Saturday, January 29, 2011

Adventures in Leasing

I have been in the property management industry for more than 12 years now, so I definitely have some great stories, both hilarious and heinous, to accompany my career thus far.

For instance, I once showed a middle-aged gentleman who was in the process of moving here from Austin, TX. He produced a relatively decent income, but he had applied to rent an apartment at one of our more economically-priced (i.e. ghetto) complexes at which I was currently working. From the time that man walked in to the time he walked out, all he could talk about was "It looks like a bunch of Mexicans live here. Do they?" To which, according to the Fair Housing Act, I am required to reply, "We have a diverse population at this complex. We lease to anyone who qualifies."

So I proceed to go through my spiel, give him a tour of the clubhouse, laundry facility and other various amenities, before walking him to the model apartment. He's still going off about "the Mexicans". Dude! You're from Texas, please don't act like you've never encountered one before. Whatever.

As I'm still giving him the legal lingo while we proceed down the sidewalk towards our model apartment destination, and he's STILL bitching about the plausible Hispanic population he assumes is present at this establishment, what do we round the building to see??

A group of 6 Hispanic males. Three inside the car while the other three prop up a couch on the trunk and run like Scooby-Doo behind the moving vehicle. The look he gave me was absolutely priceless. The look of "I told you so, hood rat." Such a dick, this guy. "I guess they had to move their couch," I said. He leased. Yes, I'm THAT good. I probably shouldn't mention he later left a $100 bill on his dashboard after he moved-in, so his car got broken into. I'll let you correctly assume who he blamed it on.

But today. All I can say about the woman I had the "pleasure" of meeting today is WTF?!?

She was crazy as hell.

I swear to you she was on some sort of crazy drug, because she NEVER shut-up. I'll try not to be a bitch and mention she was wearing a calf-length denim skirt with Laura Ingalls Wilder-style ruffles sewn to the bottom. Because that would be rude.

She walked in and immediately approached the residents enjoying themselves in the business center. All they wanted was to chillax, look at some porn, and be left alone. But NO! This insane woman approaches them, "What can you tell me about this place? Do you like it? Is it safe? Do people party here, because I don't? Is this business center a free amenity? Do you ever use the fitness center? Does the TV work in there? Can you fax? Email? Freely advertise that you're a completely psycho and bitter divorcee that is pissed off about the fact I have to live in an apartment now, because I totally moved out of a 4,000 square foot house? I'm not bragging, just saying I own a lot of shit. Would you be able to downsize here if you had lived 20 years in such a big home? Again, not bragging."

You can't make this shit up.

And then, she approaches me like she's white, and I'm fucking rice. I can't stand people who have no respect for personal space. She's all up in my face, and I can smell both her Dentyne and all the craziness exuding from her pores. That's how close she stood to talk.

"Are you the manager? Is this place safe? Do you have 2 bedrooms? Are they safe? Do people party here? Are you going to tell me lies to make me lease? Do you have a lot of "'spics" that live here? Because they totally let their children run amok. I know, because I've been a teacher for 20 years..." ad infinitum.

My first thought was, "Holy crap, you're crazy!" My second thought was, "Why are you a teacher?" What is she teaching her students?? "And the word of the day class is "spics". What that means is unwelcome foreigners who allow their children to run wild. I know, because I'm your teacher." Super crazy bitch!

So I attempt to initiate a conversation with psycho woman. I take down her information and show her the model. "Can my neighbors hear when I take a shit?"

"Excuse me?" I reply.

"When I poop. Can the neighbors hear that? Because I don't want them to."

"Ummm... never had any complaints."

"But it's a possibility? Because, you know, that's not really something someone would freely come to you and ask, right?"

"Let's evaluate some locations available on property."

I am so not enabling her crazy at this point.

This story could go on forever, but the point of it all is bitch is nuts!!!

She left the office three times to corner residents and ask them just as equally awkward questions as she had asked me. She drove through property with her head out the window, yelling at my residents, "How do you like it here??"

