After a wonderful day of rejection and scary pool houses, we nursed our wounds by drinking margaritas at dinner. The California cost of our meal was about $15 more than our typical El Mezcal dining experience, as if we really needed further proof that we weren’t in Kansas anymore. We get it, ok?
Tuesday (or Monday, as Alan insists)
Our second day in the area proved less eventful. We continued waiting for our cell phones to ring, and calling, calling, calling and leaving message after message. I’m actually looking forward to the West Coast lifestyle, because not only is the weather beautiful, but it appears that no one goes to work, or answers the phone, until at least 10:30 a.m. As much fun as it is to drive around waiting for phone calls, it gets even better when they start calling back. “What do you have available? How much is it? Do you take pets? Ok, thanks.”
It’s amusing really, how much the pet question bothers the landlord set. You’d think I asked, “Do you rent to serial arsonists?” or something similarly ominous. Often we’d get the response, “We take service animals…” as if they were being extremely generous by complying with what is undoubtedly California law.
We finally get to see a 2BR, “pet friendly” joint that goes for a costly $1750 a month. All hardwood floors, no dishwasher, no washer dryer, for $1750. Ouch. But it was in the perfect location so it was worth considering. We take an application as we depart.
We head across town to see an affordable 1BR. We’re a little unsure of the address, so we drive, then walk to find it. We were told to go to #24 and let ourselves in to see the apartment. We end up at what we think is the correct complex and look for #24. No note on the door, the door isn’t ajar, basically no indication that we can just walk right in. We stand there a minute, trying to decide what to do. As we’re debating possibly breaking into someone’s apartment, a guy comes out onto the lawn with a turtle. His pet turtle. Alan and I leave, off to make sure we’re at the right place. After a drive around to find the address and a bathroom break at Starbucks, we head back to the original correct #24. The turtle guy still outside. I, laughing at our silliness for being afraid to go up to the apartment, joked to Alan that the guy was going to think we were crazy for coming around again. Alan just looks at me and goes, “He’s walking his turtle.” True.
So #24 is, of course, a slight heap, but huge. Unfortunately it reminds both of us of an apartment Alan lived in, which had white brick walls. I just don’t do brick. It lends more of a jail-cell vibe than a home-sweet-home vibe, and I just can’t put myself in prison.
Our trip at an end, we head to the airport. Get through security. Sit down for a drink at the bar. My phone rings and it’s United Airlines telling me via automation that our flight from Denver to Kansas City has been canceled. Great, we think, but just get us to Denver and we’ll stay the night. Luckily, I went up to speak to an agent, who informed us that because so many flights were canceled on the East Coast, Denver’s hotels were likely booked. So we got another day in California. Rebooked on a new flight, and got to check out San Jose’s Chinese restaurant scene. Funny, too, because the night before we’d called United to see if we could change our flight to have additional time to apartment shop, and it would have cost us $230. And now we get an extra night thanks to the weather.
The next morning we’re booked to leave at 7:30 a.m. Get to the airport, through security, just to find out our flight is delayed. Then we sit on the runway for a good hour or two—I’m not sure how long because I slept much of the time. We finally head for Denver and are sure that we’re going to miss our connection. We get off the plane and run to look at the screen, and lo and behold, something has gone our way! Our connection is also delayed, so we have just enough time to grab a bite to eat and hop the plane…just in time, of course, to get on the plane and sit for another couple of hours on the tarmac while we’re having mechanical difficulties and changing the entire flight crew. Needless to say we were extremely happy to see Kansas City soil and head to Topeka to get our little pug girl, whom no one in California was welcoming to the state with open arms.
I get back to work and to my email to find out that all of my networking at The Rental Show the previous week had paid off. It was the stuff that only dreams are made of: An email from the editor of a KC-based magazine (equipment of course) telling me the publication was looking for an online editor who could also help out with print. Working from home was fine because their staff all worked from home. It was too good to be true; I had to pinch myself. Coincidentally I had already made an appointment to speak with the publisher for my final RER article, and he informed me that he thought they’d filled the position already. I had to work very hard to keep calm. The editor finally wrote me back the next day saying that they had indeed filled the position. As disappointed as I was, I was able to add another person to my list of “may one day contact me for freelance work” contacts.
