Paradise Below Us

Ahhh.  Renting a house.  I suppose that some people are able to have a good experience renting a house.  Unfortunately,  The Carrolls are not those people.  Let me tell you our lovely story.

May 2006: Move from Austin, TX (*sniff*) to Nashville, TN.  Move into apartment (gag) while trying to sell house in Austin (torture).

I really, really tried to keep a positive view of things.

After all, I was glowing with the aura of happy pregnant lady!

Photo by Athena Carey, lifeprintsphotography

It didn’t work.

May 2006 – May 2007: Miserable living in apartment.  Why?

*Brown Recluse Spider infestation.

*Loud “Horse-Laugh Harry” upstairs.  I honestly think he is the illegitimate child of Mr. Ed.  Really.

*Drug Dealers outside our window.  Thank you, but no, our recovering drug-addict friend would NOT like to buy some pot from you, asshat.

*Stupid lady smoking a cigarette practically in my VERY PREGNANT face at the pool, who obviously had a death wish, but got lucky and somehow survived with her life.  I am not holding a grudge, she just really deserves to have her Marlboros shoved into her other bodily orifices.  While they are lit.

*Sh*tty Property Management Office that likes to lose your packages.  “Ohh, really?  That was your package?  So sorry.  We thought the box looked like it would be happy WITH SOMEONE ELSE.”

Etc.

May 2007: Not ready to buy another house yet, but eager to leave apartment living, we rent a house. 

Summer 2007: Among (many) other crappy things, we discover that there is a problem cooling the house.  The AC Unit runs all day long just to try to maintain a 78Degree temp setting.  It fails.  It is usually at least 85 in the house. 

We nearly die.

Property Management fixes some of the faulty duct work (wasn’t even ATTACHED TO THE VENT under the house!!!), but refuses to do the entire job.  We are left with leaky duct work.

Bills arrive for AC.  We die again.

Current Day: We have just received a gas (heating) bill.  This is separate from the electric bill.  Almost $250.

For one month. 

Our heads simultaneously exploded.

For that amount?  My ass better have been leaving all the doors and windows open, cranking the heat up to about 85 and walking around here NAKED, sipping rum-filled drinks from my SWANKY COCONUT CUP and getting my feet rubbed by the Cabana Boy by the INDOOR, HEATED POOL that we had installed, while lovely Hawaiian tunes play in the background.  AND I’d be needing to have had perfectly moisturized hair and skin and a FREAKING TAN.

Oh. No. Wait.  Is that what was happening?  HELL NO.  I was all up in this mother wearing my ugly sweatshirts and socks, scratching my dried out, pasty-white, itchy skin, wondering why the stupid heater has to run so much just to maintain a temperature of 68. 

DUR. It’s because our CRAPPY Property Managers and CRAPPY House Owner refuse to fix the duct work properly!  They literally told us this on Friday.  “Hi.  This is your CRAPPY Property Manager.  I am a useless bag of ****, have a nice day!” 

They refuse to fix it.  They don’t care about our exorbitant Heating/Cooling bills. 

I think, in short, this is what they said to us:

Except they aren’t cute.

John walked outside the other night and saw steam rising out of the door to our crawl space.

STEAM IS RISING OUT FROM THE CRAWL SPACE.

*slaps self in forehead*

Of course!  The Tropical Party is under our house, not inside it! 

I need to pack up my hula skirt and my coconuts and squeeze under there.  Do you think the Cabana Boy is waiting to give me a foot rub?

Until then?  I’m off to browse real estate in Nashville.  Guess who’s moving in May?