When Michelle and I graduated from college it was pretty much a no-brainer that we would live together. After you share a 12'x8' refurbished janitor's closet with someone for a whole school year you can pretty much live anywhere together. So, once I was finally able to pull a fast one on an unsuspecting hiring manager and secure myself some gainful employment, we were off looking for the apartment of our dreams! Our selection criteria were pretty basic: cute and within walking (read:stumbling) distance from boozing establishment(s).
We narrowed our search down to the town of Lakewood, known for it's young, somewhat professional vibe and it's high percentage of gays. (We were really hoping to find a sassy gay man to become our new best friend... and we wanted a town whose residents would accept us if they thought we were a couple of lesbots shacking up... which we're totally not... even if we give off that vibe sometime... moving on.)
Lakewood is also known for its abundance of cheap-ass bars. We're talking about 20 bars within a 2 or 3 mile stretch of one road in Lakewood. And at least four of them have dollar drafts AT ALL TIMES. This is good news folks because Michelle and I are cheap, very very cheap. And, there are so many apartment buildings and duplexes with charming old architecture just begging to be inhabited; it's a renter's paradise! Or so we thought... dun dun dun. (That's foreshadowing kids.)
I will spare you the details of our apartment search. Outside of a hilarious run-in with a crazy old bitch who almost became our landlady, (let's just say she thought me a "darling girl" but thought Michelle would be "I don't know, too demanding", yeah, i told you, crazy f-ing bitch), it just wasn't that exciting. We ended up deciding on two bedroom, one bathroom, second floor duplex. We would have a driveway that is shared with the tenant(s) downstairs with one garage space and a washer and dryer in the basement. The only immediate drawbacks we saw were the absence of air conditioning and a dish washer but we liked the charming hard wood floors and built in cabinets and adorable fire place. All in all, save for a few (what we termed at the time) "minor" draw backs, it was a pretty sweet deal.
So we finally moved into our first post-college apartment in June of 2005. We were in the middle of what was actually a triple. There was a lady on the first floor, single, probably about 30 years old, two golden labs, seemed nice enough.
There was a rather creepy man who haled from Massachusetts that lived in the efficiency on the third floor who Michelle's boyfriend took to calling the "Boston Strangler" because to be quite honest I don't think any of us would be shocked if he tried to break into our apartment and murder us at night. Or at least break in to steal some food and laundry detergent because he looked as skinny as a man who hadn't eaten anything but R.C. Cola and Ramen Noodles for the past 7 years and he always wore these really dirty jean shorts that probably could have walked around on their own if he ever dared to take them off. Which I doubt he did. Seriously he probably slept in them. He probably wears them as underwear in the winter under a pair of longer dirty jeans. Ew sorry, I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.
Anywhosky, the apartment turned out to be pretty nice. We ordered matching couches from Sofa Express, threw in some old furniture cast-offs from our parents and bought a dining table and chairs from a going out of business, second hand furniture store. When all was said and done we had a pretty f-ing awesome little place that we were sure would be the envy of all of our friends. And it pretty much was.
It wasn't until that winter when we received our first $500.00 gas bill, (yes you read right, and yes, we cried a lot), that we started to have feelings of hatred for our home. Then when the over-the-door hooks that we bought to hang our winter coats on broke, bringing into harsh light the fact that we didn't have one single extra closet or any real storage space to speak of, we started to hate it even more. And then when the sink wouldn't drain fast enough for us to wash one measly load of dishes before it practically overflowed and we had to pour two bottles of drain-o in it and wait an hour to finish, we were really hatin'.
But the stupid, dirty, loud, white-trash straw that broke the camel's back had to be when Mary (our landlord's bitch) rented the apartment below us to "a nice woman and her 19 year old son" in the summer of 2007.
BULL SHIT!
I don't want to berate our lovely land-lady but give me a break you dumb bitch- there ain't no Mom down there! Yes, that's right, she basically let a 19 year old, his girlfriend and whatever scum bag friends he was rolling with inhabit the downstairs apartment of our building. The weekend they moved in it was a non-stop party. Cars everywhere, beer cans everywhere, lame rock music everywhere, idiots everywhere. I felt like I was at a frat party but not like a good frat where the guys are hot and only rarely use date rape drugs, but one of the dorky frats that lets the old guy that works at Pizza Hut hang out with them and has a dirty, junk-yard type dog hanging around all the time. Not cool. Not even a little bit. Michelle immediately phoned Mary to inform her of the situation and she basically brushed it off. Two perfect angels (that's me and Michelle) who NEVER complained, not even about the likely murderer living upstairs, and she thinks we're overreacting.
