Wishing both you and Drew restful sleep tonight.
And rest for Teppy and family.
Riley ,'Lessons'
[NAFDA] Spike-centric discussion. Lusty, lewd (only occasionally crude), risqué (and frisqué), bawdy (Oh, lawdy!), flirty ('cuz we're purty), raunchy talk inside. Caveat lector.
Wishing both you and Drew restful sleep tonight.
And rest for Teppy and family.
{{{{ Pix & ND }}}} Glad to hear the hiccups are gone. I had a similar problem when I was in hospital a few years back. Very frustrating.
-----------
O-A, you need to call the landlord and bitch about this. That's ridiculous.Yes, I did. I sent an e-mail with a detailed list of all that is still not quite upto snuff since moving in. Nothing for a month. So I printed out the e-mail and brought it when I paid rent this week. "Oh, that e-mail addy is no longer active". It's 'frontdesk@[company].com'. I said "it didn't bounce back as an inactive account. It's working, nobody is checking it". "[maintenance guy] is meeting with his boss right now, I will pass this along to them, and we will get on it." It's all bullshit. I just want my damn dishwasher fixed, and the flappers in the toilets to stop leaking. The other stuff on the list, whatever.
Sadly, I am far too old for her.
Is she underage?Oh good, ita is having the same thoughts I am.
omnis audis, might be worth investing in a Nolo book on CA renter's rights. Or check it out from the library if they have it.
It seems the repairs I need are all "minor", which is probably why they keep getting put on the back burner. Part of the problem is that a few weeks after I signed lease, the building changed property management companies. So the e-mail I sent when I first moved in was ignored by the old company. And then the whole "oops, we don't use that addy anymore" bullshit. So we shall see what happens this week.
Ha! And that "frontdesk@[company].com" addy is **STILL** on the website in the tenant page, the place to e-mail Maintenance Request Forms to! @@ If only I didn't like the apartment, this would be easier. But it's a cute place, and rather convenient.
Document all this stuff in case things get worse. It may seem dealable now but there may come a time when it isn't and you'll want to document bad faith dealings.
Oh yes! I took pictures of everything on the move in day.
{{{Kristin and Drew}}} Here's hoping you're kept better-informed from now on, and that you both get rest.
I'm sorry to hear about your uncle, Teppy.
Better treatment from landlord~ma, omnis. We had one like that a couple of years ago - so many problems that they wouldn't sort out, including a presumably-illegal oven that was overheating and setting things on fire. They finally caved on that one about a year after we first complained, but lots of other things were permanently ignored. Bad landlords are awful. Wishing you repairs!
I'm going to Quaker meeting, or I'll do nothing all day but obsess over the article I'm trying to write. And that's not actually work.
{{Drew}} {{Pix}}
I'm so sorry about your uncle, Teppy.
I just want my damn dishwasher fixed, and the flappers in the toilets to stop leaking.
Can you hire a contractor and pay for the work yourself, and send in the bill along with your next month's rent minus the cost of repairs?
This is actually one of the things I *like* about owning my house. I'm responsible for repairs, but the shit gets done when I want it done. (Once I found a good handyman. The first one was ridiculous.)
Oh, ugh. I'm so sorry it has been such a wretched evening. Drew and Kristin, I'm so glad that the hiccups are gone; there was no hysteria in evidence, not even a bit; and I'm so glad you have each other and all the rest of the LAistas. And I'm vibing for maximum wisdom and competence for all the doctors caring for Drew.
And, Teppy, your poor uncle, your poor family. Much love to all of you.
I'm up with insomnia, puttering around (leaving from here to dwell in the land of Sudoku, the perfect can't sleep combination of thinky and totally abstract -- crosswords are bad, because words lead to stories and imaginary conversations and fretful what-ifs; numbers lead to more numbers).
The medical folk next door just got back from a late shift and now they're out on the porch drinking and discussing their folks and playing mix tapes of what sounds like old WPA interviews with Depression-era elderly men (or possibly Tom Waits) interspersed with Joni Mitchell and a younger generation of little girls with big guitars. It's oddly soothing.