Urgh

Remind me to never, ever, ever move again.

After nearly six hours, three trips with varying numbers of automobiles, one bent and broken fingernail, six pizzas, numerous beers, several threats of cannibalism, three highly confused children, and a very sore back, I'm almost out of the shithole. I have an atlas laying on the dusty floor that Annette was reading while she waited for the van to return and some garbage I left laying on the floor to clear out, but that will take all of twenty minutes. Then I leave the keys behind, never again to return.

I owe a great debt to my friends, who handled my spaciness with relative good will and entertained the kids while Jeff, Dan, Annette and I loaded stuff into a minivan and Dan's Jetta while literally playing in traffic on Beacon Street. I also owe the people I babysit for dinner, since they fed me all three meals yesterday. The kids stole glimpses into my room, asking who was in pictures. The baby was especially curious and somewhat behind the curb on names.

"Who's that?"

"That's my friend Sharon and I."

"Who's that?" She asked, pointing at me.

"That's me."

"Who's that?"

"That's Sharon."

"Who's that?" She asked again, pointing at me.

But there are no rats in this new place (except the stuffed one Kristen and Marianne gave me to the delight of the kids) and it's very quiet in the evenings, which is nice. There's also the built-in entertainment of the kids. Last night, the baby wandered into the kitchen. She's learning how to use the toilet, so her father asked her if she had anything on her bottom, meaning underwear or a diaper.

"A rash," she said, then wandered out of the room while itching her butt. Try the veal, she'll be here all week.

You Say Goodbye, I Say Goodbye

Goodbye, shitty apartment.

Goodbye, bathroom that lights on fire for no reason.


Goodbye, ceiling tiles with rats above them. (Of course, since I've agreed to leave I haven't heard so much as a scurry from the fuckers, leaving me thinking oh my God, I've made a mistake. Which I haven't, because being able to save up three months of rent will be good for me, as will not having to rush into another crappy situation. And I'm back in the hizzle with all my friends.)

I was talking to my neighbor, whose apartment I need to move my bed and loveseat out through since my stairs are narrow, and he was shocked to hear I was moving. I reiterated the whole rat/fire problem to him.

"I've lived here nine years," he said, "and I have had those [rats] too. But he fix them. How much you pay?"

"$800 a month," I said.

"Oh. He used to rent that place for $650."

I hate the Boston real estate game. I know it's because Boston is a great place and people really want to live here but the high cost, high deposits, and low quality drive me crazy. I've never had an attentive landlord who wanted to actually fix a problem with the building-- they always want to do the cheapest, half-assiest job possible to shut me up. I've never had a realtor who actually listens to what I tell them about my price range. Some days, when I'm feeling particularly masochistic, I look at craigslist listings in other cities and dream about how nice it would be to have a two bedroom condo for half of what I paid for the shithole.

This apartment went from awesome to craptastic in record time. When I moved in, it was warm and sunny and I had money for movers and I imagined all the time my friends and I would hang out in my cozy nook. I imagined the kitchen island I would buy and all the cooking I could do without someone breathing down my neck to get out of the kitchen. I was dating a guy I thought was good and would be around and I dreamed of how he could come over and bring his dog and hang out without a roommate giving me dirty looks whenever he used the bathroom. Then the guy left, I got broke beyond my scariest nightmares, my apartment got infested with flies, then rats, then lit up in a crack of dawn shithole flambe in the bathroom. Just like the relationship, the apartment was a gigantic disappointment and I'm happy to leave it behind.

Next week: Stories of teaching Eldest, Boy, and Youngest how to not wake me up at 6am because I will not find it funny unless they bring me coffee (cream and sugar) and a bagel. Also, my deep debate with myself on whether or not the Eldest should be exposed to American Idol since it comes on while she's still up, or if I should just put a TV in my room to keep her innocent to in-show commercials and the horrible brain-killing power of competitive reality shows and Ryan Seacrest.

Movin' On Out

...Sort of.