If you think that’s all the disappointment a two-person, one-pug family could take in a week, you are wrong. We decided to go ahead and apply for the 2BR, $1750 apartment. We reasoned that I wouldn’t be jobless forever, and after doing the math figured that even if I went months without getting a job, we’d be fine with our savings. So I sent off our application. The next day, however, I get this email:
Hi Erin. I did receive your application yesterday. Thank you. We have decided to rent to another applicant who was willing to start immediately and did not have a dog.
DID NOT HAVE A DOG?? Not “you’re obviously too poor to afford this.” Not “You said that you could start paying immediately even if you couldn’t move in for another month and we want actual people IN the apartment, not just paying for the apartment.” The lady was rubbing it in. She could have just left off the dog portion of the sentence, but she wanted to let us know that that had played a part in our application rejection. So now, not only do we still have to FIND an apartment, which is hard enough, but we have to apply for the apartment and then risk getting rejected because of a dog they said they would allow! Oh the humanity!
But somehow, I’m not worried. I figure something has to come through for us. Our luck has to change. When you hit rock bottom there is nowhere to go but up. So, I don’t think we’ll be homeless. And if we are, well, I guess it’ll just be more fodder for this blogger.
Tuesday, February 27, 2007
Wednesday, February 21, 2007
And I thought 715 Michigan was bad
You know when you have a bad day and it starts out with bonking your head on the bathroom cabinet, then dropping your comb in the toilet, then chasing the dog because she’s eating tampons she got out of your purse? We’ve all had those days and they always seem to escalate. It’s never one thing that goes wrong, it’s a hundred, and you want to just crawl back into bed for the entire day. That feeling sums up my entire week last week. Let’s start with Sunday.
Sunday
Alan and I were super excited to get out to California and make our dreams of finding an apartment a reality. I was especially excited. I wanted to be able to envision the actual living space we would have out there, and I also wanted to be able to stop obsessively checking craigslist every 10 minutes. We’re on the plane with the Colorado basketball team, recovering from their lost to K-State, and Alan jokes that if our plane goes down at least it’ll get made into a movie. So we’re speeding down the runway and right at the point when the plane should leave the ground, we instead slow down and come to a stop. Lovely. Cabin pressure light on, 10-minute delay, and we’re off again. Phew!
We land in Denver uneventfully and switch planes. All goes well until we’re about 30 minutes from San Jose. A man gets escorted to the empty emergency exit row. Several flight attendants attend to him, and then there is the call for any paramedics and doctors on board. Uh oh. So a nurse and another guy, probably a pharmaceutical salesman, go up to assist the man. Pain in his chest and down his arm, so we’re pretty sure this man is having a heart attack. We land, finally, and the paramedics meet us on the plane.
Grab our car and off we go, starving, to In-N-Out Burger. Yay! I was told by a discriminating food connoisseur that the Neapolitan shake was awesome, so I ordered one up. I promise that anyone who comes to visit us in Cali will get a Neapolitan shake on me! It was delish. We start driving around, scouting neighborhoods and writing down phone numbers we see on For Rent signs.
Monday
We’re up and at ’em bright and early, calling numbers and making appointments. Our first appointment is at noon, a few miles away in Redwood City. A bit far for Alan to ride a bike, but doable as a backup option. The place is nice, pet friendly, remodeled, and an affordable $1,400. We’re also pretty sure that the manager, with her long flowing hair and perfectly applied makeup, is really a man. But hey, we live in Lawrence, so we’ve seen stranger things.
Our next appointment is a $1,395 1BR. Its location is perfect with a capital P, the property management company is pet friendly, and the apartment is nice. Small, but liveable, especially for the price. We’re about to fill out the forms then and there, when my mouth opens and I say, “You accept pets, right?” Of course, this happens to be one of the two properties the company has that doesn’t accept dogs. Cats are fine, but dogs are out of the question. But, the man says, if I can convince Louise that I have a deaf and mute dog, it’s up to her. I try, but Louise refuses to budge. Alan and I walk away, me in tears. It was a crushing blow. We would have been done with the search had it not been for the anti-dog sentiment. It was a hard way to learn that the first question to ask is the pet question.
