Plumbing part II

If only the plumbing story ended there. It wouldn't be so bad, right? Well... no such luck. For a couple weeks I had been hearing a muffled dripping noise coming from the bathroom sink. This sink had always drained rather slowly, but over time there grew a definte link between the amount of water and the mysterious noise behind the sink. The odd thing was, when you opened up the cabinet, there was no visible evidence of drips or leaks. This particular bathroom vanity had been "designed" with a makeshift false wall under the cabinet set about 6 inches from the back board and the bathroom wall. This partition hid the pipes as well as the unfinished wall, plus, it prevented anyone from getting a good look at the underbelly of the sink and spotting any potential problems. So, as far as I could see--which wasn't very far--everything looked okay. I didn't think the management would really jump on the case of "maybe a possible leak" since it took them weeks to deal with a real, actual, definite, dripping-in-your-face leak. We let it go, and for a while nothing changed. Then one afternoon I walked into the bathroom and noticed that the floor was wet.

In a room the size of a closet, it's pretty easy to figure out where the stream of water is coming from, especially when you already have a hunch. Sure enough, the cabinet under the sink was brimming with gooey liquid, which had finally started to leak out of the corners and cracks in the cabinet. The particle board wall had initially been holding back (and hiding) the puddle of water until it's weak fibers were so saturated they gave out.

Another leak, another call to the apartment manager, another long wait for the workmen to show up. I have a suspicion that their untimeliness is all part of the plan. You have to wait so long for them to come and fix the problem that when they finally do you are so grateful you forgive the inconvenience they've put you through and the mess they leave behind. They wound up having to replace most of the piping under the sink and they left behind scraps of plaster and wood as well as a layer of grime over everything in the room. Part of me wanted to call the apartment manager and politely request that they send someone back to clean up the wreck they'd left after "fixing" the problem, but I knew in my soul that the effort expended in such a call would be entirely futile. So I got out the Clorox spray, sponge, mop, and roll of paper towels and scrubbed until it looked, well certainly not "like new," but decent.

In addition to the bathroom floor and an unlucky tub mat, there were some objects under the sink that were caught in the (third) leak of 2010. A scrub brush, plastic trashcan, and bottles of household cleaner faired pretty well, what did not was the large multipack of toliet paper recently purchased by my roommate and stored under the bathroom sink. The water had soaked up through the packaged stack of t.p. until all that was left dry was the very top layer of rolls (about 4 out of 24). We laid the wet ones out on the floor for a couple days, hoping they might dry and still be usable, but the only thing that happened was that they condensed into solid bricks of paper pulp and began to smell slightly mildewy. After several days of sitting like a little graveyard of toliet paper, the entire lot was unceremoniously dumped in the garbage. Despite the annoyance of the whole situation, I think I will always smile a little when I think of the evenly spaced lines of toliet paper set out of the floor, each one a slowly sinking, slowly graying sad, nameless tombstone.

Plumbing part I

Cleaning jobs I can do, but a plumber I am not. So while I was able to (slightly grudgingly I'll admit) handle the vacuuming, dusting, moping, debris-removal, and various other stages in the sanitation process, some of the apartment's initial problems were out of my depth. Like, for example, the kitchen sink. When you turned the sink on, water literally poured through a hole in the underside of the fixture straight into the cabinet underneath. After sponging out several inches of standing water from the cabinet and off the kitchen floor, a plastic trash can became a temporary drainage system. It wasn't a perfect set up by far, however, and because the falling water bounced off various pipes and the bottom of the sink basin, it was impossible to catch every drop of misplaced water.

The tub was half-heartedly cleaned of plaster shavings by one of the work men a day or so after we moved in, but as it turned out, the tub faucet leaked too and they needed to repair this before a new layer of finish could be placed on the tub. Both parts for sink and tub should be easy to procure, the apartment manager assured us; they would just have to send one of the maintenance guys around to a local supplier and then could get finished... or rather, started.

