Category Archives: neighbors

Of Evictions and Gaydar

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The home we rent is fine. It’s quite nice by most standards and we are happy with it. We wouldn’t buy it or anything, it’s got it’s quirks as any place does, but we’ve no issue with our actual house for the time being.

But “subpar” is too kind of a word for the property management we’ve had here in the last year since we moved in. Terrible. Lazy. Combative, even. It’s been a revolving door of management companies, but the thread between them all is that no one wants to do their job and every month, they evict us.

We are bill-paying people. I bust my ass and make sure every bill is paid on time, usually without incident. I use my bank’s bill pay and know, without question, that the bill has been paid and issued on time. But for some reason, five times in a year we’ve been issued a “5 Day Pay or Evict” notice on our front door, as well as by mail.  Five times. Four of which happened in a 6 month period. In December, they even issued it on festive red paper! Ho ho ho!

For some reason, these people insist that they don’t get our rent check. We’ve been told it’s our fault, we’ve been told it’s the mail man’s fault, the bank’s fault… we’ve been asked to prove that we’ve paid. And once, back in December, I was told I “have an attitude” and I “probably just trying to get the fee waived” when I deigned to come into the office and address it personally.

Every single time, when I’ve insisted my check has been issued and/or provided proof from my bank, they’ve found the check. Magically… in the back of the mailbox, under a pile of old mail, in a letter tray, and my favorite, in the front seat of the maintenance man’s truck a week later.

So, today, when we got yet another one, both of us kind of lost our shit and stormed over to the office, intending to tear (yet another new) property manager a new one and possibly even ask to be let out of our lease.  But fortunately, this new manager seems like he’s got a clue.  He seems professional, experienced, friendly, like he really cared who we were and where we lived, so Mike and I both were instantly calmed and felt confident he’s doing his best to clean up the “hot mess” as he put it.

I’d told mike the day before after talking to the manager on the phone about the barking dog, “We have a new manager. He seems nice… professional. My gaydar totally went off.” And sure enough! My gaydar doesn’t lie.

Not that I’m the Homo Whisperer or anything. Just because someone’s gay doesn’t mean he’s competent or that we’ll get along, but I felt at ease instantly, for some reason. He had a dishy and friendly, yet still professional demeanor and let’s just say he was well maintained. I knew he probably handled his job the same way. I sort of want to go over at quitting time with a pitcher of cosmos and meet his cocker spaniel.

At one point, while he was reassuring us that he was going to whip the property into shape, he said, with this totally SoCal Latino/gay accent, “I don’t want to be dramatic or anything, but I’m really good at my job. I’m excellent, but I have to be allowed to practice my craft.”

I had a hard time stifling my smile, so I just let ‘er rip.  I found that totally endearing.  It’s prop management in North Vegas, honey. Not Cats.

Anyway, our lease is up at the end of October, and hopefully, we’ll be on our way back to San Diego, but in the meantime (or, if heaven forbid, we have to stay), we hope this manager sticks around.

Just Deserts

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I’ve been in Las Vegas for about 10 months now and there have been many adjustments to living in the desert. My skin is now used to the dry air (as long as I remember my moisturizer), but my allergies are worse than ever. The desert landscape, while quite tonal (mostly beige), does have surprising elements, like incredible sunsets and sunrises, and the striations and layers in the surrounding mountains are really beautiful. People drive like 90-year-old palsied crackheads and I’m nervous a lot on the roads here. The summer weather sucks, but it wasn’t as horrifically hot as I expected it to be.  The winters are much colder than I expected, but not unpleasant. I like sweaters and once it even snowed, so not a big deal, really.

I don’t love it here, but I hate it less than I did last November. I’d go as far as to say I don’t even hate it. It’s… acceptable. For now.  I would like it more if there weren’t things like huge centipedes and fist-sized black widows, insane electric bills and a lack of friends. I feel very isolated, despite having a view of America’s Playground from my bedroom window.

The year has flown by very quickly, so I know the next will. We committed to 2 years, but now that the first is almost up, we might actually stay in Las Vegas longer than planned. There’s nothing I want more than to go home — to go back to moisture in the air, buildings with character, better Mexican food and my social life. However, we’d also be going back to higher rent for less space (which we’re alright with), but Mike needs to be able to transfer with his job or find another job that’s willing to wait for him to relocate. So the move kind of hinges on those options being available.  Staying allows us to save more money, allows Mike to advance further in his job and gives us the opportunity to take some trips we’ve wanted to take, but might not otherwise be able to afford.

I have explored the city more and discovered areas of town much, much, much better than the one we’re currently in. Our house is nice — big (maybe too big) and new-ish — but the general area is kinda of… meh (says the spoiled Southern California girl). Lots of heavy BOOM BOOM bass on the car stereos, myriad dogs barking and sirens — so many sirens. The retail/commercial areas leave something to be desired, as well.  Like functioning ghost towns, there’s lots of empty and spotty retail spaces and we have to drive 5 or more miles to find a decent grocery.

We’re thinking, if we stay, we’ll move to Summerlin/The Lakes area — the southwest side of the city. It reminds me of SoCal Lite — lusher landscaping, more greenery, more palm trees, better retail offerings and it’s close to Whole Foods and Trader Joe’s — the only places in town I can find lively produce. It’s also a bit closer to The Strip for those times I do want to go over there. It’s considered one of the more affluent areas of town, I think, but we can likely get a comparable place for around the same price we’re currently paying. Now that we’ve been here for a while, we know what we want and what we don’t:

MUSTS

  • Covered patio. We don’t have one now and our back “garden” is basically useless space with a concrete slab.
  • Backyard that contains more than just gravel. It’s so not gratifying to weed rocks. At least in a proper yard, when you weed, you’re able to enjoy the scenery afterward.
  • Big tub (I can’t part with my big tub)

WISHLIST

  • Wood burning fireplace
  • Pool (maybe — it depends on the costs to maintain such a thing, but I wouldn’t hate having one)

NO, THANK YOU

  • Water closets (our master bath has a toilet in a tiny stall with a door — I feel like veal in there)

We’ve got another year to go before our lease is up here — but I know with work and travel next year, time will zip by.  We’ll likely hire an agent to find something for us so we can pretend we’re on House Hunters — except I won’t quibble over the wall color.  (Seriously, why do they always bitch about the hideous colors? There’s this stuff called paint, Mensa.)

Anyway, we’ll see what 2012 brings. The point is, despite me missing California so much it hurts, I’m not ready to throw myself off the roof just yet.  Vegas isn’t so terrible.

Stuck In the Middle with You

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I live in kind of an odd neighborhood.  The houses are new, big and cheap, by California standards.  (I saw a sign the other day for a 6000 sq ft luxury home for $230k — madness!)  The neighborhood overall is pretty quiet (except for when the middle school down the street lets out and all the little pubescent hooligans are walking home) and in general, I like it.

I really like our house, but the surrounding commercial/retail area is kind of… meh. Shabby. Run down. I call it a Living Ghost Town because there was so much development and expansion in this area pre-Bush, but when the economy bottomed out, it hit North Las Vegas pretty hard.  So there are lots of new commercial buildings and strip malls that are empty with for lease signs all over.  The only close grocery is Walmart because all the others couldn’t compete and closed down. It’s a little depressing.  But, I just keep telling myself that I’m spoiled coming from Southern California. San Diego is probably one of the best cities in the world, certainly in the United States,  and a fairly affluent one at that, so I’m trying not to judge.

You can stop laughing.

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The Friendly Pedophile

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So, I have this neighbor –  he’s an older man, probably in his late 60′s, maybe even 70′s.  I sometimes run into him on the stairwell or in the parking lot, bringing in our groceries or whatever.

He’s always been super friendly. My front door is right at the top of the stairwell, so I often see him walk by through my ‘ice cube glass’ windows near my desk.  When I moved in, he complimented me on the happiness my yellow hibiscus brought him when it bloomed.  And I thought how nice it was that someone even noticed besides me.  He looked like a nice old man, what I envision a “grandpa” to be.

Cut to a week or so later, when I’m tempted into downloading a Sex Offender Locator app for my iPhone. You can see where this is going.  Grandpa indeed.

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Mr. No-No and the 4 a.m. Honker

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Last May, I moved into a new apartment complex.  It’s kinda schmancy and overall, I have very little to complain about except perhaps the rent price and the dude downstairs who has a penchant for action movies and a deep, personal relationship with his surround sound.  And maybe the Tacky Water People.  And the Friendly Pedophile.  But I digress.

When I moved in, I was given one covered parking space on the end, very close to my stairs. Score! To my right is parked a white Miata, circa 1992 or so. It’s in 1992 condition… not bad, but certainly not cherry.

The day after I moved in, while I was unloading things from my (2009) Matrix, a man in a pith helmet with the mullet flaps on the back sidles up to me with this hands clasped behind his back, like he was ice skating in a Rockwell painting.

“So you just moved in, huh?” he says.

“Yes, just yesterday,” I replied.

And then, with a weird knowing grin and the tone of someone hosting a children’s storytime, he said, “Ok, well, don’t you go dinging my car now.”  (wink) “I keep a close eye on my baby,” gesturing to the Miata.

I laughed politely and ribbed him a bit back, assuming he was just trying to be cute. “It’s a deal. Wouldn’t want to mar such a classic!”  Then I wished him a good day and off I went up the stairs.

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Prickafornia

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So can we talk about my neighbors some more?  It seems no matter where I go, I end up with at least one subpar neighbor.  I had to ask mikey if maybe it was me — perhaps I’m doing something that makes the neighbors jerky, or maybe I have unrealistic expectations, but he insists it’s them.

Remember the Tacky Water Bottle people from across the hall?  Well, last Friday, I received a notice on my door from the apartment management, letting me know I’m in violation of their “common areas” policies with my water bottles.  While I wasn’t thrilled to hear this — I mean, where else are you supposed to keep them in an apartment? — if that’s their policy and I’m in violation, fine. I’ll figure something out.

So I called the office to let them know I was going to comply and ask for suggestions on where I might keep them, since it’s a month’s worth of water.  I was connected with the manager, who informed me that I was issued the violation primarily because there were “several complaints” about my water bottles “blowing over and rolling down the hallways very noisily” and neighbors were having to “round them up” for me.

I like to consider myself a lady, but I have to quote my father here and cry, “Horseshit!”  Total, utter nonsense.  And I told her so. I said, “I’m happy to comply with your policies if that is the case. It’s not the most convenient thing, but if that’s your rule, that’s how it goes.  However, I can tell you with about 99.9% accuracy that those ‘reports’ are hogwash. I am home all day, every day and my desk is right on the other side of the ice cube glass window/wall from those bottles.  I sit right there.  If there were anything blowing anywhere, especially noisily, I would have heard it. If there were someone out there rounding up my anything, I would have seen them.  I know you can’t tell me who it is, nor do I really want you to, but if it’s the neighbors across the hall, I have an idea of what this is about. “  Then I briefly recapped the interaction on the 4th of July.

She told me I can store the bottles on my patio and I, as obviously retaliatory as it was, informed the management that “if we’re going to go there”, then the neighbors across the hall aren’t exactly angels, rummaging around in their storage unit (in the common area of the hallway) loudly at 1am every night. I also mentioned the constant stream people going in and out of their apartment loudly (which is directly across from the ‘ice cube glass’ wall, so I’m constantly distracted by it), multiple times, at all hours of the day from dawn until midnight, causing me to speculate how many people actually live there.  I also mentioned that their guests occasionally peer in my glass wall/window, sometimes even putting their hands up to block the side glare.  Into my apartment! They can’t see anything, even with the lights on, except shapes, but I feel kind of skeeved by that!   I told her that other than that one interaction, I’d never spoken with them and didn’t want to start a feud with my neighbors, but that I wouldn’t stand for fabrications and again, “if we’re going to go there”, then I would also no longer stand for morons peering into my apartment.

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If It Were On Cinderblocks, She Might Have a Case

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So I was just climbing the stairs to my apartment and while on the second landing, I heard a bunch of people coming down from the third floor, where I was heading. I paused politely to wait for them to come down so there wouldn’t be a traffic jam.

I hear them talking and one of the women says REALLY snidely, “Oh my GOD, someone keeps their water bottles on their front porch? How TACKY!”, then they all start filing down the stairs. When they see me, they all say excuse me cordially and one woman was extra sweet — Texas style. Meaning, covered in bullshit, bless her heart.

I smiled back and said jovially, “Oh, it’s no problem. I’m just the woman with the tacky water bottles on her porch.”

They looked uncomfortable and kept walking. But at the bottom of the stairs, I heard one of the women exclaim, “I am SO embarrassed.”

Good, lady. If you’re going to talk shit, keep your voice down or be prepared to be called on it. They’re 5 gallon bottles of delivered spring water, where do you suggest I keep them? Those capris you’re sporting are tacky, but you don’t hear me complaining.

I feel a little bad for firing back and embarrassing her in front of her friends — I could have let it go. But… I didn’t.

No high road for me today I guess. Given the expression on their faces, the low road is more scenic.

Godzilla, Lord of the Dance

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I figured I’d blog today… you know, to give a update to the patient people who still keep up with this blog or who don’t follow me tweets.  Matey.  That should have said “my tweets”, but we have this thing where if we typo “me (something)” we follow it with “matey”, no matter what.  So I did and… well, now you know.

For those who don’t know, I’m moving out of my apartment in a week and a half.  I am really going to miss Casa Cocktail and all the good things about it, but lately the crap has started to outweigh the good things.  To start, Slick (a.k.a. Guitar Hero) picked up the electric guitar and bass as a hobby, which he played  every day at 4pm for 2-3 hours.  Is it not bad enough that his girlfriend made sex sounds like a caffeinated baboon, he had to fancy himself The Edge at least 5 days a week?  But… a blessing!  He moved out in April and took Ape Escape with him.

But then, GFI moved out.  I don’t know who the hell she thinks she is just moving out and having a life and stuff. I mean, god, lady. Don’t you know everything revolves around my happiness?  Obviously I’m kidding, but I miss her as a neighbor.  She never made a peep, we were BNF: Best Neighbors Forever.  I could text if she needed help when I heard she might’ve dropped something, she could text me to ask if I had margarita mix, we could sit on the patio and gossip about the neighborhood and I never, ever had to hear her pee. Continue reading →

Pressing Matters

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I have gone on many, many times about my quest for the perfect coffeemaker. I’ve gone through several since I started blogging.  Each time I griped about this coffeemaker or that, someone would tell me to get a French press and  I would politely decline.

A French press? How can I possibly achieve that hot, delicious fresh-brewed cup of joe without a coffeemaker? Pour water in, press it down, voila! Great coffee?  Nooo… surely they must be mistaken. In case you hadn’t noticed, I can be quite stubborn.

My Coffee PressSo how, you might ask, did I end up not only purchasing, but loving my new French press?   A desire for better aesthetics in my kitchen.   Hey, all things can’t be noble. Sometimes you just want things to look pretty.

GFI and I have identical kitchens since she lives directly above me.  We have them set up similarly, too, because we’re dorks like that and we took cues about what worked and what didn’t in each other’s space. For example, we both have our microwaves on top of the refrigerator to save space and we both have tiny lamps scattered around the kitchen for more ambient lighting because we hate the overhead fluorescents. My issue was that GFI’s kitchen always seemed so much cleaner and brighter to me. Same amount of lamps  (two small IKEA colored numbers), pretty much the same amount of stuff on the counter… what gives?

The difference?  GFI no longer had her coffeemaker on the counter. I, on the other hand, still had my big black Mr. Coffee (which doesn’t make very good coffee anyway and chirps annoyingly).  She sang the praises of the coffee press, insisting it produced the most delicious coffee and insisted I go buy one with the Starbucks giftcard she got me for Christmas.

So, for once, I actually did what I was told. I caved in and bought a French press gift set the very next morning on holiday clearance and it was the best thing I ever did.  Coffee-wise, anyway.

It’s easy, it takes no time (4 minutes!), little energy, it’s quiet (which ideal first thing in the morning), I get just the right amount of coffee and the flavor is beyond compare. It’s almost creamy the way it foams and creates this rich froth on the top.  I also have to heavily endorse my new favorite Starbucks blend, Sumatra Extra Bold (press grind).  It makes the most delicious cup, in my opinion, though I have an arsenal of coffee in my cabinet to try. You can use an all-purpose grind, though so far I’ve found the press grind to make the very best brew.

So to everyone who has ever recommended I get a French press, I owe you an apology.  You spoke the gospel and I, too brainwashed by Mr. Coffee, turned the other cheek.  I don’t know why we allegedly don’t like the French, but for the coffee press alone I’d have to declare vive la France!

Shut up. I implore you.

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I need to find a new place to work. It’s very difficult for me to get anything done here lately with all the noise.  If it’s not the freaking parrots, it’s the owner of the parrots who likes to blare his bass in the parking lot despite my repeated requests not to (the same parking lot Tire Guy bangs his tube in).  Every single time he says, “Oh, I forgot. Sorry, I thought no one was home.” And every time, I respond, “I’m always home.” I mean, crimony, dude!  The bass rattles my wall and gives me a headache.  Do I have to hang a sign outside alerting people that I’m home now?

I don’t want to be a jerk, you know? I realize people have a right to live and play their music and whatever.  I also realize it’s during a work week when he thinks people are away from their homes. But some of us aren’t and I pay my rent and deserve peace like anyone else.

He uncovers his damn parrots at 6am in the morning and with it being Summer, everyone in the neighborhood has their windows open.  So they squawk and carry on, especially on the weekends because he sings to them. He SINGS!  You can hear him up there singing to the birds while his wife or girlfriend clanks the dishes around and cooks breakfast.  One morning I yelled out the window “For god’s sake, shut up! This isn’t freaking Costa Rica!” but that didn’t seem to sway him.  I can’t imagine why.

The other day, he was using a chainsaw to cut logs about 3 feet from my open bedroom window.  He’s up a bit higher on the hill, so looking out my window, I was eye-level with the saw.  Dust, wood chips, all this crap was flying in the air and into my windows.  What the hell!!? Are you planning on busting a crackling fire any time soon?  I’m not.  Save it for Winter, dude!

Every time I go ask him to turn down his radio, he’s nice about it and he always says good morning, so I don’t want to be a complete bitch, but this is getting ridiculous. I’ve got to get some work done!  I’ve got to!  And all that’s happening is he’s making me underline things a lot.

*bangs head*