You can't go in there

Unit-by-unit inspections are something I loathe. It means, as the name implies, that we have to go inside every single unit to make sure everything is in working order and that people aren't living like complete slobs. I don't like seeing how other people live and it is the ultimate in adult babysitting because you have to tell them to basically "clean their room." Pigs.

One, always drunk and obnoxious, resident refused entry to the property manager, my boss, as soon as the door opened. She informed him what we were there for and he said, "let me make sure my drawers are open," or something along those lines then promptly shut the door in her face. When we came back to him later, he really put up a fight.

"What do you want to inspect, to make sure I fold my shorts the right way?" the boozy man slurred.
"No, we just want to check your smoke detectors and see if there are any leaks," my boss replied.
"Okay," he responded. I was surprised to think he was actually going to let her in. "But you can't go in the bedroom. There are two lesbians making love in there and I don't want you to see it."

Not surprisingly, there turned out to be no lesbians in the bedroom. His inebriated vision of "one black one and one white one" was clearly fictitious.

Mrs. Pickles

We need to spend some blog space introducing you to some of our residents so when we mention them by name later on, you will know who we are talking about. Every resident of ours has a nickname that either we or other residents have given them, even pre-blog.

Mrs. Pickles is an older woman with coarse gray hair that appears to have not been washed since we have known her (over a year). She stands at 5 feet with change and wears her teal coat any chance she can get. She is somewhere in her 60s, but don't ask her because she doesn't even know where she is in general. I don't know if she is experiencing early onset of Alzheimer's, or she is just crazy. I haven't known her long enough to know how long she has been this way. She doesn't remember anything that happened yesterday, or three minutes ago.

We will share experiences with her as we remember them. For now I want to share how she gained her nickname.

The pool at our complex had some shoddy piping used to fill the pool so I decided I would replace it. I had to dig down pretty deep to find where the pipe had broken. It was sunny and hot and I had spent a couple hours in the hole clearing out the water and prepping the pipes when Mrs. Pickles showed up. She noticed a big pot with new signs of plant life in it near where I was working.

"What's in here, Dexter?" She inquired.
"Um, I don't actually know, Mrs. Pickles. The Dragon Lady (another one for us to introduce you to) planted that and I don't remember what it was called," I responded, hoping for the conversation to end quickly.
"Oh... Well I think they look like pea plants," she guessed. Even though I couldn't remember the name of the plant I knew they were not pea plants. I wanted to see what crazy thing I could suggest the plant is that she would undoubtedly accept.
"No, Mrs. Pickles, I don't think that they are pea plants. I am pretty sure that they are pickle plants," I ventured with my border-seeking suggestion.
"Dexter! No!" I thought that I had crossed her crazy border. And then, "pickle plants don't look like that!"She exclaimed.
"You're right Mrs. Pickles, I am sorry. What I meant to say is that the Dragon Lady planted pickles. She will be growing zucchini.

Bingo.

"Oh. Well it sure is pretty!" said the newly nicknamed Mrs. Pickles.

How much is too much?

I step into the office at 8:59am to find a slip of paper sitting on my floor, apparently dropped through the night slot in the door. It looks to be an unfortunately familiar shape and size. I pick it up to find the following statement from the County Sheriff's department regarding one of our crazy residents at 2am:

Took too much meth. Was knocking on neighbors doors and walking half naked through the parking lot. Ambulance to hospital.

So this posed a question in our minds:

How much is too much?

Some words to ponder on...


FOLLOW UP:

For any of you who may be concerned about the afore mentioned half naked resident, he arrived safely home the next morning via the public transit bus wearing just his hospital issued paper gown and tighty-whiteys.

I, for one, am glad to know it was that half of him that was covered up.

What do I say?!

Since beginning this blog, every day I think "I should blog about this!" Unfortunately, my thoughts have not been formed into words in the blogger-sphere. Sorry!

Instead of trying to catch up with stories from the last few years, I may as well write about a day I had this week when my worst nightmare came true!

"What's the worst nightmare of an apartment manager?" you ask. Is it fire? No. Is it flood? No. Is it a massive tornado sweeping through the property and wiping out all the buildings except the one I live in? Sounds like a dream come true I say! Give up? Well let me tell you a story...

I often get phone calls from people wanting to relocate to our lovely state of Washington due to a job opportunity. This means they are coming from out-of-state and so the paperwork has to all be done using the marvelous technological devices that we have today, namely fax machines, scanners, computers (email), and sometimes  the non-technological snail mail. I think I have perfected this process since many people have been relocating due to our terrible economy and a lack of available jobs. The process is quick and easy. My instructions are clear and precise. All information is shared to create an easy transition for all involved... so I thought.

The day arrives. The residents who shall remain nameless (let's call them RationalHe and RidiculouShe) are standing outside the office. A few minutes go by and finally Rational-He steps in the office. I introduce myself as the one on the other end of the faceless communication and offer to show him/them the apartment before signing any paperwork. He agrees. 

