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.

...And Out the Door I Went

This weekend, I planned on packing. While I did make quite a bit of headway in packing up all my earthly belongings into boxes I stole from work for the second time in six months, I know I'm going to be in a sleepless panic in a couple weeks when I find nooks and crannies full of crap I forgot I even owned. I do feel a lot less nervous about it than I did last time, mainly because all of my crap is in one room and not strewn about with other people's stuff. But the football games distracted me from my cause (seriously, it took four years off my life to watch the Pats game and dogs all across the North End were deafened by my shrieks) and I will be kicking my own ass in a couple weeks.

I got paid on Friday, so I paid my bills. Since I paid my last month's rent when I moved in, I still had quite a big chunk of change in the bank from the beginning of the month. On Friday, I paid off the balance on my renter's insurance policy, paid a few hundred dollars towards various credit card bills, paid my loans, put some money on my CharlieTicket, and even managed to have a couple hundred bucks to save for deposits on a new place. Even after all that, I probably have enough money to get me to the end of the month.

Not paying rent is the best thing that ever happened to me.

Yesterday, I was in Rhode Island taking my Mom to the surgeon to get the scoop on her newest arthritis-related surgery, and since she was so good at the doctor (read: not openly sobbing) I took her to lunch. Generally, I can't afford to buy my Mom anything much more than a coffee. But I turned away her money and bought the woman a quiche. And it felt good to treat her. I can't do that when I have to pay rent to some slumlord in West Roxbury, but I can when I haven't paid up about a third of my monthly income to have a roof with rats in it. This is just a temporary thrill-- at the end of the month, I have to save what I would spend in rent for deposits on a new place. But for now, it's glorious to have made headway in my debts and have a renter's policy paid in full.

And, if I may get preachy, you MUST get renter's insurance. Seriously. You need to have it. After having the cost of replacing everything I own flash before my eyes as my bathroom burned, it seems like a good deal to pay about $240 a year to have the assurance that someone will help me pay to get all my stuff back if something should happen to it. A friend of mine also recently got broken into (most likely by a crooked maintenance person who had a key) and lost her laptop, digital camera, memory card, DVD player, her roommate's laptop, DVDs and backpack. She didn't have renter's insurance, and is now on the hook to replace all these things herself. It's a small price to pay for the peace of mind that you won't have to worry about the financial hit you'd take in such an emotionally challenging time. My Liberty Mutual guy is really sweet and very helpful. Don't fuck around. Be an adult and get some insurance.

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.

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.

Inspection Update

Like a woman about to cuckold her husband, I nervously awaited the housing inspector yesterday afternoon. I had the fear of God that my landlord would come by and be doing things while the inspector was in the building and my two lives would come careening together to leave me with nothing. (This is a good idea. I am pitching it to Lifetime. Love in the Time of Rat Feces: A Very Special Lifetime Movie.)

The inspector showed up, sadly not in a Hazmat suit, and asked for a mop. I gave it to him, and watched as he played around with the emergency lights in the main hallway. After a few minutes in the top floors of the building, he came back down to my subterranean bunker of solitude. I filled him in on the myriad reasons I called him into the building.

"Now, it's not to say that I don't believe ya, hon, but I'm going to have to find some proof of rats up there to make ya landlohd come fix it." He had a thick Boston accent which was a nice treat. He stood on the arm of my couch, poked his head in where he'd slid aside a ceiling panel, and cooed out, "Ohhhh yeah, they've been in here. There's rat poop everywhere." I cowered in the opposite corner of the apartment.

"Wanna come take a look?" He asked, delighted in my squeamishness.

"No, thanks," I replied quickly.

"C'maaaahn, take a peek. They won't come out now. They're more scared of you than you are of them."

Begrudgingly, I got up on the sofa. In my ceiling were several D-Con boxes and quite a few big rat turds. It was a network of pipes and wires above my head, with only about a foot of space between the drop ceiling and my neighbor's floor. This was a cold comfort that at least the kindergartener-sized rats probably wouldn't fit in there.

