The Odd Broad

Vegas, Baby

It seems our landlord, Smeagol (see inset), has taken himself on a little holiday to Vegas.  Let's face it, with all the screaming that goes on between he and his elderly mother, the man is certainly in dire need of a getaway.  Hubby was unfortunate enough to have run into him recently or we wouldn't be privy to this information.

Upon learning of Smeagol's departure, seedy images immediately sprung into my sordid little mind: Smeagol sitting in a smoke filled room, surrounded by cheap hookers, the sound of 5 cent slot machines echoing tinnily in the distance. 

I mentioned my theory to Hubby, who immediately agreed: "Oh, of course, naturally."  (God I love that man.)

I realize it is wickedly slanderous of me to insinuate that my landlord would solicit a hooker whilst on vacation.  Indeed, I have never met someone whom I assumed solicited prostitutes, and yet I can't help but feel it's an accurate way to describe this particular gentleman. 

One of Smeagol's sisters will be staying with their mother while he's away.  He told Hubby if we should hear anything fishy to dial 911.  Hopefully this won't be necessary. 

Hubby has a hunch that the whole thing may be nothing more than an elaborate ruse- Smeagol's last ditch attempt to finally off his mother.  What better alibi could there be?  After all, what happens in Vegas...

Have fun, Smeag! 

My crafty little crack

I'm laying on my couch right now, writing to you from my new laptop.  That's right, The Odd Broad is mobile now, thanks to my wonderful husband!  My laptop is compact and lovely and I teared up when I unwrapped her.  I've named her Ole' Bessie. 

But I digress.  What I wanted to tell you was that directly above me on the wall, just over the molding, there lives a crack.  This isn't just any crack, however...this is a magic crack.  You see, from a certain angle it looks exactly like a cockroach.  And the damn thing fools me every time.

Take for example last month, when my parents came to town to see Hubby's band play.  I was sitting on the couch with my mom when all of a sudden my heart did a sick little flip flop.  Oh dear Lord, there was a cockroach on the wall.  Shit!  What are the odds?  No mother wants to spot a roach while visiting her child!

Gingerly, I got up and went into the kitchen to grab a paper towel.  My time as an urban apartment dweller has made me disturbingly proficient at murdering insects.  Of course, I still call hubby to do it from time to time if the bug in question is especially noteworthy.  (If it's smoking, or dancing the cha-cha, for instance.)

Funny thing was, when I got back to the living room the bug had vanished!  Crap.  Had it scurried down the wall, perhaps?

I sat back down, glancing ever so casually up at the wall.  What the?!  There it was again!  Hey, how did that happen?

Oh yeah.  I'd forgotten.  It was the magic crack.  I breathed a deep sigh of relief.

Sadly, the crafty little crack continues to outwit us.  Sometimes I imagine I hear it laughing mirthfully to itself: Oh ho, got 'em again...score one for the crack...

I think it's definitely time to get that wall repainted.  Too bad it was just painted back in May...

xoxo

When life hands you lemons, make lemon drop martinis

Sometimes I think it's just not in everyone's constitution to go with the flow and let things slide.  I'm not really sure it's in mine, although I do make furious attempts.

My current predicament with my landlord Smeagol initially prompted me to want to handle things in a zen-like, the glass is half full type of way, but inevitably, like an uneaten Hershey Bar abandoned in the midday sun, I melted down. 

I wasn't calm and cool, I was stressed and frantic.  But how else could I have possibly handled the following asinine situation...

Last week, the painters who recently weather-proofed the outside of our leaky old building coerced Smeagol into having our apartment painted.  In my nearly ten years of renting, I've never heard of walls or ceilings being forcibly painted while the tenants are actually inhabiting the apartment, but hey, what do I know?

I resolved myself to go with the flow, and I did, until we learned that the painter won't allow Hubby or I to be home while he paints and insists on doing it while we are at work.  And before you wonder if Smeagol is putting us up in a hotel so we don't have to inhale nasty paint fumes, don't bother.  He's not.