My landlord's lawyer called me and I had horrific nightmares of being served papers for an appearance in court. However, he was calling to tell me he would be handling the procedure for getting me out of my apartment. I am sending him a letter today to tell him which day I will be leaving, and he will send me something back absolving me from the remainder of the lease. While I'm excited now to get things underway, I won't quite believe I'm out from under the obligations until I have that letter from the lawyer in my hands. The lawyer also mentioned that my landlord wants to rip apart my apartment to get into the ceilings and figure out where the rats are coming in and he can't very well do that if I'm living there, so we all win. I hope the next person who lives there appreciates their rat-free existence.

I also think I will be turning myself into an indentured servant for free rent for a couple of months. The idea of saving up some money so I can adequately pay deposits and get myself back together again is appealing, so I think I will take the Family up on their rent-for-work program. The idea of a two-year-old waking me up at six in the morning on a Sunday isn't as appealing, but it's all a tossup. At least the kids are cute and don't poop in the ceilings. As far as I know.

Happy Happy, Merry Merry

Dance party!

As of right now, I don't have anything to say. My apartment situation is still in limbo, I still don't have any money, I still don't have written permission to leave my apartment (dammit), and they're making me sit at my desk and pretend to work until "early dismissal" this afternoon. So I suppose the best thing to do is check out until next week. I've got to work tonight and tomorrow night, high-tail it down to Rhody, get up early on Sunday to do some very-last-minute shopping and baking. But I'm looking forward to kicking around the house for a few days and seeing the family.

As I recognize on all major holidays, thanks very much for reading. Here's wishing you safe and on-time travels, a minimum of family drama, and a very Merry Christmas.

Hickory Dickory Dock

I'm not the only one dealing with an infestation:

"You don't leave any food out, that's for sure," said Councilor John Tobin, who once had a gingerbread house, and "overnight it was downsized to a two -bedroom condo." "If you do, there's a major after-hours mouse party here. They leave behind their party hats, if you will."

It's interesting-- after detailing my myriad rodent problems, I've had several coworkers complain that they've had vivid dreams about rodents. If I've wreaked this havoc on any of you, dear readers, I apologize. I don't want rodent problems inflicted on anyone else, even if they're only in your dreams.

I'm still waiting on my landlord to drop off the written permission to leave my apartment early. Since I called late in the day yesterday, I'm hoping to find it waiting for me tonight when I get home. After one more call to the legal services people to make sure there's nothing in the language to allow them to come and sue me in a couple of months, I'll get ready to leave. I did get some information from the Boston Housing Court about the various things a landlord can be fined for and I've got at least one month's rent of fines I could get if the landlord wanted to get nasty. If the sublet doesn't work out, the people I babysit for have offered me a spare room for a couple months in exchange for some light housework and free babysitting. This would undoubtedly be exciting for the kids, who've been after me to live in their spare room for over a year (and the Eldest can keep an eye on if I'm getting ready to get married and have kids), but I don't want to be underfoot. It's a big house, but five people and two cats is a lot to handle for a family.

I'd also like to thank you all for your kind offers to help move and donate to the "legal fund." I may take you up on the moving, but I'm hoping to extricate myself from my apartment without getting tangled up in housing court. But it's good to know I have an internet/real life posse at my back.

God Money, I'll Do Anything for You

Sweet God, this year is trying to kill me.

My landlord got the papers from the housing inspector today, which I found out when I came back from grabbing lunch and seeing the blinking red voicemail light of doom flashing away. My landlord's wife called to ask a question about "the matter of papers that came in the mail today." I called my Mom to warn her that my landlord was angry and then called the landlord back.

My landlady basically read me a riot act, telling me that what I did was "not very nice" and I should of called them. I pointed out that I'd been calling them since September and reported all the problems that the report stated and I still had rats. She didn't even give me time to get into all the fires.

"If you're so unhappy, why don't you start looking around?"

"Will you give me written permission to do that?"

"Yes."

"Thank you," I said, and hung up the phone.

I started cutting up boxes to bring home with me to start packing, and my coworkers came over to ask me about what was going on. I explained how I could afford to move with the last month's rent I already paid and the bonus I expected from my boss at any moment.

"You don't get them when you get promoted," one said.

"What?"

"You're on a different schedule," another explained, "you won't get it until February or March."