Of the two problems, the sink was definitely more pressing (after all, the tub leaked into the tub), so thankfully that was the issue they decided to fix in a semi-timely manner. A couple days later we had a working kitchen sink! (Amazing how much you appreciate the little things.) There are permanent stains in the cupboard under the kitchen counter from the dingy water, but months later no more leaks! (...in the kitchen)

Back to the tub. That one little, easy-to-find piece of plumbing took them weeks to come up with. (They switched their story about a week after the initial prognosis and started to tell us that due to the age of the building--and the ancient plumbing--the part they needed was going to take a special order.) Finally, more than a month after we moved in, the faucet stopped leaking and the workmen were back to do an (extremely shoddy) sealing job on the tub. The sealer went on roughly and started peeling almost right away. Six months later there are some very large cracks in the bottom, and a section or two have entirely pulled away from the tub's surface.

Day One Again

It's been such a long time, the details are fading into each other and what seemed like catastrophes at the time have settled into minor disasters. The string of conincidences that we encountered when we first moved in to the apartment were painful and entertaining. Despite the expansive time gap, these incidents definitely belong in the blog, so I'm going to try to remember and record some of the early episodes.


When I went to look at the apartment, the building manager told me it was nearly ready for a new tenant; they just needed about eight days to finish up a few things, like cleaning, polishing the wood floors, and re-sealing the tub.

My keys were supposed to be coming in the mail (which sounds a little sketchy and probably should have been the first warning sign). Three days before we were supposed to move in I was still keyless, and I was getting nervous because the weekend was coming up. So I called the leasing office. They assured me that the keys had been overnighted, and when I expressed my doubts they said that if for some reason they didn't come I could have someone from the leasing office let me into the apartment when I moved in on Monday. I pointed out that this wouldn't work since we had agreed I would move in on Sunday (and the management office would be closed). This began a secondary back-and-forth in which they tried to tell me the move-in date was Monday, and I maintained that it had always been Sunday.

We finally decided that yes, move-in was, in fact, Sunday. With the key situation still somewhat up in the air, I went home praying that the keys would arrive in time. Thankfully, they did. (Though, it can be added, they were post-marked after the day the leasing agent claimed to have mailed them, but whatever, they made it.)

Feeling like things were finally on the right track, I packed and brought an SUV of stuff up to DC on a chilly day at the end of February. As we entered the apartment it was quickly apparent that very little "work" had been done on the place and of what they had started nothing had been finished. The apprehension I had pushed resolutely out of my head came trickling back in, grinning impishly and humming a taunting tune.

The layer of dust and dirt that had accumulated after the apartment sat unoccupied for a year was still spread across floorboards and window sills. The tub was full of plaster shaving from where someone had started chipping off the old finish, but hadn't gotten around to cleaning and applying the new coat. The signs that everything was still a work in progress were accentuated by the sandwich someone had left in the fridge and the empty soda cans on the kitchen counter. As calmly as possible, I took stock of everything, pulled out my tiny vaccuum cleaner, and started to clean.

Noisy November

On the first of November, our heat was turned on. This seems pretty standard and I for one was quite happy to feel the old radiators slowly starting to warm the room. What I didn't remember from the couple of months when we needed them at the beginning of the year was what a racket they make. I've lived in a number of old buildings throughout my life (college dorms anyone?) and for the most part am very pro-radiator, but I can't remember ever having one that was so noisy! It's not just the gentle hissing of rising steam, these units bubble and swish and oddest of all make strange metallic clanging sounds. Seriously, I can't help but imagine little tiny workmen inside with hammers and wrenches banging on the walls of the pipes and listening appreciatively to the ringing echoes. One of the radiators occasionally spews spurts of (very) hot water out onto the floor (which is fortunately linoleum). Another has no adjustment knob, and the bracket where one should be has been painted into immobility. The cats watch these metal beasts cautiously, with huge eyes and muscles tensed to leap away the instant the monster comes to life.

I really dislike being cold; don't get me wrong, I love Christmas and snow and drinking hot chocolate on a crisp winter day, but when I'm in my apartment I want to be warm. So if I have to pick cold and quiet or warm and noisy... I'll just have to learn to live with the radiator gremlins.