"You got some gloves?" The inspector asked.

"Yeah..."

"Because I can squeeze 'em to see how long they've been up there," the inspector said, referring to the turds.

"Uh, no."

"Yeah. I don't wanna squeeze 'em either."

He slid the panel back on, poked around my bathroom to see if he could tell what caused my bathroom fire (everything was fine, according to him, it may have been just a short in the old fixture), looked at the aging outlets that sometimes don't work, and my rotted-out sink cabinet base. He wrote everything down on a large form, handed me a copy, and told me a constable would go to my landlord's house to serve him with the papers next week.

"Now I'm gonna tell him to make these repairs in a week," the inspector said, "but that doesn't mean he has to complete them. I just wanna light a fire under his ass and get him moving. Normally, I'd give him thirty days to work with the rats, but since there's wires up there it's a little more important that he take care of it sooner since rats will chew the wires. I'm gonna get back in touch with you and work with you to make sure he takes care of this."

"Man, he's going to be pissed," I said, eyeballing the door to make sure the landlord wouldn't walk in on me calling the cops on him.

"There's some numbers on the back of this form to call and give you legal advice if you think you need it. He'll probably be a little mad, but this is all stuff he can fix."

Next week I'm going to have an Irishman and his temperamental wife angry with me, but hopefully I will also be on my way to living a rat-free existence.

Inspection Day

I'm taking off in a few minutes to go wait for the inspectors to come and see if my apartment is up to code. My greatest fear is they will find nothing wrong, tell me I'm crazy, and leave me to drink myself to sleep every night until June. The second-greatest fear I have is that the inspector pulls down a ceiling panel and a dead rat carcass falls onto my couch and explodes, thus making it completely impossible for me to sleep in my apartment. I also wonder if the inspector comes in in a Hazmat suit. Because that would be pretty damning to my landlord, but would make a totally awesome story for me.

I'll keep you posted, internets.

Workin' 9 to 10...

Ahh, Friday. Hello Friday, my old friend. A blogger's favorite day. We can write all sorts of unrelated nonsense and nobody really minds. Friday is the day when the beer flows, I know I can sleep in and treat myself to a breakfast of frozen waffles and hard-boiled eggs rolled in salt on a great Saturday morning. (Shut up, it's delicious.)

However, this week I must reign my Friday revels in as I'm going to my friend's work Christmas party. The Workplace Christmas Party is always a tough row for this ho. It's all the glory of open bar without any of the license to act a fool. I have no problem with the social aspect of the workplace party-- I'm convinced the only reason they keep me around my company is because I'm generally good for a laugh-- but it's a fine line between "funny and maybe buzzed" and "falling down the stairs and spilling wine on Kristen and Arthur." (Sorry.) I'm excited for my friend's party-- we get dinner as well as drinks. I also plan to "network" (read: find a date). This is also good practice for my own Workplace Christmas Party next week.

In related news, I went to both Filene's Basement and H&M in Back Bay last night looking for a cute party frock. Really, I shouldn't be buying anything since I have a wedding I need to prepare for at the end of the month and very limited funds, but I figured if I saw something cute I could use it tonight, for my work party, and for the rehearsal dinner for my friend's wedding.
Sweet God, H&M, get it together. Taffeta everywhere. Polka-dotted taffeta dresses. Everywhere. Like, Cyndi Lauper would have thought these abortions "totally rad" in 1983. If it wasn't taffeta, it was some Twiggy-esque mod minidress with pearl trim, which was much too casual, and not in a good holiday color (bright blue). Filene's just had either very dowdy dresses or very cheap juniors dresses. It was disappointing. I have some wool pants with sparkly thread woven through and a black cashmere turtleneck, but I'd hoped for something a little more cute and feminine.