Naturally I worried about my cat being left in the house while these men worked.  My head immediately filled with menacing scenes of Kittie snacking on lead paint chips or slipping out the front door for wild feline adventures in the big city.  Additionally, my Husband is a musician and has enough instruments to open his own Guitar Center.  We were concerned, to say the least. 

What was the big deal about one of us being home while these guys painted?  Smeagol's answer was a five minute monologue on the trustworthiness of these painters, who had also worked on the neighbor's house without stealing anything.  He said this man is an artist who cannot be watched, and compared him to a master chef who creates art and wild mushroom risotto.  (OK, I'm making up the risotto bit, but he really did say the chef part.)

You see, Smeagol explained, what this painter does is an art form (aka: spackling) and he can't have us watching him while he creates (aka: dripping white paint on my telephone, TV stand, couch, sink, and at least three picture frames.  And that's only so far, he still has two more rooms to go!)

Smeagol assured us he'd be there the entire time to watch Kittie and make sure there was no funny business.  (He also said that he "wasn't an idiot" and could watch our cat.)  So, the stoner who lives with and verbally abuses his Mother was on the job.  Perfect!  I felt much better!

To look on the philosophical side, this could be a much needed exercise in letting go, in releasing control, in trusting, could it not?

I came home from work on Thursday to find both hallway entrance doors as well as my front door propped wide open, two strangers spackling the cracks in my walls, and Smeagol nowhere in sight.  Someone (Smeagol) had laid a small piece of ply-wood across the door downstairs as a precaution against Kittie escaping into the mean city streets.  I later informed him that cats have now gained the ability to jump.  They picked up that jumping skill back in '04 apparently, but I guess not everybody knows about it yet.

Smeagol, at best confused and at worst psychotic, was characteristically defensive: "That was just a precaution, I watched her the entire time."  Except for the times when you weren't in the apartment, right?  Or were you watching her with your x-ray Smeagol vision?

And this was just spackle day.  Please read on, for the story gets better.  Smeagol decided, in an effort to make things nice for us, to mix vanilla extract (or oil?  It's unclear) in with the paint, because this makes the paint smell nicer.  What the?  No, seriously, what the???

On Friday we returned home from work to find our apartment reeked like...how shall I describe the stench to you?  Like the stinkiest feet you've ever smelled?  Like someone gave our apartment a bath using nail polish remover?  Like some frigging jackass poured vanilla into the mother-effing paint can?  Bingo!

Smeagol also took it upon himself to spray lavender scented Lysol throughout the entire apartment.  So stinky, lavender/vanilla/latex paint scented feet.  In the market for a headache, anyone?  Come on over!

One of the the more priceless interactions of the weekend was the following over-the-phone chat:

Hubby: There are paint stains on our couch.

Smeagol: Paint stains on the couch?  No, that's a water stain, I was wiping the couch with a damp sponge.  The painters didn't drip any paint, everything was covered, I saw it with my own two eyes...

Hubby: But there are white paint stains on our couch, I'm looking at them right now.

Smeagol: No, that's just water...

Hubby: Well, the Paint Fairy must have come and dripped it, I guess, because there are white paint stains on our couch.

Smeagol later remembered he was using the "damp sponge" to try and wipe off some paint that had dripped while they took the covering off the couch.  Memories are crazy like that, huh? 

He also told us that at one point he had left to get black trash bags and had cut them to use as furniture covering.  Don't professional painters learn about drop cloths in Painting 101? 

Fed up, we finally told Smeagol either Hubby or myself had to be there when they finish painting next week.  These were crappy ceilings, not the Sistine Chapel, what was the big freaking deal?  Smeagy said he'd try and convince Michaelangelo but it was unlikely he'd go for it.  This is when I said in my nicest yet firmest tone, "Aren't you paying this person?  If you're the one paying him won't he have to do what you ask?" 

Shortly thereafter Smeagol dropped the nice act and raised his voice and started being a real dickhead.  (Don't worry, I raised my voice right back.)  This rental situation has turned into a full-fledged nightmare, Dear Reader. 