(The good news; active radiators means the hot water is on. And there was much rejoicing!)

H2O Deficiency

So, not doing very well with this blogging thing. Erp.
But there is a new apartment story...

Two days ago I got back from work and was told by my roommate that something was wrong with the hot water (i.e. we didn't have any). And it wasn't just us, our whole building was completely lacking in any sort of H2O on the warm to hot side of the spectrum. Luckily the apartment manager had placed a helpful sign in the elevator (but nowhere else, so those of us who take the stairs were very well informed indeed). The sign said that management was already "aware" of the hot water issues (so don't contact them any more!) and that they were "working on it." I didn't have much faith in them from the beginning, but two days and two cold showers later I'm vacillating between utter hopelessness and utter annoyance.

A new sign has been posted, assuring us that they are doing everything they can but the valve of the main hot water line is cracked and they haven't been able to find a replacement piece locally so they've had to order one and it should be here soon and they'll get it installed right away and in the meantime they'll keep looking for another and by the way thank you residents for your understanding and patience. And based on the graffiti that now adorns several of the signs, I'm not the only one who's feeling a little bit annoyed. I mean, really, how long should they be able to keep giving us excuses? My over-priced rent is certainly supposed to include hot water, but what are the consequences for the management in a situation like this? The only thing tenants can do is get out of this mess as soon as their leases end, but most were probably planning on that before the hot water incident of October, so consequences? Zero. Life's not fair is it? (You see, I shall never be king, and you... shall never see the light of another day...)

Ahem.

Looking on the positive side. It could be worse; it could be February and there could be two feet of snow on the ground instead of being a rather pleasant, balmy October. It could be all of the water instead of just the hot that's out (this has happened before, but never for longer than about eight to ten hours). And I could be a far more confrontational, argumentative person. In spite of the tone of this grumpy post, I'm actually quite laid back, and I'm getting through this thinking about how in a couple months' time it will just be one more amusing item on the ever-lengthening list of apartment absurdities. Until next time.

Breaking and Entering... Without the Breaking

An entry that should have been posted several--scratch that--many--that's better--weeks ago. In the end of June to be exact. To be more exact would require some detailed study of a calendar, my work schedule from the last two months, and more spare brain cells than I happen to possess at the moment. So, in the end of June...

I was coming back from a weekend out of town. In the first two trips from the car to the apartment, things went as smoothly as they can when you are carrying three cats and an excessive amount of luggage up three flights of stairs (okay, so I probably opted for the sketchy elevator on the trip with the cats). The third trip was a little more eventful. On my way out of the apartment door, I patted my pocket to make sure I had my keys. Check. Then I headed down to the car to get the last bag or two out of the trunk. As I reached the outer door of the building, I pulled out my keys and experienced firsthand the feeling so often described in books and movies of a sinking stomach. The keys that came out in my hand were my car keys and only my car keys; the apartment keys were nowhere to be found. Of course, once I was faced with the undeniable fact that they were not in my pocket, I knew exactly where they must be: sitting on the table inside my apartment. Right next to my cell phone. Great.

Several panicked minutes later I ran into a girl I knew by sight though not by name who was outside walking her dogs. As it turned out, she lived just down the hall from me, and had a little bit of experience locking herself out of apartments. You see, in our building, if you lock yourself out of your apartment, you have to pay a $50 fee for someone to come let you in (which I gather is pretty standard). You also typically have to wait upwards of two hours for them to arrive. The present time was inconveniently about 10pm. Fortunately my fellow renter was able to offer me some advice on getting into the locked apartment: the doors in the building, you see, are all a little warped, a little loose, and a little bit less than 100% secure. I couldn't jimmy it open with the screw driver that happened to be in my car, but what could be done, I learned, was to pop the latch out of the strike plate by applying the correct amount of force. In other words, ram a large object (i.e. a person) into the door and with any luck it would "swing" open. And with the help of a large Swedish guest staying with my newly made acquaintance, that's exactly what it did.

