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.