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.