For the first time ever, I pray with every last ounce of my soul that she moves elsewhere. I don't think I could tolerate her crazy on a consistent basis.

And in 12 years, she is by far the most bizarre person I've ever encountered. That's worth something, right?

Wednesday, January 19, 2011

An open letter to pretty much anyone who owns an Affliction shirt

Dear Douchebags:

As much as it chagrins me to bring this to your attention, I have noticed an unforgivable fashion crime being committed with unprecedented frequency among your ilk. At first, I was pretty quick to just wave it off as a neanderthalistic frat boy trend. The wearing of those ridiculously overpriced shirts pasted to the physiques of a group of chads who practically chant "Roid rage! Roid rage! Roid rage!" from bar to bar as they high-five each other and slip roofies into the drinks of unsuspecting girls.

But alarmingly, this appears to no longer be the stereotypical form the shirt takes. The shirt has become non-discriminating in regards to age, education, and quite possibly STD-status. Okay, maybe not STD-status, as I'm pretty sure you all have one, but I digress.

The Affliction shirt has come to epitomize the precise douchebaggery present across the generations. The veteran bar-hopper intent on picking up floozies, flexing his biceps, shooting whiskey, roaring, and chest bumping. And seriously, what IS it with you Affliction-wearers and Nickelback?? Just because you share a wardrobe in common does not make them a good band. Just sayin'.

I plead with you. Please stop. Stop wearing those god-awful shirts that scream, "I am douchebag, hear me roar!" It's very unsettling. And totally ruins the three times per year I get to leave the house. I mean, you're freaking EVERYWHERE!!! Generally accessorized with backwards hats, chains, biker boots, and for the older crowd, that mid-life crisis Harley.

I know you love Jersey Shore, but that show sucks. As do the idiots who star on Jersey Shore. And I use the term "star" very loosely here. I get it. They wear Affliction. They tan. They work-out and drink excessively and sleep with random strangers. I suppose there's a logic there, but it is generally lost on me.

Whatever your logic, I ask you to rethink it. Because this trend blows and labels you, not just as the guy who dropped $100 on a really terrible shirt, but also as someone to be avoided at all costs by any person with an ounce of self-respect.

I realize my words may seem harsh. I do apologize for the severity of what I've expressed; however, my bet is you're still using the dictionary to look up "chagrins".

Regardless, I hope there are no hard feelings. I simply ask that you reevaluate your need for such expensive and stupid clothing. I would have called it asinine, but that might have offended you.

With much love & concern,


P.S. Those shirts you wear? They are the reason for signs like this:

*Disclaimer: I cannot be held responsible for the hurt feelings, (roid) rage, consternation, etc. that could possibly be had by the above-addressed fashion offenders. This is simply the opinion of this one person. I mean, if you really like paying that much for a shitty shirt, rock on with your bad self.

Tuesday, January 18, 2011

Conversations in the soccer mom-mobile

Some of the most fascinating conversations I've ever had occur in the soccer mom-mobile with my kids.

Sometimes they're sweet, like this:

"Mommy, I have a girlfriend, and her name is Kinzie Farmer, and she has yellow hair. I drew her a picture of a flower, because she loves flowers, and I thought it would make her day. But we can't get married, because we're only 6."

Sometimes they're menacing:

"If you don't stop and get me ice-cream, I'll tell daddy you pushed me down and took my hot wheels... forever."

Sometimes they're completely annoying:

"And ohmygosh, Mommy! Today, in tech ed, this guy, I think he likes me, he like... looked into my eyes when I asked him a question. He's totally not my type, but I can tell he likes me, because his locker is next to mine and back in third grade he gave me a piece of gum and THEN he watched me chew it. OH! And..."

You get the picture.

But today... today was a different sort of conversation with my 5 year-old. He's an interesting child. He loves attention and is incredibly vain.

When he was three, he insisted on styling his own hair and wearing Hugo Boss cologne before ordering everyone he encountered to "smell my neck." It was cute and endearing. However, I realized a monster had been created when he nodded at his appearance in the mirror and muttered to himself, "Lookin' gooooood."

