Homemade Sweet & Hot Pepper Relish

There is more to me than juggling tenants and contractors; I love to cook—from scratch. Tenants have been known to linger by my front door, ask what smells soooo good, and then boldly ask for samples. I usually oblige.

A few weeks ago, as I was wandering the supermarket aisles, I admired the very pretty but overpriced delicacies such as roasted peppers or hot pepper relish. As I read the labels on the pricey gourmet jars, then those in the economic section, it wasn’t hard to figure it out how I could make these at home. I picked out a variety of peppers, and please be careful: Do not handle them then touch your face, or eyes!

Now I do not eat hot peppers, but my brother-in-law does. I grew up on very bland cooking, but his mother rocked in the kitchen! I did owe him a big favor and he had earned a great present in return.

As soon as I came back home, I pulled out the cutting board, a ridiculously small food processor and went to work slicing it all up. When I was all done, for less than $3.00, and a few tears shed by me, my brother-in-law was in heaven. This Sweet & Hot Pepper Relish has become a staple in my kitchen, batches have been passed out to friends, and it makes one of our contractors happy to come work here.

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Sweet & Hot Pepper Relish

2 Poblano Peppers (I had listed Pomodoro peppers by error. Sorry.)

6 Chili Peppers

½ Red or Yellow Pepper (for the sweet taste)

½ Red Onion (or Yellow Onion)

5-6 Cloves of Garlic

Salt (I use Sea Salt, table salt is fine)

Extra Virgin Olive Oil (enough to cover peppers)

1 tsp of Red Wine Vinegar (White Vinegar can be used)

When slicing the peppers, remove the centers, veins and seeds

Blend all vegetables in the food processor, a fine chop not a puree

Add a little salt

Pour enough Extra Virgin Olive Oil to cover

Add Red Wine Vinegar

Stir thoroughly

Refrigerate. Good for 2 weeks.

It starts off a little sweet, and then the heat will kick in. Enjoy!

Pix from www.themexicanconnection.com

Music Bullies: Part II

Granted, this tenant actually was a professional musician, and back in the day had been a lead singer for a popular band, however, tenants only rent the INSIDE of their apartment, NOT their neighbors' apartment, nor the whole outdoors.

This request to keep music within their own walls has frequently sparked some heated, Freedom of Speech and Declaration of Rights rebuttals.

Let me state clearly, again:

Tenants pay for the inside of the apartments: their music, TVs, xBoxes, and musical instruments MAY NOT invade thy neighbors apartment. Maybe your neighbors want to enjoy their own shows and music, or even take a nap without your audio invasion.

I know, it is a tough concept.

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One fellow, drunkenly argued with me that he was allowed, by law, XX decibels of sound until 10 PM.

I reminded him that I write the leases and that by tomorrow morning there could be a clarifying addendum added to his lease.

There was a stare down.

He backed off, sadly only temporarily. C'est le vie.

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Years ago, I rented elsewhere and a new neighbor just loved showing off his sound system: Other neighbors tried to reason and negotiate with him.

I didn’t.

I informed him that his music was blasting in my living room and that his share of rent for my living room would be $$.

That was a concept that he could understand. (Or maybe the fact that my son was still living home and stood 6’2”. Don’t know, just fun to speculate.)

This tenant was paid back in spades, as neighbor above him had a wild, loud party that kept him up most of the night. Yeah! He did behave better after he suffered a lost night’s sleep.

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But I digress, back to the musician:

Some days he would stand outside his door and play a few guitar riffs, some tunes and it was actually pleasant, however, some days he placed the speakers outside on the deck, and then sat INSIDE on his living room floor while playing a guitar, that was weird! That fact that he was totally surprised and confused that neighbors objected to his free concerts—well, that was weird too.

We were grateful that his band rehearsals we NOT held here.

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I vote for headphones or manners. I do sometimes threaten to break out the Merle, or maybe Kate Smith belting out the Star Spangled Banner (Go online, do a search. Go ahead, ya got time, both musicians are American legends.)

Tikki Torches on a Wooden Deck

Need I say more?

The week before, I posted on EVERY door the yearly letter concerning fire safety, ex., no BBQs on the walkways, as they are wood.

The staircases are wood.

The overhangs are wood.