We had hit a low point, but if we thought things could only get better, we were wrong, with a capital WR. We had a 3 o’clock appointment to look at a 1BR “cottage” in a “garden setting” with a “pool.” I was told to go to the “main green door.” So I’m thinking, oh, cute! This will be a quaint little guest house and I’ll be able to swim laps on Saturday mornings and become great friends with the people at the “main house” and they’ll hire me to work on the successful magazine they probably own, or decide that they just can’t charge us the $1,600 rent because they like us so much. This naïve little Kansas girl apparently has a lot to learn.
We show up at the house, and it’s huge. How bad could this be, I wondered. We knock on the colorblind lady’s teal door, and we’re greeted by a Mexican fellow who sends us to wait in the living room. We hear a vicious growling and shrug it off. We’re greeted several minutes later by an older woman who looks as though she might be high. She introduces us to Julian, her huge, mangy standard poodle, who is staring at us through the window like he wants to attack. She tells us that Julian wouldn’t hurt a fly, but if he likes you he’ll gnaw on your hand. Oh, that sounds fun. Apparently, Julian also has to get along with potential doggie residents, and we assure her that our sweet little Martikins is as submissive as they come, meanwhile thinking that no way on earth would we let our little pug near evil Julian. But we carry on, as we have no other options and nothing better to do.
We go outside, into the backyard. It has rained a bit, so everything’s a little mushy, and there are leaves everywhere because “the gardener has gone back to Mexico for a few months.” She points out a small shack on this ½ acre (maybe) property, which is no bigger than a garden shed*.
An engineer lives there apparently. Someone else lives in another building, some mad scientist who doesn’t care that he’s living in squalor probably. She takes us through a gate to the pool house. The “pool house” is slightly larger than the shed, maybe about 500 square feet. The front is all glass and the floor is dirty red tile. And I say “dirty” in the “unclean” sense. The occupant hasn’t moved out yet, so everything is just filthy. The kitchen to our left is open to the room and has about 2 square feet of counter space, and the appliance (stove) is gross. I say singular “appliance” because I’m not even sure there was a refrigerator. The living room/dining area is tiny, and we’re told that if we want to do anything illegal we should buy window coverings. The “bedroom” is off to the left, no hall, just directly off the “living area” and could maybe fit a twin bed. No closet, just a room. The bathroom has a stall shower, toilet and single sink, no storage except for a small closet. And, to add to the comfy, homey feel of the “house,” the light in the bathroom gives off a menacing red glow. We’re being polite, even if our jaws are hanging to the ground. We go outside, and Alan asks about laundry facilities, as if we’re genuinely considering this place as an option. She points to a “dome” next to the engineer’s shed. Outside, on the grass, under a small hood, are the washer and dryer. I turn to sprint to the car. Alan follows behind Crazy, while Julian barks and blocks the way for both of them. We get to the car without saying a word, and when the door shuts we both shudder. Even Alan was frightened. It felt like a creepy scene from a horror movie, just before something terrifying happens.
To be continued...
*Example of shed for size.
Sunday
Alan and I were super excited to get out to California and make our dreams of finding an apartment a reality. I was especially excited. I wanted to be able to envision the actual living space we would have out there, and I also wanted to be able to stop obsessively checking craigslist every 10 minutes. We’re on the plane with the Colorado basketball team, recovering from their lost to K-State, and Alan jokes that if our plane goes down at least it’ll get made into a movie. So we’re speeding down the runway and right at the point when the plane should leave the ground, we instead slow down and come to a stop. Lovely. Cabin pressure light on, 10-minute delay, and we’re off again. Phew!
We land in Denver uneventfully and switch planes. All goes well until we’re about 30 minutes from San Jose. A man gets escorted to the empty emergency exit row. Several flight attendants attend to him, and then there is the call for any paramedics and doctors on board. Uh oh. So a nurse and another guy, probably a pharmaceutical salesman, go up to assist the man. Pain in his chest and down his arm, so we’re pretty sure this man is having a heart attack. We land, finally, and the paramedics meet us on the plane.
Grab our car and off we go, starving, to In-N-Out Burger. Yay! I was told by a discriminating food connoisseur that the Neapolitan shake was awesome, so I ordered one up. I promise that anyone who comes to visit us in Cali will get a Neapolitan shake on me! It was delish. We start driving around, scouting neighborhoods and writing down phone numbers we see on For Rent signs.