So today in the mom-mobile, he announces, "Mommy. My wiener is getting bigger and bigger everyday. Josh's is shorter than mine."

"Excuse me?" I ask just to clarify that he did, in fact, strike-up a conversation about the size of his... thing. Randomly. Comparing it to the size of his brother's. At the age of FIVE.

"My wiener. It grows ALL the days."

"Does it?"


And then he promptly retreats from the conversation, so he can return to admiring his own smiling reflection in the window, nodding at his muchness, reeking of Hugo Boss, and reflecting on the size of his "wiener."

And so the question is finally answered... the male preoccupation with size really does start at a very young age.

I'm doomed.

Saturday, April 18, 2009

Le Fleur

I had decided today would be girl's day.

I was taking my daughter to meet my sister-in-law and niece to get pedicures, watch "17 Again", and have a coney for lunch.

I get manicures at this place in the mall called Le Fleur. It's very elegant what with the fancy decor and classical music playing. But the same people you would expect to see at California Nail work there. Only with Mozart instead of Lady Gaga.

We met at 10 this morning for pedicures before our excursion to the movie theater. They seated us like queens in massaging chairs with bubbling pools of warm water to bathe our feet. They placed me next to my 10 year old daughter who couldn't contain her laughter as they pummiced and tickled her prepubescent feet.

Some guy worked on my feet. He was probably (definitely) younger than me. I'm always skeptical of dudes who do nails, but he was good. He didn't tickle me or hurt me or act like he was disgusted to be scrubbing my ancient feet in spite of all the calloused skin and toe hair.

"Do you wook owt?"

"What?" I asked.

"Do... you... wook owt?" he replied.

"I run a little bit."

"You got vewy nice body. Skeeny but stwong" he says.

My 10 year old looks at me like someone has just told her the most hysterical joke EVER.

"Thank you," I replied, flushing bright red.

My daughter is chortling into her shoulder, trying to appear inconspicuous but unsuccessful nonetheless.

I say to her, "All of this will be yours someday" and with a ballerina-like arm motion gesture to the length of my body to which she rolls her eyes.

She rolled her eyes in a "Dear Lord, I certainly hope not" kind of way. Not a "My mother is a lunatic" kind of way. Looking back on it, it might have been a combination eye-roll of the two thoughts.

Either way, I totally wook out. I skeeny, but I stwong. Watch out.

Thank you, oriental pedicurist, for making my day.

Wednesday, April 15, 2009

Dante's Inferno

It occurred to me recently, as the daylight began lingering noticeably longer and my sinus cavities began producing excessive amounts of snot for which I am now required to consume an overabundance of allergy medication making me alternate between bitchiness and sleepiness, that shorts/skirt/swimsuit season is just around the corner.

And I am pasty white.

I am determined to break into this season with a little color to my skin. I don't want to look like I am ethnically confused or anything, I just need a little glow. Not glow in the dark.

I clocked out for my lunch break and drove down the street to "Juicy Tan".

I perused the flier placed in a crisp sheet protector by the front desk and did my best to block out the valley girl chatter from the leathery brown girl at the front desk. "Like, if you totally sign up for like a 12 month contract, you get the best deals. Omg. It's like not even funny how good the deals you get are. You like get free lotion and stuff."

Without looking up, I pulled my best talk to the hand gesture with hopes that I would exude a demeanor of deep thought. Inside the Juicy Tan. Where deep thinking and checkbook reflection are clearly prohibited, because she didn't shut-up.

"But I guess if you just wanted to like get an unlimited package or something, those are kinda good deals, too. Our beds are like the best in town!"

So I cut my eyes at her and spoke in order to appease her. "I don't like to burn. And I'm not a fan of melanoma."

"Well, we like have the Mystic Tan. That's a spray."

"I know what Mystic Tan is."

"Do you want to sign up?"

