- We are both still awake, and there are birds chirping outside and What. The. Fuck.
- Way, way too many skinny, pale, almost-vaguely-ethnic, blonde chicks up in my fashion editorials right now. Diversity, PLEASE.
Not in hot water
Published March 21, 2009 | 
Last night around 9pm, Maia fell asleep. This is astonishing, as she usually boycotts anything resembling sleep or relaxation between the hours of 7 and 11pm — she demands attention and interrupts all prime-time programming that we might be interested in paying attention to (thank goodness for DVR!) Anyhow, I decided to take advantage of this and hop in the shower.
There was no hot water. No big deal, this happens sometimes, it is just one of our apartment’s little annoyances; I turned the knob all the way on hot and came out to check blogs and whatnot for five minutes. Checked the shower again, still no hot water. Waited another five minutes — still ice cold. So I called the landlady.
She said the hot water heater in the building had broken, but would not be fixed until the morning. So, no shower for me, no bath for Maia, and no doing dishes. Whatever, I can deal with this for a night.
Except now it’s almost 2pm and there’s still no hot water. What the fuck? How did we find the absolute shittiest apartment building in the entire city to live in?
February Already?!
Published February 1, 2009 | Three times in the past week, while cooking, I have blown the power in our apartment. This happens whenever I turn the stove on while a burner is also on. You may recall that we’ve had problems with our stove in the past… sigh. Our landlady keeps having to go and flip the breaker switch or whatever it is that you do when someone’s power isn’t working. She’s (supposedly) getting someone to come and look at it “soon”, which I assume means Monday.
It’s February. Seriously. It’s pretty much game time for us. We’ve got the house mostly ready, but mentally I’m feeling less prepared than ever. As much as I keep thinking “please just come out already” there’s another part of me going “stay in there forever”. BHC are coming more regularly, although I don’t mean “regularly” as in consistently — just that I can count on at least two per day. Monday afternoon is when my “stretch and sweep”, aka membrane sweep, is scheduled. Chris actually arranged to get off work early that day so that I don’t have to wake up at 4am and drive him into work, then through the stupid one-way streets of the city where my midwife is located, only to end up parking seven blocks away because that’s the only parking spot available (the joy of their office being right next to the hospital). He is going to drop me off in front of the office then go buy coffee and hot chocolate… haha… I figure I will need the hot chocolate to soothe my nerves after having someone’s fingers poke around my cervix!
This is the last week he’s scheduled to work. The week I’m due, since we can’t guarantee that the baby will be on time but his job needs to know as best as possible when he’ll be unavailable and they can schedule a stand-in, he’s got scheduled vacation… then if she’s REALLY late, he’s regularly off the following week, but hopefully by then he’ll be claiming paternity leave.
Every woman who sees my belly tells me I’m huge and I’ll have her early. I figure this is as reliable as holding a ring on a string over my stomach early in the pregnancy to predict the gender, but it still makes me smile. We are pretty much just in waiting mode now. She could come out today and be considered full term.
It’s almost time to meet our baby Maia.
The Hermit Speaks
Published January 30, 2009 | For the past little while, ever since that night when Buffy barked & made the lady across the hallway bang on her window at me, I’ve been putting the dogs on their leashes and taking them to the side of the building (which means an extra flight of stairs, but whatever — I’m pregnant, not broken) rather than out back. But tonight, since I’ve been having cramping off and on, I did not put them on their leash and I just let them out back. As usual, Buffy barked twice as she bounced out into the snow (sigh) and peed near the lady’s patio. Then she started barking more, the way she does when she sees someone, and I was like oh shit, the bitch is probably standing in her doorway looking at the dogs, but Buffy ran over to me so I picked her up to bring her inside. Then Joss, interested in whatever had made his sister bark, ran over… and started to bark…
So bitch opens up her door to yell at me: “Keep those dogs from pissing on my patio.”
Okay, you know, I understand. In fact, I am immensely annoyed that they seem to like peeing near her patio (although I assume they do so because less snow accumulates there). “I’m sorry, I do try,” I answer.