The walkways are our common decks and the ONLY way in or out of our apartments. So when I caution about fire safety, must I include every possible flame or combustible element and the potential dangers thereof?

We all are guilty of dumb moves, confess, this includes all of you, however, 6 foot tall, Tikki Torches strapped to the outside railings is a dumb move!

I appreciated the tenants who called to warn me. When I called the guilty tenant, he was actually surprised that I objected to his decorations.

Really? Torches, filled with a combustible accelerant, lit while strapped to a wooden support post, flames dancing 2-3 feet below a wooden overhang.

Heck, all I can say is, “Got marshmallows?”

Spring÷Winter=SPRINTER

Sprinter, an odd piece of slang that has been bandied about this very tediously long and cold winter: Winter overrode Spring.

According to some urban slang online dictionaries, the word "Sprinter," hails from Canada. (These dictionaries also include some very randy definitions, which don’t apply here).

I believe Sprinter = Spring divided by Winter or Winter overriding Spring. Whatever. Even when the sun did come out, the cold and damp was unrelenting, and we couldn’t enjoy it.

Then we had a few good days. Yaay!

It was wonderful, neighbors were out smiling, chatting and the Harley motorcycles were pulled out of their garages, shined up and let out for a run! In a few weeks, the ‘pretty’ bikes will be out, ya know, the Ninjas. Back in the day, I owned at 350cc Honda and I rode it on many cold, clear days of winter in the hills of New Jersey.

Yes, that was sarcasm and bragging.

But today . . . the trees are budding, some hardy windsurfers and kite surfers have been spotted in the ocean, and soon the smell of BBQs and sunscreen will fill the air. Big Smile!

Summer at the Jersey Shore: music, great food festivals, boardwalks, beach, surf, some crowds, some chaos, but dunking in the surf, then lying on the beach is pure heaven!

Cranky Tenants: Part I

Face it, everyone who has ever worked customer service will agree, “The customer is NOT always right.”

Outwardly we smile, placate and apply our best people skills, but we bite our tongues and remind ourselves that this is a business and customer satisfaction = customer retention = $$: Or in my case, tenant retention. And right now, we have 100% occupancy, which = $$ = Owner Satisfaction.

So the other day, as I was passing out notes to all the tenants, the usual stuff of safety, BBQs and parking restrictions (only one car per apartment may park in the lot).

• Rude Dude: Calls to me from the flight above and demands to know what the notes say.
• Me: “The usual, landlord notices.”
• Rude Dude, is glaring at me, he wants to know, now!
• Me thinking: I am not shouting across the decks, nor am I running upstairs and giving you special delivery, you can wait while I finish posting the notices on this deck.
• Finally, I worked my way to his apartment, then handed him the notices and walked to the next apartment door.
• Rude Dude, reads the parking restrictions and states: “This does NOT apply to me!” then ripped the notices.
• Me, firmly: “Sorry, it applies to every tenant.” And I kept moving onto the next row of apartment doors.
• Rude Dude: “We’ll see!”
• Me, knowing that this guy likes to complain about me to the owners, I simply moved on.
• Rude Dude had more to say, but I wasn’t taking the bait.
• Next Tenant, came out, caught the end of his act, smiled and said: “Don’t worry, I got your back.”
• Me: “Awwhh thanks.”

Rude Dude had all three cars parked right under my door, even made show of jockeying them around.

He just shot himself in the foot. His neighbors will want to know why he gets three spaces and they get none, and why they must park on the street, sometimes a block away. He needs to read Dale Carnegie's "How to Win Friends and Influence People."

Yep, don’t ya just love customer service!

The Reasons We Recycle—Earth Day, April 22, 1970

Worldwide the environment was being destroyed, the landscape was scarred by endless illegal dumps, toxins from industrial waste leaching into the groundwater and forests were laid waste by clear-cutting, thus destroying watersheds. The Cuyahoga River in Ohio literally caught fire 10 times between 1868 and 1969. It was a horrible delusion that there were endless resources available and the ignorance of the immediate dire consequences that could no longer be denied.