It was clear that this wasn't going to get any better before it got way worse so we had no choice but to start shopping around for a new place. We told Mary that very thing and she started to get worried. Let's face it, two good, mostly clean tenants who always paid rent on time are about to walk, now she's ready to listen. She made a couple unannounced visits and, after getting a complaint call from our next door neighbor, decided to take the situation a little more seriously. Which really meant putting us right in the middle.
Do you really think I want to be the one to tell our landlady that every time I come home there is a different car blocking our driveway and a different loser doing his laundry in our laundry room? No Mam. Do you think Michelle wants to be the one to tell her that their idea of picking up their dog's poop is to have a shallow, open box in the middle of the lawn where they chuck the sun-dried poo chunks and let them sit indefinitely? No Sir. Michelle and I were terrified that the retards downstairs would catch wise to the fact that we are the land-lord informants and take it out on our cars or destroy some of our belongings stored in our joint basement.
We made fewer calls to Mary ratting out the punks and when we finally found our new place and told Mary about it she shared with us that she was evicting the downstairs tenants. Oooh, sorry babe, too little too late. I have to admit I felt a little bad for Mary, she now had two vacant apartments with one lone Boston strangler on her hands... not an easy sell. But we stayed with her for two years and our complaints fell on deaf ears. And I should tell you that once you cross Michelle good luck getting back in her good graces. I mean christ- I one time drank the last diet coke in the fridge and now whenever she's ticked at me I hear her muttering "Diet Coke Stealer" under her breath. And that was 6 years ago. She's hardcore, I'm telling you.
The good news is, we ended up securing an even sweeter little abode in a nicer suburb of Cleveland. We have a whole house all to ourselves, increased the number of bathrooms, garage spaces and floors in the home by two each and even have a hot tub. It's one hell of a home that we're hoping will help solidify our status as common law wife and wife.
I guess the moral of the story is this: if you think living in Lakewood, OH with your bosom friend is a good idea when you're 23, you're right, it probably is. But it won't be when you're 25.
Also, if you're a landlord in Lakewood looking to rent out your place to some nice people you should always do background checks. And if your potential tenants hang around with a man in his late 40's who looks like he could be Kevin Federline's father, smells like a walking cigarette, and wears a fedora with a black leather vest at all times- you probably don't want to offer them the place because that guy will probably be doing laundry in the basement at some point and he's even scarier to encounter down there than a man who could be the Boston strangler... I'm just saying.
We narrowed our search down to the town of Lakewood, known for it's young, somewhat professional vibe and it's high percentage of gays. (We were really hoping to find a sassy gay man to become our new best friend... and we wanted a town whose residents would accept us if they thought we were a couple of lesbots shacking up... which we're totally not... even if we give off that vibe sometime... moving on.)
Lakewood is also known for its abundance of cheap-ass bars. We're talking about 20 bars within a 2 or 3 mile stretch of one road in Lakewood. And at least four of them have dollar drafts AT ALL TIMES. This is good news folks because Michelle and I are cheap, very very cheap. And, there are so many apartment buildings and duplexes with charming old architecture just begging to be inhabited; it's a renter's paradise! Or so we thought... dun dun dun. (That's foreshadowing kids.)
I will spare you the details of our apartment search. Outside of a hilarious run-in with a crazy old bitch who almost became our landlady, (let's just say she thought me a "darling girl" but thought Michelle would be "I don't know, too demanding", yeah, i told you, crazy f-ing bitch), it just wasn't that exciting. We ended up deciding on two bedroom, one bathroom, second floor duplex. We would have a driveway that is shared with the tenant(s) downstairs with one garage space and a washer and dryer in the basement. The only immediate drawbacks we saw were the absence of air conditioning and a dish washer but we liked the charming hard wood floors and built in cabinets and adorable fire place. All in all, save for a few (what we termed at the time) "minor" draw backs, it was a pretty sweet deal.
So we finally moved into our first post-college apartment in June of 2005. We were in the middle of what was actually a triple. There was a lady on the first floor, single, probably about 30 years old, two golden labs, seemed nice enough.
There was a rather creepy man who haled from Massachusetts that lived in the efficiency on the third floor who Michelle's boyfriend took to calling the "Boston Strangler" because to be quite honest I don't think any of us would be shocked if he tried to break into our apartment and murder us at night. Or at least break in to steal some food and laundry detergent because he looked as skinny as a man who hadn't eaten anything but R.C. Cola and Ramen Noodles for the past 7 years and he always wore these really dirty jean shorts that probably could have walked around on their own if he ever dared to take them off. Which I doubt he did. Seriously he probably slept in them. He probably wears them as underwear in the winter under a pair of longer dirty jeans. Ew sorry, I just threw up a little bit in my mouth.