If I have to look on the sunny side, I'd say I've learned some valuable lessons.  Among them, the art of being verbally direct, the art of contradicting a psychotic, drugged up landlord as he lies to my face, and the art of going with the flow when asinine events are out of my control.  (OK, I'm still a novice on that last one, but I'm sure the universe will keep supplying me with similar infuriating situations until I become a master.  Don't you just hate love that?) 

Most importantly, I have learned that my family and friends are 150% right, it is time for us to remove ourselves from this moronic, maddening living situation.

Dearest Reader, if you get a minute, please pray for the salvation of my sanity.  Pray that we find an apartment in this Godforsaken town with three pronged outlets, a refrigerator not plugged into an extension cord, and non-psychotic landlords who aren't belligerent when you point out paint stains on your furniture.  (What a wish list, eh?)

XOXO ~The Vanilla Scented Broad

PS- I just went into the bathroom...the cracks Michaelangelo sealed and painted over are cracked again.  Apparently someone's mushroom risotto needs tweaking.

PPS- Hubby just got the mail and this love letter from Smeagol was in our mailbox.  Now you can witness with your own eyes the insanity of which I speak:

 

This was written by the man who took 3 months to finish painting our front door, 7 months to fix the shower he ripped apart, and just now had the ceiling in our hallway sealed and painted after scraping it sometime last September.  Way to go!! 

The Science Project

I realize homeowners have mortgages to pay, hot water tanks to replace, lawns to mow...but being a renter is no Sunday walk in the park, either.  Whereas home-owning folks can decide to do whatever they choose to in the way of repairs, renters are at the mercy of their landlords.

As you may have heard me make mention of before, my husband and I happen to rent a charming two bedroom apartment from Smeagol from the Lord of the Rings.  It's a cute apartment, aside from a few minor problems, the most glaring one being our bathroom.

I think my Dad said it best when he described our shower as a "science experiment."

I admit our shower is pretty revolting, but it's not from a lack of cleaning on my part.  I have bleached the hell out of that bathroom, all to no avail.

I can't count how many times I've scrubbed, disinfected and cursed the ancient, filthy tiles lining my shower.  This shower is permanently stained from at least 50 years worth of use.  It seems these tiles have existed since before time began.  I keep saying one of them should really write a memoir:  "Withstanding the test of time: one tile's time-honored chronicle of mold and redemption."

Last year I asked Smeagol to remedy this situation and he complied, but not before having the gall to say, "Wow, I wouldn't take a shower in there."

Smeagol's answer was to bring someone in to re-tile the bathroom.  As you can imagine, my husband and I were ecstatic.  The Heavens opened, rainbows appeared, a choir of angels sang...

Not surprisingly, there was a catch:  Smeagol opted to have the top half of the moldy shower wall tiled, but chose to let the prehistoric tiles on the bottom half remain. 

Why would anyone in their right mind elect to have half of a shower tiled?  Your answer is as good as mine.  I'm really at a loss to justify such an extraordinary move. 

I suppose one explanation could be this: drugs are bad, people, drugs are bad.

Case in point:

Glorious, pristine tiles above, besmirched, rotting ones below! 

It's truly a miracle of sorts: new tile and old coming together to live in peace and harmony, within my little shower. 

I also have to add, these are the after pictures.  (As in after my parents brought me miracle spray and helped me to remove a good deal of the grime.  Hubby couldn't believe how "clean" it looked!)

I don't mean to sound like a brat, I just watched an Oprah episode the other day where people were forced to collect their water in dirty jugs and it made me cry.  I'm not trying to be ungrateful for my grungy bathroom...rather, I've taken on more of an air of perplexed awe.

I've been a little gun-shy of deep-cleaning since that time last year when I attempted to de-slime my shower.  Basically I spent an entire Saturday afternoon spraying the tiles with a bleachy solution, waiting a while, and then throwing cups of water onto the tiles to rinse.  Sadly, it was mostly for naught, since the grime was unmovable.  This mold has a mind of its own.