Senator Gaylord Nelson, founder of Earth Day

The beginning of the Earth Day movement was initiated by Senator Gaylord Nelson, who while travelling became distressed at the degradation of the environment, the very real trouble that our physical country was in, and sought a way to change that decline. He lectured in 25 different states to bring attention to this crisis, approached Attorney General Robert Kennedy and President John F. Kennedy without success. Watching the phenomenal media success of the anti-war demonstrations and the grassroots support that undergirded them, he announced publicly, “That in the spring of 1970 there would be a nationwide grassroots demonstration on behalf of the environment and invited everyone to participate.”

The Beginning of Recycling

This grassroots movement spawned new businesses, sciences, industries, legislation and has become a political force to be reckoned. It literally changed the very culture: Phrases such as ‘reduce, reuse, recycle’ became a mindset. Soon afterwards in 1970, the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency (EPA) was established, the President’s Council on Environmental Quality, the Clean Air Act, Occupational, Health and Safety (OSHA), et al. Entire businesses and sciences were developed regarding landfills and Waste Management, even enabling the recapturing of methane gases from landfills to create electricity.

Another offshoot is the movement for Green Building and utilizing recycled building materials, a combination of recycled building materials, both brick and wood from salvagers: The bonus is a tax credit for doing so.

To reduce our dependence foreign oil alternative fuel sources are no longer in the realm of futuristic science fiction: windmill farms, hybrid cars, solar power, geothermal plants operate in our western states and around the world.

In Vancouver, Canada, the core members of the 1970–71 “Don’t Make A Wave Committee,” later formed Greenpeace with one rickety 80 foot ship: They are now an international force to be reckoned with.

A World Changed without the Internet

And all these changes were done at the grassroots level, with old, black rotary telephones, often hostile news coverage, without fax or Internet, but solely orchestrated by people passionate for serious change.

P.S.: I was there, this post came from a paper I wrote for a History class at DeVry. (I did get an 'A'). I simply wanted to defend the 1960s to classmates who were born long after that decade: we were so much more than just Woodstock.

Stinkee Refrigerator-& How to Clean It!

We swore that there was a dead body buried inside this fridge: maybe the former tenants packed it with sardines. It defied every chemical compound in my arsenal! The former tenants had been evicted: owed lots of rent, stole electricity (see Slickster: Evicted at Last & Slickster: Electric Thieves), so spiting us was a possibility, their destructive housekeeping another.

Now I do a thorough, deep cleaning of every unit, it doesn’t matter how wonderful tenants clean when they move out, everything is washed down with a disinfectant or sprayed with my Shark Steam Cleaner. And the first things that I clean are the kitchens and bathrooms, so at least when prospective tenant walk in, they can overlook things that have yet to be done, ex.: rugs, paint, or some old furniture left behind.

However, this fridge did scare off one or two very prissy prospects.

Hey, I warned them NOT to open the door!

I scrubbed the insides and the drip pan with Clorox Cleanup.

Tried Professional Strength 409.

I hit it with steam . . . every seam, every crevice!

I wiped it AGAIN with vinegar and water.

Bacteria could not possibly be living in that thing!

I tried leaving the fridge and windows opened for several days at a time.

A box of baking soda was left inside.

Coffee grinds were placed in a paper cup: They will absorb odors as strong as leftover melon and garlic.

Charcoal briquettes (the non-chemical soaked kind) were tried.

Finally, I bought vanilla, poured it on cotton balls and placed them in a paper cup. Yeah, it masked the odor, but I choked on the vanilla.

It was disinfected repeatedly, and finally baking soda, coffee grinds, charcoal and vanilla were placed inside, at the same time!

This literally went on for 2–3 weeks; it became a regular topic of conversation. We considered replacing the fridge, the smell was so vile and tenacious!

Finally, the Solution!

Then I remembered Hurricane Sandy a few months back, when we all lost power, and the possibility that whatever meat was in the freezer, thawed out and ran down the drain pipe to the drip pan. So, I boiled a pot of water, and very carefully, poured it down the vents, and used a sponge to squeegee it down. When I checked the drip pan, I gagged at what poured out!

I used a cup to bail out the drip pan and repeated the boiling water, MANY times.

Hallelujah!

OSHA would be proud of me!

Memories of My Father’s Workshop

In an earlier post, I had griped about cleaning out the machine room, contractors and handymen had destroyed it: everything was carelessly jammed onto shelves, stacked against walls, and clearly, it had not been swept in some time. Frankly, I was pretty ticked.