“Put them on a fucking leash!” she screeches and slams her door. WTF?
Clearly, I’m in the wrong. I know this. I was kind of hoping that, you know, since it’s the first time in a week (and they go out three/four times a day) that I’ve taken them out back, I wouldn’t have to deal with any drama. I was hoping that I’d just let them out, they’d pee, poo if they needed to, I’d clean up after them and we’d come back inside. Now I’m all insulted and edgy and annoyed. I know they should be on their leashes. I also know it takes me longer to get their harnesses and leashes on than the amount of time they actually spend out in the cold, and it’s not exactly the safest thing in the world to be stomping up and down two flights of stairs while 9 months pregnant with two dogs on leashes running around me. So that’s why I made the decision I did. I do accept that it’s my problem, these are my dogs, and I don’t really have the ‘right’ to inconvenience or annoy someone with my pets (nor do I want to). I will continue putting them on leashes and taking them over to the side of the building.
I was just really, really hoping to get away with it tonight. Ah well.
Fuck You Friday #1
Published January 16, 2009 | In solidarity with Cristin, and because I don’t really do any other memes so why not find one that plays into my innate bitchiness, here is the first (of many?) “Fuck You Friday” posts from me.
Fuck you, Apartment.
Fuck you for being so charming when we first came here.
Fuck you for seducing us with your big, bold balcony and being on the second floor so I know that firemen can rescue me if there’s a problem.
Fuck you for having some douchebag that scrawls “CLEAN UP YOUR DOG SHIT” on the doors to go outside. Who made them the poopie police?
Fuck you for all your issues that give me issues.
Fuck you for the garage construction project that’s been going on since October with no end in site, yet we’re still paying for parking even if our spot isn’t always ours.
Fuck you for the three washers that don’t have a reliable stream of hot water and the fact that sometimes your dryers take money off my card but won’t turn on.
Fuck you for not having any lights by the doors in the back where we take the dogs out. Do you know how many times I’ve fumbled with my keys while trying to open the door?
Furthermore, fuck you for there being no garbage cans outside for me to toss my baggies of dog poo in. Sometimes I throw my poo in the lobby trash can just out of spite because I hope it stinks in the morning when everyone is walking through. I especially hope the poopie police goes through the lobby on those mornings.
Door Closure Test
Published January 7, 2009 | They knocked on my door. I answered.
They stopped the door before I opened it 6 inches, let it close, and said “Thanks, we’re done.”
That was it.
How do I get a job as a door closure testing specialist?
Because My Apartment Is Amazing
Published January 7, 2009 | Went downstairs to toss a late load of laundry into the dryer and saw a notice posted in the laundry room — there are “door closure tests” tomorrow between 10am and 4pm, so people will need access to my apartment. What the fuck is a door closure test? Clearly my doors close, or else I’d have complained. It’s nice that they’re concerned with my door, but they still don’t care about the things I’ve been complaining about since we moved in — like a shelf for our closet, or a towel bar for our washroom, or the loose/detached track on the medicine cabinet, or that spot in the floor where the Jenga-esque wood block lifts up sometimes when you walk across it, the non-functional clock on the oven, the cabinet doors that still stick…
… so now I’m really, really curious as to what on earth a “door closure test” is and why it needs to be done with less than 12 hours worth of notice (especially considering that, if I hadn’t decided to do a load of laundry at 10pm, I wouldn’t have known about it at all). Thank goodness I straightened up around here a bit today, since they’re going to be knocking on my door at about the same time I’ll be crawling out of bed.
A Few Updates
Published November 1, 2008 | I talked to the professor on the phone yesterday, and he made me feel comfortable and so so silly for even questioning whether or not I should see him. He’s my friend. Of course we should spend some time together. Chris and I talked more and ended up arriving at the conclusion that I’d get up at 4am with him, go to work with him, and then drive home, so I’d have the car to take into Toronto. Chris and I are both really nervous about me driving in the city. I suggested that I park outside of the city, at Yorkdale Mall or something, and then take a subway in — at which he wailed that there are too many crazies on the subway for a pregnant woman to be there alone.