Later that day, as I lay resting and nursing my bleach-induced headache, the phone rang.  It was Smeagol.

"Uh, Sarah, I had to shut the water off.  There's a leak, there's water downstairs in the hallway.  We have to wait for the plumber to arrive before we turn it back on."

I was polite: "A leak?  Really?  You know, I'm not running the water now, but I was cleaning the shower all day...that's strange...maybe that has something to do with it? 

Smeagol was not convinced.  We would wait for the plumber.  Great. 

"When will the plumber be able to come?"  I asked.

"Oh, sometime tomorrow, hopefully.   If not, the day after that." 

In my experience, every NY landlord has some relative or friend of a friend that they turn to in these circumstances.  Why can't they just hire a freaking professional from the Yellow Pages?  I mean, I'm no electrician but I'm pretty certain my refrigerator should not be plugged into an extension cord. 

The next morning our plumber, a dead ringer for Joe Pesci, arrived, hammer in hand.  Warning: If a plumber enters your home and the only tool he appears to have with him is a hammer, please be wary.  This is never a good sign.

Joe Pesci concluded there was definitely a leak and he would go downstairs to the hallway to bang holes in the ceiling until he determined the source.  Oh dear.

As my husband and I sat listening to the banging, the idea once again occurred to me: Could all of this have something to do with me cleaning the shower yesterday after all?

I yelled down into the hallway: "Um, I was rinsing my shower yesterday, splashing water onto it...do you think the water could've just dripped down through the hole in the wall?"

That's right, I forgot to mention the HOLE IN THE WALL OF MY BATHROOM.  It's been there since the time Joe Pesci ripped out our sink (while my in-laws and a German foreign exchange student were visiting) on New Year's Day, 2006.  I have to add that Mr. Pesci replaced the sink lop-sided, so there is an ever-present pool of water that collects daily upon our sinktop.  Smeagol advised us to "wipe it with a cloth.")

I could hear Smeagol and Joe Pesci discussing this new and vital piece of information.  Smeagol's voice echoed throughout the hallway: "She never said anything about cleaning, this is the first I'm hearing about it..."

"Yes, I did, yesterday on the phone!"  All of my ladylike manners had long since left the building.

Smeagol disagreed:  "Well, she's saying she told me, but..." 

It turned out the hole was most definitely the cause of the problem.  The water had dripped downstairs while I was splashing the bleachy tiles with a plastic Yankee's cup filled with water.  (Frigging Yankees!  Always causin' trouble with yer A-Rods and yer Giambis and yer plastic cups...)

Smeagol came upstairs, patched the hole in my bathroom, and left.  They never did patch the hole in the ceiling of the hallway, but I suppose we've grown accustomed to it by now.

The hole and I have actually developed a nice repartee.  Sometimes on my way out the door I call out, "See ya later, hole!"

"See ya later, yourself!"  It seems to reply.

Ah, Rental, Sweet Rental.

What the?

My landlords pretty much remind me of George Costanza's parents on Seinfeld.  Although I suppose that might sound a little harsh.  An 87 year old woman and her 58 year old son, they can sometimes be...pleasant.  When they aren't violently screaming at each other at the top of their lungs, that is.

And then there was the time they put up that sign in the hallway that read "On the stairs: No running, luggage, or wheels.  Unless with care.  Owner."  This demand appeared to be written in crayon.  Seriously, I endured less nagging when I was a moody teenager living with my parents!  Our landlords had already instructed us not to slam the toilet seat (how to pee), not to be too loud when tenderizing chicken with a meat mallet (how to prepare poultry), and now they were telling us how to walk? 

Enough was enough, these control freaks had finally gone too far!  Fuming, I ripped down the note and threw it away.  I think about three minutes elapsed before my Catholic guilt prompted me to pull the sign out of the garbage and tape it up again.  The sign is still there today, a stained and slightly wrinkled reminder of my short-lived rebellion.