My father was an operating engineer who worked all over the world, and he had a workshop in the basement. I can clearly remember the glass baby food jars that were filled with nuts, washers, bolts, etc., all sorted and very neatly arranged on shelves.

My favorite uncle was a tool and die maker, he too had shop in the basement. They both set great examples of how tools should be maintained, lessons that I learned and have applied to my own workspaces.

Back to the machine room:

I have spent many hours hauling out bags of debris and sorting out tools, then finally sweeping off the shelves and workbench. Not quite done, but the workbench is looking good and I am quite proud of myself, and very grateful that the handyman didn’t offer his help or advice.

But then I found a childhood memory:

There, on the edge of the worktable was a massive vise clamp, faded red, covered in sawdust and debris.

Suddenly I was 4 or 5 years old again, and barely eye-level with this magical tool. Magical, because to a child, spinning that handle around and around, watching the handle always drop through, then flipping it another 1/2 turn, and watching it drop, again and again, was magical. And the more it spun, the wider the jaws opened, or squeezed shut: over and over and over again.

This toy was indestructible!

I am sure my dad wasn’t always happy to have a child underfoot as he was working, but this was one tool that his kids simply could not break. And so we were allowed to be underfoot, working with dad, all day, as long as we played with just that vise—and not his other tools.

Later on, I took a break outside with a tenant, a retired carpenter, and we talked about silly childhood memories of our dads’ home shops. He too remembers how magical it was to spin around and around the handle of that tool.

Both of our dads have passed on, his a few years ago, mine died when I was a child. It was grungy hard work cleaning out that room, but for reliving those long forgotten memories, worth it for a memory so priceless.

Your Door Blew Off & You Didn’t Tell Me?

Living on the ocean, we really do get hammered by wicked storms: it’s not the rain or the snow, it’s the wind. When the wind whips off the ocean, it hits the building like a raging bull elephant and we lose many storm doors: during one brutal storm, we actually lost eight doors and NEVER found them!

Not kidding! Eight storm doors blew off their hinges and went off into oblivion: Maybe they went out to sea, or landed the next block over, we never found out where they landed. Crazy.

So he left for work and failed to mention this:

In fact, not one tenant mentioned to me that there was any damage on the deck above me. It was mid-morning before I went upstairs to check for storm damages, and I found this door partly ripped off its hinges, swinging wildly, panes of glass on the deck, broken shards strewn across the walkway AND NO ONE TOLD ME? Other tenants went to work, walked their dogs, stepped over the broken glass and didn't think that this might be important?

When I did ask this tenant about the door, who BTW had a mouth for everything else, he merely shrugged and walked away. Aarrghh!

Manicures—Forgetaboutit!

Yes, I do have a touch of the girlie-girl about me, I enjoy getting dressed up, even if I don’t have special plans: It just feels good to look good.

But vanity left the minute this job kicked in:

• When I went from tenant to ass’t manager it all changed. Until then, NO ONE ever saw me in sweats and without makeup! After a night of emergencies, a young neighbor spotted me outside with the dogs: my hair was sticking up, I was in sweats and without make-up. He stood there smiling, checking out my outfit, and sympathetically tried to cheer me up, but he did laugh.
• I have had to jump out of bed way too many nights to attend to some emergency to care about vanity: Police and firemen banging on my door late one night will always be a memory.
• I have learned to sleep in modest jammies, because an early morning busted pipe and running a wet vac is no time to be wearing Victoria’s Secret. Ha.
• I have learned that major expeditions to Home Depot requires good walking shoes, and just a touch of make-up: Pulling products off shelves, digging for trim, plumbing, etc., will get you grungy. (Besides, real contractors don’t wear high heels.)
• And don’t even get me started on clean-outs and remodels! I don’t care how wonderful some tenants have left the apartment, when you pull cabinets off the walls . . . ugh!

But despite all that, I had 10 perfect nails: Until I thought I would get the back garden ready and went to look for the garden tools.

3 Hours Later!

I had not really looked in the machine room in quite some time, a succession of workmen and contractors had left their chaos and debris behind, so I spent 3 hours sweeping, sorting tools, hauling out debris and still did not find the garden tools! And there went 10 perfect nails. Women out there are now nodding sympathetically.