Then I spent all night worrying. When was the last time I drove on a highway or in a city the size of Toronto on a weekend? I know for some of you these concerns are irrelevant, but for me, they’re huge; I haven’t driven on a highway in something like 5 years, and I’ve never driven in a city the size of Toronto, weekend or not. I’m pregnant. Now isn’t when I should be taking new risks, or introducing something stressful into my life. So, I decided against taking the car for the day, and I won’t be seeing the professor while he’s up here. I feel totally shitty for flaking out on a friend, but that’s the way life is. I feel like a wimp too, and at the same time, I know it makes perfect sense to put myself & our baby at the top of my priorities & concerns. Of course, I still have to blog about it as I sit here unable to go back to bed…
As far as the immigration crap goes, well, good news there — my medical extension has been granted, the right fee has been paid, and everything is now entirely out of my hands. All we need is for the office that received the fee to let the other office know so, and then approval should be forthcoming on the same day. 106 days until Maia’s projected arrival date, and since first-time mothers usually deliver late (or so I hear?) I’m feeling fairly comfortable that I’ll have health coverage before she does. Chris says it’s likely because there are no holidays to slow things down in the next few weeks … haha!
The dogs seem to be adjusting to their diet just fine, and Buffy’s already starting to show the benefits of it. She has hips again instead of being a sausage! This is good news.
MJ not only got the ultrasound pic (finally), but also the week 24 baby bump email that *I* sent! It was so sweet to talk to her on the phone and hear her gush about her grandbaby — “Look at her nose! And her lips! And that little space between her nose and lips!” I was like yeah, I know, we made a beautiful baby already, and that’s even with her being all covered with gross body goop right now.
We still dislike our apartment. We don’t have a shelf in our closet, although when I went down to the landlady’s office the other day to pick up a repair request sheet (for that, our missing towel bar, and the squealing that has suddenly started in the pipes whenever you turn hot water on in the shower), she said, “Oh, haha, you don’t need to submit anything about the shelf for your closet, it’s actually sitting in a room downstairs.” Oh, really? “Yeah, it was kind of funny, when the repair guy came in the other day he asked me why that shelf was still sitting there after a month. I just forget, I’m so busy.” GOSH DARN, THAT IS SO CUTE AND FUNNY, I DON’T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO SAY.
In other apartment-related news, they’re repaving the parking garage (thanks for the 12 hour notice on that btw) and the work should be finished by mid-December, so a ton of people have to park on the street. Everyone who did, though, was ticketed by the city for it two nights in a row — including Chris. That’s cute, to make people park somewhere that you haven’t even gotten a permit for. Fortunately the management group is covering all tickets and they’ve now gotten permission from the city for people to park on the street, but seriously? What the fuck, couldn’t you have done that beforehand? I’m not the only annoyed resident in the building; on one of the notices about the work posted on the stairwell door right next to the landlady’s unit, a tenant has scrawled, “ARE YOU FUCKIN’ KIDDIN ME? WHO POURS CONCRETE IN DECEMBER?” I wanna give him a Tootsie Pop or something.
Week 25 & I’m feeling okay, although pretty often I poke at my belly and think it’s more fat than baby (which I’m pretty sure is just female neuroses). Oh, and the fact that I have really bad gas like all the time is pretty mortifying. Blaming it on the dogs isn’t working anymore, either. OH LITTLE GIRL OF MINE, your sense of humour is frightening already!
Apartment Living at its “Finest”
Published October 8, 2008 | Yesterday, Chris and I both realized that, if we had been able to “test drive” this apartment before moving in, we would not have chosen to live here.
Let me preface this by saying that our neighbourhood is gorgeous and I LOVE this city, so we’d try to stay in the area, but this particular building under this particular management? No thanks.