My landlord's son often reminds me of Smeagol (or Gollum, depending on his mood) from The Lord of The Rings.  It's not unusual to hear him screaming at his elderly mother one minute and the next to see him all smiles, simpering in his mildest tone: "Hi Sarah." 

Hiya, Smeagol! 

These landlords take their garbage extremely seriously.  Whenever a bag is added to one of the cans, within 5 minutes, like clockwork, they are outside checking to see what was added, perhaps rummaging through the bag should the fancy strike them.  If I listen closely, sometimes I can almost hear him whispering, "Precious..."

Twice a week, usually no earlier than 10 PM, something begins that I like to call "The dance of the Garbage Cans."  Basically my 87 year old landlord slowly drags each can from the alley to the curb.  This is never a speedy process, to say the least.  The noise is enough to make a grown woman weep: scrape, scrape, scrape...

Now, I understand that garbage is a solemn thing and not to be trifled with.  My husband and I brake for recycling, we most certainly do!  We always have a ton of recycling to put out every week.  I mean, empty water jugs, Mad Dog bottles and 40 ounces of Colt 45 can really add up.  Tee hee.

But could somebody kindly explain to my landlords that not all items are authorized for recycling in NYC, even if they are made of plastic or glass?  I realize they could possibly receive a ticket for any mixed garbage, but come on, not all glass is recyclable!

Could somebody please tell Smeagol not to rummage through my garbage, pulling out objects that aren't sporting the please recycle logo in the first place?  Because surely if they were recyclable, here's a thought, I would be recycling them! 

It's a tricky concept to grasp, I realize.  Some items are meant for recycling.  Some are garbage. 

It's gotten to the point that I sometimes create two recycling bags: one "real" recycling bag, and one "fake" recycling bag containing glass and plastic that aren't actually recyclable.  I'm not sure if my decoy helps at all, but it's a try.

This whole garbage topic springs to mind because this morning, too tired for my decoy tactic, I found myself frantically hiding things within my garbage.  I took a takeout container that wasn't recyclable, triple bagged it, stuck it inside a paper bag (I could've recycled that, I know) and then bagged it again before dropping it into my little garbage can.  So, this was what my late twenties were actually boiling down to:  I was a womanchild smuggling trash within my trash.  How...trashy.

But trust me, these extreme measures are imperative.  Gone are the days when I was footloose and fancy free, chucking away my garbage safe in the blissful knowledge that nobody would be rifling through it! 

A few months ago I was enjoying a restful Saturday afternoon when Smeagol's Mother called to inform me her son had gotten injured.  There were pins in my trash.  Or pie tins.  There were either pins or pie tins in my trash.  Apparently while Smeagol was combing through my garbage he had stuck himself on a pin or a pie tin that I had recklessly placed within one of my trash bags.

In the words of my 5 year old cousin, "What the?" 

We don't even own any pins, let alone drop them into our trash bags!  We later learned that it was one of those takeout tins that had been crumpled up and thrown away.  (Pins, takeout containers, eh, what's the difference, really?) 

Here's a thought: if sifting through your tenant's garbage results in bodily harm, why not, hmmm, STOP GOING THROUGH THEIR GARBAGE?  Nah, too sensible.

It dawned on me that if they were going to hunt through my trash I should probably have a little fun with it.  After all, it's the simple things in life, right?  Where I would ordinarily clean out Kittie's litter box and double bag the poop before dropping it into my trash bag, I was now dumping it straight into my trash with vengeful, hysterical abandon, yelling, "Take THAT, Smeagol!"  If my landlord wanted to live dangerously, Kittie would assist him in this.  And you don't even want to smell that cat's shit, let alone get it on your hands. 

Once a month I try to do the same thing with tampons.

I realize this probably all sounds very disturbing.  But that's because it is.  I mean, Is this really what my life is turning into?  Cat poop as a retaliation tactic against my meddlesome landlords?  I'm sure there's a shrink out there somewhere who can help me work through this...