I would love to shout, “Off with their heads!” as the Red Queen in Alice in Wonderland, but it wouldn’t change anything.

But by summertime, the nails may grow back, the garden will be sprouting pretty yellow flowers, some yummy veggies and it won’t matter a bit.

Prospective Tenants: Facebook

There has been a parade of prospective tenants coming to inspect our last available apartment. I am beginning to feel like a wind-up doll giving tours and interviewing prospective tenants. Summer season is around the corner, despite the dismal winter weather that has lingered was too long.

Everyone is excited about living on the beach: I just wish I was excited about the choices so far.

I tell all prospective tenants, “We are looking for good neighbors.” Yes, we check references, and finances, we want to be sure that you can pay your rent and still have enough left over to live.

And sometimes I check Facebook:

• Wow! You actually posted home videos of you and your Snookie wannabees dancing with Cuervo AND Captain Morgan.
• Many videos of parties with really loud music, complete with a DJ in the living room.
• People dancing, gyrating, making fools of themselves and looking cool. I can see the cigarette burns and spilled beer damages to come.
• A pix of your home girl passed out on the floor. Or did she fall asleep watching the latest Seinfeld re-run?
• A makeshift bar of itty-bitty bottles lined up so neatly (your home should be that clean), and many cans of soda? beer? lined up around the coffee table . . . scares me.
• Girls flashing their tattoos and body piercings, and lots of tongues, over 700 pictures of fun!

And those were RECENT posts. Yowzer!

It is hard work to renovate a unit, the thought of them trashing it—well, it just hurts!

I can hear the calls and see the text messages from tenants thanking me for letting such party animals in.

I think I’ll keep looking.

I live here too.

Insomnia is Perfect for This Job

Yes, I have insomnia, partly from when I turned 40ish, partly from interruptions between midnight and 6 a.m. It’s part of the job. Yeah.

This is a 24/7 job, interruptions and problems are just part of it:

• Dinners will grow cold—or be over cooked.
• Pipes burst ONLY between 1 and 5 a.m., and when that happens, please call me, no problem! (but that’s a whole ‘nother blog!)
• Most tenants are considerate and some just never will play nice with others: Accept that fact of life.

Dumb reasons to knock on my door in the wee hours:

• 6:30 a.m.: I was actually sound asleep, but her phone was dead and she needed to call a cab to get to work. She is a wonderful and hardworking woman. I obliged, then flicked the switch on the coffee pot and laid down until it brewed.
• 2 a.m.: Dude locked himself out, again. I even gave this guy a hide-a-key magnet case. He placed it in his car. Do ya see the problem with that choice?
• Gotta any smokes? Not kidding, but I had spotted her party buddies slipping out of the parking lot and I tersely suggested that she should have grubbed from them. She played dumb, I held my ground.
• Midnight: Ya need quarters for the laundry? Ya don’t work, this is my second job! Most people plan ahead, ya should try that.
• 7–8 a.m.: Just because I am up and my door is open, does not mean that my freshly brewed pot of coffee is community property. Multiple tenants over the years have mistakenly presumed that I was obligated to be hospitable and would enjoy their company at 7 a.m., oh, and share my pack of smokes.

My Labrador:

Yes, he can open the storm door to let himself in and out, but he cannot manage a deadbolt . . . he’s allowed to wake me up.

Wow, a New Pickup Line!

One of our contractors came by and asked me to come downstairs while he checked the equipment that he needed to move. Not an unusual request, and we always find something to chat about, so I followed along.

While downstairs, he asked if he could ask me something personal.

Well, I hesitated, but this guy has always been proper, so I said he could ask.

He asked me if I was in a relationship with anyone?

Cautiously I answered no, then he asked me out on a date.

Whoa.

I had to decline. The man is ambitious, has a few other businesses going on, but he reminds me of a Jack Russell Terrier—hyper. Not quite ADHD, but never sits still. I’m into mellower nowadays.

But he hit me with the best ever pickup line: “I had to give it a shot, I would hate to look back at missing the chance of you possibly being THE ONE.”

Great Line! It got me thinking about other great lines, and two that I had used in my younger days.

These Always Worked

While out in a crowd, if a guy caught my eye, these two lines NEVER missed:

“Do you want to make someone jealous?”