To begin, we first viewed this apartment in July. The walls needed to be repainted and the floors refinished, in some places replaced completely, since the tenant who had just vacated had been here for 30 years. This was fine by us, and I wrote down a little list of everything that I noted as “wrong” — missing screens in all the windows, a loose door on the medicine cabinet, rough patches/missing bits of wood for the floor, no towel bar, no shelves in the coat closet although supports were fastened to the wall for them, a massive crack in the wall under the air conditioning unit installed in the bedroom, and an uneven burner on the stovetop. When we came to check out the apartment again at the beginning of August, to sign our rental agreement to move in on September 1st, we dropped by the apartment to check out the work. The walls had been refinished but nothing else, so I gave the landlady a copy of my “to do” list. She laughed it all off, saying “Wow, you sure expect a lot”, at which I smiled and said, “Yes, we do.”
I had a midwife appointment nearby on August 28th, so we packed a few things from our old apartment into the car and went furniture shopping as well, with the intent of dropping these items off at the apartment after the appointment. To our utter surprise, we were not allowed into the apartment; the floors were being repaired & refinished that very day and therefore we couldn’t leave anything there. This is two days before we had our moving truck scheduled, so we were fairly pissed, but the landlady apologetically offered us space in her office to store some of our items until we moved in.
August 30th rolls around, we end up paying our movers somewhere around $700, and I’ve still got no screens, missing shelves, and no towel bar. Oh, and to top it all off, the entire place reeks so badly of polyeurethane that we have to keep all our windows open — letting in bugs — to get some fresh air. Having to breathe these fumes makes me feel quite indignant. Still, we shrug it off, order pizza, and, since it’s a holiday weekend, decide to call the landlady on Tuesday to work out getting these issues addressed.
By Tuesday, we’ve discovered that the clock on the stovetop doesn’t work, the water in the shower doesn’t get very hot, and several of the cabinets and doors “stick” when you try to open or close them. Every morning begins with one of us slamming our shoulder against the bedroom door to open it. We discover that the floodlight in the back of the building where the dogs go to do their duty at night turns on and off based on some unknown rhythm, but it’s definitely not based on motion or sound detection. We’ve also realized that we never received a laundry card, can’t be dialed from the front lobby (sorry about that, pizza dude), and don’t know how to open the lobby door from our phone anyhow (sorry again, pizza dude).
Oh, and wonderfully, we discover that once in awhile when we turn on a stovetop burner, the timer will start going off and will not stop until it feels like stopping — no amount of banging buttons or swearing will help this.
Still, I love that we’ve got two bedrooms, a beautiful view, and all of the ‘problems’ are small. I mean, they can all be fixed. We gave our landlady a list, after all, and while she’s certainly more scatter-brained than anyone in her position ought to be, she’s pretty nice and we’re generally patient people. We’re going to bring our baby home to this place! It’s already got that going for it!
Let’s fast-forward to last Monday, September 29th. We still don’t have a towel bar and we’re still missing a shelf in the coat closet. The door on the medicine cabinet is still loose, but I’ve been told this is because it’s so old that no one manufactures the track for it anymore and there’s nothing that can be done (to which I replied, “Then it needs to be re-glued” although that has yet to happen). Oh, and the thing with the fucking stove timer going off randomly while the stove is in use is still happening, although it’s getting to the point where it happens so frequently that cooking is a prolonged series of gritting my teeth against the cacophony interspersed with all-too-brief moments where I can just enjoy the sound of my food preparation.
There’s a knock on the door. It’s our landlady and a handyman; they want in to check out our sink, because there’s a leak in a nearby apartment and it might have an adverse effect on our plumbing. I’m cooking chicken soup at this point and I’m a little bit annoyed that they want to come in without notice since my kitchen is, appropriately for the amount of chopping and deboning I’ve been doing, a mess. But again, I’m thrilled that they are being proactive and looking to fix a problem before it gets out of hand. Our landlady is playing with the dogs and delighting in how absolutely adorable they are while the handyman grumbles at Chris about not emptying out the sink and the cabinet below it for him (what the fuck dude? We didn’t even know you were showing up).
Then the stove starts to squeal.
The landlady looks up. “What’s that?”
“That’s our stove. Remember I told you it was making that buzzing sound?” I ask.
“Oh, yeah, you did mention that. Wow, that’s annoying.”