Anywhosky, the apartment turned out to be pretty nice. We ordered matching couches from Sofa Express, threw in some old furniture cast-offs from our parents and bought a dining table and chairs from a going out of business, second hand furniture store. When all was said and done we had a pretty f-ing awesome little place that we were sure would be the envy of all of our friends. And it pretty much was.
It wasn't until that winter when we received our first $500.00 gas bill, (yes you read right, and yes, we cried a lot), that we started to have feelings of hatred for our home. Then when the over-the-door hooks that we bought to hang our winter coats on broke, bringing into harsh light the fact that we didn't have one single extra closet or any real storage space to speak of, we started to hate it even more. And then when the sink wouldn't drain fast enough for us to wash one measly load of dishes before it practically overflowed and we had to pour two bottles of drain-o in it and wait an hour to finish, we were really hatin'.
But the stupid, dirty, loud, white-trash straw that broke the camel's back had to be when Mary (our landlord's bitch) rented the apartment below us to "a nice woman and her 19 year old son" in the summer of 2007.
BULL SHIT!
I don't want to berate our lovely land-lady but give me a break you dumb bitch- there ain't no Mom down there! Yes, that's right, she basically let a 19 year old, his girlfriend and whatever scum bag friends he was rolling with inhabit the downstairs apartment of our building. The weekend they moved in it was a non-stop party. Cars everywhere, beer cans everywhere, lame rock music everywhere, idiots everywhere. I felt like I was at a frat party but not like a good frat where the guys are hot and only rarely use date rape drugs, but one of the dorky frats that lets the old guy that works at Pizza Hut hang out with them and has a dirty, junk-yard type dog hanging around all the time. Not cool. Not even a little bit. Michelle immediately phoned Mary to inform her of the situation and she basically brushed it off. Two perfect angels (that's me and Michelle) who NEVER complained, not even about the likely murderer living upstairs, and she thinks we're overreacting.
It was clear that this wasn't going to get any better before it got way worse so we had no choice but to start shopping around for a new place. We told Mary that very thing and she started to get worried. Let's face it, two good, mostly clean tenants who always paid rent on time are about to walk, now she's ready to listen. She made a couple unannounced visits and, after getting a complaint call from our next door neighbor, decided to take the situation a little more seriously. Which really meant putting us right in the middle.
Do you really think I want to be the one to tell our landlady that every time I come home there is a different car blocking our driveway and a different loser doing his laundry in our laundry room? No Mam. Do you think Michelle wants to be the one to tell her that their idea of picking up their dog's poop is to have a shallow, open box in the middle of the lawn where they chuck the sun-dried poo chunks and let them sit indefinitely? No Sir. Michelle and I were terrified that the retards downstairs would catch wise to the fact that we are the land-lord informants and take it out on our cars or destroy some of our belongings stored in our joint basement.
We made fewer calls to Mary ratting out the punks and when we finally found our new place and told Mary about it she shared with us that she was evicting the downstairs tenants. Oooh, sorry babe, too little too late. I have to admit I felt a little bad for Mary, she now had two vacant apartments with one lone Boston strangler on her hands... not an easy sell. But we stayed with her for two years and our complaints fell on deaf ears. And I should tell you that once you cross Michelle good luck getting back in her good graces. I mean christ- I one time drank the last diet coke in the fridge and now whenever she's ticked at me I hear her muttering "Diet Coke Stealer" under her breath. And that was 6 years ago. She's hardcore, I'm telling you.
The good news is, we ended up securing an even sweeter little abode in a nicer suburb of Cleveland. We have a whole house all to ourselves, increased the number of bathrooms, garage spaces and floors in the home by two each and even have a hot tub. It's one hell of a home that we're hoping will help solidify our status as common law wife and wife.
I guess the moral of the story is this: if you think living in Lakewood, OH with your bosom friend is a good idea when you're 23, you're right, it probably is. But it won't be when you're 25.
Also, if you're a landlord in Lakewood looking to rent out your place to some nice people you should always do background checks. And if your potential tenants hang around with a man in his late 40's who looks like he could be Kevin Federline's father, smells like a walking cigarette, and wears a fedora with a black leather vest at all times- you probably don't want to offer them the place because that guy will probably be doing laundry in the basement at some point and he's even scarier to encounter down there than a man who could be the Boston strangler... I'm just saying.
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