Thank You for Specific Standard Time
I live in an exceptionally well maintained building.
My apartment managers and the maintenance department are really good at what they do and they are really frequent in doing it.
I get a lot of benefit from their frequent 48 hour notices to enter.
I get a brand new water heater, new batteries in my smoke detector, pest prevention, maintenance and repair inspections, quality control of my environment, code maintenance of every law that was ever written in regard to landlord-tenant rights…
And a whole lot of company at undetermined times within the day of notice.
You know, kinda like the cable guy that tells you We’ll be there sometime within a 12 hour period so just sit on the edge of your toilette seat and wait for us to knock on the door.
The 48 hour notice is a bit vague for me. I got control issues, ya know.
I like specifics in regard to the very second someone may walk through my door and catch me in a compromised position, speaking with the KGB or naked, standing on a chair, changing a light bulb or entertaining guests from the local circus.
There’s nothing more embarrassing than to be caught on a trapeze in a small apartment with two clowns hanging from your teeth and an elephant on your desk with an open umbrella.
Just so you know, I adore the folks who manage and take care of my building.
They are thoughtful, kind people and treat their tenants with respect and, in some cases, more patience than most baby sitters would offer unruly children waving leases like swords and throwing around whiney complaints like confetti.
The main management contact is a young woman with super hero patience and the fortitude of a rock wrapped in a calm demeanor.
She spends a lot of time nodding and smiling at frequent interruptions to her overwhelming workload by folks who claim emergency status for such random statements and questions as;
“Am I allowed to burn candles in my clothes closet?”
“The dog(s) ate my rent money—Oh, I’m not allowed to have three Rottwiellers in my studio apartment? Can I keep the Saint Bernard? No? How ‘bout the Yorkie? Oh never mind…Uh Oh. Hey, have you seen my Yorkie?”
“Wah Wah my neighbor peed in the laundry room!”
“Pardon me, got a minute? I’d like to hold you, my apartment manager, hostage with my stories about how I came to be a serial whiner because my drunk mother never listened to me.”
“Is it all right for me to sublet my apartment to 23 Vietnamese immigrants? They’ll only be here while I’m away at Re-Hab.”
Yes, The apartment manager is truly a Saint.
She keeps smiling and nodding and actually responds to some of the absurdities tenants toss at her.
So, I do not want you to think I am in any way negating the efforts of the team who maintains my lovely abode, I’m just sayin’… What time will you be here? I’ll have coffee ready— and put some clothes on, and get rid of my company.