Images of a confused Ross Gellar flash through my mind, and I emphatically shake my head no. It would be my luck to do a 360 degree turn instead of a 180 and forever be dubbed the half-orange, half-ghost mutant everyone is freaked out by and afraid to piss off, because there's just no telling when she'll go into a rage and blow up to the size of the Marshmallow Man and become a giant Peep menace to society. Which could totally work to my advantage, but I'm too vain to risk it.

"We like have this really neat bed called the Magic Bed, and you won't burn in it. It's only 16 minutes and it has this like massage mattress and it beeps halfway through so you know when to turn over and it's like really neat and stuff."

What I heard: "You won't burn..."

"I'll take an unlimited package of that... and some of that cheap lotion."

I strip, lather myself in tanning lotion which reeks of coconuts, and strategically place a cute little dolphin sticker rather close to my hoo-hoo in order to track my tanning progress before making myself comfortable on the massage mattress and pulling the top shut. I fiddled with the massage mattress settings and considered leaving the heavenly thing on when it was time to flip over on my stomach. I decided it would not be a good idea since I probably wasn't the only person who had considered this.

About 30 seconds later, the Magic Bed flickers on and I'm blinded by blue lights even though my eyes are shut and I'm wearing special goggles.

My first realization inside the Magic Bed was I forgot to turn on the fan.

My second was that Miss Valley Girl had sold me a month of unlimited tanning inside Dante's Inferno.

After 6 minutes I began to panic. My pulse was elevated, I was sweating in places I didn't know could produce sweat, I was pretty sure the Magic Bed was cooking my liver, and the top was so heavy I thought I was trapped.

I sang 99 bottles of beer on the wall, cried, and pounded on the lid in agony. "I'm MELTING! Oh God, get me the hell OUT of here!" I wailed, knowing my cries would be lost inside the excessively loud humming of the demon tanning bed.

Sixteen minutes later, I was finally set free. Panting, I crawled on my elbows to the fan I had failed to turn on and switched the setting to "High" while draping myself across the top.

My mascara had run down my face from the heat and the birthmark I hadn't seen since childhood was glaring at me like a pissed off boyfriend whose calls I had been ignoring.

But as I peeled the dolphin sticker away I saw a tan line and smiled.

As I walked out, I waved to valley girl and said, "See you tomorrow!"

Wednesday, April 1, 2009

Nascar & Snails

So anyone who knows me really well knows how much I love Oklahoma drivers.

Almost as much as I love Fox News, yeast infections, Rush Limbaugh, mammograms, Sarah Palin, food poisoning, and The Notebook. Not necessarily in that order.

Oklahoma drivers know two speeds: Nascar and snail.

The preference of the driver I am preparing to pull out in front of can be tricky to detect at times. The driver could be all Nascar, all snail, Nascar realizing they no longer want to be Nascar and slow down to snail or vice versa. It's tough to predict. All I know is that anyone with the number 3 plastered to their car is someone to be avoided at all costs. They're crazy as hell.

I left work today at straight up 5:00 as usual and attempted to pull out in front of what I thought was a snail but turned out to be a number 3 Nascar. Now when I turn out, I floor that shit. I don't mosey along at a 30 mph pace. Regardless (or irregardless as my very sweet but clueless friend likes to say at least 15 times per day. Someone seriously needs to tell her that isn't a word and adding the additional syllable does not make her sound more intelligent. It simply makes her sound more idiotic. I should say something. But how do you do that tactfully? "Bitch, please. That is not a word, and if you say irregardless one more time, I'm going to cut you." I should probably have someone else tell her.)

Anyhow, this bitch flies up my ass like a dog in heat. She was like 4 blocks away less than a second ago. So I'm pissed and going only as fast as the snail in front of me will allow me while her car proceeds to make-out with the rear bumper of my car. Three blocks later, after a slew of profanity and suppressed gesturing on my part, we are required to stop for the stop light. Because it's red. Which, I'm told, means stop.