We step outside and I suddenly have a sinking feeling in my stomach. The vibe outside is much different than in my office. I brush it off thinking I'm probably just tired and we walk the short distance to the destination. Once inside I introduce the place in my usual manner and finish with "So, is it everything you were expecting and more?" Usually the response to this question is an "Oh yes!" or "Even better!" You can guess how I felt when I heard "No, not at all. This looks nothing like the pictures!".... Um what? The pictures posted were taken just a few weeks back. How could it look nothing like the pictures? "Oh, well, what is it that's different?" I ask. "There's supposed to be a lot of grass for my kids to play!" This was followed by an onslaught of tears.... Okay not really, but almost. No tears fell but they were pooled on the edge of RidiculouShe's eyes. Aside from the discomfort from the very awkward and unreasonable emotions, I was relieved with her response. "OH the grass? Yes we have a large courtyard and pool. I took you straight to the apartment but the complex goes a ways back. Let me show you around." 

Now we head back outside to walk the property. I thought my answer was sufficient to ease her concerns but  boy was I wrong. We arrive at the courtyard after walking the few minutes with me leading the way. I was unable to decipher the obvious angry mutterings of RidiculouShe to RationalHe. The poor guy. But know there were mutterings just made me that much more uncomfortable. Part of me wanted to offer the place across the street just to get these people to vanish. 

The tears start to well up again as she whispers to her husband, as if I don't notice. Finally I say "Is there something else concerning you? Are you concerned about safety?" I don't know how I had that notion but I was right on. "The store there on the corner. Who knows who could be going to and from that place. I can't let my kids play out here." Really? Lady, you have been here for 5 minutes and you're already thinking axe murderers walk around this place ready to pounce on you and your small children. "Well, this area is actually one of the safest areas in the city. We are know for being quieter and have some of the lowest crime rates around. In fact, my children are about the same age as yours and they often play out here with no problems." 

She wasn't convinced. "Could you give us a second? Why don't we go get a coffee or something and come back," says RationalHe. By all means, take all the time in the world! If nothing else it will temporarily relieve me from this incredibly awkward situation! Maybe they just won't come back...

About 15 minutes later they come back to the office. She stands outside wiping away tears and her husband says "We're going to do it." As if he was investing millions into Enron just prior to its collapse. Seriously people.

You can probably guess how the rest of the story goes. Small talk ensues. Awkward. More questions. Papers signed. Awkward. More questions. Head to the unit to walk through. Awkward. More questions stemming from this woman's paranoia. Things like "What happens if there's a fire?" and "Will you do anything if my neighbor is so loud you can hear them from the street?" Call the police lady! "How much is laundry and where is it?" "$1 per machine and 8 other people share your facility" was followed by "What? That's expensive. And 8 people?! I do cloth diapers. Do people leave messes?"... Then  "Is smoking allowed?". My "yes" answer to the latter was then followed with "So the person living below us can stand outside and blow smoke into my apartment?" My answer? Yes. Right in front of your window with their nose smashed against your screen taking the deepest breaths imaginable and then blowing a large billowing gust of tobacco/nicotine/tar infused smoke right into your apartment smothering you, your children, and all of your belongings... Well I wish I'd said that. 

AWKWARD. Hmmm maybe questions you should have asked WHEN YOU WERE BACK IN OHIO! So today I curse the people in all of Ohio. Because I can. Curse you Ohio-ans!* Why must state borders be so easy to cross?!

*DISCLAIMER: I do not actually wish harm upon anyone from Ohio, in Ohio, or in the near vicinity of Ohio. Just know that some days people suck.

First things first

There is a common misconception about apartment managing that it is some miraculous job where, if you are lucky enough to even get your foot in the door and get hired as a manager, your rent is "free." We hear it all the time. Heck, you probably read the title and said, "apartment managers get free rent!" I mean, that's fine if you did that because we said it too and that's how they get ya! Let's examine the situation here (to make it easier, answer yes to the next three questions):

1. Do you live in an apartment complex?
2. Do you work full or part time?
3. Do you pay rent to the apartment complex with your salary from your job?

Then your rent is "free" too! If only we got to sit at home and buy things on the internet all day while the apartment fairies paid our rent. No, it is a second job much like the one you had at McDonalds during college, except worse. A much more exact job description of an apartment manager would be that we are babysitters. Of adults. Trust me, we don't withdraw in single dollar bills the rent money we "don't have to pay" every month and roll around in it, so get that image out of your mind. Okay, put it back in your mind for just a moment because I liked the idea of it too. Wait for a moment... Now take it back out. Very good.

The fact of the matter is we are poorer than you. We live in a smaller apartment and give up the finer things in life because we thought we would be getting "free" rent so we could buy expensive things like those fancy big olives they have sitting out at the grocery stores. Now we just work extra hard and long hours with idiots, a.k.a residents, to support our family of three children, half of which are girls, and they don't even get any olives at all! But we promise to take our experiences and tell them to you in a humorous way, rather than a whiny, "poor Dexter and Paige" sort of way.

Why

Everytime we get together with our friends we always have some crazy story to tell about our experiences as apartment managers. Often we hear from them, "Oh, you should write a book!" A book? How cliché! But a blog... well it's still cliché, but it's a cheaper cliché.

We are sure that most people who read this blog who have managed apartments before will think that our stories are nothing compared to the nuggets of disaster they have experienced themselves. We're sure you are right, but we don't see your blog anywhere.

If our stories make you laugh or cringe, or laugh while cringing, or altogether cry then we have done our duty to our own sanity by conveying our stories in a way where you feel our pain. Dexter and Paige. Tell your friends.