And in the middle of my cubicle, I just lost it. I tried to play it cool and turn around and face my monitor and cry quietly. Unfortunately, my sweet coworker came over at that moment to talk to me about a project and saw me crying my eyes out and unable to explain why due to the sobbing. I fought the urge to call my boss various names for not warning me of this. I got myself together for a company function and talked myself off my mental ledge. I can get some money together by the end of January. I'll have to charge the movers. I'll have to find a way to make it work to avoid dying in a fire. Literally.

And whoever has the voodoo doll of me, knock it the fuck off. Uncle! You win!

Burnin' Down the House, Part Deux

...yeah.


They're baaaack...

I mercifully spent very little time in Boston this weekend. I worked, then went down to Rhode Island for a friend's bachelorette. (From what I remember, which isn't much, the bride-to-be sent me careening into a table full of drinks and we got kicked out of that bar right quick, much to my drunken, slurred chagrin.) Sunday, my Mom and I watched QVC and cooked a chicken and some fixins. She dropped me off at the train and I uttered a silent prayer that I would return home for a quiet evening without rats or fires.

It's official: God hates me.

I checked my mailbox and two of my very kind neighbors, who I'll call English and Old-Timer, were milling about in the foyer of the building. One of them opened the front door to let me in. I said hello, and they asked me how my apartment was. I told them I'd had no further trouble with fires, but the rats were still present.

"Well, there was just another fire," English said.

"What? When?" I hadn't smelled any smoke when I walked inside.

"Just about twenty minutes ago," Old-Timer said. "It seems like it was another electrical fire."

From what I gather, someone was sitting around and noticed a fire in her apartment. The only reason my neighbors were aware there was a fire in the building was the noise of the fire department jimming the front door open and stomping up the stairs, hoses in hand. The fire alarm never went off-- my neighbor had to call 911 to get the fire department to show up. It seems to have been another small fire, but my neighbors showed me the plaster on the staircase from the fire department putting a hole in the wall. The neighbors were standing by the front door because the fire department had broken the lock and the front door wasn't securely closing.

"I called Irish to tell him to come fix the lock," English said of the landlord, "and he said he'd call someone right now. Which means he doesn't want to shell out to call a locksmith on a Sunday night and he's going to come fuck with it." English shoved the door into the jamb, then pulled on the doorknob. The door swung around in the jamb loosely and could easily have been broken.

"So we're in a building with no front lock and no fire alarms that has a history of fires and break-ins?" I asked. "Great."

"I have never seen it this bad," Old-Timer said. "I've been here for nearly six years and I've never had as many problems as we've had in the past few months. I knew Irish was a shithead, but this is just not safe."

"I'm on a month-to-month lease," English said, "so I'm going to try and get out of here as soon as I can." English and his girlfriend moved in the day after I did and we've both had it halfway through.

I told my neighbors about calling the housing inspector and my reservations about asking to break the lease since they're probably going to be pissed that I went over their heads.

"Actually, he may want to be rid of you since you keep causing him problems," English pointed out.

"The turnover here is really high," Old-Timer said. "I kind of want to warn anyone who comes to look at my place of the problems so the realtor doesn't sucker them into renting here."

I will publish a very virulent hate-post about the realtor that I used who suckered me into this place once I get a resolution to this problem. I hope he enjoys that huge fee I paid him in hell.

I went to sleep last night (fairly easily since I hadn't slept well on Saturday) and came into work with the newfound conviction to get myself out of that apartment. I called two legal services that the housing inspector had recommended. The news wasn't good.

My best bet is to try and get written permission from my landlord to get out of the lease. Otherwise, I can break my lease, but my landlord has the right to take me to court and sue me for the remainder of my lease (about $4000) and the onus is on me to prove that he broke the lease first by not providing a safe apartment. However, rats and fires alone do not an unsafe apartment make, apparently. One guy said it may work if I can prove the fire alarm didn't go off since that impedes the "minimum habitability" clause of the lease, but it would be a game of chance (one that could potentially cost me well over $5000, including deposits on a new place). The other service said if the landlord doesn't fix the problems in the inspectional services report in the set time, I can take him to court and try to get out. But my best chance is to ask to be let out. Which I would do now, but since my landlord is about to be served papers from my calling inspectional services, I figure it's not time to ask favors.

Goddammit. This is why I need a stinkin' boyfriend. Never mind love and sex: I just need a place to crash for the next six months.