Really? REALLY? BECAUSE IT’S MUSIC TO MY FUCKING EARS. “Can you fix it?”
“Uhhhh… aren’t you cooking?”
“Yes, but I can make room.”
“Have you tried hitting the ‘timer off’ button?”
Chris is in the kitchen emptying out the sink, but I hear his snort of laughter. I answer, “Yes, it doesn’t seem to do anything.”
Clearly this is an invitation for her to go in there and smack the buttons. After a few unfruitful seconds of this, she says, “Hmm. Okay, I’ll call a repairman.”
The second she dials the repairman (which begs the question — who is this dude under my sink?), the buzzing stops. She smiles. I force a smile in return. She converses with someone briefly, announces, “Okay, we’ll unplug it,” and closes her phone. “He says if you just unplug the stove for five minutes, it will stop the buzzing.”
She means permanently — I think — like I’m rebooting my computer, except it’s my stove. I open my mouth to speak, and Chris interjects with, “Okay, we’ll do that when dinner is done.”
The landlady then launches into a paean of praise about how often she walks by our apartment (she lives next door) and it smells amazing, because I’m cooking all the time. I’m appropriately flattered, feeling superior as well when she talks about how she just orders food all the time or has sandwiches, and the stove’s no longer buzzing at us, so I’m happy.
Until they leave, and the stove starts to scream again. Later that night, Chris pulls the stove away from the wall, unplugs it for five minutes, plugs it back in, and the problem seems to be solved.
But oh no, the evil stove monster will not be placated so easily. Late in the evening three days later, Thursday, it begins squealing when it is not in use. It squeals up until the second Chris unplugs it from the wall (and this is a night when his back was hurting him badly), then squeals the second he plugs it back in. I decide that I am going to knock on my landlady’s door and demand that this be fixed NOW. At ten PM. But there’s a note on her door saying she’s off-duty, with a phone number to call for help, so I call that number.
She answers. It turns out that she’s actually on call, but doesn’t want people knocking on her door. Okay. Whatever. “DO YOU HEAR THAT SOUND IN THE BACKGROUND,” I say, loudly, as I stand in my kitchen.
“Oh yeah, kinda.”
“THAT IS MY STOVE AND IT NEEDS TO BE FIXED.”
“Oh yeah, that. Did you try unplugging it?”
“YES, CHRIS MOVED IT HIMSELF AND IT IS NOT MAKING A DIFFERENCE. IT IS SQUEALING EVEN WHEN WE DO NOT HAVE IT TURNED ON.”
“Okay, it’s too late for me to get a repair guy out here unless it’s an emergency, so just unplug it for the night and I’ll call someone in the morning. I’m really sorry about this.”
“OKAY!”
Chris unplugs the oven and pushes it back into place.
I call my landlady the next morning, Friday, at 9am. This is the earliest that I could make myself get out of bed. She answers the phone with, “I called repairs.”
“Great! When can I expect someone?”
“Well, they’re short a man right now, so they might be able to get there this afternoon. If not, it won’t be until Monday.”
It takes all of my willpower not to throw the phone across the room. “We reported this to you last Monday. Why is it taking so long?”
“I didn’t put in the request until this morning.”
Apparently, the unplug it instruction that we received was the end-all-be-all of repair miracles. I mean, that’s really ingenious, to unplug something electrical to make it work correctly.”Okay,” I reply, very calmly; it is clear to me that she has no capability to fix this herself. “Thanks.” I hang up without waiting for a response.
As I’m sure you can guess, the repairman doesn’t show up on Friday. We spend the weekend without a stove — pizza one night, crockpot soup the next. Monday morning at 8:30am there’s a knock on our door with a repairman asking to be let in. Thank God that Chris was home and dressed, cause I was ass-naked in la-la land at the time. After ten minutes, the repairman announces, “All set!” and leaves.
The stove monster no longer shrieks at us.
Yesterday, Chris walked by the stove, stopped, and began to press buttons on the display. And then, with a resigned sigh: “The clock doesn’t work.”
We pay $1000 a month in rent.
I am beginning to hate this place.