Monday
We’re up and at ’em bright and early, calling numbers and making appointments. Our first appointment is at noon, a few miles away in Redwood City. A bit far for Alan to ride a bike, but doable as a backup option. The place is nice, pet friendly, remodeled, and an affordable $1,400. We’re also pretty sure that the manager, with her long flowing hair and perfectly applied makeup, is really a man. But hey, we live in Lawrence, so we’ve seen stranger things.
Our next appointment is a $1,395 1BR. Its location is perfect with a capital P, the property management company is pet friendly, and the apartment is nice. Small, but liveable, especially for the price. We’re about to fill out the forms then and there, when my mouth opens and I say, “You accept pets, right?” Of course, this happens to be one of the two properties the company has that doesn’t accept dogs. Cats are fine, but dogs are out of the question. But, the man says, if I can convince Louise that I have a deaf and mute dog, it’s up to her. I try, but Louise refuses to budge. Alan and I walk away, me in tears. It was a crushing blow. We would have been done with the search had it not been for the anti-dog sentiment. It was a hard way to learn that the first question to ask is the pet question.
We had hit a low point, but if we thought things could only get better, we were wrong, with a capital WR. We had a 3 o’clock appointment to look at a 1BR “cottage” in a “garden setting” with a “pool.” I was told to go to the “main green door.” So I’m thinking, oh, cute! This will be a quaint little guest house and I’ll be able to swim laps on Saturday mornings and become great friends with the people at the “main house” and they’ll hire me to work on the successful magazine they probably own, or decide that they just can’t charge us the $1,600 rent because they like us so much. This naïve little Kansas girl apparently has a lot to learn.
We show up at the house, and it’s huge. How bad could this be, I wondered. We knock on the colorblind lady’s teal door, and we’re greeted by a Mexican fellow who sends us to wait in the living room. We hear a vicious growling and shrug it off. We’re greeted several minutes later by an older woman who looks as though she might be high. She introduces us to Julian, her huge, mangy standard poodle, who is staring at us through the window like he wants to attack. She tells us that Julian wouldn’t hurt a fly, but if he likes you he’ll gnaw on your hand. Oh, that sounds fun. Apparently, Julian also has to get along with potential doggie residents, and we assure her that our sweet little Martikins is as submissive as they come, meanwhile thinking that no way on earth would we let our little pug near evil Julian. But we carry on, as we have no other options and nothing better to do.
We go outside, into the backyard. It has rained a bit, so everything’s a little mushy, and there are leaves everywhere because “the gardener has gone back to Mexico for a few months.” She points out a small shack on this ½ acre (maybe) property, which is no bigger than a garden shed*.
An engineer lives there apparently. Someone else lives in another building, some mad scientist who doesn’t care that he’s living in squalor probably. She takes us through a gate to the pool house. The “pool house” is slightly larger than the shed, maybe about 500 square feet. The front is all glass and the floor is dirty red tile. And I say “dirty” in the “unclean” sense. The occupant hasn’t moved out yet, so everything is just filthy. The kitchen to our left is open to the room and has about 2 square feet of counter space, and the appliance (stove) is gross. I say singular “appliance” because I’m not even sure there was a refrigerator. The living room/dining area is tiny, and we’re told that if we want to do anything illegal we should buy window coverings. The “bedroom” is off to the left, no hall, just directly off the “living area” and could maybe fit a twin bed. No closet, just a room. The bathroom has a stall shower, toilet and single sink, no storage except for a small closet. And, to add to the comfy, homey feel of the “house,” the light in the bathroom gives off a menacing red glow. We’re being polite, even if our jaws are hanging to the ground. We go outside, and Alan asks about laundry facilities, as if we’re genuinely considering this place as an option. She points to a “dome” next to the engineer’s shed. Outside, on the grass, under a small hood, are the washer and dryer. I turn to sprint to the car. Alan follows behind Crazy, while Julian barks and blocks the way for both of them. We get to the car without saying a word, and when the door shuts we both shudder. Even Alan was frightened. It felt like a creepy scene from a horror movie, just before something terrifying happens.To be continued...
*Example of shed for size.
Tuesday, February 6, 2007
Unnecessary Politeness
With all of the bad in the world—hurricanes, tsunamis, wars, terrorists, poverty, disease—I am still able to put time aside to complain about something that is allegedly good. Politeness. I’m of the opinion that people need to be nicer to each other in general. Common courtesy is not common enough, and even people who are getting paid to be nice to you sometimes aren’t. But there is a line, a politeness line, and it can be crossed. It is possible to have too much of a good thing. Three examples.