The door burst open scattering the curious cats who had come to see what all the fuss outside was about, and the Swede rubbed his shoulder and remarked that it was his first experience breaking and entering. No visible damage to the door (I swear it closes and locks no differently than before) and no $50 fee later, I finally got unpacked and fed my poor hungry kitties a very late dinner. Even with the knowledge that it is indeed possible to reenter the apartment after leaving it without your keys, I am happy to report that since this eventful evening, I have never walked out the door without my keys in hand.

(N.B. I know that locking myself out of my apartment isn't really a reflection on the crummy state of the apartment complex, but the way everything worked out just makes it one more crazy story to add to the building's ample resume.)

P.S.

I'm sure things will continue to come up that will exasperate and amuse me during my stay here for the remainder of the lease. However, I only hope that they won't be so numerous that I will be so busy documenting them I won't have time to retrospectively record some of those early memories during the days that started it all.

So hopefully more posts soon, no chronological order of any sort promised.

Day One

Day one was actually many months ago. When we first moved into our new apartment (new meaning new to us, definitely not "new" in the denotative meaning of the word), the instant number of mishaps, inconveniences, and catastrophes provided a constant source of frustration... and amusement. As more and more problems arose we started to joke that this crazy living situation would be an excellent topic for a blog. Sadly we never got around to starting one, but that didn't mean new subject matter in any way ceased to appear. So finally, about four and a half months after what should have been the beginning, I will sit down to type this first entry. And what prompted this initiation, you might ask? Well.

Last night around 10pm I was recently returned from a weekend away from the apartment. After unpacking everything (including the cats) I had decided to make iced tea. Summer in DC without any AC equals a great need for cool beverages and lots of wind power. So yes there were a number of fans going at the time. But you'd think, wouldn't you?, that the electricity in a fairly good sized apartment building could handle running two overhead fans, three free standing fans, one table lamp, and a microwave all at the same time? Apparently not. It was the microwave that pushed it all over the brink. And as the water for the tea started to boil in its glass mason jar, the microwave let out a shuddering groan and I found myself squinting across the darkened room into the kitchen. The gurgling fridge fell strangely quiet and the fans slowly swiveled to a standstill (except--thank goodness!--the one plugged into the one outlet that still worked). That one outlet saved us from boiling in our beds at night, allowing us to hook up a string of surge protectors to keep the fans running. It also saved the food in the fridge through the reach of a tightly stretched extension cord (in 90 degree heat nothing would have looked (or tasted... or smelled) very pretty 18 hours later).

The kicker to the whole power outage story is that there weren't even any computers plugged in at the time (usually there are multiple laptops). And the tv, though admittedly plugged in, wasn't on. In fact, literally the only thing I left out of the above list of electrical demands was a small digital alarm clock. I foresee that the motto of this blog will often sound something like this: "Don't elect to live in a circa 1920s apartment; it won't be vintage, it won't be historic, it will just be old (and easily broken)."

To top it all off (in case you think I'm being unfair to the poor, elderly museum-of-an-apartment-building) it was impossible to contact the "Emergency" maintenance number for the after hours staff because the mailbox was full. Yeah that's right, full. ("So sorry, we're all full up on emergencies today, we're afraid yours will have to wait until tomorrow.) Luckily it was something that could wait until the next day, as opposed to say a small fire or a gas leak, and I can't say how relieved I was to get back to my apartment the next day to discover the wonders of electricity at work! Though as an endnote, while the power had come back, I hadn't received any responses from the apartment manager to my email and written message dropped off at 7am (since I couldn't call them) and didn't get anything back until I emailed again saying: "the power's back? I guess?" (not my exact words) to which I received "We fixed it!" (their exact words.) Not quite the best (in a deep, deep meaning of the word) email I've gotten from them, (it will be hard to beat "Actually I found that gas you don't have to worry about that." Actual punctuation and everything. Yep.), but still makes you feel a little sour. So far I have resisted replying again with a big sarcastic "Thanks."

Would I choose to live in this Goushi of a place again? Hell no, but the ride has certainly been entertaining.

Four months down.... eight more to go.