Every time, and I mean EVERY time, that guy would smile and follow me onto the dance floor.

The second line, “Would you be my ex-boyfriend for a few minutes?”

Sadly, I used that line to pick up my ex-husband. No kidding, I only have myself to blame for that fiasco.

So I may be a little older, a lot wiser, but a smooth pickup line is still a bit flattering.

My Dog is too “Smarter than a Fifth Grader!”

I’ve heard it said, “Ya can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” Bull, I’ve owned a few old dogs who have proved that theory dead wrong.

My current baby is a Labrador-Rottweiler mix. Yep, 110.6 pounds of pure love. He has the looks and personality of a Lab, always happy, with the body and bark of a Rottie. He has startled more than a few people who knocked on the door looking for an apartment. I usually hand them a few dog biscuits and tell them to toss the treats to the dog and they will be friends for life. Most oblige and laugh, others just stand outside and refuse to come in. (Those seldom end up renting here. C'est le vie.) .

This dog is the complex mascot; he follows me all around and never leaves the property. If he sees me gathering supplies then grabbing the big keys, he is ready to trot out behind me for a day’s work.

I have a self-walking dog! Yeehaa!

However, he has learned a new trick. It used to be, that if he became bored, he would simply trot back to our apartment door and wait outside the door for someone to open it. Not anymore, he has learned to pop that screen door open and let himself back in.

First clue:

I was at the kitchen table preparing dinner; I looked up and saw the dog squeeze in through the door. I called out to my brother-in-law, assuming that he was outside and had let him in. No.

The other day, the dog was supposed to be with my brother-in-law who was working downstairs. As I was in the apartment, working at this computer, the dog suddenly plopped on the floor behind me. I checked the door expecting to find someone, but again no one.

The other day we both watched as the dog simply walked to the door, pushed it open then trotted downstairs to do his ‘business,’ and came back in. Yes, Labs have opposable thumbs. He pulled the bottom of the door wide enough for his nose, then used his nose to shove the door open for his wide-body to squeeze back inside.

My Husky, Bandit

Years ago, I owned a purebred Siberian Husky rescue, a red/white named Bandit, who lived to the grand old age of 17 years: Miss him still.

He played me with two new tricks:

First, this guy was a runner, more than once he slipped out of the backyard, so often that the local pound and I were on a first name basis.

One sunny afternoon, while I was in the kitchen, the dog stretched out on the living room floor, my then 12-year-old son was in/out, in/out all afternoon. The dog was playing possum: he was listening for the screen door latch to fail and sneak out for a run.

The pound called me: They had my Bandit.

Me: “NO, he is sleeping in the living room.”

The Pound: “His tags say differently.”

Me: “Let me go look.”

Me, exasperated, I had no cash on me to pay the fine: “Will ya take a check?”

The Pound: “For you, of course.”

Good for me, as this pound had a cash-only policy.

This same lovely pound tried to offer me a female Husky, as a companion. Heck no, one teenager, one husband, one dog, four cats, and a new vacuum every two years was enough for me!

Same dog, at age 14 learned to fake the ‘potty dance.’ My son was supposed to walk him before school, and I walked him after work. When it was time for me to leave in the morning, the dog would dance by the door with that panicky, “I gotta go” look. But when we got outside, he would merely stroll around, sniff the flowers and want to play.

I was late for work more than a few times before I got wise to that trick.

Support Animal Shelters

Here is the link for the Jersey Shore Animal Shelter, with wonderful videos and pix of animals waiting, some because of Superstorm Sandy. I can’t say enough about this particular shelter, not only did my Bandit end up there whenever he slipped out my door, but they will care for the pets of those who are in Domestic Violence Shelters. I donate blankets and old towels, food my picky eaters reject, and will be the first choice when I want to adopt again.

Prospective Tenants: Part 2 A Little Sneaky

When prospective tenants present themselves, there are some very basic, pre-qualifying questions that I try to ask before giving them a tour.

I state the rent, the inclusions (heat, hot water, etc.) and the LEGAL NUMBER OF PEOPLE that may occupy a one-bedroom unit, and that children are considered part of that count: i.e., 2 parents + 1 child = 3. No go.

I always ask prospective tenants, BEFORE giving them a tour, “How many people will be living here?”