I decide it's time to put on my pissed off face and glare at her in the rearview mirror. Her and her mardi gras beads and lei and mountain pine air freshener dangling distractingly from her mirror.

So I glare. And what the hell am I witnessing?

This hag is yacking on her cell phone and PLUCKING HER CHIN HAIRS! No shit. She starts with her chin, and now I'm intrigued and can't look away. It's like crack for the road rager. She's plucking her chin and then she starts plucking her NECK. While talking on her cell phone. After she almost ran up my ass.

I decide to take pity on her. I mean, damn. If I had a beard, I'd totally be speeding up people's asses so I could at least play the testosterone part I had been cursed with.

I'm not really sure what my point is. Perhaps that I hate Oklahoma drivers. Perhaps that I particularly hate hormonally imbalanced bitches with chin and neck hairs who fly up my ass, refuse to make eye contact with me, and pluck said hairs for everyone to see. Ew. No one wants to watch that, bearded lady.

*sigh* I'm going to hell. Tomorrow, I'm taking the bus... which is basically hell. I'll consider it practice.

Saturday, March 28, 2009

Oklahoma weather

Weather forecasts in Oklahoma are typically educated guesses at best.

Most days the forecast will read something like this:

50% chance of rain / 50% chance of no rain.

50% chance of sunny skies / 50% chance of overcast skies.

50% chance of snow / 50% chance of not a damn thing.

And fully expect your favorite evening programming to be completely blocked out by 12 meteorologists sitting around doppler radars, panning from one to the other, "Julie, what's going on over there with you?"

"Well, Dan. It's looking pretty iffy in the Panhandle right now. We're keeping our eyes peeled for circulation. Over to you, George."

"Well, Julie and Dan, we're looking at LeFlore county right now, and our weather chasers are reporting some gravel-sized hail from a little cirrus cloud which appears to have eaten some cottage cheese a few days past the due date and is now suffering from some ice-like diarrhea."

Better out than in, I always say.

At the beginning of the week, our meteorologists reported a tornado outbreak of "epic proportions". Well. Since epic proportions are way more ginormous than regular proportions, let me clean out my closet and haul in the mattress. We are most certainly destined for tornadic doom.

Guess what? Nothing. Rain, some lightning, some cold weather, no tornadoes.

So when they began reporting 100% chance of snow for the weekend, I scoffed. I scoffed loudly, with co-workers, smoking in the 40 mph winds, making fun of the weather-forecasters.

"Dumbasses. Everything is a fucking weather emergency. I tell you this much... if they interrupt American Idol one more night for complete and total bullshit, I'm calling! I'll do it!"

(Disclaimer: I do not watch the consumerist-driven show entitled American Idol. I only named this show to prove a point.)

On the way out of the office, "So Extraordinary, do you think we're going to get all this snow they're talking about."

"Pssshhh... hell no. They suck."

"That's what I thought, too. I think I'm going to go home and weed and feed my yard."

"Good call, Mr. On-the-ball."

So I wake up Saturday morning and what do my eyes see, but a sky pissing snowflakes with a certain fury all over our landscape.

A land that had just experienced 3 or 4 days in a row of 70+ degree weather. A land that had just recently exhibited signs of resurrecting itself from the dead after a long, cold, shitty winter.

"WTF?" I asked myself.

Good thing I am lazy by nature and hadn't jumped the gun on planting flowers or mowing the lawn or weed and feeding or ozmocoting anything. I'd be totally pissed. Cause I rarely like to do a job over.

Oklahoma hasn't had snow all winter. Sure, we've had our share of ice and sheer butt-cold, but no snow.

Mother Nature is crafty like that. Several days of spring, the promise of a few shards of green grass, many, many weeds sprouting across the lawn, and the feeling of happiness for the first time since the winter funk set in and BOOM! "April Fools, Bitches!" Snow and ice across your state at the end of March.

But guess what, Mother Nature. The joke is on you. It's totally not April Fool's Day til Wednesday. Joke's on YOU, bitch. Come shovel my driveway.