As much as I’m enjoying mine and Jen’s new apartment in the city, dealing with a private landlord (or property manager in our case) is a pain in the ass. Our place has all kinds of problems and we’re relying on one guy to fix them. The whole reason I brought Stella to work with me today and have made her hang out in the car all day (aside from frequent walks and a long walk at lunch) was because Al was supposed to come fix the heater.
I’ve been trying to reach him all day and finally got a hold of him. He never came. Why? He had his wisdom teeth removed today. Unless it was a sudden impacting incident over the weekend, wisdom tooth removal is a scheduled operation. I know because I’ve been through it. He apologized for not calling me sooner, but wait: He didn’t call me at all. I had to call him. Not only that, but he thinks my name is Dave — no matter how many times I said Gabe. I’ve had that problem my whole life (people thinking I say “Dave” instead of “Gabe”), but give me a break. I signed a lease with this guy! The least he can do is get my name right.
So then Al starts going on about how he’ll “try” to come tomorrow if he can. He just doesn’t get it: With dogs — including a big one who fiercely guards her house — people can’t just come on over and let themselves in. I have to know ahead of time; I have to plan. So I told him to come Wednesday when I’ll be working from home. Of course, I also know that it takes more than a couple days to recover from having wisdom teeth removed, so we’ll see if he actually shows up.
Grrr…another trade-off of living in the city.
