl. YOU make her move out!”
“I cannot do that. It’s against the law. There is a proper legal procedure to remove someone from the premises and it requires an injunction from a judge.”
“That would take months to get a court date! The lease will be over by then! Either you get rid of this girl, or I’m changing the locks so she can’t get in!”
“You’re not allowed to change the locks without my consent, and you don’t have my consent to lock a named lessee out of their apartment. If I find that you’ve done that, not only will I remove that lock and put the old one back, but you will be charged for it. I’d also be forced to file a police report against you for coming into one of our units and removing our property from the premises. In this city, that’s considered breaking and entering and vandalism.”
“You try it! I’ll be there next to put a brick through your office window, and maybe your head!”
This time, I hung up and called the police. They found him sprawled on the living room floor in front of his daughter’s TV, drinking cheap college vodka straight from the bottle. When they asked him about the phone call, he broke down into tears. Even if he had thrown a brick, I imagine that he’d have thrown like a girl.

And the week still isn’t over! Happy Friday, peeps! May your day be a rise to the glory that is the weekend instead of the downward spiral into madness that is my day!

I would like to start by saying that I am so fucking over this whole leasing season. There will be a brand new installment of Adventure in Landlording this week because I feel that if I don’t post it as it happens, then I run the risk of wondering if I imagined it and then going stark raving madder than I already am.

My boss returned Tuesday from a week long vacation all rested and recharged, and completely oblivious to the fact that the rest of us have been here the whole merry week, fighting an un-winnable war against stupid, and thus lacking his restfulness. No, he just got to dumping piles of crap right on my desk. I’ve been so damn busy this week that I wake up every morning wondering where I’m going to fit a lunch break. The answer to that is something like, “Haha, bitch! It ain’t happenin’!” It’s only Wednesday, but I’m already Friday-at-Five exhausted, and that’s the monster that ate the Monday/Tuesday post. By the time I get this posted, it will have eaten Wednesday as well.

The nice thing about Wednesday is sleeping in an extra half hour because I have a physical therapy appointment in the morning. I got stretched and measured before being worked over for half an hour with an ultrasound wand and trigger point release. We found that while my legs are back to being the same length, I’ve got some alignment issues in my hips that’s causing the pain to migrate into my butt and low back.

I’m taking a week off from PT to go to a chiropractor that my therapist recommends highly. It’s been like, 2 years since I’ve had a decent adjustment and we now have a benefits package that covers chiropractic so I’m on that like a fat kid on a cupcake. Bring on the snap, crackle, pop! I called Dr. McRoberts who seems like a really nice, very competent guy. I made an appointment for Monday afternoon, and went to put the appointment in my Google Calendar via my idiot savant smartphone. Said idiot phone then proceeded to auto-correct Dr. McRoberts to Dr. McRiblets THREE FREAKING TIMES.

How does my phone even know the word McRiblets? Why is that in my dictionary? Who at Applebees/McDonalds is blowing the Android people to have this bastard hybrid of a quasi-meat product automatically included in the android dictionary?

As I was pondering this very thing, and walking to the refrigerator to put my lunch bag away, I ended up kicking the conference room door, which promptly ricocheted off the doorstop and smacked me in the face. I’m glad my boss was on the phone at the time because if he’d been watching the office security monitor, he would have had a fucking aneurysm from laughing so damn hard.

Then as I was walking back to my desk and chuckling to myself about how twisted it would be for a man to come back from vacation only to die of a ruptured blood vessel from laughing at one of his employee’s misfortune, I slammed my arm into that same god damn conference room door frame, bounced off, fell head first into the very door that smacked me in the face not 60 seconds before, and fell on my ass.

In full view of our accounts manager. Who laughed so god damn hard that he turned beet red and should have, by all accounts, had a fucking aneurysm.

While I laid on the floor pondering how on earth I am- A) still alive, and- B) still of above average intelligence.

If I can’t have a vacation, I’ll take a 72 hour psych hold at the state bouncy house. Lake view, happy pills, no chores… it’s a start.

Ken and I both got home after 6:00, and I was scrambling to cook a double batch of dinner (some friends just had their first baby and I figured two days worth of baked cavatappi = a decent nap for them). I was also indiscriminately tossing whatever I didn’t like looking at anymore. Mail. Catalogs. Keys. Concert VIP Passes. Wine bottles I haven’t yet written tasting notes for. I even routed the glove box in the car. (Why do we still have copies of our California registration and old insurance policies? And why is Chipotle the only restaurant we steal napkins from to restock the glove box?)

It’s amazing what 30 minutes of clutter busting does to make everything look so much cleaner, and I’ve come to the conclusion that our house is never dirty but for the little stuff. I wish I could say the same thing for my tenants.

My future Robot overlord (the Roomba) was delivered today and is currently chillin’ in the back seat of my sweet ass ride (a Honda Civic). One of my tenants and his buddy were walking by as I pulled up to their building and gestured at my back seat.
“Aren’t those things like, $400?”
“Not if you steal it. Or buy it on closeout.”
“Still… why would you want to spend so much on cleaning stuff?”
“Because I’m an adult at that point in her life where I pride myself on having a home that my guests can enter without fear of contracting airborne syphilis.”
“I dunno… I can think of a lot of stuff I’d rather buy.”
*His friend, chiming in* “Oh yeah! Like more of that sweet ass blow from last weekend!”

And that last part sort of ties in with this next one. Ken pointed out this morning that The Kentucky Derby is the weekend (pointless but for a small subset of people around here that may be from Kentucky), along with Cinco de Mayo and the annual Mifflin Street Block Party. The block party is the last major party of the year where the college kids from all over the state show up to celebrate the end of regular classes. It’s that last weekend to cut loose before finals start. It’s centered around a little street called Mifflin and it’s your typical college kegger, only there are food vendors who set up carts and they close the whole street down.

Cinco de Mayo is a big enough deal on its own for the closet alcoholics who live here, but the Block Party is a nail in the coffin. Sometimes literally. In the past few years it’s gotten really out of hand and last year’s event ended with 3 police officers treated for injuries, a dozen or so alcohol toxicity cases, and 3 stabbings. The mayor hates it, the police hate it, landlords hate it, and commuters hate the inevitable traffic jam. I’m sure the surrounding neighborhood home owners don’t appreciate the amount of trash and vomit stuck in their hedges on Monday morning either. But it continues much as it always has, albeit with no street closures or food vendors this year. And apparently, some of the local college kids already started their party.

As I was showing to potential lessees, one of the guys in the group got a text message and then broke out into hysterical laughter. “They took {roommate} to the hospital because he was freaking out and they thought he was having a stroke. It turns out he was just really fuckin’ high.”

On the same showing, I discovered that my tenants don’t even bother to schedule their bong hits around showings anymore. Seriously, this conversation just happened an hour ago: