I’m feeling all up in the “fuck you” action.

I finally got and activated the ATM card for my new bank account. So I wrote a mighty big check to myself from my assholic Bank of America soon to be bank account that was. Over the past few months, I’ve been taking cash out and spreading it around. But, now, with a new checking account and all of the checking accoutrement, I’m done.

Adios and suck my ass, Bank of America. Take your fees, take your mind-blowingly bad customer service and your good old mega-conglomerate ways and fuck off.

And, Nicky, boy. Oh Nicky. I’m going to ask for volunteers in your final fuck off. Now it’s just a little bit of build up to the main event.

In today’s episode, for some unfathomable reason he called M.’s old boss and chatted him up. The unfathomable part isn’t that he called the old place of work, because disorganized old men getting a number wrong, ain’t exactly news.

No, the part that’s on the uncomprehensible side is why he talked with the guy. He stopped and chatted enough to lie to him about needing to get in touch with M., because we hadn’t given him proper notice to vacate the premises. Um, what the fuck, Nick?

How fucking inappropriate is telling a stranger that there’s some kind of financial issue. Let alone making up shit and selling it to create a non-existent issue.

M. called him and called him on it. Um, right, you got the letter didn’t you, bad boy?

He offered M. a good deal, if we move out right away, and he gets a new tenant right away, he’ll pro-rate for us and we only have to pay until the new tenants start. Hey, old man, that’s the fucking law, not let’s make a deal.

You know what else, old man, we’re staying until the date we said, because time is money to us. Guess what, the law is totally hip to our thinking.

What I think though, apart from wanting to make book that the placid M. freaks out on Nick before it’s all said and done, is that I need to hold the first ever, invitational, let’s all screw with Nick’s head open.

If you got any good ideas on how we can mess with an old man as we wave goodbye, give me your best shot in the comments section.

(Anything all psycho and fecal, though, man, I don’t want to know about that sick shit (no pun).)

M.’s taken to stalking our new digs. He ostensibly went for a run yesterday, but at some point ended up parking on the new street and walking to that Trader Joe’s.

We’re both chomping at the bit to get the hell out of Dodge. Nick hanging around today, as seems to be the case whenever I have a long weekend, is kind of driving the desire home, as it were.

Jesus, Nick, just let me have an unbalanced load of laundry in the little laundry room in fucking peace. We don’t need to go through each item speculating the automatic mass of each sweatshirt, its absorptive properties, its bulk, its tendency to shift in the universe to figure out why your piece of shit dryer is rattling.

Best quote, “Oh, see that, they call those ‘Turkish.’ [Pointing to an actually very plain white towel, possibly one I stole from a mid-range hotel chain.] Yeah, those kind of towels hold water. Absorb water.” Um, dude, we bought the towels to dry shit. We fucking want them to absorb water for christ’s sake.

It’s not that bad a place, and I can’t blame him for the neighborhood’s decline. But, for fuck’s sake, I can’t figure out why he makes every mundane situation so goddamn painful.

But, M. and I together are amassing quite the list of “You might be a slumlord if…” jokes.

My fav Nick fix in that vein these days is in said laundry room. The door to the little hut had a little country window with a little country curtain. Cute. But, in Nick’s vigilant and vigilante fear of the changing ‘hood, the glass clearly was a temptation to ne’er-do-wells and the dreaded minorities. A crime beacon.

Many people might take off the door with the cute little window and slap up a whole new door. Not our hero. Nope, why spend that, what $150 at Home Depot, when you’re handy with the tools? What you do is take a hunk of not quite square, rough hewn scrap wood, don’t bother cutting it to size to fit in the window slot or anything. Now, slap that over the window, and hammer away. Paint it a similar color and you’re good to go.

The two details I love best — The curtain still remains on the interior, and the board didn’t quite fit, so maybe the door knob didn’t turn. At least I’m guessing by the whittled curve around the knob’s circumference.

Here’s what I won’t miss, won’t miss one bit:

Nick

Electricity going out, a lot

Commuting

Teenagers in the carport when I get home

Illegally parked cars in the carport when I get home

Heating that makes too much noise and feels like a car heater in an old beater — Two speeds, sweltering or off

Waiting 10 minutes for the hot water to be hot

Cold showers when I can’t wait 10 minutes first

Scalding from when the hot water kicks in, hard and hot, but not in a good way

Layers of mildew from almost no ventilation in either bathroom, even with a window

Being told by Nick I have to keep the window all the way open in the shower, regardless of the outdoor temperature

Two burners on the stove you have to jiggle and push before they fire up

Cold spots on the stove

Setting the smoke alarm off while taking a shower

Setting the fire alarm off while cooking anything in the oven

Setting the fire alarm off while making toast

Random alarm noises

Duct tape holding up a shelf in the refrigerator

Having no little welcoming light in the refrigerator

Fucking sink strainers — Nick loves these
He threw away the normal one

Cheap hair trap annoying plastic things for the shower (also another of Nick’s loves)

No dishwasher (just a plywood repair in the cabinet, like a ghost of the washer that once was)

A working garbage disposal we’ve been warned not to use for various forms of, um, garbage

Neighbors yelling at each other

The crazy old lady across the street who freaked and claimed I hit her car while un-parallel parking

Only one official parking space (in the new place we get a two-car private carport, woohoo)

Strip malls, lots and lots of strip malls

The weird sobbing child I can hear from one of the other apartments and that goes on and on.

I’ll miss the heat in summer. M. won’t. At all.

I’ll miss thinking of Dionne Warwick every time I tell someone where I live.

I’ll miss hating on Nick, because I’m an asshole.

I’ll miss some of the diversity.

I’ll miss the huge amount of space we currently waste.

I’ll miss that it was M.’s and my first place together in California. An experiment that has seemed to work.

Ah, Nick. M. gave him the call this morning. Said our adios, landlord man.

He offered to cut our rent a hundred bucks or so. Hmmm. Could it be ‘cuz he’s going to have to lower the rates anyway to rent, as the cars and trucks parked illegally add a certain je ne c’est quoi to the carport, and the trash blowing in the street really brightens up the neighborhood? Not really a huge favor there, Nicky. Not to mention, what price is freedom from your control freakish ways?

When the money dangle left M. unmoved, he inquired as to our future locale. He claims it’s prone to flooding. Yeah, man, what with creeks, salt marshes and an ocean nearby, I can dig some water problems. But, I must’ve missed the telethon to save some multi-million dollar shacks lined up among some of the country’s richest real estate. Katrina/N.O. this ‘hood ain’t.

I did a little search engine action. Apparently, in the great flood of ’98 Palo Alto and Menlo Park floated away. Oh wait, no they didn’t, but their were some, egads, mud-littered garages and basements. And the lights went out for literally hundreds of people. Several people had to use candles.

Of course, he had to admit the downtown shopping area that’s been around awhile and where we’ll be living is a “nice place.”

He also pointed out that even in the best of towns cars like mine get broken into and crime happens.

Right, Nick. We’ll be hanging out in a downtown where regularly, in regular old metered spaces, on the street, logos for Porsche, Ferrari, Mercedes, BMW, Bentley, Lotus, Maserati and Maybach, intermingle with everyday Hondas and Lexuses and whatnot at the curb. We’ll have two, covered, private and tucked away parking spots, and in at least one of the adjoining spaces, we noticed a couple of bikes with wheel locks but chained to nothing.

I’m going out on a limb. No one’s going after the VW with other choices abounding. And, if the neighbor’s bicycles aren’t being rolled away, what’s the likelihood of a tougher, more vandalism fun-like thing like my roof stabbing happening.

Meanwhile, I’m mentally kissing the security deposit goodbye, but I’m gearing up for the battle. My prep involves reading through some shit from last year.

Just when you’re sitting thinking “Shit, I got nothing I feel like writing,” the doorbell rings. Landlord Nick is on the case, making sure our fire alarm is working for 2007.

He presses the test button three, four times before realizing we had wiggled the battery out of it’s harness. It’s placed directly across from a bathroom in the narrowest section of corridor. Steam is kind of like smoke, and taking a shower to the beeping sound of the alarm is unnerving.

Here’s the dialogue:

Me: You need to move the alarm.
Nick: If it goes off when it shouldn’t let me know.
Me: I’m letting you know. You should move it.
Nick: If it’s a problem, we could move it here. (Pointing to a new place.) Just let me know if it goes off.
Me: It goes off. Yes, that’s a good place. It’s a wider space with better ventilation, it’s where it should go. Why don’t you come back and move it?
Nick: Yeah, it should be OK where it is, but call me if it’s not.
Me: It’s not. Please move it.

Upon, finally, leaving (This time it was M.’s turn to get the clean-your-bathroom-with-toxic-chemicals lecture.):

Nick: OK, guys, everything seems to be OK. Let me know if there are any problems with the fire alarm. Should be OK, though. Just let me know.

Clearly, he learned landlording by reading Ienesco plays.

By the way, how come every fucking landlord I have ever had has thought to whine to me about property taxes and expenses of rental properties? Jesus, slumlord, no one made you run a building into the ground.

Landlord Nick was back in the old country for a while, where he was no doubt annoying the piss out of friends and relations throughout the Greek Isles.

But, he is back just in time to provide this humble writer a needed spleen vent. I was getting a little tense over trying to figure out the kind of new shit that comes with a new job. After the old, getting the hell out of Dodge, impetus for moving, weblog fiasco, I’m a little cautious on exaggerating and making all comedy like the daily drudgery of an office job and learning new office politics and peculiarities.

As I’ve held my always eager to sally forth tongue, my desire to purge has blossomed. The saddest part is M. is horrible to spar with when I’m just looking to bitch, moan and act out. He smiles, laughs, hugs me and then changes the subject. Very manipulative that whole affection deal.

So, when Nick grated my last nerve left for a Tuesday evening, I lept. I fought with him openly (rather than say, calmly and chilly politely), so that passive aggressive master that he is he could talk me out of my obvious snit.

“Denise, it is end of day, we both tired. I’m just telling you the rules. You have to have rules, be considerate of neighbors or Nick is in the middle.”

Fuck you, Nick.

Today’s episode was all about the table. There is a very crappy, green, plastic resin table in the back patio area (a theoretically communal area just outside our back door). I cannot adequately describe the craptitude of the table.

Imagine something like this:
(Note: Photo is from Craig’s List, not one of your fancy antique dealers.)

Only without chairs, and imagine a big, jagged chunk violently removed from the plastic rim. And stains, imagine stains. Stains from the outdoors, stains from previous tenants. Probably the kind of stains that would do something if one of them cops from a forensic show did something with that Luminol junk and a black light.

Crazy, non-rule following maverick that I am, I put our little Weber charcoal grill on it. (On a very large cookie sheet mind you, because I’m not fond of plastic melting smells, as a Weber grill sinks through the resin table core.) I will point out for the benefit of the jury this table is directly below our kitchen window and adjacent to our back door. Even in a communal area, it’s in that weird zone surrounding anyone’s door where their neighbors may very well feel invasive if they hung out there.

Nick assures me that this space must be reserved for all the apartments. (Currently including an unrented unit, that of a guy who has been in Europe for over a month and Ashley, our ground floor neighbor who has been invited to both of our big barbecues, hangs out and chats in the evening and shares my love for Nick, thus is unlikely to discuss any space, communal or otherwise with him if she can avoid it.) It’s kind of a “tree falling in the forest” theoretical construct that the neighbors need the table.

And, it must be kept nice so people can eat on it. Trust me, no one is looking for that particular thrill ride on this particular piece of propped up plastic.

The fight began when I told Nick I would buy my own table. Suffice it to say, M. and Dee will be shopping for an inexpensive patio table all our own, quite soon.

Nick left a short time ago. Today he painted a scarred section of the bathtub with some kind of porcelain restoring stuff.

He thought it was “good, Pisces thinking” that I didn’t shower last night in the newly painted bathroom. He believes together we can maintain this place in fine operating condition, keep costs low and thereby not get any rent increases, We will be wonderful partners in this brave world of apartment living.

We also spent a tad longer than my patience would generally allow on the exact placement of the shower knob to stop it’s dripping. We got into the shower together and analyzed the angles and felt the rhythm of the knob correctly placed.

I assured him I would practice good knob placement, as well as monitor the dripping situation for any needed intervention. Again we discussed as to how these missions were my own, since M. apparently has higher brain functioning and is exempt.

The brightside (or the dark and lonely since whatever will I do without his visits?) is that he says we are quite near completion of his daily interruptions.

I forgot to post my Nick log yesterday. It was relatively brief. He only came by to fix and/or replace the smoke detector that began spontaneously going off without provocation (or smoke or flame). I think it must have been a DIY fix it job, because it went off again today when I made toast (despite no actual toast emergency).

There was also the friendly visit to show me the sludge in a neighbor’s pipe, as I sunned myself on the patio. (He felt it necessary to provide visual evidence of pipe accumulation (and it’s apparent negative effects, since he was taking apart a sink in another unit). I belief that clear and clean plumbing is the man’s ultimate life’s work.

Today brought Nick to finish painting the hall bathroom, which had begun, I think, during the place’s vacancy. Some might argue that would have been a good time to finish it.

I’m not sure how, but painting the hall bathroom engendered a trip to the master bedroom’s bathroom, and once again we revisted the important ground of not clogging any pipes at any time with any substance. (There was indeed evidence of M.’s hair in the bathroom, a source of much concern for its thick, luxuriousness.)

Nick now advises that since we can’t trust M. to adequately clean the bathroom, I must check it every morning when he leaves. I suspect the hair vigilance work is mine, because I have the two X chromosomes, where M. has that special XY pair that frees him from mundane, household chores.

The irony of all of the hair discussion (there was also evidence of mine on the counter in the hall bathroom pre-painting) is that for him to find our errant hairs, they have not gone down the drain and destroyed his plumbing.

Other than today’s housekeeping lecture, I spent today researching and going to temp agencies. I figure that office work, even of the temporary kind, is more lucrative than the slacker retail work I was thinking of getting.