O.K., O.K. I know it’s been a long time and all, but I’m back. So let’s get caught up.
Last week, I finally moved. It was a Wednesday, I could only get one day off work, and it was one of the hottest days of the year.
So, basically it was not fun at all.
I arrived at the new apartment at 8:05am with key in hand, only to find that the place had somehow not been cleaned or painted before they had given me the keys. This pissed me off, because as you may remember from my earlier posts, the management company told me I couldn’t move in for several days so they could, “clean and paint” the place.
So I called them. They told me their contractor said it was “move-in ready”. I said, “he lied to you.” They said “What’s wrong with it.” I said,
“Well, the backsplashes behind the stove and sink in the kitchen are covered in grease and food splatters. If you run you r hands over the cabinets you will feel dust and dirt that clearly indicate that not so much as a cloth was taken to them to clean them, the walls are dirty and have not been painted, and the floors in the kitchen and bath are filthy. However, I’ve got movers coming, so I don’t know how you’re going to clean this place now, with all my stuff in the way. But I just wanted to let you know.”
A half hour later the “contractor” was there, giving me a look like I don’t see what the problem is. I pointed to the backsplash and cabinets that had remnants of food all over them. He called back to the place and said to send cleaners. Then he told me, they don’t really paint apartments just do touch-ups on the bad parts. So I said, “Fine, I’ll paint it myself.”
He says, “Well you shouldn’t have to do that. I’ll paint these cabinets for you.”
And he proceeded to go out to the truck and get some paint, and promptly started painting over the grease stains. So I said,
“Don’t you need to clean that first???”
He stopped, “Well, if it peels you call me.”
I’m not worried about peeling. I’m worried that that’s disgusting.
It just kept going from there, to the point where a week later, I’m starting to finally feel comfortable in the house, but am stressed that I’m going to lose another weekend to cleaning. (Yes, professional cleaners came, but it’s pretty hard to get at everything when the place is stacked to the ceiling with boxes. Ugghhh.)
Good times.
On a related note, after a week in Durham my cats have officially formed a gang and become embroiled in a turf war…
Alright, I’ll explain.
My new place is a duplex and my new neighbor has 3 cats. One is a very pretty medium-haired siamese, another is white with grey patches and the third (the ringleader) is a 30-pound orange tabby named Charlie.
Well, it seems for the past 2 years that they’ve lived there her cats have pretty much had the run of the place. They lounge all over the front porch, hang out in her drive-way and mysteriously appear on my kitchen doorstep as I head to work in the morning.
This is not a problem for me, since I love cats, but for Jack and Cleo…this is ALL OUT KITTY WAR.
Take this morning for example: I get up and start getting ready for work and as I take my first sip of coffee, I hear all hell breaking loose in the living room. There is hissing. There is screaming. There is crying. I thought one of the kitties had electrocuted themselves and was dying.
So I run as fast as I can to the living screaming, “Kitty, Kitty, What’s….going on???
And there’s Jack sitting in the window ledge venetian blinds parted like the red sea around his mid section, front paw drawn up by his face as he strikes at the window repeatedly.
On the other side of the window, 30 pound Charlie is sitting as close as he can get to the glass. He is not hissing. He is not upset. He is just staring inside at the kitties. Oh yeah…and his little nose is pressed against the glass like a peeping Tom.
It makes me wonder what kind of gangland activity goes on between my cats and the neighbors when I’m not home.
Anyhow, welcome to Durham.