Last night was quiet around the homestead, with only a mouse scuttering around above my bed. The insomnia last night was caused by the late closing time at the part-time job for the holiday season. I don't get home until about 10:30, and I'm still kind of wound up from my thirteen-hour workday, so it takes me hours to get to sleep. If I can make it until after Christmas when I'm taking some much-needed time off from both my jobs without a nervous breakdown, I'll be elated.

Apparently Mitt Romney used to be sympathetic to gay people. I guess Mitt's had a rough twelve years since his 1994 interview, in which he said, "People of integrity don't force their beliefs on others, they make sure that others can live by different beliefs they may have." Exactly, stupid.

I wish Starbucks sold those cardboard carafes full of holiday lattes. My cup is empty, but I can't bring myself to throw it away in case more holiday latte magically appears. I don't care if I have to order it in Fritalian, it's delicious.

Well, I'm going to curl up under my desk and take a nap. Have a lovely weekend everybody! Keep your vajayjays in your knickers.

Inspection

Last night I came home to a note from my landlord, scrawled on the back of some cardboard. The note said that he'd caught two rats, but that the poison was working "real good" to eliminate others, and he wished me a merry Christmas. Pleased that I finally had some written evidence that he'd been notified of the problem, I saved the note. "You're probably going to be back here before Christmas," I murmured.

I settled in, lights glowing brightly to discourage the rats from coming out to play, to watch the finale of America's Next Top Model. I flipped to The Biggest Loser, and as I watched the people work out while I ate chocolate, I heard another scuttle in the ceiling above my couch. I took my cork coaster, tossed it at the ceiling with a yell of "fucker!" and didn't hear anything else for the rest of the night.

I came in to work today to see all your very useful comments and advice, and I'd also emailed my friend who used to work at the Boston Housing Court, who had me register a complaint with the Boston Housing Division and make an appointment for an inspection. While the website is a little difficult to navigate (you have to be very precise to get it to recognize your address) a woman just called me to make an appointment for next Wednesday afternoon. Thanks, City of Boston!

I do feel bad calling in the big guns on my landlord, who has been very attentive in many ways (he replaced my stove when I moved in, he has come to address the problem of the rats instead of pretending I never told him) but I just can't live in a place that is literally crawling with vermin. Every noise or rustle has me convinced the place is either going to blow sky-high, catch ablaze, or a rat has found his way into my actual living space and will bite my eyeballs out with his rabid fangs.

You're Just A Middle-Class, Middle-Aged Sh!t

I am not well, folks. I haven't had a good night's sleep since last week. Funny how the fire department showing up after your place was on fire will disturb your rest and put you on edge. Sunday night I tried to watch a movie with the lights dimmed, but the mice took this as their invitation to playtime and started crawling around. Apparently the vermin don't enjoy the cold weather either, because every night this week those little fuckers have been crawling around inside my fortress of solitude. Last night they tried to knock on the boiler door to get me to let them out. Just as I lay down to sleep, I heard the schssst schsst thunk thunk thunk of a mouse or rat moving around. I threw a slipper at the door and the rat bonked the door one more time and then was silent. However, I was so wound up that I knew I wouldn't get to sleep so I took a Tylenol PM. When the first dose didn't work, I took a second. Once I fell asleep, I had a horrible nightmare that I was dating the Whatever again, which was TERRIFYING. Now I'm at work, but I don't think the Tylenol has worn off because I'm still groggy and my limbs feel heavy.

I hate my apartment. I hate the realtor who leased it to me. I hate the landlord for turning the basement into a rat-infested hellhole of a human dwelling and having the audacity to charge what he does for that piece of shit place. I hate that I have six months left on my lease. I've put in a call to my work-counseling line to get some advice on what my legal options are for ending the lease early and I'm hoping to hear from someone today. I don't know where I'll go, but I'm sure as hell not staying in that apartment. I'm going to lose my mind if I don't get some damn sleep. It would almost be better to commute from home for a month or two and figure out my options than live in that vermin-riddled, fire-prone shithole.

I'm going to pass out on my desk now.