Most prospective tenants are upfront and honest about the true amount of people, and I then will direct them to other complexes that will better accommodate their families.

And some think that they can just slide a few extra people past me at the end of the tour.

For example:—Three adults came to the door looking for a rental: A father, a younger man with ear buds plugged in, and a young woman. I apologized to them, stated that we are fully rented, with no known future vacancies, but the older man does ask if he can at least “look at one of the units?”

(BTW, my dinner was on the stove, they just popped by.)

I clearly explained the size of the units and that there is a TWO-person limit. The older man nods as if he understands and agrees, so we all proceed with the tour.

The father explained that he just wants to find a safe place for his daughter and her husband. Finally the two other adults are introduced: The alleged husband is still wearing his ear buds and is rudely indifferent; the young woman has said nothing . . . yet. We discussed the rent, security, amenities, etc., and all is proceeding as expected. However . . .

Now the Sneaky Part:

The young woman perked up, stated that she is very happy with the apartment and began talking about how perfect this would be for her TWO babies.

Excuse me?! I had clearly stated that there are NO vacancies, and that this ‘empty’ unit the woman is so excited about is leased out. However, the woman is declaring that this is perfect and that she will take it.

I repeated, clearly: this unit is taken; that the size of the apartment dictates that only TWO people may live here, FOUR cannot. And that when established tenants have babies, they are eventually required to move out: The Township has its rules.

The father smiled and patronized me as if this was a small, inconsequential detail, ya’know, not a concern; after all, they are just babies, small. They like the apartment, and the fact that this apartment is NOT available is of no concern. They expect to rent it, now.

I politely and firmly suggested other complexes and ushered them out to the parking lot where I bade them good night. Whew.

Sadly, my dinner was still on stove, now cold. No surprise, I’m used to cold and/or over-cooked meals by now, it is part of the territory. Sigh.

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I Need a ComPOODER Cable

Not only do I have to deal with the usual apartment problems—water leaks, snow removal—I am the ‘go to’ person for computer/fax/and ‘do ya have a stick of butter? problems.

So Mr. I’m-In-Charge comes through my door and announces: “I need a compooder cable.”

Me thinking, ya don’t own a computer, but you have been having cable TV problems, and methinks that they are self-inflicted. So I foolishly ask: “What kind of cable: coaxial, USB, firewire?”

Mr. I’m-In-Charge: “No, the kind with 3-prongs sticking out one end.”

Huh?

Me, confused and guessing: “Do you mean the multi-colored one for the cable and TV.”

Mr. I’m-In-Charge, irritated: “No, I’ll get it and show you.”

Me thinking, ya should have thought of that before you came up here.

Mr. I’m-In-Charge brings up a power cord, ya’know the kind for electricity.

Me, foolishly explained that this cord plugs into the back of a hard drive or cable box, that it is not a COMPUTER cable, but a POWER cord. Yep, this one right below!

Does that LOOK like a computer cable?

Mr. I’m-In-Charge now tells me that the cord is for the power scooter that he has been ‘fixing.’

Really?! A compooder cable for a scooter . . . I didn’t know that power scooters were synonymous with computers. Do they even have a circuit board?

So I let him know that the local hardware store, or the nearby Radio Shack carries them, and he gave me the blank stare. He doesn’t drive: He knows not to ask me for a ride. But he has been fixing this scooter for my brother-in-law, so therefore, I got one more errand to run. Yippee.

Off to Radio Shack

Do you know that it took me 45 minutes at Radio Shack to purchase a standard cord? Really, 45 minutes! That poor clerk was so overwhelmed by non-geeks who own gadgets and needed way too much help. He has nothing but sympathy from me, and respect for his patient customer service; but still, it was MY 45 minutes fetching a compooder cable.

BTW, I heard from other tenants that Mr. I’m-In-Charge had completely dissembled this scooter and that the pieces were literally scattered across his living room. This was so that he could ‘test’ every single wire. But I did meet his brother-in-law, the electrical engineer, who came by to ‘help’ put it back together. Who, to no surprise, didn’t receive any credit for cleaning up that mess. Sigh.

So dear Geeks out there, three of us need your sympathy: the electrical engineer, the Radio Shack clerk and Me, who have gone above and beyond trying to explain the mystical world of common sense to those who don't get it.