Example 1.
You’re crossing a street on foot. You’re on the KU campus, or downtown Lawrence, where cars are driving fairly slowly. You’re able to gauge how fast the traffic is going, and you’re timing it so you’re going to cross the street behind the next car. You step out into the street, and the car stops to let you cross. Nice, right? No: unnecessary. You weren’t trying to make the car stop. You also weren’t stupid enough to jump out in front of the moving car and get hit. Now the car has stopped unnecessarily, you have to cross, and it interrupted the whole flow.
Example 2.
You’re walking into the movie theater or into work. Someone else is entering in front of you, but you’re about 20 paces behind him or her. He thinks he is being super nice holding the door for you. So he does the long-door-hold, watching you walk toward him for an awkward 20 paces, while you feel like you need to hurry up and get inside so that he isn’t inconvenienced by holding the door too long. You wouldn’t have been offended if he hadn’t held the door; you would have been relieved to not have to sprint through the parking lot to fulfill someone else’s polite quota for the day.
Example 3.
You’re getting your morning coffee. Another morning coffee drinker walks up needing his morning fix. While there is plenty of room for him to grab a cup of coffee and go about his business next to you, he stands 5 feet back and away from you. This causes you to feel like you have to hurry because you’re the only thing standing in between him and his fix. You hurriedly add your sugar and cream and get out of his way, while he smiles awkwardly and politely at you the whole time.
So you see, there are instances where it’s just not necessary to be chivalrous. Instances where it’s weird to be polite. Be polite, dear blog readers, but make it count. Help fellow man out, but don’t get on his nerves by letting him go first at a 4-way stop when it’s clear that you got there a good 30 seconds before he did.
Example 1.
You’re crossing a street on foot. You’re on the KU campus, or downtown Lawrence, where cars are driving fairly slowly. You’re able to gauge how fast the traffic is going, and you’re timing it so you’re going to cross the street behind the next car. You step out into the street, and the car stops to let you cross. Nice, right? No: unnecessary. You weren’t trying to make the car stop. You also weren’t stupid enough to jump out in front of the moving car and get hit. Now the car has stopped unnecessarily, you have to cross, and it interrupted the whole flow.
Example 2.
You’re walking into the movie theater or into work. Someone else is entering in front of you, but you’re about 20 paces behind him or her. He thinks he is being super nice holding the door for you. So he does the long-door-hold, watching you walk toward him for an awkward 20 paces, while you feel like you need to hurry up and get inside so that he isn’t inconvenienced by holding the door too long. You wouldn’t have been offended if he hadn’t held the door; you would have been relieved to not have to sprint through the parking lot to fulfill someone else’s polite quota for the day.
Example 3.
You’re getting your morning coffee. Another morning coffee drinker walks up needing his morning fix. While there is plenty of room for him to grab a cup of coffee and go about his business next to you, he stands 5 feet back and away from you. This causes you to feel like you have to hurry because you’re the only thing standing in between him and his fix. You hurriedly add your sugar and cream and get out of his way, while he smiles awkwardly and politely at you the whole time.
So you see, there are instances where it’s just not necessary to be chivalrous. Instances where it’s weird to be polite. Be polite, dear blog readers, but make it count. Help fellow man out, but don’t get on his nerves by letting him go first at a 4-way stop when it’s clear that you got there a good 30 seconds before he did.
Friday, February 2, 2007
Cutest. Panda. Ever.
I should have been a zookeeper or vet or at least an editor on an animal-related magazine. I've blogged about manatees, cows, Marti, now pandas. Not just any panda though, Mei Lan, Atlanta's newest baby panda.
After reading an article on CNN, I came across the panda cam. Be careful, if you like cute little baby animals, you may get addicted. It is live, real-time action of the panda's daily life. This includes long naps, playing with leaves, wiggling in the doorway, stumbling about, nursing with mom and occasional hand stands. It is the cutest thing ever and I pull it up now and again when I have a minute or two at work. It's available weekdays, so try it. You won't be disappointed, even if she's just napping. And if you don't see anything, just try later because the camera man takes breaks now and then. Maybe I can get a job controlling a panda cam in California; I would never take breaks!
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